The Devil's Heart Page 11

  “Madre de Dios,” Marcos breathed. “You are incredibly sexy, Francesca. Never doubt this.”

  And then he was taking her over the edge again with his lips and tongue, before moving up her body and kissing her while she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He groaned low in his throat, halting his forward motion. “I had intended to go slower, but I find I cannot wait. You must tell me if it’s too much, if I hurt you.”

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said, threading her hand through his hair and arching up until her breasts were touching his chest. How much she’d wanted to do this with him so many years ago, before she even understood what it really entailed. To let him be the first—and only—man in her life.

  “You might be tender after so long.”

  “I really don’t care. I want you, Marcos.” How freeing to say those words, openly, and know he felt the same. At least in this.

  She tugged his head down, fusing her mouth to his. Marcos must have surrendered to the inevitable, because he slid into her body in one long glide that took her breath away.

  Francesca tilted her hips up, then gasped at the lightning bolt of sensation streaking through her. Marcos tore his mouth from hers.

  “Don’t move,” he said harshly, his eyes glazing. “For God’s sake, don’t move.”

  She did it again, her breath snagging in her chest, her body sizzling. “But it feels amazing…”

  So amazing she wanted to cry with the wonder of it.

  His jaw was granite. “Sí, but this will be over far too soon if you don’t stop moving.”

  She caressed his cheek, joy welling inside her, making her giddy. “Oh, Marcos, why didn’t you tell me you had premature issues?”

  He swore. And then he laughed, though she knew he tried not to. “Why do you amuse me even now? Is this not serious to you?”

  “Very.”

  “And to me,” he growled. Then he flexed his hips. A shiver began at the top of her head and rolled to her toes. It was so unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. All thought of teasing him flew from her head. Raw need was a clarion blast in her soul.

  “Marcos—”

  When he rolled his hips forward again, she couldn’t remember what she’d been about to say. Couldn’t think. Could only feel.

  “Oh yes, mi gatita,” he said, somehow still capable of thought and speech, “it is very serious indeed.”

  When he withdrew and surged forward again, Francesca was lost to everything but what their bodies did. The way they rose and fell together, their breaths mingling, tongues tangling, the rhythm of their thrusts becoming more and more frenzied. It was as if they fought each other, and yet it wasn’t a fight at all. It was a tango, a beautiful dance that required each partner to give everything to the other in pursuit of satisfaction.

  The air in the room was charged, zinging with electricity, and she felt as if she were drawing all of it into her body, concentrating it in her core until it would inevitably burst forth and incinerate her in the process.

  It seemed to last forever and not long enough. She had no warning before she was flung into space, gasping and shuddering, her body dissolving into nothingness. She heard Marcos’s groan of satisfaction, felt the power of his final thrust, the tremors in his body as he found his release.

  A few moments later, he propped himself up on his forearms so as not to crush her beneath him. And yet she missed the pressure of his body, the hard hot feel of him melting into her. God, she’d do it again right this instant if she had the energy.

  And so would he, perhaps, if the fact he was as hard as ever was anything to go by.

  Francesca stretched, still floating on a cloud of satisfaction and unwilling to come down off it to deal with reality anytime soon. There was plenty of time for that later.

  “And how did that feel, mi gatita? Was it worth the wait?”

  “Oh yes,” she purred. “Very worth it.”

  He laughed, then kissed the skin beneath her ear while she sighed. “And you said I was too sure of myself.”

  “You are. But Marcos?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Why do you call me mi gatita? What is that?”

  His smile was genuine. “I call you my kitten because you are so fierce, and so sweet at the same time.”

  No matter how she cautioned herself against reading too much into it, her heart cracked wide open. She was allowing him to get too close, allowing herself to feel too much. She turned her head away on the pillow, stared at the tiny bug that swirled around the lamp. Would it get too close to the heat?

  Was she in danger of burning up in Marcos’s white-hot flame?

  “You are thinking about something,” he said. “But I want you to think only of me.”

  Marcos flexed his hips, and her body answered with heat and want that wasn’t diminished in the least by the release she’d already had.

  “Think only of me,” he repeated. “Of us.”

  And then he made it impossible for her to think of anything else.

  He was sitting in a darkened room, on the floor because there was no furniture, and he could hear the scritch-scritch of small rodents behind the walls. His wrists were bound in manacles. They’d stopped stinging hours ago. Now they throbbed. Throbbed because they were swelling from the raw wounds he’d opened by trying to pull free.

  He couldn’t see what they’d chained him to. Couldn’t see anything. Could only hear the rats and smell his own sweat and blood. How long had he been here? He’d lost track of time in the darkness and deprivation of the last few days.

  Nearby, something hissed, sending his battered senses into high alert. Marcos struggled against the bindings, uncaring that his wrists felt as though they were being ripped open anew.

  The hissing grew louder, the dry coiling of scales on the floor more precise as the serpent moved. Marcos yelled, as much to scare the snake as to express his fear—

  “Marcos!”

  He blinked. The room was dark, but he was in a bed. And he wasn’t alone.

  “Marcos, it’s okay,” a woman’s soft voice said. “You’re with me. There’s no one here but us…”

  Her arms went around him, her face tucking into the crook of his neck. His first instinct was to push her away.

  But he didn’t want to. He wanted to hold her, to let her drive the dreams away.

  “Francesca,” he rasped.

  “Yes, I’m here.” She pushed away suddenly. “I’ll get you some water. You’re so hot.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Stay. Please.”

  She seemed to hesitate, but then she lay back down and curled into him again. Her body against his was comforting, soothing. He stared at the ceiling. How had he fallen asleep here with her? And why didn’t he want to leave?

  He should push himself up, should return to his own room, but he couldn’t seem to do so.

  “Would it help to talk about it?” she asked very quietly.

  “It’s an old dream,” he said, though that’s not what he’d intended to say. “There’s a dark room, rats, and a snake.”

  “Is this something that happened when you were a child? When you lived on the streets?”

  He swallowed. How could he tell her it was worse than that? “Something like that, yes.”

  Her hand slipped over his abdomen, tracing the scar he’d gotten from a close brush with an enemy machete. “Where did this come from, Marcos? Does this have anything to do with your dreams?”

  “No more words,” he said, rolling on top of her soft body. “I can think of better things than talking.”

  Chapter Ten

  FRANCESCA DIDN’T EVER want to leave the bed again, not when Marcos was in it with her. But hunger finally won out. She slipped from the bed and took a quick shower, her body still aching in places it had not in a very long time. But it was a very pleasurable ache.

  She almost hoped Marcos would wake and join her in the shower, but then it would be even longer before she got any breakfast. Frownin
g, she thought back to the last time they’d made love, when he’d woken from his nightmare. He’d been so intense, so driven. She wanted to take away his pain, and the only way she’d been able to do that was by giving him her body.

  Yet she’d wanted more. She’d wanted him to talk to her, really talk to her, and she’d wanted to feel as if she were important to him as more than a bed partner. He’d called her his kitten, and her heart still throbbed when she remembered the way he’d said it, but she had to remind herself it meant nothing in the scheme of things.

  This was a temporary arrangement, and she was leaving as soon as it was over. She had to remember that.

  But her heart didn’t want to think about it. Her heart, dismayingly, only wanted to think of Marcos.

  When she emerged from the shower, she dressed in one of the new outfits, a flattering cream silk tank and pale yellow Capri pants. It surprised her, but she had to admit that Marcos had been right about her clothes. These were far more suitable than the older jeans and blousy tops she’d been wearing.

  She felt good, but whether it was the clothes or the afterglow from last night, she wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps a bit of both.

  She returned to the bedroom, a little kick of disappointment hitting her in the breastbone when she discovered that Marcos had gone.

  Probably, he’d returned to his own room to shower and dress. What would happen now that they’d been intimate? Would he expect her to move into his room? Would he move in here? Or would they keep separate rooms and spend their nights like illicit lovers rather than a married couple?

  So many questions, and none she could really answer. Voices issued from the kitchen as she approached. Curious, she peeked inside. Armando sat in a high chair, banging the tray, and Ingrid was gesturing wildly as she spoke to another woman. They turned when they saw her.

  “Señora Navarre,” Ingrid said. “Buenas tardes. If you would like to go outside, I will serve breakfast there in a few moments.”

  “Of course,” Francesca said, though it still jolted her to hear herself referred to as Señora Navarre. “But what’s wrong? Is it something I can help with?”

  Ingrid sighed and glanced at the other woman. “Ana Luis has run away. She met a boy, and has left to be with him.”

  Francesca glanced at Armando. He seemed oblivious to his mother’s absence as he shoved cereal around on his tray. “She left her baby?”

  “Yes,” Ingrid said with a sigh.

  “Does Marcos know?”

  “Señor Navarre has just been informed. He has sent men to look for her, I believe.”

  “When did she go?”

  “Sometime in the night. I found Armando alone in his crib when I arrived. Poor baby,” she said, reaching over to tousle his hair. Armando giggled. Francesca’s heart squeezed hard at the sound. He had no idea he’d been abandoned. No idea he wasn’t wanted.

  Why could people who didn’t care about children have them when she couldn’t?

  Stop. It was no use traveling that road. She’d been down it before, and there were no answers. Only heartache and pain.

  Ingrid put a palm to her temple. “I have so much to do today, and no idea how it will all get done when I must watch this little one here.”

  “Why don’t I take him?” Francesca said, shocking both herself and Ingrid if the look on the other woman’s face was any indication.

  “Oh no, señora, I cannot ask you to do that. This is your honeymoon! You must have fun, spend time with your husband. A baby would be a distraction.”

  “Nonsense,” Francesca said. Marcos had told people it was their honeymoon? Her heart leapt just a little at that, before she reminded herself it meant nothing. “It’s not Armando’s fault, and I’m not doing anything anyway.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Hell no, she wasn’t certain, if the reckless pounding of her pulse was any indication. “Of course.”

  Ingrid grabbed a rag and wiped Armando’s face, then lifted him from the chair and carried him over to her. For a moment, Francesca wondered if she’d made a mistake, if she knew what she was doing, but Armando smiled and spread his chubby little arms wide. She took him, tears springing to her eyes as he wrapped his arms around her neck.

  He smelled like a baby. And like cereal and sunshine. She wanted to squeeze him close and kiss his little cheeks. Instead, she took him to the veranda and bounced him on her lap while she waited for breakfast to arrive.

  Someone brought a play pen and popped it open. Francesca thanked the girl, though she was pretty certain by the frown on Armando’s face that he didn’t want to spend any time in it.

  “It’s okay, Armando,” Francesca soothed. “You can sit right here with me if you’re a good boy.”

  The baby burbled happily. Francesca gazed at him in wonder, her heart expanding so wide it hurt. Her own little girl would have been almost four. She’d stayed away from children because it hurt too much, but holding this little boy right now felt like the best thing she’d done in a long time. Besides making love with Marcos, of course.

  As if thinking of him summoned him, he suddenly appeared in the doorway. The expression on his face, she noted, was thunderous. It cleared a little when he saw her, and he even managed a smile when Armando turned to look at him.

  “Have you found her?” Francesca asked as he came over and pulled out a chair.

  “No.”

  Armando reached for Marcos. Oddly, she felt a little reluctant to let him go, but Marcos took him and tickled his belly. The baby laughed uproariously while Marcos made faces.

  A pang of longing pierced her soul. She wanted this life. Wanted Marcos and a baby. Wanted nights like the last night, and days that were perfect and stretched endlessly before her like a sea of happiness. She wanted what was, essentially, a beautiful illusion. And she wanted it to be real.

  “What will happen if you can’t find her?”

  “Ah, Dios, I wish I knew.”

  “What about Armando?”

  Marcos looked at the little boy in his arms. “He will be taken care of.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  It pierced her to think of this baby without his mother, but what could she say? She and Marcos weren’t in a real relationship, and thoughts of the two of them taking care of Armando if Ana didn’t come back were a pipe dream. “I’m sorry, Marcos. I know it hurts you to have her leave like this.”

  His expression was controlled. “I told you I cannot save them all. And Ana has run away with a boy she met. She has not returned to the streets. Perhaps they will even marry.”

  “What usually happens with the teens you employ here?” she asked, wishing to distract him just a little bit. To get him to focus on the positive results of what he did.

  “Some of them go to university,” he said. “Others choose a trade.”

  “Do many of them choose college?”

  “Many do, yes. Navarre Industries hires them once they graduate, should they desire to work for us.”

  What he did was amazing, and yet he beat himself up so badly over the ones he lost. She didn’t understand it. “And what would happen to them if you did not do this, Marcos?”

  He looked solemn. “Drugs, prostitution, gangs, death. Even war,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  One word stood out. “War?”

  “Sí. There is much unrest in parts of Latin America. Guerilla warfare against what one perceives to be society’s oppressors can be an attractive option for some.”

  Her heart began to pound. “I had no idea.” She thought of the scar on his abdomen, of the way he dreamed so violently. Could he have gotten scarred like that on the streets? Or was it a product of warfare? Suddenly, she had to know the truth. “Is that what happened to you?”

  His eyes seemed so hard, so cold, as if his emotions had frozen solid. “Do you really wish to know? Do you think you can save me if only you know what drives me? That the love of a good woman will keep me from reliv
ing the nightmare?”

  He was so defensive that she knew she must be right. And it saddened her. Made her ache for the boy he’d been, the young man who’d suffered so much. He hid it away inside, and it was killing him.

  But he couldn’t see it.

  “Yes, Marcos, I do want to know. But I imagine no one can save you except yourself.”

  The food arrived before he could reply. Marcos let Ingrid’s daughter take the baby and put him in the play pen. His little eyes had begun to droop, and soon he was curled up asleep with his thumb in his mouth.

  The moment was gone, so she didn’t expect Marcus would answer her now. He surprised her when he did. He looked pensive, a bit lost, as if it wasn’t quite his choice to speak but as though he couldn’t stop himself.

  “I am not accustomed to talking about this with anyone,” Marcos said once Ingrid and Isabelle had gone. “But yes, I was a guerilla fighter, Francesca. I saw battle, I saw despair and evil and the worst a man can do to another man.”

  “I’m sure you did what you had to do,” she said softly, trying not to let the tears mounding behind her eyes fall. He would not appreciate any show of pity.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair, his food untouched. “I have always done what I thought I had to do to survive. I can’t apologize for any of it, but I wish it had been different.”

  “I think I understand why you hated your uncle so much now. And why the Corazón del Diablo is so important to you.” She leaned forward suddenly, grabbed his wrist where it lay on the table. His reaction was immediate. He jerked his arm away so quickly she found herself grasping air and wondering what she’d done wrong.

  “Don’t ever do that,” he ground out.

  She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. She thought back to how he’d reacted so violently in Buenos Aires when she’d gone to wake him and grabbed his wrist before he could accidentally hit her in his sleep. What was it about his wrists? She wanted to ask him, but she did not. She’d already intruded enough on his memories.