"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"No," she said quickly. Too quickly. Even she could hear that her answer was a lie.
He walked slowly toward her. "You mustn't be," he said softly.
Francesca swallowed. "I told you, I'm not."
She was, though. Her heart was leaping like a frightened rabbit's. He looked at her while the seconds passed, and then he reached out and smoothed the hair back from her cheek.
"You're in no danger, cara. I promise you that."
She stared at him in disbelief. How could he stand there and make such a vow after what he had done to her? Did he think, she was a fool-or did he think she'd fallen so far under his spell that she would accept any falsehood he uttered?
Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back.
"Do you seriously expect me to believe you?" she demanded in a husky whisper. To think that she had gone willingly into this man's arms, to think that she had ever been such a fool... "I wouldn't believe you if you-if you told me that the sun rose in the east!"
"Francesca, listen to me---"
"No." She struck away his hand as he reached out to her. "I'll never listen to you again. I'll never believe anything you say."
"Francesca." His hands cupped her face and lifted it to him. "I will not hurt you. You must believe that."
"No? Then why have you abducted me?"
Max went very still. "I-I have my reasons," he said finally.
"I just hope you know how much I hate you," she said tightly. "You're a-a crook and a thief. My stepbrother was right."
"Stop it. You don't know what you're saying."
She laughed shrilly. "What would you prefer me to call my kidnapper, Max? A prince among men?"
"You know nothing about me, Francesca."
"Oh, but I do. I know a great deal about you." She pulled free of him and stepped back, her chest heaving with emotion beneath the cotton shirt. "For instance, I know that I was wrong to call you a barbarian." Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Barbarians, at least, lived by some kind of code." Angry tears rose in her eyes again and she brushed her arm across her face and wiped them away. "What you are is-is an animal. A savage who lives by his own rules and doesn't give a damn for any-"
She cried out as he caught hold of her again, his hands digging into the tender flesh of her upper arms.
"That's enough," he said softly. "Don't say anything else or you'll regret it."
Her heart thudded with fear, but she had gone too far to stop now.
"Charles knew all about you."
Max's teeth showed in a feral smile. "Ah, yes. That precious stepbrother of yours. I'm sure he thinks as highly of me as I do of him."
"He said you couldn't stand losing. He told me that was why you hated him so much."
Max's face became grim. "Did he?"
"Charles did nothing to you. You're the one who stole from us."
His expression grew even grimmer. "Us," he repeated softly. "Yes. How foolish of me, cara. Sometimes I forget that you and he are partners. It's good that you remind me."
Francesca drew a deep breath. She had reminded him of too much, she thought, watching his dark face. What she should be doing was trying to talk her way out of this instead of angering him.
"Look," she said carefully, "why don't we just-just forget all about this? You can set me ashore somewhere-it doesn't have to be Monaco-and I-I won't tell anyone what you did. I'll just..."
"What you'll `just," he said coldly, "is do as you're told. Do you understand?"
"Max. Listen. I-"
He shook her. "Do you understand?" he demanded. The steel in his voice sent all her good intentions scattering.
"Or?" Her heart was thudding, but she looked straight into his eyes. "What will you do if I don't? Beat me? Tie me up? Toss me overboard?"
A cool smile curved across his mouth. "The first two ideas have possibilities," he said softly. His glance flicked over her face and came to rest on her mouth. "Relax, cara. My tastes run to far simpler pastimes. I can think of better things to do with a recalcitrant woman."
She felt the blood drain from her face. He stood looking at her while the seconds flew past and then, finally, he lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care and stepped back.
"I suggest you go to your cabin and get some rest. Maria will bring you a light lunch."
"I don't want anything to eat."
"The choice is yours," he said with a shrug of indifference. "I'll have her call you when it's time to go ashore."
"I don't want anything to eat, and I don't want to rest." He turned and began walking away from her. "I don't want anything from you or from your damned servants," she called as he opened the door to his cabin. "Do you hear me?" Her voice rose. "Max, damn you—“
The door swung shut after him. Francesca stood in the corridor staring at it, trembling from head to foot. Why was he doing this? Because he wanted her, he said, but it didn't ring true. He was right when he'd said he could have had her last night. The ugly fact was that each time he touched her the raging fire within him set her ablaze. But a man like Maximillian Donelli didn't kidnap a woman to seduce her-he wouldn't need to and besides, no matter what he said about the loyalty of his crew, the penalties-if he was caught-were terribly high.
Why, then? Why had he carried her off? She was certain it had something to do with Charles. But what could he hope to accomplish?
"Signorina?"
Startled, she turned and looked at Maria. The girl was smiling politely and holding a tray laden with covered dishes.
"I don't want anything," Francesca said coldly. "Niente, " she said, "is that clear? I don't want a damned thing from you or any of the other pirates on board this ship."
The girl's face fell as she swept past her, opened the door to her cabin, then slammed it shut resoundingly, the crash punctuating her frustration.
Trembling, Francesca fell back against the door and closed her eyes. She was caught in some kind of deadly game between her stepbrother and Max Donelli. She'd been a fool to think their private war had ended at the Casino. Their battle was like a game of chess. One player moved a piece forward, testing his opponent's defenses. The other countered with a move of his own, and she—she had had the misfortune to somehow have become a pawn that each man wanted to control.
Francesca drew an unsteady breath. Max had promised that he wouldn't hurt her. Despite all his lies, she wanted to believe him. But she played chess herself, just well enough to know something that made a lump rise in her throat.
Pawns were almost always expendable.
By midafternoon she was seated beside Max in a dusty off-road vehicle, clutching at the dashboard and trying her damnedest not to look over the side of the road where the cliff seemed to drop into the sea. They had been driving for what seemed forever, but she knew that not much more than an hour had passed since they'd docked in the harbor of a town with an unpronounceable name. Max had taken her arm and led her from the boat, and any thoughts she might have had of trying to escape him had instantly vanished.
"Don Maximillian!" someone had shouted. Within seconds, a small crowd of men had gathered around, all of them smiling and joking in a language that bore a resemblance to Italian as well as to French. Looking at the lined, weathered faces, hearing the strange accents, Francesca for the first time realized how very alone she really was.
Max heard her swift intake of breath. He looked at her, and she saw a sudden glint of compassion in his dark eyes.
"It will be all right," he said softly, slipping his arm around her waist.
She didn't question his ability to read her thoughts this time, nor did she offer more than token resistance to that hard, protecting arm that lay curved around her.
"Will it?" she whispered, as much to herself as to him.
“Yes,” he said. "Trust me, Francesca."
Trust him? Trust her abductor? The concept was obscene, but what choice did she have? She was adrift in an alien world an
d Max was her only link to safety.
And so she'd stood quietly beside him, trembling like a skittish colt while he talked with the little crowd that had gathered. Someone must have asked about her; she had seen all the rough-hewn faces turn toward her. Max's arm had tightened around her, he'd said something that made them all smile, and then he'd led her down a narrow, cobblestoned alley to where a black Range Rover sat in the shadows.
"Buckle your seat belt," he'd said after he'd helped her into the Rover and climbed in beside her, but her hands had been shaking too much to work the catch. Max's arm had brushed lightly across her breasts as he leaned over and closed it for her, and then he'd turned on the engine and they'd driven through a maze of ancient streets until, at last, they had reached this narrow road that led into the mountains.
Now, as the road rose steeply in a dizzying series of switchbacks, Max looked over at her.
"The view from here is spectacular. You can see all the way down to the water."
She gave a quick, nervous glance out of the open window. The view was more than spectacular, it was terrifying, and yet they were still climbing. She could see the road snaking ahead, rising sharply up and up the mountain.
Where were they going? she wondered. To a village Max knew? That seemed likely. She had hoped they were heading for a city at first, but who would build a city in a place as wild and remote as this? And what was that scent in the air? It seemed a rich melange of wildflowers and herbs; honeysuckle and thyme, perhaps, or lavender.
Francesca folded her hands in her lap. There were a dozen questions she wanted to ask, but you didn't sit and chat with your captor. You endured-and you looked for a chance to escape. She'd been paralyzed when they'd docked, too frightened at finding herself in strange surroundings to try and get away. Once they reached the village to which he was taking her, it would be different.
Her mouth turned down. People would probably rush to greet him there, too. The great Don Maximillian seemed to have quite a following. But the pleasure of his return would wear off after a few hours; she'd wait just long enough to get the lay of things, see who to approach, and then make her move. There'd be a mayor or a constable, someone in authority who would have to do something about Max's free and easy approach to kidnapping.
Her pulse quickened. And there'd be a telephone and, if she were lucky, an English-speaking tourist or two who'd wandered off the main path.
Max glanced over at her. "What are you thinking about, cara?" He laughed softly. "Never mind. I needn't have asked. From the look on that lovely face, I assume you're plotting your escape. Will I have to keep a twentyfour-hour guard on you, Francesca?" Amusement colored his voice. "Perhaps it will be best if I shackle you to a dungeon wall."
Her heart turned over. He wouldn't do such a thing--would he? Say something, she told herself, say anything just so long as you divert him from what he's thinking.
Francesca cleared her throat. "Actually," she said with great composure, "I was wondering if anyone lived up here except mountain goats."
Max laughed. "There are people here, as you'll see soon enough." He gave her a quick glance. "None who speaks your language, unfortunately."
Her jaw jutted forward. "Yes, I'm sure that breaks your heart."
He smiled as he swung the Rover into a tight turn. "This is not quite the sort of place you're used to, is it?”
She looked out of the window. The road dropped off sharply just beyond the wheels of the car, falling what looked like thousands of feet to the sea.
"No," she said with a little shudder, "ifs not."
Max nodded his head. "It is a beautiful land, Francesca. Harsh, but beautiful."
She had to admit that he was right. There was a wild, almost primitive beauty to the countryside. It was, she thought suddenly, like the man seated beside her: hard, unforgiving, yet with a fierce, proud beauty that cut to the heart.
Francesca's fingers laced together in her lap. She was thinking nonsense. She wasn't here as a visitor, she was here as a captive, and nothing could change that. It was just that being a captive, alert for a chance to escape, made her aware as never before of everything she saw around her. Max's hard, tanned hands lying lightly on the steering wheel; his thigh flexing under its tight denim cover as he shifted gears; the musky male scent of him mixing with the odor of wildflowers drifting through the open windows. She had even noticed it when they were still at sea and the island was an indistinct mass rising from the ocean. It was like perfume, heady and rich and mysterious...
"Did you know they call Corsica the perfumed isle?"
She turned slightly and glanced at him. "I wish you wouldn't do that." Her voice had an edge to it.
"Do what?" He looked at her and a smile tilted at the corners of his mouth. "Only witches, warlocks, and the practitioners of the dark arts can read your thoughts, cara.”
"I don't know how you do it. And I don't much care. I just--I don't like it, that's all. It's-it's disconcerting to have someone play parlor tricks like that."
He gave her a slow, intimate smile. "Are you afraid of what secrets I might uncover inside that pretty head?"
She felt the rush of heat to her cheeks. "I told you, I don't like it. It's-it's unnatural."
"I'm sure it is." His smile took on a bitter twist. "But then we savages have such strange abilities, don't we?"
Another wash of color rose in her face. She stared at him in silence and then she twisted around in her seat and looked through the windshield.
"Are you going to tell me what that scent is, or must I guess?"
Max chuckled. "It's maquis-the shrubs that you see clinging to the mountain's slopes. It's a combination of a dozen kinds of vegetation: honeysuckle, lavender, rosemary and eucalyptus-"
And thyme." Francesca shrugged her shoulders when he looked at her. "I know the smell of thyme," she said. "I grow some in a little container in..." Her voice faded away when he looked at her.
"You grow thyme?" he said, as if she'd just admitted she raised chickens. "Where?"
"On the terrace." Her tone was defensive. "Lots of people have herb gardens in New York. Just because you've never heard of it-"
"And what do you do with the thyme you grow?" He glanced at her, amusement-or was it derision?—dancing in his eyes. "Do you, perhaps, package it for distribution to the homeless?"
Francesca drew herself up. "I use it," she said coldly, "in my cooking."
"On the cook's day off? How noble."
"I like to cook," she said, "and I'm quite good at it. Not that it's any of your business. As for the homeless, the only thing I package for them are sandwiches at the Henry Street soup kitchen."
There was a silence and then Max puffed out his breath. "So," he said softly, "the life of a debutante bores you, hmm?"
"What's the matter, Max? Doesn't that suit the image you've got of me?"
"It would seem that we know very little about each other."
Francesca turned away from him and crossed her arms over her breasts. "That suits me just fine."
He glanced across at her and grinned. "There's no television or radio where we're going, cara. I wondered how I would keep you amused, but this talk has solved the problem. We can fill the days by telling each other our life stories."
A lump rose in her throat. Days, she thought, days...
"Francesca? Are you all right?"
She swallowed hard. "I-I'm tired, that's all."
His mouth softened a little. "And you must be hungry. Maria tells me you refused lunch."
"I had no appetite."
He shifted his long legs beneath the dash. "Giulia will have something waiting for us, I am certain." He smiled. "I warn you, you must eat a bit of everything or she will be upset."
Giulia. Who was Giulia? She ached to ask, just as she ached to ask all the other questions that plagued her. But to ask him questions would be a mistake; it would only call attention to the fact that she was at his mercy.
"Once, just after Je
an-Paul came to work for me, I made the foolish mistake of bringing him with me to Sarcene."
Sarcene. Was that where he was taking her, to a town called Sarcene? What kind of town would it be, perched high up in these dark mountains?
"... almost came to blows." Max chuckled. "Well, perhaps that's an overstatement. Jean-Paul is too much a gentleman. But Giulia was ready to kill him. `He invaded my kitchen,' she kept saying, as if he were an assassino who'd broken into the castle." He grinned at the memory. "So now I maintain the peace by keeping Jean-Paul far from Sarcene. It's big, but not big enough for two cooks."
Not big enough for two cooks, but big all the same. Sarcene was a fair-size town, then. That was good. Francesca smiled to herself. Max might control the crew on Moondrift, but surely not all the citizens in Sarcene would owe their loyalties and their paychecks to the great
Don. The only person she'd have!to deal with would be this housekeeper named Giulia, and, despite his having said that no Corsican would question his having carried her here, there was a good chance another woman might view her plight with some sympathy.
Her heart lifted. Things were looking up. They were definitely looking...
She blinked as they rounded a curve. "What is that?" she said.
Max slowed the car. He swiveled toward her, his eyes fixed to her face as she studied the stone walls and turrets that seemed to cling to the very top of the mountain.
"What does it look like?" he asked with faint amusement.
"It looks like-like a castle," she said slowly. "Like something out of a fairy tale."
"Yes." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "That is what I thought, too, when first I saw it. It is beautiful, don't you think?"
It was beautiful. It was also, Francesca thought uneasily, as forbidding looking a place as she had ever in her life imagined, standing in splendid isolation and overlooking the windswept slopes and the sea far below.
Max put his foot to the gas and the car moved forward.
"Who lives here?" Why did her voice sound so breathless? She ran her tongue along her dry lips. "Where are we?"
He paused just long enough so that she knew the answer before he gave it.
The Corsican Gambit Page 11
