The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  She stumbled back from the window and collapsed into a chair. Her hands shook as she put them to her face. She sat there for a long time, taking steadying breaths, willing herself to stop trembling. Maybe she really was going crazy. Maybe—

  The door slammed open. She looked up, heart racing, and her eyes met Max's.

  "Giulia tells me you are bored."

  Her throat worked. "I--I am, yes," she said when she trusted herself to speak. Her chin lifted. "Despite what you may think, I'm not used to doing nothing all day."

  He nodded. "What can I say?" He smiled coolly. "I told you that Sarcene was isolated. No television, no newspapers, no concert halls or balls or cocktail par­ties—“

  "I offered to help with dinner last night," she said, as coldly as he. "But Giulia was horrified."

  Max laughed. "I would think so. She has little need for the services of one for whom cooking is a chic hobby."

  He made it so easy to hate him. She could, at least, be grateful for that.

  "Are you always so damned sure of yourself?" she asked tightly.

  The easy amusement faded from his face. "No. Not always." He shifted his weight and lounged back against the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest in that ar­rogant way he had. "I wish I could help you, but I can't. What could a woman with your skills do in a place like Sarcene?"

  Her face blazed with color but she refused to rise to the bait. "I could catalog your books," she said stiffly. "Don't look so startled, Max, I've done it before. The gallery bought out the Bennett estate last year and I did the work on first editions."

  His expression didn't alter. "Did you?" he said tonelessly.

  "Yes." She put her hands on her hips. "I don't suppose you've had anyone inventory the furnishings here, either."

  This time, his lips twitched. "The phoney Gobelins, you mean? No, no, I haven't."

  "Well, you should. Those tapestries are valuable, even though they're copies. And there's other stuff, silver pieces and furniture and china..."

  "You have been busy, then, exploring Sarcene."

  "Always under the watchful eye of someone. Giulia, or Paolo, or Gianni."

  "I hear that you've learned to speak some of our language."

  "What if I have?" Her eyes flashed. "Is it forbidden for an outsider to try and fit into Sarcene?"

  His teasing smile faded again and he gave her a long, searching look. "No," he said at last, it is not for­bidden. But it is unusual."

  She tossed her head. "Perhaps it's because you won't let anyone fit in," she said. "Has that ever occurred to you?"

  There was an even longer silence, and then he leaned away from the door.

  "Do you ride?"

  She stared at him. "Ride?"

  "Horses," he said. "Do you?" She nodded, and he slapped his hand against his thigh. "Change into some­thing suitable and meet me at the stables."

  Her heart began to race as he turned away. With a horse beneath her, she might have a chance to escape. But her voice was steady when she called after him.

  "Your thugs won't let me out the door."

  He didn't even break stride. "They are my men," he said over his shoulder. "And they will do as they are told."

  She had not ridden in years, not since boarding school, and she had almost forgotten how she loved it. The knowledge came as soon as she stepped into the stables and drew the rich, once-familiar scent of hay and horse deep into her lungs.

  She watched as Max led a delicate Arabian from her stall to the paddock.

  "She's gentle," he said, stroking the long, arched neck, "but she is spirited. Do you think you can handle her?"

  She ran her hand along the Arabian's flank, then swung into the saddle. "I'm not afraid of things with spirit. I like that quality."

  Max smiled a little. "Yes," he said, "as do I: "

  She tried to be alert to every chance for escape, but it was soon obvious that there were no roads or houses in the distance. And, after a while, it was hard to con­centrate on anything but the feel of the horse under her, the warmth of the sun-and Max, riding along beside her. They had been apart for days, and she had missed him, she had missed his cocksure attitude and his sense of humor, his dark eyes and his sensual mouth, she had, missed everything about him.

  He looked at her and smiled. "What are you thinking, cara?"

  Cara. It was so long since he'd called her that.

  Francesca smiled back at him. "I was-I was won­dering what grows in those fields. The grass is such a lovely golden color."

  His smile broadened. "Wheat. And there is barley, too, and oats."

  "This is really a working farm, then?"

  He laughed softly. "It is now. It's taken a long time to get the soil to produce. It's been played out, over the centuries." He clucked to his horse as they made their way slowly up a hill.

  "Has it?" she said in surprise. "But surely land that supports all the wonderful plants of the maquis—"

  Max shook his head. "The maquis only grows where the soil is the poorest, cara. "

  "I can't believe it. How could something so beautiful take root in such a hard place?"

  He looked at her. "I have wondered that myself," he said softly. "I suppose it is a kind of miracle."

  It took all her strength to look away from his searching gaze. "Tell me-tell me about Sarcene. Did you inherit it from your father?"

  "I wish I had." He smiled ruefully. "It would be nice to think that he had owned even a little piece of this island that he loved so dearly. But he did not. It has always been hard to earn a living in Corsica. My father was poor. That was why he and my mother went to America."

  "Then why did she come back after he died? If it was hard to earn a living here, I mean?"

  "I wondered, too, for a long time." He glanced over at her as they reached the top of the hill. "And one day, I understood. She came back because Corsica was all she had left of my father. Can you understand?"

  Yes, she thought, oh, yes, she did understand. A fierce, bittersweet yearning rose up within her, con­stricting her throat so that it was suddenly hard to breathe. If you loved a man with all your heart, so that he became the very center of your universe, what would you have left if you lost him? Your world would be barren; you would do whatever you could to keep the memory of him and his love alive...

  God. Oh, God...

  "We can see all of Sarcene from that meadow. Would you like to ride there?"

  Francesca blinked. Max was pointing to a gentle plateau covered in wildflowers. "Yes," she said, her voice trembling a little. She managed to smile at him. "I'd like that."

  He was right, she thought, as the horses came to rest knee-deep in the sweet-smelling blossoms, you could see the whole world from here, or at least you could see all the world that mattered-Max and Sarcene. He swung down from the saddle, looked up at her, and held out his arms.

  The breath caught in her throat. How could she have let this happen? How?

  "Cara?"

  She hadn't. The truth was that nothing she could have done would have kept this from happening. Max had spoken of fate when they'd first met. Fate would bring her into his bed, he'd said-but she had never dreamed that fate would make her fall helplessly in love with him.

  Tears stung her eyes. It was such a simple, swift re­alization; the only thing that surprised her was that it had taken her so long to admit the truth to herself. What she'd felt that day in Corte wasn't hatred, it was love. She loved Max, loved him with a passion so all­consuming that she was certain it must be written on her face.

  "Francesca. What is it?"

  She shook her head and pressed her heels into the Arabian's flanks. She had to escape now, not just from Sarcene but from Max, from what she felt.

  But he was too quick. He caught the horse's bridle, and then he was reaching up to her, his arms were closing around her, and he lifted her down from the saddle, her body sliding the length of his as he lowered her to her feet.

  "Bellissima, " he whispered. H
is hands framed her face. "Ah, Francesca. My beloved."

  Beloved. It was a word a man would use when he wanted a woman, it didn't have any real meaning. Or did it? Did she dare hope? Did she dare...?

  "Max," she whispered, and she stopped thinking and went into his arms.

  He kissed her windblown hair, her sun-warmed temples, her damp eyelids, and he whispered words of desire, words that excited and inflamed her, words that said he needed her, that he wanted her with a passion that was the equal of hers.

  And, in his arms, in the blazing heat of his kisses, she let everything slip away, the questions and doubts, the darkness that had kept them apart. Destiny had brought them here and who was she to defy it? Standing on that hilltop, with the man she loved in her arms and the scent of the maquis all around them, Francesca knew that nothing in her life would ever matter as much as this moment.

  She groaned as Max's hands slipped under her shirt and began moving over her. His touch was possessive, almost harsh, and she felt her body coming alive under it.

  "Yes," she whispered as he cupped her breasts, "yes, touch me. Please touch me."

  "I have wanted you for so long, cara." His mouth crushed down upon hers, driving the breath from her. "I want you now," he said thickly. "Here, in the sunlight." He pulled her shirt over her head. "You are so beautiful," he said. She cried out when he feathered his fingers across her nipples. Her head fell back as his mouth closed around her waiting flesh. Sensation blossomed low in her belly and a wave of heat raced through her body to center where his lips enclosed her. "So beautiful," he whispered. Her jeans slid down her legs and then her briefs, and she was naked before him.

  Max stepped back and looked at her, his eyes as hot as the sun. She had wondered what it would be like to stand this way before a man. Would she be embarrassed to let a lover see her this way? Would she be frightened?

  There was no embarrassment, no fear, there was only a heady rush of excitement as she watched Max's face. His eyes moved over her slowly, making her blood run hot under her skin. His hand caressed her breasts, her gently rounded belly, and her flesh came alive.

  "Am I?" she whispered. "Am I beautiful, Max?"

  "You are perfect, cara," he said. "Everywhere. Your face, your mouth!' His eyes locked with hers as he touched her. "Here," he said, stroking her breasts, "and here."

  She cried out as his hand moved over her, and then he dropped to his knees and buried his face in the pale golden curls at the juncture of her thighs. She moaned and swayed backward; she would have fallen if he hadn't caught her and held her still while he tasted her. Her face tilted up to the sun, her fingers clutched his dark, silken hair and she gave herself up to the fierce, aban­doned joy of his caresses. When she sobbed his name, Max rose to his feet and cupped her shoulders in his hands. His kiss was deep, and the taste of their mingled passion and desire bloomed on her tongue.

  "Cara." She looked into his dark eyes as he drew back. "Undress me," he whispered.

  Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons of his shirt. She heard ' catch his breath as her fingers slid under the soft cotton and began learning the satiny feel of the dark hair that curled on his chest and the taut underlay of muscle and bone beneath his skin. He whis­pered her name as her hand drifted to the waistband of his jeans; she opened the button and paused, her heart thudding as she placed her hand lightly over the heavy weight of him that lay beneath the closed zipper. His body pulsed under her touch, and her heart leaped to match its rhythm.

  Max groaned. "Wait," he said thickly as his fingers curled around her wrist and stilled her hand. His face was a mask of controlled tension. "Wait, cara. Slowly is the best way."

  But she had waited too long. Days. Weeks. A lifetime-and she was done with waiting. She wanted him, she wanted to belong to him, she ached for the moment his body would conquer hers.

  Her hand slid beneath his open waistband. "Make love to me, Max," she said. "Make love to me now."

  He caught her hair in his hands and bent her head back, kissing her mouth and throat, and then, within seconds, his clothing lay discarded beside hers. There was only time to look at him and think, with wonder, that she had never imagined anything as beautiful as this hard, male body and then Max had her in his arms and he was taking her down, down into the soft grass and the wildflowers.

  At the last moment, the moment before he filled her with his silken heat, Francesca remembered that she had not warned him of her innocence. She felt a second's trepidation, not of the pain of his possession but of what he might say when he realized she was not the sophis­ticated woman he had thought her to be.

  But she should have known. He knew all her secrets. Why would he not have discovered this most private one? She felt the tension in his muscles as he held back from the ultimate sweet victory.

  "Francesca." He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. "I won't hurt you, cara," he whispered. "I swear, I'll never hurt you."

  The words made her want to weep. Yes, she thought with sudden terrible clarity, you will. You will.

  But the time for thinking was past. Max was sinking into her, losing himself in her softness. Her body opened to him, folded around him, and he was moving, stroking, taking her with him on a journey that went beyond the stars, a journey that had begun the first night they'd met, and nothing mattered but the incredible joy of what was happening.

  I love you, Max, Francesca thought, I'll always love you, and a moment later she was lost in the shattering explosion that consumed them both.

  She awoke in his arms. He was asleep, his head cradled on her breast. She smiled as she watched him, the dark sweep of his lashes against his tanned cheek, the mouth that could be so demanding and yet so sweetly gentle. The sun had dropped toward the horizon; they had been here for hours, she thought, flushing with pleasure when she remembered how they had made love again and again before Max had finally chuckled wickedly and tucked her into the curve of his arm.

  "Are you trying to kill me, you shameless Jezebel?"

  She'd given him a teasing smile. "What if I were?" she'd said, and Max had given her a long, deep kiss.

  "I would gladly die in your arms, cara," he'd said, and then he'd kissed her eyelids shut and they'd drifted off to sleep.

  Her smile faded. Would a man say such a thing unless he loved a woman? Would he whisper the things Max had whispered to her, would he make her feel as Max had made her feel?

  But there was still a question unanswered. Why had he carried her off?

  "Cara.”

  Her eyes flew to Max's face. He was awake, watching her with a heavy-lidded intensity that made her heart turn over.

  "I-I think we should start back," she said. "It's getting late."

  He smiled slightly. "Soon."

  “Max”

  He rolled her beneath him. "Soon," he said again. "After I have done this-" She cried out softly as he touched her. "And this."

  "Max. Oh, God, Max "

  "And this."

  Her body arched up to meet his and she was lost—­but she didn't know quite how lost until they were dressed and riding slowly down the dirt road that led to Sarcene. Suddenly, a car appeared heading toward them, emerging from a cloud of dust like an apparition. Its horn blared loudly and Francesca's horse shied. Max cursed, grabbed for her reins, and managed to steady the terrified animal.

  The car door swung open and a man stepped out. "Mi scusi, " he began, but Max had already swung down from his saddle and was stalking toward the car. He let loose a blistering torrent of Corsican. When it ended, the man smiled nervously. Francesca could see his throat working up and down.

  "Mi scusi, " he repeated unhappily, "ma io-io no comprende..." He bent and peered into the car. "Agnes," he hissed, "where the bloody hell is that Berlitz?" A woman's voice whispered in response. He straightened up and tried the same nervous smile. "I really am sorry," he said. "But we were looking for this little village we'd read about, and the damned map seemed to show a turn-off a few miles back.. .'r />
  Max took another step forward. "What the hell are you doing on my land?"

  The man let out an audible sigh. "You speak English," he said with relief. "Well, thank goodness. Look, it's all a mistake. My wife and I went off on our own-we probably shouldn't have-we were looking for Gaspare-"'

  "You could have killed someone, you fool, do you realize that?"

  "I'm sorry-I said I was, didn't I? Just tell me where Gaspare is, and I'll-"

  "Turn back to the main road," Max said roughly. "Go south ten kilometers and look for a signpost. You can see the church steeple from there."

  The man nodded. "Fine, fine. Thank you very much." He climbed back into the car, threw it in gear, then hesi­tated and peered out of the window. "Is that castle back there yours?" Max didn't answer. "If it is, the wife and I would love to get a look inside. We'd be willing to pay for a tour, of course."

  Max stalked toward the car and slammed his fist on the roof. "Basta, " he roared. "Enough! Get off my land before I have you shot!"

  The tires squealed as the car shot into Reverse, then bucked forward and changed directions. A rooster tail of dust rose in the air as it barreled down the narrow road and disappeared.

  Max swung back toward Francesca. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

  "Yes," she said, "of course. I'm fine. But that poor man…"

  "That poor man," he growled, "could have killed you, cara." He strode to her and clasped the pommel of her saddle. "Had you fallen-"

  "But I didn't," she said gently.

  "No thanks to that-that idiot!" He went on glowering for a moment, and then he lifted his hand and lay it against her cheek. "Nothing must happen to you," he said softly. "Do you see?"

  Francesca turned her face and pressed her mouth to his palm. "Am I so important to you?" she whispered.

  His eyes grew dark and still in his face. "You have been, Francesca. From the very beginning."

  His words made her heart fill with joy, but before she could respond he turned abruptly and swung into the saddle.

  "It's getting late," he said. She watched as he tapped his heels into the Arabian's flanks and moved out into the road ahead of her. "Come," he said, "we will ride back to Sarcene."