"This is Sarcene," he said quietly. "It is my home."
CHAPTER NINE
FRANCESCA stood at the narrow, arched window in her room, staring out over the neatly planted fields that stretched, unimpeded, to craggy mountain peaks on the horizon. It was late in the day, and very hot. Everything lay silent around her, caught in that heavy stillness that came in late afternoon in midsummer.
She watched as a bee lazily explored the dark green ivy that twisted up the stone walls of Sarcene, its movements languid and heavy. That was how she felt. She ached to lie down on the canopied bed that stood on the far wall, let her lids droop over her eyes, and sleep. But she had already tried that and it hadn't worked. As exhausted as she was, sleep eluded her. Finally she'd risen from the bed, come to this window, and thrown it open to the rich, sensual perfume of the maquis and the soft whisper of the breeze ruffling the sea of golden grass below her window.
With a sigh, she sank into the cushion-strewn window seat and curled her arms around her knees. A herd of shaggy, long-haired goats was grazing below the window, their collar bells tinkling softly as they moved across the meadow. In the near distance, a tractor crawled through a field of dark green vegetation.
This peaceful, pastoral view from her bedroom, so unlike that first glimpse she'd had of Sarcene, rising like a medieval fortress from the craggy mountain, had surprised her. Max had sensed it; he'd given her one of his cool, sardonic smiles and asked if she'd expected to see dragons instead of goats.
Well, who could have blamed her if she had? That initial sighting of the castle had not been encouraging. She sighed again and lay her head on her knees. Sarcene and its master were very much alike, when you came down to it. Both were studies in contrasts, dark and frightening one moment yet warm, even gentle, the next.
She sat up straight. What was she thinking? There was nothing warm or gentle about a man who'd carry a woman off. She was in Sarcene against her will, and she'd be damned if she'd let Max forget that for a moment.
She was tired, too tired to think straight, that was the trouble. The shock of walking into Sarcene's high-ceilinged entrance hall and stepping back half a dozen centuries to a time when a man could, indeed, carry a woman off and lock her away in a high tower, had been even more confusing than she was willing to admit.
The dark woods, tile floor, and faded wall hangings were authentic. Francesca had been an art student and she worked at a gallery that specialized in historical artifacts. But it was one thing to see a few such things purchased as objets d'art and quite another to step into a man's home and find yourself amid enough things to stock a gallery.
Max had heard her swiftly indrawn breath. "What is it?" he said, turning to her. A wry smile thinned his lips. "Don't look so panicked, Francesca. Sarcene isn't as primitive as it looks. I assure you, we have all the modern conveniences."
She shook her head, on the verge of telling him that he'd misunderstood, that she was entranced by what she'd seen, not repelled-but then she looked into his cool eyes and sanity returned.
No matter how handsome it might be, a prison was still a prison.
"Really? It certainly doesn't look it."
Max's hand closed lightly on her elbow. "I'll show you to your room. I'm sure you'd like to bathe and change your clothing-"
"Change it for what? You booked me on our little cruise rather suddenly, remember?" She gave him a chilly smile. "Or do you have a branch of Sak's Fifth Avenue tucked away in the hillside?"
He laughed. "Not Sak's, no, but I'm sure we can accommodate you. I instructed Giulia—"
"Don Maximillianl Ah, bene. Bene. Buon giorno, signore. Come sta?"
A plump, middle-aged woman dressed in black was bearing down on them.
"Giulia," Max said, smiling. He stepped forward and caught her by the shoulders, but not in time to keep her from making a little curtsy. The gesture, so deferential and old worldly, was somehow even more shocking than Francesca's first glimpse of Sarcene, and suddenly the full reality of what had happened hit home. I'm a million miles from everything that means anything to me, she thought, and before she could prevent it she made a muffled little sound of distress.
Max turned toward her. "Francesca? What is it?"
She stared at him. Whatever happened, she could not afford to let him know that she was afraid.
"I just-I was just thinking that-that it must be wonderful to be greeted this way." She forced a coolly mocking smile to her lips. "With such gestures of obeisance, I mean. I'd have thought that kind of thing went out of style a hundred years ago."
His face darkened, but not with anger. She saw, to her surprise, that he was embarrassed.
"You are wrong," he said stiffly. "It is not something I like at all. Giulia knows that, but old habits die hard here."
The woman said something in a swift, musical language that seemed neither French nor Italian. Max nodded and drew Francesca forward.
"Si, ecce la signorina. This is Giulia, Francesca. She will see to all your needs."
Francesca stared at the round, olive-skinned face. Giulia was smiling pleasantly, but what did that matter? She was no better than a jailer.
"Buon giorno, signorina. Io sono-"
Francesca swung away. "You said something about a bath and a change of clothing," she said, her voice sharp.
Max's mouth narrowed. He said something to the housekeeper, who whispered a response and glanced at Francesca before turning away and hurrying down the hall.
"Giulia apologizes if she has offended you," he said coldly. "I assured her that your enmity is reserved for me."
"But you shouldn't have." Francesca's eyes met his. "If she is part of your household, then I'm more than willing to despise her as much as I despise you."
Max's mouth twisted. "It is not wise to make enemies," he said softly.
"It's not wise to kidnap women," she answered, just as softly.
He stared at her and then he turned away. "I've had the tower room prepared for you."
The tower room. It had such a melodramatic sound to it that it should have been funny. But it wasn't; her heart seemed to stumble.
"How nice." Her voice was calm. "Just like the Hilton."
Max took her arm and led her up the wide staircase. "There's a private bathroom," he said, ignoring the gibe,. "and a wonderful view. I'm sure you'll be comfortable."
"Would it matter if I weren't?"
Now, hours later, she could still fed the way his hand had tightened on her.
"Accept the inevitable," he'd said softly, "and it will go easier."
Did he really think she would do that? She turned away from the window and stared around the room. Max had not lied about any of what had awaited her, she thought grudgingly. The room itself was more than beautiful, it was magnificent, with exquisite wall hangings, a wide bed canopied in wine red velvet, and a massive stone fireplace. The connecting bathroom was modern and comfortable and stocked with every possible thing she might have needed. Bath oils. Colognes. Lightly scented powders. A cabinet filled with soft, oversize towels. A handsome antique silver comb and brush set.
Max had promised there'd be a change of clothing waiting and there was, but it wasn't the sophisticated leavings of the women he had surely brought to his isolated hideaway for romantic trysts over the years. Instead, she found lying draped across the bed an anklelength, loose gown of finely woven wool in a pale shade of cream that skimmed her body gracefully from breast to ankle. There were shoes, too, a pair of soft leather thong sandals that tied at the ankles.
As for the view, it was more than wonderful, it was spectacular, with the golden fields stretching to infinity on one side and the dark blue Mediterranean on the other.
It was, all in all, a perfect setting. But it was still a cage, and she was a prisoner in it. A knot seemed to tighten in her belly. Nothing would make her forget that. Nothing...
Someone rapped lightly at the door. Francesca touched the tip of her tongue to her lips.
"Yes? What is it?"
The door swung open. "Signorina." Giulia's dark face and eyes were inscrutable. "Mi scusi, signorina, ma e ora per la cena."
It had to be time for dinner. The condemned ate a hearty meal, Francesca thought, swallowing a rush of nervous laughter, but she wouldn't oblige. She would eat nothing at Max Donelli's table.
"Signorina?"
Francesca nodded, squared her shoulders-and stood back in surprise as a maid entered the room with a laden tray and set it on a table near the window. She uncovered all the dishes, then scurried from the room.
"Buon appetito."
Francesca stepped forward just before the door swung shut again. "Wait..." The housekeeper turned, her brows raised in question. "The—the signor—isn't he—isn't he eating with me?" Giulia made a helpless gesture with her hands, and Francesca puffed out her breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. I just-I just wondered if-if..."
She broke off in confusion. What was wrong with her? It didn't matter. Max was leaving her alone on this first night at Sarcene. Well, that was good news-wasn't it? Of course it was. She didn't want to see him. She never wanted to see him again.
"Signorina? Va bene?"
Francesca looked at Giulia. She didn't have to understand the language to know that the woman's face was set in lines of concern and suddenly she felt embarrassed for having treated her with such contempt a little while before. She wasn't responsible for her employer's actions.
"Giulia: " She hesitated. "I'm sorry for what happened when we met. Do you understand?"
The broad, olive-tone face softened. She put her hand out to Francesca, as if she was going to say something. After a few seconds, she sighed and lifted her shoulders in an expressive shrug.
Francesca smiled. "We'll just have to do the best we can, I guess."
Giulia touched her arm lightly, as if in agreement.
"Buona sera, signorina."
Francesca nodded. "Good night."
She stood still after the door had shut, then walked slowly to the table and inhaled the tantalizing scents wafting from the serving dishes. Everything looked and smelled delicious, even the things she didn't recognize. Her stomach growled softly and she put her hand lightly against it.
She was hungry. Very. It would be silly not to eat something if she was dining alone. Anyway, what would not eating accomplish except to weaken her? She would need her strength if she was going to keep her wits about her and find a way to escape from Sarcene. Francesca drew a platter of cheese and fruit toward her. Yes. There had to be a way out of here and tomorrow she would set about locating it.
The resolution-and the food-made her feel better. Sarcene might look like a castle but there were no locked gates and she hadn't set eyes on any staff more imposing than the housekeeper and the maid. For the first time in hours, she felt a little rush of optimism. She would finish eating, climb into the canopied bed and get some much-needed sleep, and rise early, long before anyone expected her to. Francesca nodded to herself. With any luck at all, she would never have to see Max Donelli again.
She whimpered softly in her sleep.
"Francesca. What is it, cara?"
Someone was soothing her, stroking the heavy fall of pale hair from her face, feathering light touches across her skin.
Her eyes flew open. "Max," she whispered, even before she saw his face.
Yes. There he was, seated on the bed beside her, his hair lying ruffled on his brow, his chest bare above pale blue pyjama bottoms, his dark eyes fixed on her face. The sun was just rising-she could see its pale fingers touching the net curtains at the window beyond his shoulders-and its faint light tinged everything with an air of unreality. Even Max seemed unreal.
"Easy, cara." His voice was soft, hoarse with sleep. "You were having a bad dream."
She frowned, trying to remember, but the images were already fading. "I-I don't..." She hesitated. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard you call out. My rooms are just next door."
She stared at him. How could he have heard her, through walls as thick as these? It didn't seem possible, but how else could he have known she needed him? Unless he'd read her thoughts, as he had so many times before.
Her throat constricted. Needed him? What kind of nonsense was that? Why would she need the man who'd brought her to this place, who'd taken her from everything she knew and understood?
"Are you all right now?"
Francesca swallowed dryly. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine." "Are you certain? Giulia tells me you were asleep by the time she returned for your dinner tray last evening." "I was exhausted, that's all."
Max nodded. "Yes. I could see it in your face when I came to say good-night." He reached out and touched his finger to the high arc of her cheekbone. "Your eyes were dark with fatigue," he said softly. "And your lashes lie against your skin like bruises."
His words were whispers against her skin. Suddenly it seemed difficult to breathe.
"You mean-you came into my room while I was asleep? You had no right."
A little smile tilted at the corners of his mouth. "I told you, I wanted to say good-night-and apologize for not having joined you for dinner."
"It wasn't at all necessary. I was perfectly content to--- "
"Giulia thought you'd asked for me when she brought you your meal." He shifted his weight. "Was she right?"
He was so close to her now that she could see the intricate patterns made by the dark hair on his chest, smell the clean, masculine scent of his body.
"No," she whispered. It took all her effort to drag her eyes from his muscled shoulders to his face. "No. That wasn't-that wasn't what I asked her at all."
Max's hand stilled against her cheek. "What did you ask her, then?"
His voice was soft, as soft as the perfumed breeze that stirred the curtains.
"I asked-I asked her if-ff..." Oh, God, why didn't he stop touching her? Her hands, hidden beneath the blankets, balled into fists as she fought against reaching out and-and... "I asked her if-if perhaps one of your other guests had-had left something behind that I could wear." She forced her eyes to his. "Something cooler than that dress, I mean."
He looked at her while the moments ticked away. "I'm sorry it didn't suit you, but it was the best Giulia could do on short notice. It belongs to her niece."
"I'm grateful for it. I only meant-"
"I know what you meant, Francesca. You meant to ask how many women have come to Sarcene before you."
"No." She spoke quickly. "That isn't it at all. What would it matter to me if you'd brought a hundred women to-?"
Max's fingers fell lightly across her mouth, silencing her. "I have never brought a woman here," he said softly. "You are the first, bellissima. You are the only one."
Her breath caught. I don't care, she wanted to say, it makes no difference to me whether I'm the first or the fiftieth...
But she couldn't say it, not while he was so close to her, not while his fingers lay across her mouth. She had only to part her lips if she wanted to taste his skin.
Time seemed to stop while Max looked at her. In the early morning silence that surrounded them, Francesca could hear the racing beat of her heart.
If he bent to her now, she thought dizzily, if he took her in his arms and kissed her...
But he didn't. He drew back instead and rose slowly to his feet. "Get dressed," he said. His voice was harsh, but she knew the tension in it had nothing to do with anger. "We will go to the market and buy whatever you need."
"Max?"
She whispered his name into the still air without even realizing she had spoken it. The single word was a question, an answer, a statement as old as the stone walls of Sarcene. His dark eyes swept over her, lingering on the silken hair spread across the pillow, the swift rise and fall of her breasts beneath the blanket, and then he muttered something under his breath that she could not understand and turned his back to her.
"Get dressed, Francesca. We will go to Cor
te." She saw the muscles in his shoulders and back roll as he took a deep breath, and then he stabbed his fingers into his hair, raking it back from his forehead. "And," he said in a low voice, "perhaps-perhaps we will talk."
Corte lay in the center of the island, high on the summit of a jagged mountain and surrounded on three sides by the mightiest of Corsica's rivers. A citadel, at least as old as any Francesca had ever seen in any Italian village on the mainland, dominated the town's ancient heart.
She had been quiet during the drive from Sarcene, wearing her silence like a suit of protective armor. What had happened between them this morning frightened her; her vulnerability to her captor had left her shaken and breathless. The best thing, she had decided as she sat in the car beside him, was to ignore him. She would say nothing, do nothing, simply endure his presence. It was what she'd promised herself from the start, and it was still good advice.
But by the time they were winding their way through Corte's narrow streets, Francesca's self-imposed silence had become a burden. She was bursting with questions, and, when she saw the citadel rise up before them, it was impossible to keep still any longer.
"What is Corsica?" she said suddenly.
Max glanced at her. "An island," he said, "as most bodies of land surrounded by-"
"That isn't what I-" His laughter made her shift in her seat and glare at him. Her chin rose in defiance. "You know that's not what I meant."
"I know that you've been bursting with questions for the past half hour," he said calmly. "I only wondered how long it would take you to ask them."
She swung away from him and crossed her arms over her breasts. It was too late to keep quiet. Besides, what harm could there be in asking questions about the island? She might learn something that would help her make her escape.
"What is this place, then? The signs are all in French, but the language sounds as if it's Italian."
"It is." Max pulled the car to the kerb and shut off the engine. "Well, Genoese, anyway." He stepped out and came around to the passenger side. "Come. We'll find some shops and-"
The Corsican Gambit Page 12
