He looked at her, his teeth flashing in a quick smile.
"Max," he said.
"What?”
"I said, I'd prefer you to call me Max."
She stared at him in disbelief. "You must be joking."
He laughed softly. "A man and woman who are going to see in the sunrise together shouldn't be bound by the rules of formality."
"We are not a man and a woman," she said through her teeth. "We are two people going through some crazy charade to satisfy your monstrous ego. And I've already told you, we are not going to see the sunrise together."
"Ah, but we will. You know the terms of the wager, Francesca. Dinner, dancing-"
"The wager was that I'd suffer your company for the evening, and I am. As for what I call you, Mr. Donelli, I think you should be grateful I've chosen something that's acceptable in public."
The sound of her rapid breathing filled the air. She sat very still, waiting for his response. When it came, it was nothing that she might have expected.
Max Donelli smiled, and the look of it was dark and dangerous.
"Well, well, well," he said softly. "The kitten has claws."
"That's right. Sharp ones. And she's not afraid to use them."
"So I see." Suddenly, all the amusement fled his voice. "It's too bad your stepbrother doesn't have a little of your courage."
Francesca flushed. "It's no sin that Charles can't play your games, Mr. Donelli. No one could, except the devil himself."
"It's Max, Francesca. I've already told you that."
There was a note of warning in his voice. It registered in the rational part of her mind, but it did no good. Her anger had taken control.
"You can tell it to me until the cows come home. I am not-"
She gasped, lurching against the restraint of her seat belt as he braked and swung the wheel sharply. The tires squealed as the car jounced onto the narrow shoulder of the road. Donelli reached out, shut off the engine, and swung toward her, his broad shoulders and taut face blocking out the night.
"What do you think you're doing?" Francesca's voice shook.
"Your stepbrother and I made a bet." She pulled back as he reached for her, but there was nowhere to go. The door dug into her spine as his hands closed roughly around her shoulders. "You seem to have forgotten that."
"I haven't forgotten. How could I, when I'm here, trapped in this car with you?"
She caught her breath as his fingers imprinted themselves in her flesh.
"Trapped. Martyred. And you've no intention of letting me forget it."
She stared into his face, visible in the faint wash of moonlight reflected from the sea. Lord, he was angry! More than angry. Enraged. A tremor of fear tiptoed along her spine, like the feathery tread of some awful insect.
"I'm keeping my part of the deal," she said with deliberate calm. "We're on our way to Villefranche, for dinner."
"Dinner?" His laughter scratched across the silence. "What the hell is dinner, in the face of what your stepbrother owes me? It's meaningless, and you and I both know it."
"What do you mean, meaningless? That's what you said you wanted."
"I said a lot of things." His hands tightened on her. "But we were in Monaco then."
Francesca's heart turned over. "What are you saying?" She stared into his cold eyes. "You-you certainly don't-you can't expect-"
A smile as cold as the moonlight curved across his mouth.
"Can't I?'
"No." Her voice was reedy, so thin that she wondered if he could even hear it over the loud thud of her heart. "No," she said more strongly, "you can't. Not unless you plan on adding rape to your list of depredations."
His smile narrowed. "Ah, but it wouldn't be rape, would it, Francesca?" One hand slid to the nape of her neck and his fingers threaded into her hair. "All I'd have to do is take you in my arms, as I did last night."
"Don't," she said, twisting against him. "Damn you-“
"Do you remember how it was when we kissed?" He leaned toward her until she felt the warmth of his breath on her face. "Your mouth turned to fire under mine, your body to quicksilver."
Her hands came up and slammed against his chest. "I hate you," she said fiercely, "do you know that?"
Donelli laughed softly. "What has that to do with desire?"
"Charles was right. You-you're an uncouth barbarian, with the morality of a snake."
His fingers knotted in her hair, forcing her head back.
"Don't ever confuse morality with manners, cara," he said roughly. "It's possible to exhibit the one without having any sense of the other. That is your stepbrother's error-he chooses to think that any kind of evil is permissible as long as he cloaks it in civilized dress."
"And you?" She forced herself to meet his eyes. "Is that what you think, too?"
His mouth twisted. "Are you really interested in the opinion of a barbarian?" .
"You're the one who's talking about morality, Mr. Donelli." Francesca drew a shuddering breath. "You talk of seduction, but what I hear you describing is rape. If that's what you're planning, I find it difficult to see the difference between you and the kind of man you claim my stepbrother is."
For a moment she thought she had pushed him too far. His face darkened, his fingers tightened their grip on her until she almost cried out-and then, when she least expected it, he let her go.
A muscle knotted in his cheek. He whispered something in Italian, twisted away from her, and stared blindly through the windshield.
"If that's what you think of me," he said, lacing his fingers over the steering wheel so tightly that she could see the whiteness of his knuckles, "then I apologize."
Apologize? Max Donelli apologize? After everything that had happened, everything that he'd done, the very idea of his offering an apology was so ludicrous that she had to fight the rise of hysterical laughter in her throat.
"That's-it's all right," she said. It was, she knew, an inane remark. But he was waiting for her to say something, and she was still too stunned to think.
His fist slammed against the steering wheel. "It is not all right. I lost control of myself." He swung toward her, his eyes glittering. "That's not something I do often."
No, she thought, watching the proud, imperious face, she didn't think it was. And yet-and yet, he had lost control twice, once in the garden and again tonight, and each time she had been the cause.
The realization sent a sudden bolt of heat racing through her blood, as swift and electric as summer lightning. I did that to him, she thought, and she turned her face away from those dark, piercing eyes. He had almost seemed to read her thoughts before; God help her if he read them now, when she didn't even understand them herself.
"Francesca?"
She swallowed. "I-I accept your apology, Mr. Donelli."
"Max," he said. She looked at him, bewildered, and he smiled. "Surely my name isn't so difficult to say?"
It was little enough to give, now that the battle was over. Francesca smiled and inclined her head.
"Max," she said.
He puffed out his breath. "Bene. That's good." He leaned forward and switched on the engine. "And now-"
"And now you can take me back to my hotel."
He looked at her, smiling as if she'd made a poor joke. "But why would I do that?"
"Well, you just said-I mean, you apologized. I thought..."
She fell silent as he jammed his foot on the accelerator and swung the Ferrari onto the roadway.
"You thought wrong," he said pleasantly. "The night is young. We've dinner and dancing to look forward to, remember?"
"But-but..."
"Francesca." He took his eyes from the road just long enough to look at her and smile. "We'll have a pleasant evening, then I'll take you back to your hotel. Surely you can survive that."
She stared at him. "No. I mean, I could, I suppose. But-"
"There's Villefranche." She looked through the window and saw the lights of the town glint
ing just ahead. "I thought we'd have drinks in a little cafe just up the next road." She said nothing. His foot eased on the gas until the car was barely coasting, then he turned toward her, his face, illuminated by the eerie glow of the lights on the dashboard, a melange of shadow and bone. "But if you prefer," he said, "we'll turn around and head back to Monaco."
"Yes. I mean, I think-I think...
"
She stared at him. Why was she hesitating? He had offered her a way out and that was precisely what she wanted.
Wasn't it?
"Very well then, we'll go back. And don't worry about your stepbrother," he said, his voice purring in the darkness. "I'll explain that you tried to honor his debt but couldn't force yourself to do it."
Francesca closed her eyes wearily. Charles! She'd almost forgotten-but how could she? Charles's debt was the reason she was here. What would happen if she asked Max Donelli to drive her to her hotel? Would he consider her stepbrother's debt cancelled-or would Charles still be obligated to him? And, if he were, what would be the price Donelli asked in payment?
All she had to do was ask those questions of the man beside her. But how could she without making herself feel even more like a supplicant than she already did?
"Francesca?"
She looked at him from under her lashes. He was watching her and smiling, his expression unreadable. She slicked her tongue across her dry lips. She felt as if she'd been watching a chess game and had somehow missed the implication of some innocent maneuver. He had tricked her again, she thought bitterly.
"It's your decision." His voice was soft. "Shall we go on to Villefranche, or shall we go back?"
She hesitated. Just do it, Charles had said, do it and get it over with.
Francesca drew in her breath. "Villefranche," she said, and with that one word changed the course of her life.
CHAPTER FIVE
THERE was no scarcity of cafes along the Riviera. The world-famous towns that were strung along the coastline like gems in a glittering necklace were filled with chic night spots where the wealthy of two continents gathered to toast each other's good taste. They ran the gamut from self-consciously smoky little boites to sophisticated mirrored palaces. What they shared in common was that decor, while elegant, was never permitted to outshine the clientele.
Francesca had seen enough of such places to last her a lifetime. Cafes where people watching was the entertainment and the sole reason for existence flourished everywhere. Charles was addicted to them.
"Everyone who's anyone will be here," he'd said as he escorted her to a table at the Cafe de la Paix in Paris, and he'd shouted the same words over the shriek of the latest music at Annabel's in London.
And he was right. All the same faces gathered at all the same places. It was what they all wanted-Francesca understood that. You could kiss cheeks and talk up deals from one country to the next without ever losing a moment.
Now, as she stepped from the Ferrari, she glanced at the building ahead with little interest. It was small, white-stuccoed with a red tile roof that seemed to cling desperately to the steeply sloped hillside. A week ago she'd have believed it old. But she knew better now: Charles had taken her to such a place just the other evening.
"You're going to love it," he'd assured her-and she had, at first glance, until she'd realized that the tile roof was false and the dark ceiling beams molded plastic imitations.
"I think you'll find this place different," Max Donelli said as he took her elbow and led her in the door.
Francesca didn't bother answering. What was the point? She would not find it different, but that didn't matter. Her likes and dislikes were of no importance tonight. This was his show, from start to finish. She was just along for the ride.
Still, the room they entered caught her by surprise. It was long and narrow and filled with the blue haze tossed off by heaven only knew how many lit Gauloises. The room hummed with sound, not from a discreetly hidden compact disc player or a deliberately displayed neon-lit jukebox, but from the conversations and laughter of its patrons, not a one of whom would ever be found on the society pages of a newspaper or magazine.
Francesca paused uncertainly and glanced up at Max. "Are we in the right place?" she asked softly.
He laughed. "What's the matter, cara? Isn't this up to your usual style?"
She stared at him. Was he the sort who liked to go slumming? She wouldn't have thought it, somehow, but then what did she know about the man except that he'd cheated Charles in some kind of business deal? Her mouth narrowed. He was from the gutter, Charles had said. Well then, anything was possible. She knew some people had a taste for this kind of thing: she'd been with Charles's crowd in Paris when they'd dragged her off to a bar in Montmartre where they were the only people dressed in evening clothes.
"Isn't it a scream to see how the other half lives?" a girl had kept saying, but Francesca had only found it embarrassing.
She pulled free of Max's hand. "If this is your idea of a joke..."
He sighed. "Go straight on through," he murmured. His fingers clasped her elbow again and he moved her forward. "That's right. Head for that doorway."
His hand was firm, and she had no choice but to do as he asked. She moved ahead of him stiffly, aware of the eyes that moved over her silk clad figure, and she turned on her heel as soon as they stepped through the door that led into the adjoining room.
"I agreed to a drink," she whispered fiercely, "not to lording it over the locals. So if that's your idea of a good time—“
"Is that what you think?" Her stony silence was his answer. Max's mouth narrowed. "I see that you're still judging me by your stepbrother's standards." His hands clasped her shoulders. "Turn around, Francesca."
"What for?"
"Because I tell you to," he said tightly, and he spun her away from him.
The breath caught in her throat. They had not entered another room, they had stepped into the night sky. That was how it seemed, at first: the stars hung just beyond her reach, lighted by an ivory moon, and the black Mediterranean glistened far below.
"Oh," she whispered.
Max laughed throatily. "Yes," he said softly, "oh!"
She swayed backward, caught by a sudden dizzying vertigo, and his fingers cradled her shoulder.
"Easy," he said, drawing her back against him. His body was hard against her back, his breath warm against her cheek as he bent his head to hers. She could hear the smile in his voice. "Are you all right?"
She nodded. "Yes. I just-I didn't expect .."
"Nobody does. I suppose I should have warned you about Stefan's terrace."
Francesca gave a little laugh. "Is that what it is? I thought, for a minute, I'd stepped out into space."
Slowly, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, it all came into focus. They were standing on a terrace that seemed to have been carved out of the face of the hill. Candles flickered on small wooden tables scattered about the stone floor, with only a wrought-iron railing to separate the terrace from the night. The sound of the sea beating against the rocks below was a counterpoint to the silence. The rising moon was climbing from a black sea into a blacker sky, stretching like a ribbon of cream from the terrace into the darkness.
"Shall we sit down?"
Max's voice was soft; his breath ruffled the curling strands of hair at her temple. A tremor raced through her, and she swallowed and stepped away from him.
"Fine."
He led her to a table and she slipped into a chair. "Well? What do you think? Do you like this place?"
She looked across the table at him. It's wonderful, she thought, I've never seen anything like it. But she wasn't about to admit that to him. She had already shown too much of herself to this man. For the rest of the night, she would not like or dislike anything. She would simply endure.
"It's very nice," she said politely.
Max grinned and leaned toward her. "If that's the best you can manage, don't tell Stefan. You'll break his heart."
"Stefan? Who is—?'
“Ah, Max, c'est toi! Bienvenue. Ca fait a cinq-non, six mois que nous ne t'avons pas vu. Comment vas-tu?"
"Stefan. Je vais tres bien, merci; et toi, mon ami? Ca va bien?"
Francesca looked up as Max scraped back his chair and got to his feet. The man called Stefan was obviously the cafe's proprietor. She watched, bemused, as the two greeted each other with back-slapping embraces. Max switched to English long enough to introduce her. Stefan smiled and bent over her hand, and then the men slipped back into a French that was far too swift and colloquial for her to follow. But she had no trouble understanding the last of their conversation, when Max ordered champagne and Stefan laughed and chided him gently.
"After all this time," he said in French, "do you think you need to tell me what it is you drink when you have a beautiful woman on your arm?"
Max looked at her, then said something so softly that she couldn't hear it. Her cheeks flushed as Stefan smiled. Whatever the joke was, it had been at her expense.
"Stefan is an old friend," Max said, when they were alone again. "We've known each other for-"
"What did you say about me?"
His brows rose. "What makes you think I said anything?"
"I don't speak much French, Mr. Donelli.” "Are we back to that again?"
Francesca blew out her breath. "The point is, I understood just enough of what you and he were saying to--"
"You understood just enough to take offense, Francesca, but with no reason. You're right, we did talk about you. Stefan said you were beautiful, and I corrected him." He smiled at the look that came over her face. "I see that bothers you, cara."
"It doesn't," she said stiffly. "I don't care what you—“
"I told him," he said softly, "that you were much more than beautiful. I said that you were the loveliest woman I'd ever seen."
His words sent a whisper of pleasure along her spine.
"It is the truth," he said as their eyes met.
There it was again, that faint hint of an accent. She had heard it several times now and she'd come to recognize it as a sign that he was under some kind of stress.
The Corsican Gambit Page 6
