CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY FLEW ON one of Navarre Industries’ corporate jets to the Cuyo province. Bordered on the west by the majestic snow-capped Andes, the region was the center of Argentina’s wine production and boasted acres of vineyards that were fed by clean, cool melt-water from the mountains. Though the area was high desert, the plain around Mendoza was green with cultivation.
Francesca slipped on her sunglasses as she followed Marcos down the stairs that had been pushed up against the plane. She felt as if she could go back to bed and stay there for twelve hours straight. She hadn’t exactly slept well last night.
Marcos, however, looked as if he’d slept the whole night through. He was fresh, alert, and she wondered how on earth he did it. Because it had been 3:00 a.m. when she’d left his room. When she’d stumbled into the breakfast room at nine, he was already there.
They hadn’t spoken much, except for polite inanities. It was as if the fiery confrontation of last night had never happened. More than once she’d thought to broach the subject, to crack open the fragile egg of their silence on the matter, but she’d been unable to do it.
What was there left to say?
A car was waiting nearby. She thought they would drive straight to Magdalena’s place, had been trying to prepare herself for it all morning, but when they pulled into a shopping district, she figured he wanted to pick up presents for the family. She folded her arms over her lap and leaned her head back to catch a few minutes of sleep while she waited.
“Come, Francesca,” Marcos said.
“Why?”
She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses he wore, but she could feel them moving down her body.
“You need clothes. I neglected to take you shopping before we left Buenos Aires.”
“I have enough for a few days,” she said. “Surely this can wait.”
He removed the glasses. “What you have is not suitable.”
Heat burned into her cheeks. “Why not? Are we attending a masked ball or something?”
“What you have is not suitable for you, querida.” He waved his hand up and down her body. “These shapeless garments are not flattering.”
She sat up straighter. She was wearing her favorite summer dress, a loose garment that flowed to her ankles. She thought it was feminine and pretty. “My wardrobe didn’t seem to be a problem last night.”
“Because we bought you a gown.”
“I wasn’t talking about that.”
“Ah,” he said. “Clothes, in that instance, are irrelevant. But you are beautiful, Francesca, and you need to wear clothes that show your gorgeous body.”
“I like this dress,” she said militantly.
“It belongs to someone two sizes larger.”
She stared at him for a long minute. She’d had this dress for a few years—and she’d worn it when she was twenty pounds heavier. That he knew it was for someone bigger surprised her. And embarrassed her. She grabbed the handle and ripped open the door.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s go. But we’re only getting a few things.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Francesca marched into the first store, her dignity sorely bruised. But the shopping wasn’t as excruciating as she expected. Marcos stayed out of it, mostly, but the shop girls refused to let her take a wrong turn. When she chose a garment that was a little too big or loose, they steered her toward something else. By the time they got back into the car, more than two hours had passed.
She hadn’t selected much, but it seemed as if the boxes and bags had somehow multiplied on their way out to the car. She hadn’t wanted to accept any more from him than she already had—the jewels last night still stunned her, but she knew that even if he’d bought them with her in mind, he had not bought them for her—yet she’d had to acknowledge she might feel more confident meeting his sister if she were dressed a bit more elegantly.
In spite of the new cream linen dress she’d changed into at the last store, Francesca began to panic as the car moved through the sycamore-studded landscape. They were getting closer and closer to meeting Magdalena and her new baby. When they finally turned in at a sprawling Spanish-style villa south of town, Francesca had to remind herself not to wipe her sweaty palms on her new dress.
As the car rolled down the drive, she braced herself for whatever would come next. She expected children to scamper out of the huge carved wooden double doors, a man and woman to linger with smiles on their faces and a baby in their arms as they welcomed Marcos to their home.
And her, of course. But what would his sister think of her? Especially if she couldn’t look at the woman for fear of losing control of her rioting emotions?
She’d thought she’d put it behind her. The fear, the loss, the reality of what had been taken from her. She could not change the past, could not reclaim what had been stolen. There was only the future.
Yet the prospect of spending time with a happy family terrified her.
A happy family.
As the car came to a halt, Francesca watched the door to the villa, gathering her strength and preparing for the ordeal of meeting Marcos’s family. No one emerged, and Marcos exited the car. The chauffeur came around and opened her door. She stepped out of the car, shading her eyes against the setting sun. The air was warmer than in Buenos Aires, and fragrant with the scent of an orchard nearby.
Plums perhaps?
Finally, the doors opened and a small man dressed in black pants and a white shirt hurried over to Marcos. The two exchanged words in Spanish, and then the man was grasping a suitcase and yelling instructions to the youngsters who came running from the interior.
Their luggage disappeared as Francesca stood there blinking at the scurrying children. Teenagers, actually.
“They work here,” Marcos said, as if sensing her confusion. “For me.”
“But I thought this was your sister’s home …”
“Magdalena and her family have their own winery.”
“This is your home?” She tilted her head back, taking in the Spanish portico, the stucco and wood beams, and felt a relief she hadn’t expected flood her senses.
“Sí. This is the Bodega Navarre. We grow olives, plums, and grapes here. The children help make the oil, wine, and jellies. They sell it to tourists and …”
Francesca ceased listening. A buzzing started in her ears and wouldn’t stop. Marcos employed the kids that he wanted to save from the streets. He’d said he didn’t do enough, yet he did more than he’d told her. He’d talked of hiring the kids, teaching them a trade, giving them something meaningful to do while they were schooled properly. She thought he meant through the Foundation, not that he personally did this.
In his home, with his money.
Oh God.
Her heart wasn’t going to survive this experience. She already knew he was decent, that he cared for people and used his money for good. She’d thought she was safe to like him again.
But this. This.
She couldn’t forget why she was here. Marcos Navarre simply wanted her for the Corazón del Diablo. It didn’t matter if he was kind to orphans, or if he took care of needy children, or if he had nightmares that she didn’t under stand.
This was about the necklace, and his ownership of it, nothing else. He might realize that she wore clothes that didn’t fit, but that didn’t mean he cared for her. She’d been in Argentina for three days and she was already questioning her beliefs. How on earth would she survive for three months?
“Francesca.”
She shook herself when he repeated her name. “Yes, sorry, just thinking.”
He held out his arm. “Come inside. Ingrid will have prepared an amazing meal, and you must surely be hungry by now.”
She was surprised to realize that her stomach was growling. “I am, yes.”
Marcos showed her to a room, left her to freshen up, and said he would meet her in fifteen minutes outside her door. After a quick brush of her hair and a swipe of fresh lip-gloss, she emerged to find Marcos waiting for her. Her heart tumbled into her toes, then soared to the top of her head. He looked delicious, of course. He wore faded jeans and he’d loosely rolled the sleeves of his white cotton shirt. He’d also exchanged his polished loafers for a pair of flip-flops.
She thought he would take her to the dining room, but instead he showed her outside, to the covered veranda, where a table had been set up with linens, crystal, silver and china. Instead of a single rose, a spray of wild flowers bloomed in a vase in the center of the table.
Beyond the veranda, the cobbled terrace gave way to a manicured lawn that flowed naturally into the vineyard beyond. Vines twisted along the fences that lined each row. The back of the house faced west, so that beyond the vines she could see the snowy peaks of the Andes.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Sí.” Marcos pulled her chair out for her. “I love to come here, when I can get away.”
Once they were seated, a young man arrived with a bottle of wine. Marcos tested the small splash he was given, then nodded and said something in Spanish. The boy grinned and poured a full measure into Marcos’s glass before coming to pour for her.
When he was gone again, Marcos lifted the glass and held it up to the light. “It is a Malbec,” he said. “The grapes originally came from France, but they like Argentina better.”
He sipped and closed his eyes. She watched the slide of his throat as he swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry as she sipped her own wine. She closed her eyes too, more to block out the sight of Marcos drinking than because she thought it would add to the experience.
The wine was fruity and full-bodied: plummy, with flavors of spice, currant, and vanilla.
“It’s delicious,” she said. “Do you make this here?”
He nodded. “We have a vintner on staff. The wine is mostly for Navarre Industries, though we sell some to the tourists.”
“Why did you say you don’t do enough for the kids? I can’t imagine that anyone could do more.”
He shrugged, but she knew the gesture was anything but light. “You have seen what I am up against. There are more kids every day who find themselves in the streets, begging, doing drugs, selling their bodies. Many have families to return to at the end of the day, families who live in shacks and who need the income they produce. Others have nowhere to go. The Foundation has better luck with them, but we try to reach them all.”
“I think you’re doing a wonderful job, Marcos …”
The words died in her throat as a black haired toddler came running out of the nearest door on chubby legs, a girl chasing him as he giggled and screamed. Marcos was on his feet in an instant, scooping the child into his arms before he could get away. The girl, a golden blonde creature who looked no more than twelve, stood with her head bowed and her hands behind her back.
“Se?or Navarre,” a tall, blonde woman who must be the girl’s mother said as she hurried out of the house, “please forgive me. I turned my back for two seconds, and he was gone. Isabelle was trying to catch him for me.”
Marcos smiled at the toddler who was clinging to him and giggling. “It’s not a problem, Ingrid. And who is this little one?”
The woman wiped her hands on an apron as she came forward. “He belongs to Ana Luis, one of the new girls here. His name is Armando.”
“Ah, I see.” Armando’s eyes grew wide as the food began to arrive. He bounced up and down in Marcos’s arms. Marcos laughed. “Perhaps he is hungry, yes?”
“I was just about to feed him, as soon as I finished frosting the cakes.”
“Go finish. He can stay with us for a while.”
“He will disrupt your lovely dinner, se?or.”
Marcos smiled, so at ease for a moment that Francesca had trouble believing this was the same man who had violent nightmares. “We will cope.”
Ingrid nodded. “I’ll send Isabelle back with his food.”
“Bueno.”
The woman and girl left, and Marcos sat down with Armando on his lap. Francesca’s heart had stopped beating minutes ago. Now, it lurched forward painfully as the boy gabbled nonsense and reached for the hot plate a waiter had set in front of Marcos.
“No, little one,” Marcos said. “Be patient.”
Francesca tried to concentrate on the food as it was being delivered. The scent of the steaks was divine. Besides steaks—bife di lomo, served with a chimichurri sauce—there were steaming vegetables, fragrant rice, and hot empanadas.
Someone brought an extra fork. Marcos put a little bit of rice on it and, once he tested it for heat, fed it to the boy. Isabelle returned with a plate of cut up steak and vegetables and set it near Marcos.
“You are a natural with children,” Francesca managed as she cut into her own steak, her heart throbbing so painfully it was a wonder she could still speak. The little boy in Marcos’s lap was adorable, with silky black curls, a bow mouth, and the smoothest olive skin she’d ever seen. When he looked up at her, long eyelashes framed dark eyes that watched her so solemnly.
What would her baby have looked like? Her little girl. She dropped the fork and pressed a hand to her mouth. She’d only just found out her baby was a girl a couple of weeks before the robbery.
Marcos was watching her, his brows drawing low. “What is wrong, Francesca? Something does not agree with you?”
She shook her head, swallowed. Forced her shaking hand to pick up the fork and knife again. “It’s nothing.”
“I seem to recall you taking me to task for saying this very thing. Are you quite sure?”
She forced a smile. “I’m quite sure it’s nothing I wish to talk about.” She nodded at the little boy. “Armando is hungry.”
“Do you wish to feed him?”
Francesca shook her head. Her food was a lump of sawdust in her stomach. “Let’s not disrupt him when he’s so happy with you.”
Marcos fed the child another bite of steak. “Do children frighten you?”
“A bit,” she said. “I don’t know a thing about babies.”
“I think you would be a good mother, Francesca.”
Her pulse throbbed. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you have a kind heart. When you love someone, you love with your whole being. If you would go to such lengths for an old man you care about, what would you not do for your own child?”
Francesca put her napkin on the table. It was as if Marcos could see into her soul—and she didn’t like the feeling one bit. She felt raw, exposed, as if he knew more about her than anyone ever had. Coming here had been a mistake. Except she hadn’t had a choice, had she? To save Jacques, she’d made a deal with the devil. She just hadn’t expected the payment to be so brutal.
“I’m afraid I didn’t sleep so well last night,” she said, standing. “I feel a headache coming on, so I think I’ll go lie down.”
Marcos looked concerned. “But you have not eaten. Surely that will help.”
“I’m not very hungry after all.”
Francesca didn’t wait for a reply as she turned away. She simply couldn’t look at the man and child any longer, at how natural they looked together. Marcos was meant to be a father, but she was not the woman who could give that to him.
And that knowledge hurt far more now than it would have only a few days ago.
Francesca couldn’t sleep. She’d spent the evening in her room, watching the small television, flipping through magazines, and trying to read a book. She’d been starving after a few hours, but just when she was ready to leave her room in search of food, a girl arrived with a tray. Sent by Se?or Navarre, she’d said. Francesca had thanked her and taken the tray to her bed, where she finished everything on the plate and tried not to think about the fact that Marcos had been considerate enough to send her food.
Now, Francesca climbed from bed and pushed back the curtains. The waxing moon was in the gibbous phase, not quite full yet, slanting down over the vineyard and illuminating the rows. She dragged on a pair of jeans, a light sweater, and her tennis shoes. It was late, but a walk in the brisk air would do her a world of good right now.
The night was quiet as she emerged from the darkened house. A light burned in one window. Someone else couldn’t sleep, or maybe they were afraid of the dark. She wondered about Armando, about his mother Ana Luis. Perhaps the little boy couldn’t sleep, and Ana was trying to soothe him. He was truly an adorable child. He had the dark curls that she imagined a child of Marcos’s might have. A pang of regret shafted through her at the thought.
Francesca walked down the manicured lawn and crossed the edge of the vineyard. The rows were straight, narrow, but not as filled with vegetation as they would be once the season progressed. The leaves were new, the vines still growing from the hardened, twisted stumps in the ground. It always amazed her to see a grapevine, to see how the roots were so gnarled and looked almost dead. But every year, faithfully, vines shot forth onto the wired rows meant to hold them. Without fail, beauty grew from the twisted, ugly stumps.
She walked deeper into the vineyard, emerging at a spot where the rows crossed into another direction. A lone tree stood at the center of the clearing. Another gnarled beast, she decided, recognizing it for an olive tree. But why a single tree in the center of the vineyard?
Something moved at the mouth of the row across from her. Her heart shot into her throat and she turned as if to run back toward the house.
“Who’s there?” a voice said.
Relief cascaded through her. And heat. Always, always the heat. “It’s me,” she said, “Francesca.”
She could make out the white of his shirt, the darkness of his jeans as he moved toward her.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “You?”
He stopped in front of her. Scraped a hand through his hair. “The same.”
He smelled good, like spice and citrus and outdoors. The warmth of his body reached out and enveloped her. Comforted her.
“Do you often walk at night?” she asked.
“Not in Buenos Aires. But here, yes. I like the quiet stillness of the vineyard.”
Her thoughts exactly. “Why is this tree here? It seems rather lonely.”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, turning his head toward the olive tree. “It was always here. It is very old, I believe. We have a grove, but this tree stands alone.”
“Maybe it’s a special tree.”
“Perhaps.” He took a step closer. “And how is your head? Are you feeling better?”
“A bit, thank you,” she said. “Did Armando finish his dinner?”
She could see the flash of his teeth in the moonlight. “Sí, he ate everything. And then he had a small slice of cake.”
“You were very good with him.”
He shrugged. “He is a child. It’s not hard to please them really.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t married and had tons of kids by now,” she said. “I’d have thought that would be one of your priorities.”
“And what made you think that?”
“The Navarre Dynasty, the Corazón del Diablo. Who will you leave all this to?”
“There is Magdalena and her children. The Foundation.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “So you don’t want children then?”
“I didn’t say that.” He took another step toward her. “What is all this about, Francesca?”
She shrugged, pushing her hands into her jeans pockets. “Just curious, that’s all.”
“I’m curious about something, too. I’m curious about why your engagement didn’t work out.”
“Robert decided marriage wasn’t for him.” She shrugged again. “C’est la vie.”
“And you have not been with a man since. I find this extraordinary.”
“It’s not, really. I’ve been busy, and I haven’t been interested enough in anyone to take the next step.”
He hooked a finger in her jeans pocket, tugging her closer. “You seem interested in me.”
“We’re married,” she said, her breath catching as desire shot through her limbs. “And it’s part of your damn contract.”
“So you would make love with me because of the contract?”
“I didn’t think I had a choice.”
A finger twirled in her hair. “You always have a choice, Francesca. But I think you will choose me.”
“You are far too confident in yourself.” But her blood was humming and her body was beginning to ache with need.
“No, but I am confident in this feeling between us. There is something …”
His head dipped, his lips ghosting over hers.
“Something?” she asked a touch breathlessly.
His arms went around her, pulling her in close as she automatically put her own around his neck. “There is something about you, something I very much want to explore …”
“But last night—”
“Last night was wrong. Tonight—tonight is right.”
She didn’t ask why it was right. Last night had been different. And, she realized, it wasn’t worth traveling old territory when what mattered was here and now. She ached to soothe him, to take away his pain and his nightmares, but she didn’t know how to do it.
All she knew was that she was ready for this. Amazingly, unbelievably—she wanted him. Without fear or regret. There would be consequences, she knew that, but she was so ready to push past her fear and insecurity and experience this with him. With the man she’d once loved more than any other.
With the man she could love again.
Francesca shuddered as their lips met. What was she getting herself into? But, oh God, how could she resist?
His mouth was magical, his kiss insistent and confident. Her limbs softened, her body turning liquid. She was jelly in his arms.
He pulled back. “Unless you wish to make love al fresco, we need to return to the house.”
“I don’t care, Marcos,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the warm skin of his neck. He smelled so good, so vibrant and alive.
“I might not either, except that we have no blankets—and the night is chilly.”
She acknowledged that could be a problem. That and she didn’t know what kind of bugs crawled around in vineyards at night. “Then I’ll race you back,” she said before sprinting into the night.