The Devil's Heart Read online

  Her eyes filled with tears. It was what she wanted to hear—but after so much pain and heartbreak, how could she believe it? She’d believed in him before, and she’d been wrong.

  “What changed your mind? Nightmares? Because I’m not sure that’s enough, Marcos.”

  He let her go, walked over to the windows and gazed out at the nightlights of the city. His shoulders seemed to sag a little.

  “I’m afraid, Francesca. Afraid because for the first time in my life, I actually care about someone else’s happiness and well being more than my own.” He turned to face her again. “I know I’ve not done this well, and I know you have reason not to trust me, but I’m trying to tell you that I love you. As deeply and as much as I am able.”

  A tear slid down her cheek and she dashed it away. “Why should that be so hard to say?” she asked, her throat aching.

  “Because I know I’m not a good bargain. Part of me is ruined and broken. It’s unfair to ask you to fix that, but you are the only one who can. Without you, I’m lost. And I know this is selfish of me, but I want you to come back.”

  Her legs refused to hold her upright any longer. She sank onto the end of the bed and stared at him. “I love you, Marcos, but I’m scared too. Because I can never have children, and you are a man who deserves to have his own children. How do I know you won’t resent me for it later? That you won’t regret this once you feel like the damage of the past is repaired? Because it’s not me who will repair it, but you. I really have nothing to do with it.”

  “You have everything to do with it. If you hadn’t come into my life again, I wouldn’t have understood that I have the strength to move beyond my past. You taught me that.” He came over to her then, knelt before her and took her hands in his. His handsome face was so serious. “And you of all people should know that a family is built on love, not genetics. Is Jacques any less your family because you are not related? Do your mother and sister have a greater claim on your affections because they share your blood?”

  She shook her head. The lump in her throat was too big to speak. She thought of her mother, her cold cruel mother in her drafty house with her mantle of blame, and knew what he said was right. Just because someone gave birth to you did not mean they were capable of loving you.

  He squeezed her hands. “Do you know why I sent you the Corazón del Diablo?”

  “No,” she managed.

  “Because possessing it has caused me nothing but sorrow. It is the devil’s heart, and it exacts a great price. And I’m tired of being a prisoner to my past. I want to go forward, and I want to do this with you.”

  “How is giving me the necklace letting go of the past?”

  “Because you are free to do with it what you wish. Donate it to a museum, give it to Jacques—I don’t care. But when you’ve done what you want, all I ask is that you come home with me. I need you.”

  Hope was unfurling in her soul, the wind of his words catching it and fanning it higher. Could she really dare to believe? “It’s your birthright, Marcos. You can’t just give it up like that. It means too much. You’ve fought too hard for it.”

  “I have already let it go,” he said, his eyes so serious as they searched hers. “It’s yours. As am I. The symbolism is meaningless without you.”

  But she had to be sure. “You would give up the possibility of ever having a biological child? It’s not something to be done lightly, Marcos. I didn’t have a choice, but you do.”

  He kissed her hands, then cupped the back of her head and kissed her lips. “I love you, Francesca. You make my world brighter. Whether or not you are able to give me a child of my blood has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

  She shook her head, so scared and so uncertain—and so hopeful. “You’ll regret it. You’ll resent me later—”

  “No, I won’t. I cannot resent you when you are my heart, my soul. You make me whole again. I need you. Armando needs you.”

  “Armando?”

  “He’s had quite an upheaval, but he needs a stable life. We can give that to him. I want us to be the ones who give it to him.”

  “But I thought you had found him a family.”

  “He already has a family. Us, Ingrid and Isabelle. The bodega and everyone there.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s not fair to try and bribe me this way.”

  “I don’t care about fair, mi amor. I care about you. I want to spend every day with you, talking, arguing, making love, going for walks, taking care of Armando. I want to wake up each day knowing you will be there. And I want you to know that I love you, and that I’ve never said those words to anyone other than my mother. Not anyone, Francesca. Not ever.”

  Her heart was expanding with all she felt. With every word he said, she believed him. She touched his face, traced the scar at his mouth. He turned his head, and kissed her palm.

  “Please, Francesca,” he said urgently. “I can’t do this without you. Say you will come home with me, that you will love me—”

  “I already do love you. So much it scares me.”

  “Then say you will marry me and be my wife forever.”

  “Luckily, we’re already married,” she said with a watery smile.

  He answered her with a sexy grin. “Then we can start immediately on the honeymoon. My favorite part.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Bueno,” he said, tugging her sweater up. “Because I have much I wish to do to you before this night is through…”

  It was a very wonderful night, Francesca thought. But not until much, much later…

  Epilogue

  HE TRULY WAS THE luckiest man in the world. Marcos sat on the veranda of the Bodega Navarre, gazing out at the vineyards and the laughing little boy playing with Francesca. Little Armando was a dynamo at three years old. He was quick, smart, and as adorable as ever.

  Marcos loved him with all his heart. Though it saddened him to think of how the boy had come into their lives, he was very happy they were the ones who’d adopted the child once his mother had died so tragically. Armando would have a good life as a Navarre. And, when he was old enough, he would know about his mother. Both Marcos and Francesca agreed that was important.

  Ingrid came to take Armando for his bath, and Francesca collapsed into a chair.

  “Wore you out, did he?”

  “Lord yes,” she said, taking a sip of the cool lemon ice water one of the girls had brought out. He watched her, felt a well of emotion as she set the glass down and gave him a funny little look. “What?”

  “I love you, Francesca. You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “You don’t have to keep telling me I’m beautiful. We’ve been married for almost two years now. I’m not worried you’ll let another woman turn your head.”

  “But you are beautiful. Extraordinarily so. I tell you this because I mean it.” He leaned over and kissed her. “If you would like to retire for a siesta, I could show you how beautiful you are to me. I am aching to do so.”

  Her smile turned wicked. “Marcos Navarre, are you trying to corrupt me?”

  “Every chance I get,” he vowed. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She made a little sound of pleasure in her throat when she discovered he was already hard for her.

  “Oh my,” she said. “I’m looking forward to that siesta.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  “Do you two ever stop?”

  Francesca jumped up and went to hug the old man who’d hobbled onto the veranda. “Jacques, how are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”

  “I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said.

  She helped him into a chair and poured a glass of wine for him. “And your sleep?”

  He took an appreciative sip. “I slept like an old man of seventy-seven should sleep. Stop fussing, Francesca. Now you two go on and do whatever you were going to do, don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

  “Then we will enjoy it with you,” Marcos said without he
sitation. Francesca smiled at him, and he thought once more what a lucky man he was. Tonight, he would show her just how he felt. And every night for the rest of their lives.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II BV/S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

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  First published in Great Britain 2010

  Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

  © Lynn Raye Harris 2010

  ISBN: 978-1-408-91913-2