"Francesca?" She looked up. Charles was standing in front of her, watching her with a strange look on his face. "You don't-you can't possibly have any feelings for the man, can you?"
She drew back her shoulders. "Tell me what you want. I'll do anything."
Charles smiled, leaned forward, and kissed her forehead. "I promise you," he said, "by this time next week, we'll be toasting the spectacular demise of Maximillian Donelli."
Standing in the elaborate powder room of the Plaza Hotel, Francesca thought for what seemed the one hundredth time that she had been a fool to accompany Charles tonight. But he'd held out bait too enticing to refuse when he'd telephoned.
"This is it," he'd said mysteriously. "I've worked out the perfect scheme to topple that bastard."
He'd refused to say anything else, telling her only that she was to wear her best dress, promising he'd tell her the details when he picked her up at her apartment. But he hadn't, he'd simply whisked her off to this hotel.
Their limousine had pulled to the curb. Charles, in his impatience, had opened the door himself-something he never did-stepped onto the pavement, and held out his hand to her.
"Well, come on, come on. We're late."
Francesca had felt a moment's panic. Charles was so excited and eager. What was his scheme to cripple Max?
"Charles-wait. You have to tell me-"
He'd tugged her hand hard enough to half drag her from the car.
"Didn't you hear me, Francesca? We're late. I told Gerry we'd be here by eight, and it's half past that already."
"Gerry? Gerry who?"
Now, looking at herself in the mirror, Francesca grimaced. "Gerry" had turned out to be Gerald Watley, sixtyish, married, and a longtime member of Spencer's board of directors. She had never liked the man, especially since he'd tried to paw her at a Christmas party two years before. Charles had always treated him with disdain-but tonight, he'd acted as if Watley were his long-lost brother.
The powder room door swung open, admitting a blast of music from the ballroom along with a trio of chattering women. All three stopped dead when they saw Francesca, then rushed toward her in a swoop.
"Darling! How good to see you. You've been out of circulation for ages. How have you been?"
She gave them a frozen smile, avoided saying anything more than what politeness demanded, and made a hurried exit-straight into Gerald Watley.
He caught her by the shoulders and laughed goodnaturedly as she collided with him.
"Ah, Miss Drury. Charles sent me to find you. They'll be serving dinner soon, and we haven't even had our first dance."
Francesca peered past him as he led her into the ballroom. "Where is my stepbrother, Mr. Watley?"
Watley's arms closed around her. "Please call me Gerry, Francesca."
She stiffened as he tried to draw her closer. He was perspiring-she could see beads of moisture on his shiny face and in his sparse moustache-and he smelled unpleasantly of too much expensive cologne.
"Did Charles say which table he and I are at? I didn't pick up my seating card-"
"You're with me, of course." He swung her past the bandstand, his voice rising as the music blared. "You needn't worry about Charles, my dear. You're in good hands."
Good hands, indeed. One of those hands was on her bare back, clammy and moist.
"Mr. Watley "
"Gerry, darling. Call me Gerry."
"Mr. Watley." She smiled through her teeth. Where was Charles, damn him? "I can hardly breathe, the way you're holding me."
Watley chuckled. "That's such a charming quality you have, Francesca, I've always been fascinated by it. That don't-touch-me thing, you know what I mean? That's why I was especially delighted when your stepbrother phoned and told me that you'd mentioned my name."'
She blinked. "That I'd-I'd mentioned your name?"
"I'd no idea my interest in you was reciprocated, my dear."
She felt herself pale. "Mr. Watley. I think you misunderstood whatever my stepbrother may have told you.
I-
She caught her breath as his hand slipped, just for a second, to the small of her back.
"My wife's away." There was a hoarseness in his voice. "Although you needn't worry. She and I have an understanding about these things. I thought we'd have supper here, then go on to a little club I know in the Village, and then-"
Her hands rose between them to push his hulking body from her, and then she stiffened. Someone was watching her, she could feel it, feel his eyes on her.
It was Max, she knew it even before she looked over Watley's shoulder and saw him. There he was, on the far side of the dance floor. There was a woman in his arms, a beautiful woman, and her face was turned up to his, her smile was meant for him alone-but Max wasn't paying any attention. His eyes were fixed on Francesca, he was watching her as if the planet had been reduced to the size of this one ballroom and she and he were the only man and woman on it.
Francesca's breath caught. This was how it had been that first night, the same stunning sense of destiny, the same heightened awareness, and in that instant, she knew that she would never stop loving him.
Her throat worked. She mouthed his name or perhaps whispered it, and Gerald Watley pulled her tightly into his arms so that her hands, which were lying flat against his chest, slid up to his shoulders. The look of derision on Max's face was the last thing she saw before the crowd surged between them.
Watley made a little humming sound. "That's the look I want to see on your face, darling," he whispered thickly, his breath warm and fetid on her face. "That look that says you can't wait to have me touch you-"
He grunted as she trod down deliberately on his foot, her high-heeled sandal bearing sharply into his instep. "Hey. Hey, what are you-?"
"I suggest you let go of me," she said quietly, "or it will be my knee you feel next."
Watley's arms fell to his sides as she stepped away from him. She turned, head. high, and made her way across the crowded dance floor, ignoring the "hello's and the raised eyebrows. She was trembling by the time she reached the cloakroom, eager only for a quick exit—but Charles, damn him, had the claim tag for her velvet evening cape in his pocket.
She stepped up to the cloakroom window.
"I haven't got the tag," she told the attendant, "but I must leave here. I-" A hand closed on her arm; she whirled around and found herself face-to-face with her stepbrother.
"What in hell are you doing?" he said through his teeth.
"Let go of me, Charles."
"Francesca. I asked you a question." He clamped his lips together, glared at the attendant, and then his hand tightened on her and he half dragged her toward a bank of low couches separated from the rest of the foyer by an oriental folding screen.
"I have nothing to say to you, Charles," she hissed. "Just let go of me."
"How dare you?" He tugged her down on to a seat beside him, his face white with rage. "How dare you ruin everything, after all the trouble I went to to set it up?”
Francesca twisted away. "Set it up?" She rubbed furiously at the marks his fingers had left on her arm. "Set me up, you mean. What in heaven did you promise that man, anyway?"
Charles's mouth thinned. "Why must you always be such a child about these things, Francesca? Watley's an important man."
"He's a pig, and you used to think so, too."
"He's important to my plan, dammit. I told you I'd figured a way to finish Donelli off." He thrust his hand into his hair and scraped it back from his forehead. "Look, it's not too late. Watley's confused, but I assured him you were just playing hard to get. That's the reputation you have. He'll buy it, if you go back in there and treat him nicely."
A coldness settled around her heart. "Treat him nicely?" she said softly. "The way you wanted me to treat the Marques, you mean?"
Her stepbrother's eyes slid from hers. "Don't make it sound like that."
"Like what? Like-like whoring?"
His jaw
thrust forward. "I've tried and tried to explain, but you just refuse to listen. You're an asset, Francesca, and there's nothing wrong in making the most of an asset."
"What's tonight's plan, Charles? Am I to learn something from Watley?"
Her stepbrother relaxed a little. "What could you possibly learn from a stupid fool like Gerry Watley?" he said, with a contemptuous curl to his mouth. He edged closer. "You have it backward, darling. He's to learn something from you. You're to drop some information to him, casually, when-well, when you and he are alone and relaxed."
It felt as if there were a knot in her belly. "Pillow talk," she said quietly, watching him. "Is that what you mean?"
Charles flushed. "I worked hard at this scheme, Francesca. Do you want to hear me out, or don't you?"
She didn't. Suddenly, she didn't want to hear anything from her stepbrother-but she knew she had to, just as she knew she had to ask him questions that he'd already answered but which she now suspected needed asking-and answering-again.
"All right." Her voice was very quiet and controlled. "Tell me your plan"
He smiled. "It's simple, darling. I'll tell you some things about our friend Mr. Donelli, and you'll pass them on to Watley."
"What things?"
Her stepbrother shrugged his shoulders. "Things, that's all, nothing to worry your pretty head about. Just bits and pieces about a conversation you'll claim you overheard at the gallery the other day, someone saying that Donelli's going to swallow Spencer's."
Francesca stared at him. "Is that true?"
"Dammit, Francesca, you aren't listening! No, it's not true. But you'll make it sound as if it is. Everyone who's anyone passes through that gallery where you work. You don't have to name names, just hint that it was somebody important, that you've heard that Donelli plans to dump Spencer's current board of directors and put his own people in it. That's all Watley needs to hear. He'll contact the others, they'll turn on Donelli so fast it will make his head spin, and-"
"But if none of it's true, Charles-I can't do it. I can't just lie that way."
She gasped as his hands clamped on to hers. "Little Miss Sunshine," he snarled. "What do you prefer? That this-this barbarian make a fool of me and get away with it?"
"No. Of course not. But-"
"You said you'd do anything. Well, I'm telling you what it is you have to do and now you're trying to back out.”
"Charles, please listen. Max Donelli hurt me, too. He humiliated both of us."
His face twisted. "You don't know the meaning of the word. You owe me this, dammit: "
Francesca looked at him. "Owe you? What's that supposed to mean?"
"If it weren't for you, none of this would have happened."
She flushed. "I wasn't the one who made that awful wager."
Charles leaned toward her, his face a hideous mask of rage. "If my dear father hadn't been such an ass-"
"What?"
"If he had left me all the shares he owned, do you think I'd be in this mess?" Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. "Who in hell were you? You weren't even a blood relation, Francesca, you were just a-a waif he picked up along with your mother. But he was won over by that saccharine sweetness of yours, he left you half of what should have been mine."
Her face turned white. "You don't know what you're saying"
"Donelli's administrative assistant had the same, sweet `I can't be touched' attitude, too, when I first met her. But I turned her on to the real world. She got me into his computer files, she got me everything I needed."
"Max was right," Francesca whispered. "You did steal from him."
Charles let go of her hands. "I did what I had to for Spencer's, that's all. If you'd ever had the responsibilities I've had, you'd understand."
"Oh, God." Francesca buried her face in her hands. "I should have known he wouldn't have lied to me. Not Max. Not "
"Please, you're making me sick. What did the son of a bitch do, hypnotize you?"
Her hands fell to her lap. "He showed me what a real man can be," she said softly. "He showed me that a man can be honest and strong and caring and-"
"Honest? He kidnapped you. How honest was that?"
"He thought I was part of your scheme, Charles. He thought-" Her voice broke. "He thought I was all the things you'd tried to make me, a woman who slept around, who used men for her own purposes-and I made sure he believed it, I..:" She puffed out her breath. "That last day, he said we had to talk. He wanted me to listen, but-"
Charles slammed his hand on the couch in disgust. "God. To hear you talk, you'd think you were in love with the son of a
"Yes. That is what one might think, cara. That you were in love with Max Donelli."
She flew up from the couch as Max stepped out slowly from behind the folding screens. Her hand went to her throat.
"Max. How long have you—?“
"Long enough." His eyes, as dark as the night, lingered on her flushed face and he smiled just a little before looking down at Charles, still seated on the couch, his skin the color of ashes. "Spencer," he said softly.
Charles gulped and got to his feet. "I'll deny everything," he stammered. "Whatever you think you heard-"
"What you will do," Max said, "is sell your shares in Spencer's to me tomorrow morning. I will pay you today's closing price-plus five percent."
Charles's brows rose. "Five percent?"
"Yes." Max took a step forward. "If that doesn't suit you, we can step outside and discuss the matter man-to-man."
"No," Charles said quickly, "no, that's-that's fine.
"Good night, Spencer."
Francesca put out her hand. "Charles?" Tears filled her eyes as her stepbrother brushed past her and walked away. "Charles," she said again, and suddenly she was in Max's arms.
"It's all right, cara," he whispered. "Cry, if you must."
"I never knew he felt that way about me. He-he did things, and said things, but-but I wanted to believe him. He was my big brother…"
Max's hands cupped her head and brought it to his shoulder. "He was a fool," he said sharply. "Any man would be, to try and use you so."
She drew back a little. "I'm ruining your dinner jacket," she said with a hesitant smile.
"Francesca." Max took her face in his hands and lifted it to him. "God, how I've missed you."
She sniffed back her tears. "You don't have to say that, Max. I know why you did the things you did. You thought I was-"
"I thought you were a woman who would steal my heart, cara." He smiled. "And I was right."
She was afraid to breathe for fear of destroying the magic weaving around them.
"I don't-I don't understand," she whispered.
Max bent his head and kissed her tenderly. "I love you, Francesca," he said. "That was what I wanted to tell you that last night."
Her hands lifted to his chest. "Oh, Max "
"I wanted to tell you everything." His voice grew fierce. "All of it, that I'd stolen you away to keep you from voting your stock in your stepbrother's favor-"
"You mean, you knew, that night at the Casino, that there was a Spencer's stockholders' meeting scheduled?" Max shook his head. "I never even thought of it until we were en route to Villefranche. And then the idea began to come together. I telephoned Moondrift to arrange for our dinner-and to have a call placed to New York, to verify the date of the meeting." He sighed deeply. "The answer arrived by cable, just as you and I were finishing our meal."
Francesca leaned back in his arms. "Then-then you didn't kidnap me because you wanted me?"
He smiled and kissed her again, a long, lingering kiss that left her breathless.
"I kept telling myself I'd taken you to destroy Charles."
"A gambit," she said softly.
Max nodded. "But every time I looked at you, cara, my heart told me the truth. I had taken you because I wanted you, because I'd never known a woman like you in my life."
Her hands rose to his shoulders. "But-but that last
day, Max. After all we'd shared-"
"Cara. If I could only erase what happened-"
"I could have gotten away that day we went riding. You must have realized that. But I didn't. I chose to stay with you. I was so desperately in love with you."
Max kissed her. "Was?" he asked softly.
"Am," she said, smiling. "I am in love with you, Max Donelli. I only said those things to hurt you because I was so hurt." She smiled a little sadly. "You'd read my mind so many times before—if only you'd read it then, you'd have known my heart was breaking. When I awoke and found you gone, when you didn't come back—" She drew a shaky breath. "When I found I was still under guard, that nothing had changed—"
"Cara, how can I explain?" Max took her hands from his shoulders and kissed the palms. "I awoke with you in my arms that morning, and I knew there was no point in trying to kid myself any longer. I'd fallen in love with you and I had to tell you that I'd carried you off to ruin your stepbrother." He put her hands against his chest. "I looked at your beautiful face and I didn't know what to do. Nothing had changed-and everything had changed. How could I tell you? What would you say?"
"And so you decided not to tell me anything?"
"No," he said quickly. "No, I knew I must. But I needed to think. So I went off, alone. It was stupid, I know that now. But I am not used to sharing myself, cara. Can you see? There's never been anyone in my life or in my heart."
Francesca rose on her toes and kissed his mouth. When she drew back, she was smiling.
"Nor in mine," she said. "You were the first man I ever loved, Max, the first I ever made love with."
"And the last," he said in that gruff, proud way she knew so well.
She laughed softly. "Oh, yes," she whispered, "there's no question about that."
"Francesca." Max let go of her and took a step back. Slowly, smiling into her eyes, he held his hands out to her. "Will you come with me, if I ask?"
Her heart lifted. "Yes," she said simply. "I will."
The Corsican Gambit Page 17
