by Abby Green
His head dropped, his lips sliding along the column of her throat. The floor at her back was hard, but she didn’t care. The hardness of his body pressing into her, the heated, shivery feeling of his lips on her flesh, and the anticipation of something far more explosive made the ache between her legs sharper. She wanted him, and right now she didn’t care about the consequences.
She arched against him, enjoying the hiss of his breath as she did so.
“Then do it, Marcos,” she said. “I want you to do it.”
His mouth fastened over her nipple. She gasped, wanting the wet cotton barrier to be gone, but he made no move to lift her shirt away. No, he simply teased her nipple through the cotton, driving her insane with the heat and pressure that weren’t quite enough.
“Please, Marcos,” she gasped.
But instead of ripping her shirt out of the way, his head lifted, his eyes searching hers.
“Please what?”
“Please.”
“You can’t say it, can you? You want to tell me to make love to you, but we both know that’s not what this is.”
He let her wrists go and pushed himself to a sitting position, his back against the side of the bed, his eyes closed. She propped herself on her elbows, confused and disappointed all at once.
“This isn’t what you want, Francesca, not when you’ve been waiting for four years.” He speared her with glittering eyes. “I’m not capable of tenderness at the moment. What you would get would be raw, hard and meaningless.”
Her heart hammered. “Maybe that’s what I want too.”
Once more, he laughed that rusty, broken laugh. “I doubt that.”
She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, the intensity of his words scaring her more than she would admit. “What do you dream about, Marcos, that torments you so much?”
“Demons, querida. Many, many demons.” He stood and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her up. “And now it is time for you to go. Thank you for waking me.”
She pulled from his grasp before they reached the door, whirled to face him. “Why do you keep this locked inside? Why won’t you let me help you?”
His face was a cold mask in the darkness. “You can’t help me, Francesca. No one can.”
“No, it’s that you won’t accept help. No one has to suffer the way you do.”
“What would you know of it, mi gatita?” he demanded.
“I know a lot more than you give me credit for, Marcos.”
He pushed her against the closed door suddenly, then stepped in and trapped her with his body. “My control is on a thread. You really need to go before I do something we both regret in the morning.”
He kissed her hard, his lips demanding surrender. She opened to him without hesitation. He groaned low in his throat, gripping her ribcage as he held her hard against him and kissed her like he was a dying man and she his only hope of salvation.
She kissed him back without fear, her body igniting, her hope soaring that he would actually take her to bed and give them both the release they wanted.
They were moving and he was reaching for something—
And then he pushed her into the hallway and shut the door before she’d even realized he’d stopped kissing her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY FLEW ON one of Navarre Industries’ corporate jets to the Cuyo province. Bordered on the west by the majestic snow-capped Andes, the region was the center of Argentina’s wine production and boasted acres of vineyards that were fed by clean, cool melt-water from the mountains. Though the area was high desert, the plain around Mendoza was green with cultivation.
Francesca slipped on her sunglasses as she followed Marcos down the stairs that had been pushed up against the plane. She felt as if she could go back to bed and stay there for twelve hours straight. She hadn’t exactly slept well last night.
Marcos, however, looked as if he’d slept the whole night through. He was fresh, alert, and she wondered how on earth he did it. Because it had been 3:00 a.m. when she’d left his room. When she’d stumbled into the breakfast room at nine, he was already there.
They hadn’t spoken much, except for polite inanities. It was as if the fiery confrontation of last night had never happened. More than once she’d thought to broach the subject, to crack open the fragile egg of their silence on the matter, but she’d been unable to do it.
What was there left to say?
A car was waiting nearby. She thought they would drive straight to Magdalena’s place, had been trying to prepare herself for it all morning, but when they pulled into a shopping district, she figured he wanted to pick up presents for the family. She folded her arms over her lap and leaned her head back to catch a few minutes of sleep while she waited.
“Come, Francesca,” Marcos said.
“Why?”
She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses he wore, but she could feel them moving down her body.
“You need clothes. I neglected to take you shopping before we left Buenos Aires.”
“I have enough for a few days,” she said. “Surely this can wait.”
He removed the glasses. “What you have is not suitable.”
Heat burned into her cheeks. “Why not? Are we attending a masked ball or something?”
“What you have is not suitable for you, querida.” He waved his hand up and down her body. “These shapeless garments are not flattering.”
She sat up straighter. She was wearing her favorite summer dress, a loose garment that flowed to her ankles. She thought it was feminine and pretty. “My wardrobe didn’t seem to be a problem last night.”
“Because we bought you a gown.”
“I wasn’t talking about that.”
“Ah,” he said. “Clothes, in that instance, are irrelevant. But you are beautiful, Francesca, and you need to wear clothes that show your gorgeous body.”
“I like this dress,” she said militantly.
“It belongs to someone two sizes larger.”
She stared at him for a long minute. She’d had this dress for a few years—and she’d worn it when she was twenty pounds heavier. That he knew it was for someone bigger surprised her. And embarrassed her. She grabbed the handle and ripped open the door.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s go. But we’re only getting a few things.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Francesca marched into the first store, her dignity sorely bruised. But the shopping wasn’t as excruciating as she expected. Marcos stayed out of it, mostly, but the shop girls refused to let her take a wrong turn. When she chose a garment that was a little too big or loose, they steered her toward something else. By the time they got back into the car, more than two hours had passed.
She hadn’t selected much, but it seemed as if the boxes and bags had somehow multiplied on their way out to the car. She hadn’t wanted to accept any more from him than she already had—the jewels last night still stunned her, but she knew that even if he’d bought them with her in mind, he had not bought them for her—yet she’d had to acknowledge she might feel more confident meeting his sister if she were dressed a bit more elegantly.
In spite of the new cream linen dress she’d changed into at the last store, Francesca began to panic as the car moved through the sycamore-studded landscape. They were getting closer and closer to meeting Magdalena and her new baby. When they finally turned in at a sprawling Spanish-style villa south of town, Francesca had to remind herself not to wipe her sweaty palms on her new dress.
As the car rolled down the drive, she braced herself for whatever would come next. She expected children to scamper out of the huge carved wooden double doors, a man and woman to linger with smiles on their faces and a baby in their arms as they welcomed Marcos to their home.
And her, of course. But what would his sister think of her? Especially if she couldn’t look at the woman for fear of losing control of her rioting emotions?
She’d thought s
he’d put it behind her. The fear, the loss, the reality of what had been taken from her. She could not change the past, could not reclaim what had been stolen. There was only the future.
Yet the prospect of spending time with a happy family terrified her.
A happy family.
As the car came to a halt, Francesca watched the door to the villa, gathering her strength and preparing for the ordeal of meeting Marcos’s family. No one emerged, and Marcos exited the car. The chauffeur came around and opened her door. She stepped out of the car, shading her eyes against the setting sun. The air was warmer than in Buenos Aires, and fragrant with the scent of an orchard nearby.
Plums perhaps?
Finally, the doors opened and a small man dressed in black pants and a white shirt hurried over to Marcos. The two exchanged words in Spanish, and then the man was grasping a suitcase and yelling instructions to the youngsters who came running from the interior.
Their luggage disappeared as Francesca stood there blinking at the scurrying children. Teenagers, actually.
“They work here,” Marcos said, as if sensing her confusion. “For me.”
“But I thought this was your sister’s home …”
“Magdalena and her family have their own winery.”
“This is your home?” She tilted her head back, taking in the Spanish portico, the stucco and wood beams, and felt a relief she hadn’t expected flood her senses.
“Sí. This is the Bodega Navarre. We grow olives, plums, and grapes here. The children help make the oil, wine, and jellies. They sell it to tourists and …”
Francesca ceased listening. A buzzing started in her ears and wouldn’t stop. Marcos employed the kids that he wanted to save from the streets. He’d said he didn’t do enough, yet he did more than he’d told her. He’d talked of hiring the kids, teaching them a trade, giving them something meaningful to do while they were schooled properly. She thought he meant through the Foundation, not that he personally did this.
In his home, with his money.
Oh God.
Her heart wasn’t going to survive this experience. She already knew he was decent, that he cared for people and used his money for good. She’d thought she was safe to like him again.
But this. This.
She couldn’t forget why she was here. Marcos Navarre simply wanted her for the Corazón del Diablo. It didn’t matter if he was kind to orphans, or if he took care of needy children, or if he had nightmares that she didn’t under stand.
This was about the necklace, and his ownership of it, nothing else. He might realize that she wore clothes that didn’t fit, but that didn’t mean he cared for her. She’d been in Argentina for three days and she was already questioning her beliefs. How on earth would she survive for three months?
“Francesca.”
She shook herself when he repeated her name. “Yes, sorry, just thinking.”
He held out his arm. “Come inside. Ingrid will have prepared an amazing meal, and you must surely be hungry by now.”
She was surprised to realize that her stomach was growling. “I am, yes.”
Marcos showed her to a room, left her to freshen up, and said he would meet her in fifteen minutes outside her door. After a quick brush of her hair and a swipe of fresh lip-gloss, she emerged to find Marcos waiting for her. Her heart tumbled into her toes, then soared to the top of her head. He looked delicious, of course. He wore faded jeans and he’d loosely rolled the sleeves of his white cotton shirt. He’d also exchanged his polished loafers for a pair of flip-flops.
She thought he would take her to the dining room, but instead he showed her outside, to the covered veranda, where a table had been set up with linens, crystal, silver and china. Instead of a single rose, a spray of wild flowers bloomed in a vase in the center of the table.
Beyond the veranda, the cobbled terrace gave way to a manicured lawn that flowed naturally into the vineyard beyond. Vines twisted along the fences that lined each row. The back of the house faced west, so that beyond the vines she could see the snowy peaks of the Andes.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Sí.” Marcos pulled her chair out for her. “I love to come here, when I can get away.”
Once they were seated, a young man arrived with a bottle of wine. Marcos tested the small splash he was given, then nodded and said something in Spanish. The boy grinned and poured a full measure into Marcos’s glass before coming to pour for her.
When he was gone again, Marcos lifted the glass and held it up to the light. “It is a Malbec,” he said. “The grapes originally came from France, but they like Argentina better.”
He sipped and closed his eyes. She watched the slide of his throat as he swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry as she sipped her own wine. She closed her eyes too, more to block out the sight of Marcos drinking than because she thought it would add to the experience.
The wine was fruity and full-bodied: plummy, with flavors of spice, currant, and vanilla.
“It’s delicious,” she said. “Do you make this here?”
He nodded. “We have a vintner on staff. The wine is mostly for Navarre Industries, though we sell some to the tourists.”
“Why did you say you don’t do enough for the kids? I can’t imagine that anyone could do more.”
He shrugged, but she knew the gesture was anything but light. “You have seen what I am up against. There are more kids every day who find themselves in the streets, begging, doing drugs, selling their bodies. Many have families to return to at the end of the day, families who live in shacks and who need the income they produce. Others have nowhere to go. The Foundation has better luck with them, but we try to reach them all.”
“I think you’re doing a wonderful job, Marcos …”
The words died in her throat as a black haired toddler came running out of the nearest door on chubby legs, a girl chasing him as he giggled and screamed. Marcos was on his feet in an instant, scooping the child into his arms before he could get away. The girl, a golden blonde creature who looked no more than twelve, stood with her head bowed and her hands behind her back.
“Señor Navarre,” a tall, blonde woman who must be the girl’s mother said as she hurried out of the house, “please forgive me. I turned my back for two seconds, and he was gone. Isabelle was trying to catch him for me.”
Marcos smiled at the toddler who was clinging to him and giggling. “It’s not a problem, Ingrid. And who is this little one?”
The woman wiped her hands on an apron as she came forward. “He belongs to Ana Luis, one of the new girls here. His name is Armando.”
“Ah, I see.” Armando’s eyes grew wide as the food began to arrive. He bounced up and down in Marcos’s arms. Marcos laughed. “Perhaps he is hungry, yes?”
“I was just about to feed him, as soon as I finished frosting the cakes.”
“Go finish. He can stay with us for a while.”
“He will disrupt your lovely dinner, señor.”
Marcos smiled, so at ease for a moment that Francesca had trouble believing this was the same man who had violent nightmares. “We will cope.”
Ingrid nodded. “I’ll send Isabelle back with his food.”
“Bueno.”
The woman and girl left, and Marcos sat down with Armando on his lap. Francesca’s heart had stopped beating minutes ago. Now, it lurched forward painfully as the boy gabbled nonsense and reached for the hot plate a waiter had set in front of Marcos.
“No, little one,” Marcos said. “Be patient.”
Francesca tried to concentrate on the food as it was being delivered. The scent of the steaks was divine. Besides steaks—bife di lomo, served with a chimichurri sauce—there were steaming vegetables, fragrant rice, and hot empanadas.
Someone brought an extra fork. Marcos put a little bit of rice on it and, once he tested it for heat, fed it to the boy. Isabelle returned with a plate of cut up steak and vegetables and set it near Marcos.
“You are a
natural with children,” Francesca managed as she cut into her own steak, her heart throbbing so painfully it was a wonder she could still speak. The little boy in Marcos’s lap was adorable, with silky black curls, a bow mouth, and the smoothest olive skin she’d ever seen. When he looked up at her, long eyelashes framed dark eyes that watched her so solemnly.
What would her baby have looked like? Her little girl. She dropped the fork and pressed a hand to her mouth. She’d only just found out her baby was a girl a couple of weeks before the robbery.
Marcos was watching her, his brows drawing low. “What is wrong, Francesca? Something does not agree with you?”
She shook her head, swallowed. Forced her shaking hand to pick up the fork and knife again. “It’s nothing.”
“I seem to recall you taking me to task for saying this very thing. Are you quite sure?”
She forced a smile. “I’m quite sure it’s nothing I wish to talk about.” She nodded at the little boy. “Armando is hungry.”
“Do you wish to feed him?”
Francesca shook her head. Her food was a lump of sawdust in her stomach. “Let’s not disrupt him when he’s so happy with you.”
Marcos fed the child another bite of steak. “Do children frighten you?”
“A bit,” she said. “I don’t know a thing about babies.”
“I think you would be a good mother, Francesca.”
Her pulse throbbed. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you have a kind heart. When you love someone, you love with your whole being. If you would go to such lengths for an old man you care about, what would you not do for your own child?”
Francesca put her napkin on the table. It was as if Marcos could see into her soul—and she didn’t like the feeling one bit. She felt raw, exposed, as if he knew more about her than anyone ever had. Coming here had been a mistake. Except she hadn’t had a choice, had she? To save Jacques, she’d made a deal with the devil. She just hadn’t expected the payment to be so brutal.
“I’m afraid I didn’t sleep so well last night,” she said, standing. “I feel a headache coming on, so I think I’ll go lie down.”
