The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  "Francesca." His voice was very low. "Listen to me-"

  "We can shower together later, though, after we've—­after we've..."

  Her lips started to form the ugly, harsh word but she couldn't say it. Max's face darkened with fury.

  "Damn it to hell!" She winced as his hands bit down on her shoulders. "What is this game?" he demanded, spinning her to him.

  "Game?" It took all her courage to lift her eyes to his. His angry expression and harsh stare almost stole

  her breath away, but she forced herself to go on. "I'm not playing games, Max. Not any more."

  His eyes bored into hers. "And what is that supposed to mean?" Each word was hard as steel.

  She shrugged lightly. "Come on, darling, don't make me spell it out."

  Max's breath hissed between his teeth. "What the hell is going on? Stop this now, before I---"

  Her smile was dazzling. "What I mean is, the act's over. You know-you, the masterful brigand, and me, the terrified innocent---

  His fingers carved into her flesh. "What are you saying?"

  "You're hurting me." She swallowed. "Max. Did you hear what I said? You're hurting me."

  She held her breath, waiting an eternity, and then he let go of her and brushed past her. Francesca cupped her shoulders in her hands, massaging the bruised flesh lightly, watching as he splashed wine into a glass, lifted it to his lips, and tossed it down.

  "Basta, " he growled, slamming the empty glass on the table. "Enough of this, Francesca. If you have something to say, I suggest you say it."

  Now was the time. All she had to do was take a deep breath, pin the bright, artificial, cocktail party smile to her face, and say the words she'd practiced the entire afternoon.

  "Don't tell me you really thought..." She paused ex­pectantly, brows arched, and then she laughed softly. "Oh, my. You did, didn't you? I thought-I never imag­ined "

  She caught her breath as he reached out for her. "What is this?" His voice was soft, ominous. "It's about what happened between us yesterday, isn't it?"

  She hesitated, but she'd gone too far: to stop now. "Darling Max. I must say, I'm really flattered. The thing is, it was all-how shall I put it?-it was all a fantasy." She took a shallow breath in hopes it would slow her galloping heart. "Well, not quite all. I was quite serious at the beginning, when I said I'd never go to bed with you. I was very angry. You'd made me look so foolish at the Casino, and then there was the way you used me against Charles-"

  "Charles? What has he to do with this?"

  "Come on, Max. He has everything to do with it, and we both know it."

  His eyes darkened. "Yes, of course. He is your step­brother, and you would defend him against me with your last breath."

  No, she thought, no, I wouldn't have. Not after you'd made love to me. For a little while, at least, the world had seemed clean, its colors fresh, and she had been certain, in her heart, that Max was not a man who would lie or steal-and that Charles, dear, sweet, weak Charles, might well be a man who could do both.

  But that had been this morning. Now, knowing how Max had used her, she knew, too, that the only dif­ference between him and her stepbrother was that while Charles might bend the rules out of fear of failure, Max would do it for the simple pleasure of getting what he wanted, and to hell with its effect on anyone else.

  But he would not do it again. Not without remem­bering her.

  Francesca stepped away from him and filled her glass with wine. "The point is," she said calmly, "that you changed the game when you kidnapped me." She smiled. "I was really furious."

  "You were terrified." His voice was grim. "It took no great effort to see your fear, cara. So if you're going to try to pretend that you were not afraid-"

  "Oh, I admit it. I was. But the fear was exhilarating, Max, and then, after you'd brought me here, to Sarcene." She threw out her arms, as if to embrace the room. "It was perfect. So-so medieval. That was when I knew."

  "What?" he said, growling the word. "What did you know?"

  "I knew," she said, despite the fear expanding in her chest, stealing her breath so that she could hardly breathe, "I knew that letting you seduce me would be electrifying."

  Max moved closer to her. "I didn't seduce you, cara. I made love to you."

  What was that darkness she saw in his eyes? Pain. No, it couldn't be pain. Hurt. Yes, he was hurt. She had wounded his pride, his arrogant Corsican pride.

  "You know what I mean," she said, tossing her head. "These things always seem to follow a pattern. You meet somewhere, a man is interesting, you go back to his place or yours..." She swallowed and turned her back to him. "It's dull and boring, after a while. Some men do try to make things different. The Marques, for in­stance "

  She cried out in pain as Max caught hold of her and spun her toward him.

  "Are you telling me that what happened between us yesterday was all part of some little amusement for you?"

  Francesca forced her eyes to meet his. "Of course. We both knew I'd give in eventually. It was just a matter of-"

  "You're lying. You have never even been with another man. I could tell." His eyes narrowed at her smile. "Then-the things we did through the night, all those things you said were new to you-you have done them with other men?"

  "Well, yes. Maybe not with as much enthusiasm, darling, I mean, you're very good at-"

  Her head snapped back as his hand slammed across her face. "Bitch," he whispered. "Whore. Slut-" Tears rose in her eyes and glistened on her lashes. "All this because you weren't the first, Max?" Her head lifted proudly. "Or is it because my little gambit outclassed yours"

  She waited, trembling. He was capable of anything—­she could see the taut containment in his face, in the straining sinews in his neck. Finally, after a long, long time, he threw her from him.

  "You and your stepbrother deserve each other," he said softly. "May the two of you burn in hell together."

  She stared blindly after him as he turned and strode from the room. The door slammed shut and she stood silent, tears streaming down her face, and then she flung herself across the bed.

  "Oh, God, Max," she whispered "I loved you. I loved you so very much..."

  You still love him, a voice inside her said tauntingly, and, even in the depths of her despair, Francesca knew it was the truth.

  Eventually, her lashes fell to her cheeks and she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. When she awoke, it was daylight and she knew, even before she stumbled from the room, that Max was gone.

  There was no one in the castle except for Giulia, and somehow it came as no surprise to learn that she, too, spoke English.

  "There is a car waiting for you," the housekeeper said coldly. "It will take you to the airport."

  "Airport?" Francesca whispered.

  Giulia smiled contemptuously. "Did you really think Corsicans are so provincial, signorina?"

  Francesca turned away and closed her eyes. What she thought no longer mattered. She had given her heart to Max Donelli, and he had broken it.

  What could possibly matter more than that?

  The answer came thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, when she placed a call to Charles, in New York. The sound of her voice sent him into a rage.

  "Goddamn it," he snarled, "have you lost your mind? Where are you?"

  "On my way home," she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose wearily. "I know you've been worried-"

  "Worried?" He gave a bark of laughter. "Why would I worry? Hell, there's nothing to worry about any more."

  "Charles, please. When I see you—“

  "When you see me," he said bitterly, "you can ex­plain how your boyfriend hypnotized you into missing the stockholders' meeting."

  "The stockholders..." Francesca puffed out her breath. "I'm sorry, Charles, I guess I forgot. I'm sure no one noticed I wasn't-"

  "Donelli threw me out," he said, his voice raw with anguish.

  "What are you talking about? How could he? We have the controlling stock."
<
br />   "Yes. We. We, do you understand? Without you here to vote your shares-"

  Suddenly, it all made terrible sense. Her head fell back against the seat. Charles's voice droned hoarsely in her ear, explaining that Max had quietly bought large blocks of Spencer stock over the past months, that he had put in an unexpected appearance at the meeting, that, without her votes to stop him, he had wrested control from Charles.

  But her stepbrother's explanation was unnecessary. Everything had suddenly fallen into place. Francesca understood why Max had carried her off to Corsica, why he'd kept her at Sarcene-and why he'd abandoned her so easily, and so coldly, today.

  Maximillian Donelli had had two goals-to destroy Charles, and to seduce her-and he had accomplished both.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHARLES SPENCER frowned, shoved back his chair, and stalked to the window. Fifty storeys below his penthouse apartment, people scurried like ants along the icy January streets of New York City.

  Francesca, seated on the black kidskin sofa that faced the dazzling wall of glass, sighed in weary anticipation. She was fairly certain that she knew what he was going to say even before he said it.

  He didn't disappoint her. "I hate this damned city in winter," he said gruffly. "We were in Palm Springs this time last year, remember? Hell, that's where we should be now."

  He'd made the same speech, or variations on it, endless times during the past six months. Since being ousted from his position at Spencer's, Charles had seized every op­portunity to make it sound as if they were living on the edge of poverty when the simple truth was that the shares of stock he and Francesca owned in the company were paying more handsomely than ever. Max Donelli was the chairman of the board of directors and he had put his own man in as CEO. The firm was doing extraordi­narily well.

  "Brilliant," was how the Wall Street Journal de­scribed the takeover.

  "Innovative," said the Times's financial analyst.

  But Charles was given to more colorful descriptions of Donelli, and he was starting on them now, as he stared out of the window.

  "That SOB changed our lives," he said angrily. "That no-good bastard-"

  "Charles, for heaven's sake." Francesca rose and walked to his side. "We've all the money we could possibly want," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Why must you keep torturing yourself?"

  Her stepbrother swung his head toward her. "Money," he said grimly, "is not everything. I can't show my face anywhere without seeing people's eyebrows lift into their hairlines. You don't know-"

  "Don't I? People have had a field day, speculating about what happened when I was on Corsica with him." Her voice turned bitter. "I'm the woman who Max Donelli walked out on, and you're the man he tossed off Spencer's board."

  "What did go on when you were in Corsica?" Charles looked at her. "You've never really told me."

  No. She hadn't. She'd admitted she'd been with Max the night of the Marques's party, but she'd refused to tell Charles anything but the most inconsequential de­tails about the time she'd spent at Sarcene. What had happened there was too demeaning and personal to talk about. It was an agony to remember it.

  "Francesca?"

  "Nothing went on. I mean, I've told you. He kept me under lock and key, that's all."

  "The impudent SOB! He thinks he's so clever. He knows we can't afford to bring charges against him."

  She nodded. They had been all through this. Bringing charges would have only made matters worse. What would she have said, in a court of law? That she had willingly become her kidnapper's lover?

  Charles didn't know that, of course; his reasoning was that they couldn't bring charges against Max because of the publicity. Max had warned her that was what her stepbrother would say, she thought suddenly.

  " . . destroyed us, damn him!"

  She drew a deep breath. "I-I’m sorry, Charles. What did you say?"

  "I said, the son of a bitch damned near destroyed us."

  "Yes." Her voice was soft. "Yes, he did."

  "At least I figured him right. How the bastard took you in-"

  "We've been all through this," she said. "I've told you, I don't want to discuss it."

  "When I think of the men you've been cold to-"

  "Dammit, didn't you hear me? I don't-"

  "The Marques himself, for God's sake! If you'd stayed with him that night, where you belonged..."

  "Where I belonged?" she said softly. "Just what's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing. Only that-that he was our host. And he liked you."

  "He made my skin crawl."

  "But Donelli didn't." His lips curled with distaste. "A man who made his money hauling fish, for God's sake."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Exactly what I said. He started with a broken-down fishing boat in Corsica and ended up with a fleet of cargo ships.”

  "I thought he owned a financial firm that competed with Spencer's."

  "Among a dozen other things. That's why it's so lu­dicrous that he should have gotten so touchy over a little misunderstanding. Just because I instituted some stra­tegies that may have been similar to his-"

  Her head lifted. "You said that the strategies you'd introduced at Spencer's were your own, that you'd de­veloped them."

  Color spread across her stepbrother's cheekbones. "I did. I simply meant that Donelli had similar plans in his computer bank."

  Francesca's gaze swept across his face. "But how would you know that, Charles?"

  "How would I...?" His tongue snaked out of his mouth and touched the corners of his lips. "He-er-­he said so, remember? He-er-he accused me of tapping into his system."Everything went very still. "But you didn't," she said softly.

  "How can you ask such a question? No, of course I didn't. I wouldn't know how, just for openers."

  "Through an employee. That was what Max said. He said you'd used someone who worked for him to-"

  "I don't know any of Donelli's employees. How would he-

  "I'm just telling you what he said, Charles. He said"

  "I know what he said." His mouth narrowed. "And I'm stunned that you'd have even listened to such lies about me. You and I have always been so close-"

  Francesca closed her eyes. "I'm sorry."

  "I practically raised you, Francesca, and now this­ …this barbarian comes along and you'd rather believe him than me."

  "Please." She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. "I apologize, Charles. I've just-I've been working too hard, I suppose. I'm just edgy."

  She felt the tension drain from his body. "That's be­cause you insist on doing things foolishly," he said, slipping his arm around her waist as they strolled to the door. "Honestly, darling, I don't know what's got into you. Working extra hours at that silly gallery, moving out of here into that little apartment in the vil­lage-"

  She laughed. "You make it sound like a life of de­privation, and you know it's not. It's just that it's time I grew up and stood on my own feet."

  "I hardly see you any more." They stopped at the door and he turned her toward him. "Do you realize that it's months since you've gone anywhere with me?"

  Francesca's smile wavered. "Meaning I haven't ac­companied you on the usual winter circuit. The dinners, the theater, the opera. .."

  "Yes." Charles was still smiling, but there was a tightness to his mouth. "Yes, that's right. People keep saying, where's that lovely sister of yours, Spencer?"

  "Tell them she has better things to do than stand around chatting about the charity of the moment," she said with forced lightness.

  "Refusing to face our friends won't make the gossip go away, darling."

  "They're not our friends. Not mine, anyway. You know how I feel about that whole scene." She sighed. "You're right about the gossip, I suppose. And I know the only way to shut people up would be to show myself. But-"

  "Exactly. I'm glad you agree."

  ". .. but I can't. The very thought of-"

  Her stepbrother's hands kneaded her should
ers. "I'd be at your side, darling, for moral support."

  "No, I couldn't."

  "Are you going to hide for the rest of your life be­cause that bastard made fools of us?" He clasped her head between his palms and looked into her eyes. "What if I told you I'd found a way to return the favor?"

  "Get back your position at Spencer's, you mean? But how? Max has all the votes he needs. Everyone's de­lighted with the way the company's been operating."

  "Only because they're fools," Charles said harshly: "Donelli tells lies, and people believe them."­

  "Yes." Her voice was very soft. "He's good at that."

  "Don't I know it?" He let go of her and strode across the room to the drinks trolley. "Just look at the things he told you about me. That I'd stolen his research, his client list …" Ice cubes clattered as he dumped a handful into a crystal tumbler. "Want one?" he asked, holding out a bottle of Scotch.

  Francesca shook her head. "Tell me what you meant just now. How will you oust Max Donelli from Spencer's? Did you find a way to buy up shares?"

  "That wouldn't work. Besides, it's too expensive now. I'm not interested in dumping the bastard, Francesca. What I want is to nail his…” He smiled coldly. "I want to do to him what he's done to me."

  "To us, you mean."

  "Of course." Charles gulped a mouthful of Scotch.

  "I want to destroy him, once and for all." Her mouth went dry. "Destroy him?" "Yes."

  "But how?"

  He smiled tightly. "You'll see, darling." He lifted his glass to his lips and drank off the remaining pale gold liquid in one swallow. "In fact, if you're a good girl, I may just let you be part of Donelli's downfall. How would you like that?"

  Would she like that? Would she like the chance to ruin Maximillian Donelli, to double the pain that he'd caused her?

  Francesca's throat tightened. People said that hate was the other side of love, but she'd never believed it until that terrible day at Sarcene, when she'd seen Max for what he really was. His was the face she saw when she awakened, the face she saw before she fell asleep. Her days were filled with him; she saw him in every tall, dark­haired male striding along the street.

  She kept telling Charles to put what had happened behind him, but the truth was she hadn't managed to take her own advice. Max's name and face never left her mind. She despised him, and if sometimes her heart ached in the remembering, if sometimes she awoke with her cheeks damp with tears