The Devil's Heart Read online

  “Marcos, what is it?” she asked. Deep inside, she knew it wasn’t good. She could see it in his face, feel it in the air. Poor, poor Armando.

  “They’ve found Ana.”

  “But that’s good, right?” Hope beyond hope. Please let this baby get his mother back…

  “She’s not coming back, Francesca. Not ever. She and her boyfriend were drinking. There was an auto accident. They did not survive.”

  The house was in an uproar for several hours. Marcos went with one of the men to claim the body for burial. The teens seemed to come out of the woodwork now, their ability to concentrate on their tasks severely compromised. Ingrid rocked Isabelle, who cried endlessly. Though Ana hadn’t lived at the winery for long, Isabelle had grown close to her in that short time.

  Ana, it seemed, had been vibrant and fun, quick to laugh, a peacemaker and sweet girl who just wanted to be loved. It was that need to be loved that had led her to run away with a boy she’d thought adored her. No one knew who Armando’s father had been, but they knew Ana had been in love with him once. He’d abandoned her and she’d ended up here, lonely and scared and still looking for love.

  Armando was, thankfully, asleep in his crib. He’d begun to cry again when so many others were doing so, but Francesca got him to go back to sleep and he was currently bedded down in the room he’d shared with his mother.

  By the time Marcos returned, it was late. Everyone had trickled back to their rooms by then. One of the young women had gone to stay in the room with Armando. Francesca had thought about having him brought into her room, but he’d been asleep and she’d been afraid that moving him would only wake him.

  When Marcos walked in, she could see the strain on his face. Her heart went out to him. How was it that this man, this wealthy man who controlled a vast empire, could be so broken up over one young girl whom he’d never even met?

  She could explain it, because she knew Marcos, but there truly weren’t enough words to do so. The way she’d fought for Jacques, the way she would have fought for her baby if she could have, this was the way he fought for these kids. With his whole heart, though she wasn’t sure he realized that’s what it was. He felt obligated, he’d said, because he’d been one of them.

  But it was more than that. He could have turned out so cold and brutal after what had happened to him, but he wasn’t.

  He came over and caught her to him, sweeping her off her feet so quickly she gasped in surprise.

  “No words, Francesca,” he said. “I need you too much for words.”

  She didn’t realize he’d carried her to his room until they were inside and he was whisking her shirt over her head. For some reason, the fact he’d taken her to his room caught at her heart and made hope blossom more strongly than before.

  He stripped her urgently while she tore at his clothes in return. As soon as they were naked, they fell to the bed, mouths melding, limbs fusing, bodies straining for each other.

  She was so turned on, so ready for him, that she didn’t need any preliminaries. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she urged him inside her. When they were joined, she thought he would take her to the heights of pleasure very quickly, that his need was urgent.

  Instead, he moved languidly, thoroughly, touching her so deeply that she could only gasp with each stroke. She’d never felt like this before, never felt her heart expanding so wide, the joy and pleasure of being with a man she loved so very much making the experience that much more intense.

  What did Marcos feel when he was moving inside her like this? Did he feel the joy too? Or was it just the usual sort of pleasure a man felt in a woman’s body?

  He caught her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him as he made love to her. Her heart pounded in her chest, her temples, her throat. Surely he could see the way she felt shining in her eyes, hear it in the gasps and moans she couldn’t help.

  “You are beautiful, Francesca,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”

  “Marcos, I—” She closed her eyes, swallowed. “I can’t think…of anything…but you.”

  He kissed her—hot, wet, deep—stroking into her faster and faster until she finally shattered with a cry that felt like it had been ripped from her throat. The pleasure didn’t stop there, however. Marcos slipped his hand between them and brought her to climax again, stroking her with his fingers and his body, this time following her over the edge when she went.

  Soon, he rolled away, and though she mourned the loss of him, she welcomed the cool air rushing over her skin. He lay beside her, his chest rising and falling, his eyes closed. He was absolutely the sexiest thing she’d ever seen in her life. His body glistened with sweat, the hard muscles and smooth planes making her want to climb on top of him and repeat the experience.

  To have all that to herself? To enjoy the power and beauty of a man like Marcos Navarre whenever she wanted? She was lucky, yes, but simply having sex with him wasn’t enough. Would never be enough.

  She’d never thought she would feel this way. After her baby died, part of her had died too. To feel love for someone, the kind of love that ripped you apart and sewed you back up again with every waking moment, was not something she’d been prepared for.

  She studied his body without hesitation. He’d thrown an arm over his eyes. His hand lay against the pillow, his wrist turned out, the underside exposed. She leaned forward, studying the pale marks there. How had she not noticed this before? Marcos had very fine scars, so fine they weren’t apparent until you were up close, in a band across his skin.

  Carefully, she reached out and traced one finger along them. He flinched, but did not jerk away as he’d done in the past. Then she traced the scar on his abdomen. He dropped his arm, his eyes glittering as he watched her.

  “You said you would make those men bleed for me, Marcos. And I would take the pain of these away, if I could.”

  “I know you would.” He caught her fingers in his, kissed them. “I am sorry for what happened to you, Francesca. I can’t help but think if I hadn’t come into your life, it would have turned out differently.”

  “And if your uncle had never betrayed your parents and bartered the Corazón del Diablo to my father, perhaps my life would have been different. Or perhaps not.”

  “Have you always been so stoic?”

  “Definitely not.” She turned toward him, traced the line of his arm until she was at his wrist again. “Will you tell me what this is from?”

  He closed his eyes, the pain on his features apparent. “I’ve never told anyone.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s brutal, Francesca. Ugly.”

  “You mean ugly like being beaten so badly you lose your baby and can never have another one?”

  He swore. She didn’t think that was a good sign, but then he said, “I was captured by the enemy, chained in a dark room for days on end with no food, minimal water, and every incentive in the world to escape.” He lifted his wrists, turned them out so she could see the fine markings on both. “I did not succeed, by the way.”

  Her heart was pounding for an entirely different reason now. She’d handcuffed him to a bed, for God’s sake! She remembered the way he’d looked at her, the hatred in his eyes then. She’d humiliated him, forced him to recall his worst memories while she’d taken the Corazón del Diablo and disappeared into the night. No wonder he’d been so angry when he’d tracked her down.

  “They beat me for information, but I did not give it to them. And they left me in the dark with rats and snakes coming in through the crumbling walls.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I spent one night with a python curled next to me for warmth. Why it didn’t strangle me, I still don’t know.”

  “Oh, Marcos,” she breathed, tears pricking the backs of her eyes.

  “I’ve seen too much ugliness, Francesca. And I suppose it’s right you know, because you need to understand that I’m not capable of love, not really. I had it burned out of me in the hell of my life.”

  Pa
in wound around her heart, squeezed. “I don’t believe that.”

  He pushed her back on the pillows, his handsome, tortured face hovering so close above hers. “Believe it, Francesca.” His head dipped, his lips touching the hollow of her throat where her pulse beat hard and strong. “I am capable of this,” he murmured, his tongue touching her pulse point, “of passion and sex. And I do want you. But I don’t love you. I can’t.”

  Though he was soon inside her again, taking her to the edge of pleasure and beyond with his skillful lovemaking, it didn’t feel nearly as joyful as it had the last time.

  Marcos bolted upright in bed, the dregs of the nightmare fading almost immediately as Francesca stirred beside him. She didn’t wake, and he thought with some amazement that perhaps he hadn’t cried out. Or maybe she was simply exhausted from their lovemaking. He’d taken much from her in his quest to drive the memory of tonight’s events from his head.

  Poor Ana Luis. Her body had been smashed almost beyond recognition in the single-car accident that claimed both her and the boy who was the son of a neighboring vintner. As horrible as those memories were, the image of Francesca rocking little Armando, who was now an orphan, and her quiet insistence on learning all of Marcos’s deepest secrets with just a soft word and equally soft touch, were the primary things on his mind.

  He’d told her everything. He had no secrets from this woman, and that alarmed him in some respects. How was it possible he’d told her those things?

  But he had—and oddly enough, it made the burden somewhat lighter. Not much, but a little.

  His heart still pounded from the dream, but not as fiercely as usual. For once, he couldn’t even remember the specifics of the dream. He lay back down, curled around the warm woman next to him. Her back was to him, her beautiful naked buttocks thrust against his groin.

  His cock stirred, but it was only out of proximity to her naked body and not because he wasn’t satiated already. In fact, he didn’t think he could make love again tonight. He wrapped his arms around her, happy in a way he’d not been in a long time to have a woman nestled against him. This woman.

  He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he was incapable of love, but he acknowledged that he did feel something for her. Something beyond what he usually felt for the women who shared his bed.

  She was more of a kindred spirit, in some respects. He kissed her shoulder, drew in a breath scented with whatever flowery shampoo she used. Her hair was a gorgeous tumble of silk. He drew it aside, up and out of the way, and pressed his lips to the back of her neck. She stirred in her sleep, made a little mewling sound that made him hard when he’d thought it was probably impossible again tonight.

  How had he missed the lush beauty of her figure before? Even with forty extra pounds, she couldn’t have hidden these curves away. But he’d been fooled by the baggy clothes and shyness, just as everyone else had been. Her sister must have known Francesca was the real beauty, that Francesca would someday outshine her, and she’d been evil because of it.

  He’d always believed Francesca was as duplicitous in their first marriage as her family had been, but now he wasn’t so sure. And, even if she was, she’d certainly paid enough for it, hadn’t she?

  It killed him to think she’d suffered so much. Because he’d taken the Corazón del Diablo and alienated her from her family. She’d have never been working in a jewelry store, never been in a position to be attacked so brutally, had her family kept their fortune and she remained a debutante.

  But what choice had there been? The jewel was his, the symbol of his family and the touchstone of their memory. He’d have sold his soul to the devil to regain it.

  Though, thinking about it, perhaps he already had.

  Francesca turned in his arms then, her lips finding the sensitive spot beneath his ear, her tongue tracing the column of his neck and settling into the hollow of his throat. Marcos groaned as she rolled him onto his back and straddled his erect penis.

  So much for being incapable again tonight.

  Thank God.

  The next day, when the house was still in mourning and arrangements to bury Ana were being made, Magdalena and her family came for a visit. Francesca instantly liked Marcos’s sister. She was a sweet, sunny personality, and she expressed sympathy and horror over the news about Ana’s death.

  Francesca could tell she adored Marcos, who seemed to adore her equally. He’d said he wasn’t capable of love, but clearly he was mistaken. He played with the children, held the baby, and gave everyone presents.

  When Magdalena asked if Francesca wanted to hold her newborn, Marcos shot her a frown. In spite of her determination not to let her silly heart see hope where there was none, that gesture alone flooded her with warmth. He knew it might be hard on her and he was prepared to intervene with some excuse if she gave him reason.

  “Of course I would,” she said, taking little Amelia in her arms. The baby was red-faced and wide-eyed, and Francesca held her close, breathing in the scent of powder and newborn. It hurt to hold such a tiny baby—but maybe it hurt a little less than she’d thought it would only a few days before.

  Cutting herself off from children until now had been necessary, but she felt as if she were ready to be around them again, as if the joy and love they brought weren’t necessarily denied her forever.

  As Marcos’s involvement with his Foundation had brought home to her, there were still children who needed parents. She would never have her own child, but that didn’t mean she had to be childless if she chose not to be.

  Once Magdalena and her husband and children had gone again, Marcos returned to his office and left her to her own devices. She spent time with Armando and then went for a walk in the vineyard. Her emotions were so tangled and torn.

  She loved Marcos, but he’d said he did not love her. Could never love her. How could she manage the next three months this way?

  How could she not?

  There was no easy answer to that question. She wanted to spend every moment she could with him, wring every moment of happiness out of the situation, and hope for the best. And she wanted to escape at the same time, before she was crushed by the futility of loving a man who did not love her.

  The rest of the week passed uneventfully enough, other than the sadness surrounding the funeral of a sixteen-year-old girl. Everyone from the winery turned out for the service. Ana was buried in a beautiful little cemetery near town. Marcos spared no expense, and the service was dignified and solemn. There would be no pauper’s grave for the poor girl from the streets.

  The funeral saddened Francesca and made her anxious. When she returned to the bodega, she called Gilles. He seemed surprised to hear from her, but the news he gave her was good. Jacques’s doctors were pleased with his response to treatment thus far, though he was not out of the woods yet. He had a long road ahead, but everything seemed hopeful. Gilles had hired another jeweler, and a manager to run the business, and all was proceeding very well.

  She hung up feeling both relieved and a bit wistful. The shop was doing great without her. After nearly eight years with Jacques, Gilles and a new crew could take the place over without her being missed at all. It was almost as if she’d had no imprint at all.

  “What is wrong, querida?” Marcos asked.

  Francesca had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t realized he’d walked in. “I was just talking to Gilles. He says Jacques is doing well, and the shop is running smoothly.”

  “And this is something to look worried about?”

  “I was just thinking that they didn’t need me. It was an odd feeling.”

  “You are needed here.”

  But he didn’t mean it the way she wanted him to mean it. “Only for the next couple of months,” she replied more crisply than she’d meant to.

  Marcos either didn’t notice or purposely ignored the dig. “We are retuning to Buenos Aires in the morning,” he said. “I’ve been away from my business for too long as it is.”

  Her heart bega
n to throb. “What about baby Armando? Will he come with us?”

  Marcos shook his head, his hands shoved in the pockets of the crisp black trousers he’d worn to the funeral. “I am working on finding him a home, but for now I think it’s best he stay here where he is familiar with everything.”

  Francesca gaped at him. “He’s a toddler, Marcos. He’s familiar with us. We could take care of him—”

  “No,” he cut in almost brutally. “Do not think we are taking this child, Francesca. He needs a permanent home, and he needs people who will not abandon him when he’s come to love them.”

  She slapped a hand to her chest. “I wouldn’t abandon him.”

  “Ah, but you will when our marriage contract is up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  BUENOS AIRES WAS a shock to the senses after the high desert beauty of Mendoza and the wine country. But even more of a shock was the reality of her situation with Marcos. They’d made love every night at the winery, they’d spent days walking in the vineyard, talking about Ana and the Foundation and the kids that it helped. They’d spent hours with Armando, playing with him, taking him for a sunny picnic once under the lone olive tree, and tucking him in at night.

  In short, they’d played a happy family and she’d let herself be sucked in by the performance. No matter that he’d said he didn’t love her, she’d thought surely he must love little Armando, that he would want her to stay and help him take care of the child.

  Instead, he planned to let someone else adopt the boy.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d been stupid to let herself believe, because when it came down to it, Marcos was not going to want to stay married to a woman who couldn’t have his children.

  And she didn’t blame him, not really. He deserved children of his own, and she was not the woman who could ever give that to him. This was not a permanent marriage and would never be so. Marcos was under no delusions about the reality of it, while she kept trying to convince herself that he cared and that things could change given time.