CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MARCOS STOOD ON the fifty-first floor, gazing out of the window of this luxurious suite, and wondered if she would come.
Of course she will come.
He’d sent the necklace as a gesture of his surrender. But was it too subtle? Would she be so angry with him that she would not take the chance?
He scraped a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. He eyed the handcuffs he’d bought.
Could he really do what he planned to do?
Yes, because she will come.
Francesca had said she loved him, and he’d held onto those words for the past three weeks. They’d rung through his head every minute of every day. At first, he’d believed that letting her go was the right thing to do.
But nothing had been the same once she’d gone. He’d watched from a window as she’d climbed into the car, feeling numb. Then he’d made himself watch as the car pulled into the street and disappeared into traffic.
He’d stood there for a long time after, envisioning the journey to the airport, wondering what Francesca was thinking.
Was she hating him now? Congratulating herself on a lucky escape?
Or was she crying?
She was brave and tough, his little tiger kitten. The thought of her crying twisted his heart into a knot. He didn’t want to make her cry.
He’d tried to push her from his mind as the days dragged by, tried to continue running his business and the Foundation.
But she’d left a hollow spot inside him with her absence. He’d thought it would fill up slowly, but it never did. The hole grew bigger with each passing day, until he realized what a fool he’d been.
He had to win her back. Determined, he turned and picked up the cuffs. She would come, and he would prove to her that he needed her, that he could be the man she deserved.
Francesca hadn’t bothered to change out of her jeans and sweater before shoving the jewel box in her purse and bounding outside to the idling limo that waited at the curb. Now that she’d arrived, however, she was beginning to regret that she’d not taken time to make herself look a bit more presentable.
The grand foyer, with its rows of tall columns and gleaming surfaces, was understatedly elegant. And she was completely out of place. She’d hoped Marcos would meet her in the lobby, but instead she was pointed to the elevators and given an access key with a room number printed on it.
She rode the elevator up to the fifty-first floor. Thank goodness he’d not stayed here the first time, or she’d never have been able to get inside. When she entered the luxurious Presidential suite, it was quiet except for the hiss and crackle of the gas fireplace in the living room. Was he even here?
“Marcos?” she called.
“In here.”
She followed his voice, emerging into a bedroom with spectacular views of Central Park and the night sky. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
Marcos was on the bed, fully clothed, leaning against the headboard. One arm was raised over his head. His wrist was cuffed to the bedpost.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
He smiled, though the scar at the corner of his mouth was white. “Therapy.”
She hurried over to his side, dropping her purse on the floor. “Where is the key?”
“I’m not quite sure. I threw it out of reach before I closed the cuff. I did not wish to chicken out, as you Americans say.”
“Marcos, that’s insane!” She turned in a circle, looking for a slice of silver in the dim lamplight.
“Perhaps, but I had to do something.”
She popped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “There are many things you could do about it, but this probably wasn’t the best idea. What if I hadn’t come?”
“I knew you would.”
“What if I hadn’t been home? What if I hadn’t got the package tonight? They’d have taken it back to the ware house and attempted redelivery tomorrow.”
“I had faith.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “My God, Marcos, couldn’t you have simply picked up the phone?”
He looked suddenly wary. “I was afraid you wouldn’t listen.”
“And this is designed to make me listen?” She turned away, intent on finding the key. Marcos didn’t say anything, and she knew he was fighting with himself. Trying not to panic, she was certain.
Her heart pounded so hard. The blood rushed in her ears, drowning out sound. She had to find that key, had to free him. Knowing what she did, she couldn’t stand to see him like this. He may think trial by fire was therapy—a typical alpha male way of approaching things—but it was killing her to know he was in pain.
Falling to her hands and knees, she patted the carpet. When she felt something small and cool, she snatched it up. Her hands shook as she inserted the key into the lock. Marcos leaned toward her, his face practically touching her breasts as she worked the catch. Desire flared to life inside her as he took a deep breath.
“You smell good, mi gatita.”
The lock clicked and the cuff snapped open. Marcos put both arms around her before she could take a step away.
“I have missed you,” he said.
She put her hands on his shoulders, pushing until his grip loosened. Then she pulled away and wrapped her arms around her middle.
“You are angry with me,” he said.
“A bit.” And hurt. And confused. And unsure she wanted to relive even a moment of pleasure with him if it was only going to lead to more heartbreak.
Because he did want her, she knew that. But it was a physical need, not an emotional one. Had he really called her here just to get in her panties again? After this stunt, she truly had no idea what he was capable of.
“You have every right to be,” he said. “I understand this.”
“Then why are you here? Do you feel guilty? Want to ease your troubled conscience?” She was surprised to find that anger was indeed the dominant emotion she felt at the moment. Because she really didn’t know what he wanted. He’d dragged her here with the Corazón del Diablo and a note, but he’d not fallen to his knees and proclaimed his undying love, or said he needed her in his life, or anything else.
Instead, he’d chained himself to the bed and scared her half to death in the process.
“The nightmares are back,” he said softly. He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “They are even worse now, in some ways.”
“And you thought that chaining yourself to this bed and hoping I would come along might help?”
“Perhaps not the best plan, but I’m working on it.”
She shook her head. “How is it possible the dreams are worse?”
“Because you are in them, and it is you I cannot save.”
“I’m fine, I assure you.”
“I can see that. But without you, I do not sleep well.”
“And what is the solution to that? That I return to Argentina and sleep with you every night?
“Sí.”
Francesca blinked. “For how long?”
He shrugged. “As long as it takes.”
“No.” Damn him! How dare he come along and entice her with such a thing, and all because he slept better when she was there? “Ask some other woman.”
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Clearly, I am doing this wrong.”
“Clearly.”
He caught her by the shoulders, gripping her too hard for her to get away easily but not so hard it hurt. “I need you, Francesca. I was a fool to let you go.”
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 night lights 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 hesitation. 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.