Exotic Nights: The Virgin’s SecretThe Devil’s HeartPleasured in the Playboy’s Penthouse

by Abby Green

  He wanted her, but he would be disciplined about it. Besides, a night alone would do them both good, would help to clear their heads about everything that had happened at the Bodega Navarre.

  He’d loved spending time with her, and though their stay had been tinged by tragedy, there had been real joy in being there with her. She’d been a rock through the whole ordeal, and she’d helped to take care of the baby though it had surely made her think of the child she’d lost. He’d admired her very much then, and he’d even let himself consider what it would be like to tear up their contract and convince her to stay with him.

  Because he enjoyed her company, craved her body, and felt more at ease with her than he ever had with anyone. It was as if she understood him.

  But on the day of the funeral, when they’d stood at the gravesite and watched the coffin being lowered into the ground, he’d realized he couldn’t ask her to stay. She deserved better. She deserved a man who wasn’t so damaged by life that he could never love her, and she deserved to have a home and, yes, even an adopted family if she chose.

  He’d known, looking into her eyes that night, what she’d wanted from him. She’d wanted him to say they could keep Armando, could live as a family together, and though part of him strongly wanted to do so, he’d done what had to be done.

  It was the right thing to do. Francesca would thank him someday.

  The next morning, he breakfasted with her. She was aloof and distracted, he thought, but she was no doubt still hurt. She fidgeted with her food, pushing it around on the plate, before she finally speared him with golden-green eyes.

  “I’m leaving, Marcos,” she said.

  He ignored the funny little flip his heart did. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to New York.”

  He wanted to howl. “We have a contract, querida.”

  “I know. And I also know you won’t cease Jacques’s care. That was my only incentive to stay, when I thought you would do so. But you’re too good, Marcos. As angry as you might be with me, you won’t hurt someone you can help.”

  “I might,” he said, though it was an empty threat. “The Corazón del Diablo—”

  “Is yours. I will write you a letter stating my family has no claim and never has. I didn’t want it, Marcos. I only wanted the money to take care of Jacques. Now that I don’t need it, I don’t care.”

  “Will you at least tell me why?”

  She dropped her gaze to her lap and swallowed. Then she looked at him again, her heart shining in her eyes. “Because I love you. Because I want you to have what makes you happy, Marcos, and I’ve realized that it’s not me. And I can’t stay here with you when I know it’s hopeless. If you care for me at all, even just a little bit, you have to let me leave.”

  He felt as if someone was squeezing a giant vise around his chest. He didn’t want to let her go, not yet. But how could he not? He’d upended her life once before when she’d thought she loved him. He could not in good conscience do so again. It was wrong, so very wrong to keep her here simply to suit his own needs.

  No matter how much he wanted to.

  “Very well,” he said, the words scraping his throat like sandpaper. “I will make the arrangements.”

  Snow had come early to New York that year. The sidewalks were blanketed in a crisp layer of white, and everything looked magical and fresh.

  Francesca was numb, but not from cold. She’d been back for three weeks and she hadn’t heard from Marcos at all. She’d made it through that last day with him, hosted the cocktail party gowned in a gorgeous ruby red dress and wearing the Corazón del Diablo, and met the very sweet couple who would probably become Armando’s parents.

  Marcos had smiled and mingled as if nothing was wrong, and her heart had cracked every time she’d heard him laugh. He’d agreed so easily to her request. So easily that she knew she truly meant nothing to him. A part of her had harbored the hope that he would refuse, that he would be forced to realize she meant something to him after all.

  He had not. The next morning, she hadn’t even seen him before the car arrived and it was time to go. It was as if he’d cut her from his life completely once he’d agreed to her request.

  Francesca walked down the street with her collar turned up and her eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of her. Soon, the snow would turn black with dirt and footprints—which would certainly match her mood more accurately.

  A pang of longing for the warmth of the high desert in Mendoza sliced through her. Worse, a pang of longing for the man who’d shared those glorious days with her rode hard on its heels. She thought about Armando, wondered if he was in his new home yet. She hoped he would be happy and healthy and have the kind of life his mother would have wanted for him.

  Marcos had not called or sent any form of communication since she’d left Argentina. She had expected divorce papers, but it was still early. They could be delivered any day now.

  At least there was a bright spot in her otherwise dreary life. Jacques’s condition was improving tremendously. He was actually beginning to get color back into his cheeks. He was coming home in a few days, though he would have to return twice weekly for treatment. A nurse would be accompanying him for around-the clock-care.

  One more thing for which to be grateful to Marcos. Jacques wasn’t out of the woods yet, but the doctors grew more optimistic each day.

  Francesca took the steps up to her apartment and let herself in, unwinding her scarf and dropping it onto a chair. She shrugged out of her coat and hung it up, then went to the kitchen to check on the soup she’d left simmering at the back of the stove.

  How easily she’d slipped back into her normal life—and how strange and empty it all seemed.

  The buzzer to the downstairs door rang. She went to the intercom and, once she’d determined it was a deliveryman, let him inside. Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach as she stood on the landing. Could it be the divorce papers?

  The man came up the steps with a small package clutched beneath one arm. He had her sign an electronic form, keyed in some information, and handed the parcel to her. Francesca thanked him, then went inside and took the package to the counter in the kitchen.

  There was no return address, and she had no idea who might send her something express delivery.

  Though perhaps it was something from the hospital. Something of Jacques’s. She grabbed a pair of scissors from a drawer and sliced into the cardboard.

  A velvet box lay nestled among the air packets. She lifted it out, puzzled. When she flipped open the lid, her heart skidded to a stop before it began to beat double time.

  The fiery yellow glow of the gemstone winking at her from a sea of white diamonds was unmistakable. She snatched up the folded note that lay beneath the Corazón del Diablo.

  Come to the Four Seasons. There is a car waiting.

  Marcos

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARCOS STOOD ON the fifty-first floor, gazing out of the window of this luxurious suite, and wondered if she would come.

  Of course she will come.

  He’d sent the necklace as a gesture of his surrender. But was it too subtle? Would she be so angry with him that she would not take the chance?

  He scraped a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. He eyed the handcuffs he’d bought.

  Could he really do what he planned to do?

  Yes, because she will come.

  Francesca had said she loved him, and he’d held onto those words for the past three weeks. They’d rung through his head every minute of every day. At first, he’d believed that letting her go was the right thing to do.

  But nothing had been the same once she’d gone. He’d watched from a window as she’d climbed into the car, feeling numb. Then he’d made himself watch as the car pulled into the street and disappeared into traffic.

  He’d stood there for a long time after, envisioning the journey to the airport, wondering what Francesca was thinking.

  Was she hating him now? Co
ngratulating herself on a lucky escape?

  Or was she crying?

  She was brave and tough, his little tiger kitten. The thought of her crying twisted his heart into a knot. He didn’t want to make her cry.

  He’d tried to push her from his mind as the days dragged by, tried to continue running his business and the Foundation.

  But she’d left a hollow spot inside him with her absence. He’d thought it would fill up slowly, but it never did. The hole grew bigger with each passing day, until he realized what a fool he’d been.

  He had to win her back. Determined, he turned and picked up the cuffs. She would come, and he would prove to her that he needed her, that he could be the man she deserved.

  Francesca hadn’t bothered to change out of her jeans and sweater before shoving the jewel box in her purse and bounding outside to the idling limo that waited at the curb. Now that she’d arrived, however, she was beginning to regret that she’d not taken time to make herself look a bit more presentable.

  The grand foyer, with its rows of tall columns and gleaming surfaces, was understatedly elegant. And she was completely out of place. She’d hoped Marcos would meet her in the lobby, but instead she was pointed to the elevators and given an access key with a room number printed on it.

  She rode the elevator up to the fifty-first floor. Thank goodness he’d not stayed here the first time, or she’d never have been able to get inside. When she entered the luxurious Presidential suite, it was quiet except for the hiss and crackle of the gas fireplace in the living room. Was he even here?

  “Marcos?” she called.

  “In here.”

  She followed his voice, emerging into a bedroom with spectacular views of Central Park and the night sky. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.

  Marcos was on the bed, fully clothed, leaning against the headboard. One arm was raised over his head. His wrist was cuffed to the bedpost.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  He smiled, though the scar at the corner of his mouth was white. “Therapy.”

  She hurried over to his side, dropping her purse on the floor. “Where is the key?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I threw it out of reach before I closed the cuff. I did not wish to chicken out, as you Americans say.”

  “Marcos, that’s insane!” She turned in a circle, looking for a slice of silver in the dim lamplight.

  “Perhaps, but I had to do something.”

  She popped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “There are many things you could do about it, but this probably wasn’t the best idea. What if I hadn’t come?”

  “I knew you would.”

  “What if I hadn’t been home? What if I hadn’t got the package tonight? They’d have taken it back to the ware house and attempted redelivery tomorrow.”

  “I had faith.”

  Francesca rolled her eyes. “My God, Marcos, couldn’t you have simply picked up the phone?”

  He looked suddenly wary. “I was afraid you wouldn’t listen.”

  “And this is designed to make me listen?” She turned away, intent on finding the key. Marcos didn’t say anything, and she knew he was fighting with himself. Trying not to panic, she was certain.

  Her heart pounded so hard. The blood rushed in her ears, drowning out sound. She had to find that key, had to free him. Knowing what she did, she couldn’t stand to see him like this. He may think trial by fire was therapy—a typical alpha male way of approaching things—but it was killing her to know he was in pain.

  Falling to her hands and knees, she patted the carpet. When she felt something small and cool, she snatched it up. Her hands shook as she inserted the key into the lock. Marcos leaned toward her, his face practically touching her breasts as she worked the catch. Desire flared to life inside her as he took a deep breath.

  “You smell good, mi gatita.”

  The lock clicked and the cuff snapped open. Marcos put both arms around her before she could take a step away.

  “I have missed you,” he said.

  She put her hands on his shoulders, pushing until his grip loosened. Then she pulled away and wrapped her arms around her middle.

  “You are angry with me,” he said.

  “A bit.” And hurt. And confused. And unsure she wanted to relive even a moment of pleasure with him if it was only going to lead to more heartbreak.

  Because he did want her, she knew that. But it was a physical need, not an emotional one. Had he really called her here just to get in her panties again? After this stunt, she truly had no idea what he was capable of.

  “You have every right to be,” he said. “I understand this.”

  “Then why are you here? Do you feel guilty? Want to ease your troubled conscience?” She was surprised to find that anger was indeed the dominant emotion she felt at the moment. Because she really didn’t know what he wanted. He’d dragged her here with the Corazón del Diablo and a note, but he’d not fallen to his knees and proclaimed his undying love, or said he needed her in his life, or anything else.

  Instead, he’d chained himself to the bed and scared her half to death in the process.

  “The nightmares are back,” he said softly. He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “They are even worse now, in some ways.”

  “And you thought that chaining yourself to this bed and hoping I would come along might help?”

  “Perhaps not the best plan, but I’m working on it.”

  She shook her head. “How is it possible the dreams are worse?”

  “Because you are in them, and it is you I cannot save.”

  “I’m fine, I assure you.”

  “I can see that. But without you, I do not sleep well.”

  “And what is the solution to that? That I return to Argentina and sleep with you every night?

  “Sí.”

  Francesca blinked. “For how long?”

  He shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

  “No.” Damn him! How dare he come along and entice her with such a thing, and all because he slept better when she was there? “Ask some other woman.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “Clearly, I am doing this wrong.”

  “Clearly.”

  He caught her by the shoulders, gripping her too hard for her to get away easily but not so hard it hurt. “I need you, Francesca. I was a fool to let you go.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. It was what she wanted to hear—but after so much pain and heartbreak, how could she believe it? She’d believed in him before, and she’d been wrong.

  “What changed your mind? Nightmares? Because I’m not sure that’s enough, Marcos.”

  He let her go, walked over to the windows and gazed out at the night lights of the city. His shoulders seemed to sag a little.

  “I’m afraid, Francesca. Afraid because for the first time in my life, I actually care about someone else’s happiness and well being more than my own.” He turned to face her again. “I know I’ve not done this well, and I know you have reason not to trust me, but I’m trying to tell you that I love you. As deeply and as much as I am able.”

  A tear slid down her cheek and she dashed it away. “Why should that be so hard to say?” she asked, her throat aching.

  “Because I know I’m not a good bargain. Part of me is ruined and broken. It’s unfair to ask you to fix that, but you are the only one who can. Without you, I’m lost. And I know this is selfish of me, but I want you to come back.”

  Her legs refused to hold her upright any longer. She sank onto the end of the bed and stared at him. “I love you, Marcos, but I’m scared too. Because I can never have children, and you are a man who deserves to have his own children. How do I know you won’t resent me for it later? That you won’t regret this once you feel like the damage of the past is repaired? Because it’s not me who will repair it, but you. I really have nothing to do with it.”

  “You have everything to do with it. If you hadn’t come into my life again, I wo
uldn’t have understood that I have the strength to move beyond my past. You taught me that.” He came over to her then, knelt before her and took her hands in his. His handsome face was so serious. “And you of all people should know that a family is built on love, not genetics. Is Jacques any less your family because you are not related? Do your mother and sister have a greater claim on your affections because they share your blood?”

  She shook her head. The lump in her throat was too big to speak. She thought of her mother, her cold cruel mother in her drafty house with her mantle of blame, and knew what he said was right. Just because someone gave birth to you did not mean they were capable of loving you.

  He squeezed her hands. “Do you know why I sent you the Corazón del Diablo?”

  “No,” she managed.

  “Because possessing it has caused me nothing but sorrow. It is the devil’s heart, and it exacts a great price. And I’m tired of being a prisoner to my past. I want to go forward, and I want to do this with you.”

  “How is giving me the necklace letting go of the past?”

  “Because you are free to do with it what you wish. Donate it to a museum, give it to Jacques—I don’t care. But when you’ve done what you want, all I ask is that you come home with me. I need you.”

  Hope was unfurling in her soul, the wind of his words catching it and fanning it higher. Could she really dare to believe? “It’s your birthright, Marcos. You can’t just give it up like that. It means too much. You’ve fought too hard for it.”

  “I have already let it go,” he said, his eyes so serious as they searched hers. “It’s yours. As am I. The symbolism is meaningless without you.”

  But she had to be sure. “You would give up the possibility of ever having a biological child? It’s not something to be done lightly, Marcos. I didn’t have a choice, but you do.”

  He kissed her hands, then cupped the back of her head and kissed her lips. “I love you, Francesca. You make my world brighter. Whether or not you are able to give me a child of my blood has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”