The Devil's Heart Page 8

  “Ah Dios,” he breathed. What on earth had happened to his usual good sense in those few moments when he’d blurted out the truth? He didn’t like talking about his past, yet he’d just told her one of the darkest secrets of his life. Not the darkest, certainly, but one of them.

  He poured another drink and took a sip. Beside him, Francesca used the shawl to wipe away her tears. He handed her a cocktail napkin.

  “My parents disappeared during the military junta. That was a time when people who were suspected of not supporting the government were quietly taken away and never seen again.”

  “You don’t know what actually happened to them?”

  He shook his head. He’d tried to find out, but the records from that time were not complete. The government had wanted no evidence of their crimes. “They were killed, Francesca, like so many thousands of others. And Magdalena and I were sent to an orphanage. When I was ten, I ran away. I lived on the streets for the next six years. Fortunately, she did not share my fate.”

  Her hand was cold where it grasped his. She squeezed hard, and though he did not want to accept her comfort, he found himself squeezing back.

  “This is why you are so passionate about the children. It’s very wonderful, what you do.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps, but it can never be enough.”

  Though he’d set up the Reclaim Our Children Foundation, funded it when it was still in its infancy, made hundreds of speeches soliciting donations, and had the satisfaction of seeing children helped through the work his vision had created, it still affected him deeply each time he spoke as he had tonight.

  He told himself he didn’t care why wealthy people got involved, so long as they did. For some, it was the satisfaction of helping the less fortunate without actually doing anything themselves. For others, there was a true passion and desire to help the children have decent lives.

  For him, it was the burning need to save every last child he could from his own experience on the streets. But he couldn’t save them all, and that’s why he felt so emotionally drained after these events.

  “Marcos, my God,” she said, straightening suddenly and leaning toward him with determination. “What you do is important. Never say it’s not enough. You are making a difference in children’s lives. Even if you can’t help them all, saving just one from the fate you talked of earlier is extraordinary.”

  Marcos pressed the intercom button and spoke to the driver. Then he turned to Francesca. “I want to show you something.”

  She nodded, the emeralds at her throat winking in the streetlights. He reached out and touched the teardrop at the top of her cleavage. “I knew these would suit you. It’s why I bought them, though perhaps you will think me quite shallow once you’ve seen what I am about to show you.”

  The pulse in her neck thrummed. He wanted to press his lips to it, but he did not.

  Soon, the car slid into streets that weren’t lit. Streets where garbage lined the sidewalks, graffiti covered the walls, and people scurried away like rats when the car crept through the alleys.

  “This is where it happens, Francesca. Where they live.”

  Up ahead, another car was stopped and a youthful figured leaned against the window, talking to someone inside.

  “That is either a drug deal, or someone looking for cheap sex,” he said.

  He could hear Francesca’s breath catch. “Can’t you put a stop to it?”

  “No.”

  She turned to him, her eyes rimmed with tears again. “But you said—”

  “This is what I meant,” he replied, his voice harsher than he intended. “I cannot save them all. No matter how I try, there are those I cannot reach.”

  He tapped on the glass separating them from the driver, signaling the man it was time to go. The car accelerated and they were soon leaving the barrio behind and returning to the lit streets and vibrant life of the city.

  “I know this shocks you,” he said in the quiet stillness of the car.

  “What shocks me,” she replied in a hushed voice, “is that you are so much more amazing than I had ever realized.”

  Her words jolted him. In them, he glimpsed the eighteen year old with stars in her eyes. She’d wanted him for all the wrong reasons back then. He would not allow her to do so again. No matter how much he’d revealed to her, no matter that no other human being had ever learned as much about him as she, he would not lose sight of the fact that this was a temporary arrangement between them. There was nothing to build a future on. Nor did he want to.

  Nothing was as she’d expected it to be. Francesca paced the confines of her room, her mind refusing to quiet and let her sleep. All her expectations and beliefs about Marcos had been turned upside down. Yes, she’d loved him blindly once, and only because he was handsome and paid attention to her when no one else did.

  Those were not good reasons to love someone, of course.

  Tonight, however, she’d been shown a side of Marcos Navarre that she’d never have guessed existed. After he’d left her eight years ago, taking the Corazón del Diablo with him, she’d believed he cared only for himself.

  She’d blamed him for everything that had gone wrong in her life, yet in the space of a couple of days, she’d been forced to consider alternative views. First, that the Corazón del Diablo had always rightfully been his. That her father had killed himself not because of anything she’d done, but because he couldn’t face what he had done.

  And, most significantly, that Marcos had a heart beneath his hard exterior. He’d taken care of Jacques. He rescued children. And, dear God, he’d lived a life of hardship and deprivation on the streets of Buenos Aires.

  She thought of the teen they’d seen leaning into the sleek car. Her mind couldn’t help but wander toward another thought: had Marcos had to endure such things on the streets?

  She’d told him he was amazing. Heat flamed through her at the memory. Had she learned nothing in the last eight years? Marcos might be more than she’d believed, but he didn’t want her childish admiration any more than he ever had.

  The way he’d ignored her the rest of the way home, and then excused himself once they’d arrived, was proof of that. It was their wedding night, and though she’d been afraid on so many levels of actually being intimate with him, she’d not expected he would go to bed alone. Especially not after she’d felt the proof of his arousal when he’d held her close on the dance floor tonight.

  She did not kid herself about the strength of his reaction to her. He’d wanted her because she was available, because he’d married her and it was his right.

  He’d slipped beneath her defenses tonight with his impassioned plea for those children, and with his shocking story of having been one of them. She didn’t like the way it made her feel, the way she wanted to slip her arms around him and hold him tight. She should be relieved he’d gone to bed alone, and yet she was restless.

  Francesca glanced at the bedside clock; the irony of the thought that this marriage had already lasted longer than their previous one came crashing through her. Yet she was as alone tonight as she had been that night so long ago.

  With a growl of irritation, she yanked open the French doors fronting the veranda and stepped out into the cool night air. The thin cotton tank and sleep pants she wore were little protection from the chill, but her blood was so heated she didn’t yet feel the cold.

  “You wish to make yourself ill?”

  Francesca spun toward the voice. Marcos emerged from the shadows, still clad in his tuxedo pants and white bespoke shirt. His tie was undone, and the shirt gaped open where he’d unbuttoned the first few studs.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “I couldn’t sleep and wanted some fresh air.”

  “You should have put on a robe.”

  She wrapped her arms around her torso. “I’m not cold.”

  He moved closer. The shiny skin of his scar gleamed in the reflected light of the courtyard. He looked like a devil in the night. A very dark, very powerf
ul, very sexy devil. Why oh why could he not be ugly and brutish? Why couldn’t he be mean and cruel with no redeeming qualities whatsoever? Why couldn’t she seem to keep her dislike of him wrapped tightly around her heart, like an impenetrable shield?

  “You are shaking,” he said softly, one finger reaching out to skim over her bare arm.

  “It’ll stop if you go away,” she said. Let him figure that one out.

  He tilted his head to one side. “You said that to me last night. But you aren’t scared of me, Francesca. You might despise me, but you don’t fear me.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t even sure she despised him as much as she once had. Oh, she knew better than to believe she meant anything to him other than a means to an end—and that alone was reason enough to keep her heart locked up tight. But how could she despise him with the strength she’d had only yesterday?

  She couldn’t.

  “What do you want from me, Marcos?”

  “I want what men usually want, querida.”

  Her heart thrummed. “But why?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?” he said, his voice containing a kind of wonder.

  “I know that I’m not the kind of woman you want. I’ve seen the photos of you from time to time. You date models, beauty queens, debutantes. I’m just a plain Jane, Marcos. I’ve always known it. I’m not polished or beautiful, and I’m not the kind of woman you would choose to marry of your own volition.”

  “You have always been lovely, Francesca. But I will admit that I have not always known it.”

  When he reached for her, she couldn’t make herself move away, even though she knew she should do so. Her pulse was tripping and a sharp pain arced through her soul. I have not always known it.

  She should put as much distance between herself and this devil as possible. Because he was bad for her heart, her soul. He was bad and dangerous and she trembled with excitement in spite of it.

  Or perhaps because of it.

  His body was big, solid. He caught her close and, instinctively, she brought her hands up to rest on his chest. Beneath the soft material of his shirt, his skin was hot. Her palms tingled.

  Before she could speak, could think of a word to say in reply, his mouth claimed hers, hot and passionate—and perhaps even with an edge of desperation.

  And she didn’t care, because she felt something of that desperation too.

  His hands slipped down her shoulders, over her waist, cupped her buttocks and brought her against the heat and hardness of his thighs. He was aroused, and her heart beat ratcheted up a level.

  When his fingers slipped beneath her tank, she fought down a wave of panic. He would find her in-adequate…he would change his mind and she would be humiliated again…

  Slowly, he circled from her spine to her ribs and then up to cup the weight of one bare breast. A groan issued from his throat. The sound thrilled her. She’d forgotten what passion felt like, what those first moments of discovery in another’s arms could be like. It was a drug—a heady, beautiful, natural drug.

  His thumb whispered over the aching peak of one nipple. Francesca shuddered, but not from cold. Liquid heat blazed inside her.

  He was the architect of her ruin, the instrument that had shattered all her girlish dreams, and her body didn’t care.

  She ached for want of him, for want of what she’d never had with him.

  The kiss deepened, their mouths demanding more and more. Had she ever been kissed like this? Ever wanted a man as much as she wanted this one?

  Francesca shoved the questions aside, torn between conflicting emotions. She hadn’t been with a man in four years, hadn’t wanted to be, and now she could think of nothing else but lying naked with Marcos, feeling the power of his body moving inside hers, watching the expression on his face as he found his release.

  She wanted to wipe away the anguish and heartache she’d seen on his face earlier tonight. She wanted to be the one to make him forget, even if only for a little while.

  Almost without conscious thought, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer, if that were possible.

  She felt the heat and hardness of him, the rigid bulge of his arousal.

  “I want you, Francesca,” he said against her ear, tugging her shirt up to bare her breasts.

  Too fast, too fast.

  But she didn’t want time to think, didn’t want to realize she was making a mistake in letting herself be this close to him. Didn’t want to know that to survive the experience, she needed to hide behind the wall around her heart.

  When he stepped back to look at her, her arms dropped. She would have covered herself if he hadn’t stopped her. Her shirt rested on the swells of her breasts, refusing to fall and hide her body from his greedy gaze. He lifted her arms out to the side, studying her.

  “Dios, you are beautiful. How could you think any man would not find you so?”

  “Marcos, you don’t have to—”

  He silenced her with a kiss, his hands threading into her hair. Then his mouth dropped down her neck, her collarbone. She knew what was coming, knew what he would do before he did it.

  And she was powerless to stop him.

  Powerless because she wanted it.

  His lips fastened over one taut peak, teasing her, tormenting her.

  Francesca gasped, her head falling back, heat spilling through her body as his tongue slid around and around her nipple. And then he sucked just hard enough to spike a shot of pure pleasure straight to her center.

  The moan that escaped her was raw. Marcos made a sound of pleasure and repeated the motion.

  And Francesca had to grasp his arms to keep from melting beneath his expert touch. Much more of that, and he could make her shatter simply from the pressure of his mouth on her breast.

  It was exquisite, the pleasure. Surely she’d felt this kind of need before? Surely she had done so with Robert, with the man she’d nearly married before he’d walked out and left her to face the future alone?

  Thoughts of Robert brought thoughts of her baby. Of the lifetime of loneliness she would lead because she could never have children of her own. Of the shattered fantasies she’d once harbored about having a family with Marcos Navarre.

  Unbidden, a tear spilled down her cheek.

  No, she would not cry.

  But the tears didn’t stop, sliding hotly down her face as he made such sweet love to her long-neglected flesh. She wanted more, and yet she cried.

  Cried for her lost dreams and the barrenness that haunted her. She’d never believed that she had to have a child to be fulfilled as a woman, but having the choice taken away tormented her every single day.

  A sob welled up in her throat. Desperate, she pushed him away and jerked her shirt down. Then she buried her face in her hands and let out the tears she’d been holding inside.

  She thought Marcos would go, but instead he wrapped her in his arms and held her tight. The gesture was so surprising that she only cried harder.

  “Come, you need to get back inside where it’s warm.”

  “I’m f-f-fine,” she said, trying to push him away again. Embarrassment was a sizzling wave of pain in her body. Why did she have to cry now? Why in front of him? How could she explain?

  Marcos ushered her back into her room, then went into the bathroom and returned with a glass of water. “Drink this.”

  She took the glass, swiping furiously at her tears with the back of her hand. Marcos produced a box of tissues.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after a few moments.

  “I would never force you into my bed,” he said, his voice tight.

  She blinked up at him. “That’s what you think this is?”

  He shrugged. He looked like a beautiful dark angel as he stared down at her. His snowy white shirt was open, revealing the v-neck undershirt that molded to his hard chest. She could see his pulse beat in his throat, see the tension in the set of his jaw and the vivid white relief of his scar. “Wh
at else?”

  “It’s complicated. But it’s not you.” Francesca gazed at the tissue in her hand, wadding it tighter and tighter. She thought of all he’d told her earlier, and suddenly she was too weary to hide her pain any longer. She wouldn’t tell him all of it, of course. Some things were too private, too painful. “I was engaged. He left me and I haven’t been with a man since.”

  She looked up, found Marcos watching her. The expression on his face said that he’d never considered she might have had a life after him. Perversely, that made her angry.

  “I know it’s a surprise, but yes, I actually had a fiancé that nobody bought for me.”

  “Francesca—”

  “It’s been four years, Marcos. And I find all of this here with you just a bit overwhelming.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose sighing. “You must have loved him very much.”

  She bowed her head again and swallowed. She had thought she’d loved Robert for a time, but she’d quickly realized she’d confused companionship for love. “No. I was hurt, of course, but it wasn’t the first time I’d had to deal with betrayal. I learned to be tough, thanks to you.”

  She should feel guilty saying that, since those events failed in comparison to the loss of her baby, but it was cathartic to accuse him of having had a hand in stripping away her naïveté. He had been a part of it, but not the biggest part.

  “I’m sorry for your pain, Francesca, but life is not always fair. If it were, I’d have been raised in this house with two loving parents.”

  Shame flooded her. And the urge to tell him the truth. But then what? To do so would be engaging in a game of one-upmanship that was not fair to either of them. To try and top his pain with her own was wrong. It was not appropriate, not now.

  “No, life is not fair,” she agreed. “It simply is. And it could always be worse. Or that’s what I tell myself anyway.”

  “Yes, it can always be worse.” He seemed far away in that moment, his eyes unfocused and distant. But then he lasered in on her again. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’re flying to Mendoza.”