Francesca jabbed a finger into his chest. “There was no reason for a man like you to be nice to me. I was nothing, less than nothing to you. I wasn’t capable of attracting a busboy’s attention, let alone yours, so you were only nice to me for one reason. You wanted me to fall for you. It was part of your plan all along.”
He made a sound in his throat very like a growl. “You did not possess the necklace when I first met you. Your father had it, though he would not admit it. And I was nice to you then, before you ever possessed it, because I felt sorry for you.”
Francesca drew in a sharp breath. Of course she’d known he’d felt sorry for her. Of course.
So why did it hurt to hear him say it?
Because he’d ruined the fantasy, the slim hope she’d harbored that it was something about her, something he saw that no one else did. He felt sorry for her, nothing more. She turned away from him, more affected by the admission than she cared to admit. It was years ago. Over and done with. Why did it matter? She’d certainly dealt with far worse blows to her ego since then.
Far worse.
She drew in a fortifying breath and turned back to him. Her lip trembled; she bit down on it. “There was a lot to feel sorry for, wasn’t there? Forty extra pounds of it.”
His face was a thundercloud. “Weight is not important.”
She laughed. “Oh yes, of course it’s not. That woman in your hotel suite didn’t have an ounce of extra fat, nor have the models and actresses you are usually photographed with. Well, rest assured Marcos, I will endeavor not to embarrass you by asking for second helpings at the dinner table.”
“A woman’s weight is only important to her,” he said. “If she is comfortable in her skin, then weight is unimportant.”
“God you’re a hypocrite.” Anger rolled through her in a fresh wave. “You never even kissed me. We were married and you never kissed me properly because I disgusted you.”
“I never kissed you because I was angry.” He took a step closer, looming over her. “I’m still angry. But I should have kissed you. I should have taken everything you offered.”
Francesca took a step backward, her breath catching at the look in his eyes. She’d challenged him—and he wasn’t about to back down. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but don’t you dare kiss me now. It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late,” he said, yanking her close. Before she could process the million and one sensations of finding herself pressed to him so intimately, he dipped his head and claimed her mouth for his own.
Chapter Four
FRANCESCA TRIED TO pull out of his grip, but it was like trying to bend an iron bar. Her heart pounded so hard she thought surely he could feel it in his bones. One broad hand rested against the small of her spine, pressing her into his hard body. The other threaded into her hair, angling her head back to give him better access.
His tongue plunged between her lips. She’d meant to rebuff him. Meant to shove him away and refuse to engage in the kiss.
But being kissed by Marcos Navarre was a sensual bombardment. She could hardly remember her name, much less the fact that she was supposed to resist.
The kiss was thrilling. Arousing. Delicious.
She’d dreamed of kissing him when she was a girl. Dreamed of how sweet and tender it would be. Of how he would take her hand, look deeply into her eyes as he pulled her closer. Of how his head would dip, his eyes closing gently while her heart slammed into her ribs and she stretched up to meet him.
This kiss, however, was not sweet or tender. It was raw, untamed, and threatened to incinerate her from the inside out.
This was the kind of kiss a man gave a woman. The kind of kiss that said I want you and You are mine.
But why? Why would he kiss her like this? She wasn’t the sort of woman he preferred, wasn’t soft and gorgeous and oozing femininity. She’d desperately wanted to be when she was eighteen, yet she’d always known deep inside that he was not attracted to her. He could not be so now, either. It was a ploy, a means of subduing her.
And, God help her, it was working.
She’d pressed her hands to his chest to push him away, but now they lay against the soft cotton of his shirt, useless. Her body was softening in places she’d thought long dead. Melting. Liquefying.
When was the last time she’d felt sexual desire?
Over four years ago.
She’d had a few lovers over the years, and she’d enjoyed sex well enough. But after Robert abandoned her, after her baby was taken from her so tragically, she’d lost all desire for a man.
Until now.
Why, dear God, did it have to be this man?
Marcos’s hand skimmed up her side, over the swell of her breast. She couldn’t stop the little moan that escaped her when his thumb brushed her nipple. So long since she’d felt pleasure…
She leaned into him, on the verge of losing herself in his heat and maleness. Just once. Just this once, she wanted to feel alive again…
But what was she doing? If she allowed this, she was no different than the naïve girl she used to be, the girl who would have done anything to be what he desired. That girl was dead and buried, along with her innocent belief in unconditional love and allconsuming passion.
Francesca gripped his wrists, intending to push his hands away. But his body went rigid. He broke the kiss abruptly, jerking his arms from her hold so viciously that her fingers stung where he’d ripped her grip apart.
He was breathing hard, that haunted, wild look in his eyes again. The same look as last night.
“Marcos, what’s wrong?”
He shook his head, shoved a hand through his hair as he put distance between them. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”
“It didn’t feel like nothing.” Was it because he’d realized who he was kissing? That he could no longer keep his disgust under control? She wrapped her arms around her chilled body. Of course that was it. She repulsed him.
And suddenly that angered her, especially after the way she’d responded to him. He made her feel things she’d thought forgotten—and she made him feel disgust.
“I told you not to kiss me. If you knew you would find the experience so repulsive, you shouldn’t have done it.”
“And I told you to forget it,” he growled.
“I’ve been trying to forget for the past eight years,” she said. “I was doing a pretty good job of it until you dragged me here.”
He looked utterly furious. “Had you not tried to steal the Corazón del Diablo, you wouldn’t be here. Do not blame me for your actions.”
“You stole it first, Marcos. Or have you forgotten?”
“You have no idea what you are talking about, Francesca,” he bit out. “That gem was stolen from my family. It was never yours to begin with.”
She clenched her fists at her side. “If you’re saying that my father stole it—”
“No, my uncle did. And he used it to entice your father into business with him. But it wasn’t his to give.”
She stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. She’d never heard this much of the story before. She’d only known that the Corazón del Diablo had once been in the Navarre family. She’d thought her father had bought it, like he’d bought so many other things he’d wanted. And when she’d married a Navarre, she’d thought he would be happy if she placed the necklace in his hands, if it became a symbol of their union. She hadn’t expected him to take the jewel and discard her. The memory of her naiveté still stung.
“Why should I believe you?”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. This is the truth, and the jewel is mine. By right, by birth, by long-standing tradition. It is not and never has been yours.”
She didn’t want to believe him—and yet she remembered that her father had refused to use the courts to try and recover the necklace. She hadn’t understood at the time. Nor had her mother, who’d raged and cried and blamed Francesca for their misfortune.
And then…<
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“My father shot himself over it,” she said numbly. “His business interests were tangled with Navarre Industries, and when your uncle went down, he did too. Without the necklace, there was no way to save the business.”
His expression changed. “I know, and I’m sorry for that, Francesca.”
She dashed away a tear. “Yes, well, that helps so much.” He couldn’t miss the sarcasm in her voice—and she didn’t care. Let him know what his selfishness had cost. What it still cost. She’d never been particularly close to her mother, but at least she’d had a mother. Now, she no longer had that relationship. Nor did she have one with her sister, who followed their mother’s lead in everything.
Francesca had been alone since the moment her dad had pulled the trigger. Which he never would have done had she not been so blinded by love that she’d given the Corazón del Diablo to this man. This devil.
“It was an unfortunate tragedy,” he said, “but the jewel would not have saved him. He would not have been able to sell it, Francesca. Legally, he had no right.”
She hated thinking about that time, hated thinking about the desperation and despair her father must have felt in those moments before he’d pulled the trigger. How different would it have been if she’d never married Marcos? But, if he was right, when the business went sour, her father still would have been broke. The Corazón del Diablo would have been about as useful as a paperweight.
“Then why didn’t you just take us to court over it? If your claim was so great, why didn’t you get a lawyer and sue?”
“Because I couldn’t afford it,” he said. “I hoped your father would do the right thing and return it to me. Instead, he gave it to you and told me the only way to get it was to marry you.”
She couldn’t help the bubble of hysterical laughter that erupted from her throat. Her poor, misguided father. Always trying to make her happy, to even out the inequality between her and Livia. “Oh yes, and you had no trouble doing that, did you? Marry the ugly duckling and seduce the necklace away. Except you forgot the seduction part.”
“You weren’t ugly,” he said, his voice low and hard. “And you know it. Eight years later, and still you try to use that act on me. It does you no credit, Francesca, not now. You are a beautiful woman, not an awkward girl.”
She gaped at him, her heart thudding for an entirely different reason now. But she would not fall for his smooth words, not ever again. He would say anything to make this process as smooth as possible for himself.
“Don’t you dare say those things to me, not when you don’t mean them. I’m here, and you have the stone. I’ve also agreed to marry you so you can rest easy at night that a collection of damn rocks is all yours. So save the sweet talk for your mistresses.”
Marcos gave a snort of disgust as he picked up a briefcase from a chair. “Dios, why bother? I have work to do. I’ll send someone for you when the contract arrives.”
Francesca wanted to throw something at his departing back, but the only thing in her hand was the calendar. And that simply floated to the floor with an impotent sigh.
The contract was every bit as humiliating a document as she’d supposed it would be. It was thick, typed on expensive paper, and bound in a slim leather cover.
Francesca read it carefully while Marcos’s lawyers explained the clauses in detail.
They were in his office, a surprisingly bright room with a mahogany desk, built-in bookshelves, and sleek contemporary furniture. She sat on one of the low couches, a lawyer beside her, while Marcos leaned against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets, resembling nothing so much as a dark cloud as he frowned over the procedure.
It was all spelled out in excruciating detail, as she’d known it would be. Marcos had not reached the pinnacle of success he currently enjoyed by leaving anything to chance. They would marry for a period of at least three months, possibly more. She would relinquish, on behalf of her family, all further claims on the Corazón del Diablo forever.
And good riddance, she thought. The fiery stone at the heart of the necklace truly was the devil’s heart. It had caused her nothing but trouble from the moment she’d possessed it. She had no wish to do so ever again.
Money. Her heart stammered over the clause about money. She had to work to keep her eyes on the page instead of looking up at Marcos. Did he expect her to be grateful? Or perhaps he expected a protest that it wasn’t enough.
At the conclusion of their marriage, he would endow her with ten million dollars. It was a small sum to him, she knew, and yet it was enough to keep Jacques comfortable for the rest of his life. No doubt Marcos did it to keep her from making larger claims on his fortune, but to her it was an incredible sum after these last several years.
She hadn’t expected it, and she certainly didn’t want it. But she had to take it for Jacques’s sake. Indeed, if not for Jacques and the way this money would enable her to take care of him, she would refuse to accept even a dime from Marcos Navarre.
She flipped the page, scanning for the most important part. When she found it, relief surged through her. Jacques’s medical expenses were covered one hundred percent, no matter the cost. Francesca’s eyes flooded with tears. She blinked them back, scanning the legalese for a trick or a condition.
There was none, other than the agreement to wed and be Marcos’s hostess, bedmate, and partner for the duration of the marriage. Her heart thumped at that, but it was the price she had to pay to take care of Jacques. She would not fail him.
“Give me a pen,” she said, cutting off the man on her right in mid-explanation. He reached into his suit jacket, but Marcos was there first, handing her an expensive, custom-made pen. She touched it to the paper and smoothly signed her name.
Just like signing a deal with the devil.
Marcos took the folder, laid it on the desk and signed, then closed it and handed it to the waiting lawyers. The two men departed, and they were alone. Humiliation was a strong brew in her veins, but it was the price she had to pay—and at least it would be of short duration in the scheme of things.
“I’m glad that’s over,” she said, tilting her chin up. “It was clever of you to put that part in about the marriage being consummated. No one will ever question the validity of it now.”
Marcos studied her with that peculiar mixture of heat and hate she was accustomed to. Though perhaps there was less hate this time? But, no, surely she only imagined it.
“And what if I intend to follow the contract to the letter?” he said, his voice as smooth and silky as polished glass.
Francesca managed to shrug, though her heart sped up at the thought. “Then I suppose I agreed to it.”
“Sí, you did indeed.”
She pushed to her feet. She wanted to get away from him, wanted to go into another room and try to forget the way he made her heart pound simply by looking at her. “If you are finished with me, I believe I have a tango lesson to attend.”
“Not this afternoon. We have another matter to attend to.”
“And what is so important it takes precedence over the tango?” she asked as sarcastically as possible.
His mouth curved in a smile. An impossibly devilish smile. Her sense of foreboding rocketed into high alert.
“Our wedding, mi amor.”
Chapter Five
MARCOS SUPPOSED HE should be offended, and yet he found that he was mostly amused. He should still be angry, but everything was going his way and that pleased him.
Francesca clearly did not feel the same. She flashed him a look of pure loathing as he helped her from the limousine that had taken them to the Civil Registry Office. It was rather like a kitten trying to imitate a tiger. She simply couldn’t pull it off, no matter how she tried.
And he found it amusing, though he wasn’t quite certain why.
She smoothed the fabric of the peach silk dress she wore. When she’d come down the stairs in this garment that set off the tawny gold of her hair, he’d been glad she hadn’t chosen to wear white.
This color suited her so much more appropriately than white or cream would have done. The only problem was in the cut of the dress. It was shapeless, as if she feared to show her curves. He would need to make sure something was done about that, he decided.
“I’m surprised you didn’t wear black,” he murmured as she accepted his arm and they turned to walk into the building.
“I wanted to, but I somehow failed to pack a black dress in the fifteen minutes you gave me back in New York.”
Marcos chuckled. “So prickly on your wedding day.”
She did not join in his amusement. “It didn’t work out the first time, Marcos. I’m not expecting a vastly different experience the second time. And how did you manage this so quickly? I had read there are no quickie marriages in Argentina.”
“I have influence, querida. Money is a powerful motivator.”
“Lucky me.”
“Lucky you indeed,” he said. “If not for my money, your Jacques would not be receiving the treatment he so badly needs.”
Marcos still hadn’t puzzled out why the old man meant so much to her. He’d asked for a report on her life since he’d last seen her on their wedding night eight years ago, but the information he’d received was sketchy. Shortly after her father had committed suicide, she’d left home for good. She’d gone to work for Jacques Fortier in his small jewelry shop and led an unremarkable life.
A life quite different from how she’d grown up. It made no sense to him, but he’d made enough odd choices of his own over the course of his thirty-four years not to question too deeply why others did the same.
Now she stopped inside the door and turned to him. Her hazel eyes were golden today, shining with moisture. Surprise rocked him. She was on the verge of tears? But for what? Jacques Fortier? Or the inevitability of this marriage?
“I am grateful for your help, Marcos. For Jacques. In spite of your reasons, or this marriage, or anything else, I am grateful you’ve gotten the best treatment for him. It’s more than I’d hoped, truly.” She laughed, the sound nearly breaking on a sob. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “God, I wasn’t going to do this. Not today.”
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