Читать книгу The Devil's Heart - Lynn Harris Raye - Страница 9

THE FLIGHT TO Buenos Aires took more than ten hours. Though they’d traveled in luxury aboard Navarre Industries’ corporate jet, Francesca was exhausted by the time they arrived. She hadn’t slept well since the night before when she’d stolen into Marcos’s hotel room and liberated the Corazón del Diablo.

Though it was dark when they landed, the city lights bathed the night sky in a pale pink glow. Francesca stumbled on the stairs leading from the jet, but Marcos caught her around the waist and kept her from tumbling down the gangway. His fingers burned into her back as he guided her the rest of the way down.

A sleek Mercedes waited for them nearby. Francesca sank into the interior and moved as far away from Marcos as she could get. He immediately took out his phone and made a call. She listened to the lyrical sound of his voice speaking Spanish as the car left the airport and headed into the city. She spoke tolerable French and German, could read Latin, but she’d never learned Spanish. She was certainly regretting that now.

Marcos eventually finished his call and they rode in silence. The city moved by at a quick pace, but a few things caught her attention.

The obelisk that looked like the Washington Monument, which sat at the center of the very wide street down which they’d been traveling, for instance. When she remarked on it, Marcos informed her it was called El Obelisco and had been built to commemorate the four-hundredth anniversary of the city.

“There are concerts held here from time to time,” he said, and she realized there was actually a semicircular swath of grass and concrete on one side of the monument that could accommodate many people.

In fact, though it was dark, there were people everywhere, lingering around the obelisk or crossing the wide street. She even spotted a couple doing the tango. There was a crowd gathered to watch, but the scene slid by before she could see much of the dance.

In spite of her exhaustion, in spite of the reason she was here, the color and movement of the big city excited her. She’d traveled quite a bit as a child, but she’d never been to South America. Her mother had loved to frequent Paris, Rome, and the Med. While she and Livia fidgeted inside hotel suites with their tutors, her mother attended fashion shows and shopped like there was no tomorrow.

Perhaps her mother had been onto something, since most of her father’s fortune died when he did. Penny Jameson d’Oro no longer took shopping trips abroad. A fact for which she firmly blamed Francesca.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a street so wide,” she said in a rush, pushing away the ugly, depressing thoughts that came whenever she thought of her mother.

“No, you are not likely to do so either. This is the Avenida 9 de Julio; it is the widest street in the world. There are twelve lanes of traffic.”

“Fast traffic.” Cars zipped along at Autobahn speed—or so it seemed.

“Sí, people are in a hurry to get where they are going.”

“And where are we going? Is it much farther?” As much as she feared reaching their final destination, she also wanted to collapse on a bed and sleep for the next twelve hours.

“We are nearly there,” he said. “My family home is in Recoleta.”

“I thought we were in Buenos Aires. Have we left it behind?” It was entirely possible, she supposed. As tired as she was, they could have driven to another city and she wouldn’t have really noticed.

“Recoleta is a barrio, a neighborhood.”

“Did you grow up there?”

The corners of his mouth tightened, the scar whitening. “No. When my parents were taken, I was sent to live with relatives.”

“Taken?” she said, zeroing in on that single word. Not died, not left, not went away and never came back. Taken.

“It is a long story, Francesca, and more appropriate for another night. Suffice it to say I have reclaimed the family home and moved back into it.”

The car turned, and soon they were cruising along an avenue lined with ornate buildings that looked as if they’d been plucked from the streets of Paris and set down here. The architecture was ornate, beautiful, and decidedly French rather than Spanish. Soon they came to an iron gate that swung open on a mechanical hinge, then passed through and halted before an imposing white façade.

A lush collection of palm trees and flowering grasses grew in the little courtyard near the entrance. A man in a uniform hurried out to greet them as they stepped from the car.

“Señor Navarre, bienvenido.”

“Thank you, Miguel. It’s good to be home again.”

A phalanx of men moved to the rear of the car and began removing luggage. Marcos ushered Francesca inside a grand entry hall with a giant crystal chandelier, black and white marble floor tiles set on the diagonal, and a huge Venetian mirror on one wall.

The elegance made her stomach flip. She hadn’t been inside surroundings such as these in years. The weight of expectation threatened to crush her. Already she felt the walls closing in. She’d left deportment behind, left luxury and the expectation that went with it in the past. This place made her feel small, insignificant.

How could she do this now? How could she survive it? She would make mistakes, would fail where she should not. She wasn’t cut out for this life, couldn’t possibly masquerade as his wife for a single day, much less three—or six—months.

Marcos grasped her hand. Francesca uttered a little cry of surprise, then shivered when he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the tender skin of her wrist. They’d spent the last several hours barely speaking to each other, and now this. It disconcerted her, flustered her.

What was he up to?

He gazed down at her, his expression a mixture of heat and hatred. It confused her, but not as much as his touch did. Why did she react? Why did she feel as if every cell of her body was straining toward him, wanting more?

“Until morning, mi amor. Juanita will show you to your room.”

A young woman in a starched uniform stood nearby. She curtsied when Francesca looked over at her. Francesca gave her a weary smile, hoping she didn’t look too wild eyed, before turning back to Marcos.

“Please don’t call me that,” she said in a low voice. She had to keep a distance between them, had to keep him from addling her with his sleek words and expert touch. She was still far too vulnerable to him, and it shocked her. She’d thought she’d left that girl in the past.

One dark eyebrow arched. “You do not like it? You would prefer Frankie now?”

Francesca pulled her hand away the instant his grip lightened. “No, of course not. But I don’t want you calling me your love either. We both know I am not.”

“Sí, we do indeed. And yet there is an appearance to maintain. We are marrying soon.”

Francesca’s heart skipped a beat. Dear God, what had she agreed to? She hadn’t truly realized it until she’d walked into this…this palace.

Jacques, she told herself, she was doing it for Jacques.

“There’s no reason to pretend we care for one another,” she replied. Getting through the next few months would be hard enough. Pretending to feel things for this man was beyond her ability. She’d built a wall after he’d abandoned her so brutally; she didn’t want to breach it ever again.

His expression grew hard. “There is every reason, Francesca. As my wife, there will be many public duties you must perform. I won’t have my reputation suffer simply because you are too spoiled to play the part you’ve agreed to. While you are here, while we are married, you will be happy to be my wife. Comprendes?”

Public duties. She would never pull it off. They’d know she was a fraud the instant she entered the room. And Marcos would not help Jacques.

She swayed on her feet before she could lock her knees. It was simply weariness and shock—fear, perhaps—that nearly made her fall. Marcos caught her, sweeping her into his arms and against his chest.

“No, please, it’s all right,” she managed. “Put me down.”

He said something in Spanish, something low and dark, then barked out an order to the room in general before striding toward the curving staircase.

“I’m just tired,” she said, hot embarrassment—and something else that contained heat—washing over her at the contact with his body.

She hadn’t been this close to him when they were married, hadn’t felt the power of his arms around her. But oh how she’d wanted to. How she’d dreamed of him sweeping her up just like this and carrying her into their bedroom while she laid her head against his shoulder and breathed in the wonderful scent of his aftershave.

Then he would lower her to the bed, whispering those words mi amor, before stripping her and kissing her and making love to her all night long.

But that was when she’d been eighteen. Now it was a nightmare to be so close to him. And to feel things she hadn’t felt for a man in almost four years.

He strode up the steps and down a long hall while she clung to him. The maid, Juanita, hurried past him at a run and threw open a door. Marcos carried Francesca inside and over to a low settee that stood beneath a tall window.

She closed her eyes as he set her down, both grateful and disappointed that he was no longer touching her.

When she opened them, Marcos stared down at her. “If you are pregnant with your lover’s child, you had better tell me now.”

She gaped at him, a sharp pain slashing into her heart. She felt like screaming, or laughing, or maybe even crying at the irony of the accusation, but she would do none of those things. She simply bit down on her lip and shook her head. “I’m not,” she finally managed to force out. “I’m exhausted. I need sleep, not an inquisition.”

“Perhaps you would not mind having blood drawn then. To verify.”

Oh how she hated him in that moment. She had half a mind to tell him no, to ask if he’d care to take other medical tests, but she decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It was a terrible invasion of her privacy, not to mention a hot dagger in her soul, but she only had to think of Jacques in a hospital, getting the best care money could buy.

“Draw all the blood you like. I have nothing to hide.”

“You are shaking,” he said, his brows drawing down as he studied her.

“I’ll stop if you go away.”

The tightness at the edges of his sensual mouth was back. The scar was white, and she knew she must have angered him.

Too bad, because he’d angered her. And hurt her.

“Please just go, Marcos,” she said, holding onto the edges of her composure by a thread. “I don’t want you here.”

He towered over her, six-foot four-inches of angry Latin male. “You may spend this evening alone, remembering your lover, but tomorrow we begin to act like a happy couple. Buenas noches, señorita. Hasta mañana.”

Before she could say a word in reply, he strode out of the door and closed it behind him. The maid arrived a few moments later and drew her a hot bath in spite of her protestations that she could do it herself.

She hadn’t planned to take a bath, yet she discovered when she sank into the fragrant water that she welcomed the chance to scrub away the chill that hadn’t left her since Marcos had asked if she was pregnant.

Francesca closed her eyes as she leaned back on the bath pillow Juanita had provided. Damn him!

He was arrogant and proud, far more so than she remembered. She used to be in love with him, but it was a naïve, girlish love. The woman in her couldn’t love a man like that.