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  “Hurry up,” she said as he knelt beside the bed. “And don’t try anything funny. I will shoot you, I swear.”

  He looked at her evenly. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

  Francesca gripped the gun harder. “Don’t try me, Marcos. One handed,” she added when he began to reach beneath the bed.

  He kept one hand on the floor where she could see it and reached under the bed with the other. She heard the scrape of metal against the tile and then he emerged with a long black box.

  “Now shove it over here and get on the bed,” she said.

  He stood to his full height and kicked the box with a vicious jab that sent it flying toward her. She stuck her foot out to stop it, wincing as it slammed into her.

  “You can leave now,” he said, his voice cold and deadly. “Leave the box and go, and I will not come after you.”

  “On the bed,” she commanded.

  One corner of his mouth suddenly crooked in a sensual grin. She didn’t fool herself that he was anything other than angry. He was as alert as a panther, constantly looking for a way to catch her off guard.

  “And here I thought you only wanted me for my jewels.”

  “On the bed, Marcos. Hurry.”

  “As you wish,” he said. “Shall I strip first?”

  When she didn’t answer, he sat on the bed and eased back against the headboard. Francesca swallowed. God, he looked like a banquet of sinful delights as he leaned back casually, one knee bent. When he slipped open another stud, his shirt fell apart to reveal smooth, tanned skin that she’d once ached to kiss.

  She’d never gotten to do so, but she’d wanted to desperately. And still he had no idea who she was. Incredible. She’d lost weight, but she hadn’t changed that much. She was still Francesca d’Oro, as awkward and ungraceful as ever.

  His inability to recognize her was yet another slice of proof, as if she needed more, that he’d never really been interested in her.

  “Like what you see, querida?”

  Francesca gave herself a mental shake, then reached into her pocket and withdrew a set of handcuffs. She tossed them at him. He caught them one handed, all pretense of seduction gone. His eyes gleamed with poorly disguised hatred.

  And something else.

  Was it fear she saw in the depths of his gaze? A tremor rolled over her, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t leave this room safely if he wasn’t restrained. She tightened her grip on the gun, her sweaty palms making it harder to hold with each passing second. She had to get this done and get out.

  “Cuff yourself to the bed. And make sure I hear the snap.”

  His grip on the stainless cuffs was white knuckled. “You really need to shoot me,” he said evenly. “Because I will find you. And what I do to you when that happens will make your worst nightmare seem like a pleasant dream.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she muttered. “Now do it.”

  He glared at her a moment longer, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly. But then he snapped one cuff to the bedpost. He fitted his wrist into the other cuff, his eyes hard on hers. She would almost swear his lips were white around the edges. But no, Marcos Navarre was afraid of nothing, certainly not of being handcuffed to a luxurious bed in a posh hotel. In fact, she would bet he’d been cuffed to beds before—though for infinitely more pleasurable reasons.

  The cuff snapped in the stillness. For good measure, he jerked his arm against the restraints; they held fast and Francesca let out her breath.

  Until he spoke.

  “I will find you, Frankie. You will pay for this in ways you cannot imagine. I will start by binding you like a dog—”

  “Shut up,” she bit out, the gun wavering as she pointed it at him. But her heart pounded so hard it made her head feel light. He had no idea that she’d already suffered her worst nightmare. Nothing this man could do would ever equal what had been done to her when those thugs had beaten her half to death and killed her unborn child. “I don’t want to hurt you, Marcos. But I will, I swear to God, if you force me to do so.”

  “Then open the box and retrieve your spoils,” he said coldly. “Because I assure you we will meet again.”

  She bent to retrieve the strongbox at her feet, fumbling with the key as she did so. Adrenaline pumped into her veins, the rush of it heady and swift. Soon, she would have the Corazón del Diablo in her possession. Life would go back to normal again. Jacques would get well and keep making beautiful jewelry. She would continue running the small shop where they sold his creations.

  A stab of fear pierced her. What if Marcos found her? But no, she couldn’t worry about that possibility. Even if he did somehow remember who she was, and track her down, the necklace would be gone and Jacques would be getting the care he needed.

  Not for the first time, doubt and guilt reared their ugly heads. Was it right to do this? But, oh God, what choice did she have? Marcos had wealth to spare. He would be fine without this necklace. Besides, he’d taken the diamond from her under false pretenses.

  Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish… .

  A noise in the other room brought her head up.

  “Darling, where are you?” a woman called, her soft voice accented with wealth and culture.

  Francesca froze, her breath shortening in her chest. She’d had those things once upon a time. Things she’d lost, thanks to him.

  No.

  She’d never been happy in that life. In spite of all the culture and deportment lessons, she’d never been the kind of daughter her mother had wanted her to be. She wasn’t perfect like Livia. Everything she’d ever touched, ever tried to do, crumbled apart like last winter’s rotten leaves. Escaping had been a relief.

  For a brief time, anyway. Until a new nightmare had nearly robbed her of her sanity.

  “Darling?” the woman called again.

  Francesca swung the gun up and motioned for Marcos to be quiet. Amazingly, he obeyed. She had no time to puzzle out why. She hefted the box and backed into the shadows of the open balcony. The last thing she saw as went over the side was Marcos Navarre’s eyes.

  They glittered hard and cold, promising retribution.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACQUES LAY IN his bed, blankets pulled high, his frail body lost in the mass of covers. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored and shallow. Francesca swallowed a hard knot of pain. Her throat ached. She so badly wanted to tell Jacques about the jewel, wanted his help and advice.

  But she couldn’t. He would worry if he knew what she’d done. Across the bed from her, Jacques’s nephew, Gilles, met her gaze. His eyes were shadowed. He’d helped her break into Marcos’s room, and she’d felt the guilt of involving him each moment since.

  And each moment since she’d left Marcos handcuffed to his bed, she’d felt tight inside, as if her skin were being stretched over a massive drum.

  From the instant she’d seen the newspaper article that Marcos was bringing the Corazón del Diablo to New York, she’d thought of nothing else but regaining the stone. But now that she had, everything felt wrong. Though he’d stolen it from her in the first place, she couldn’t stop thinking that she’d been dishonest in reclaiming the necklace the way she had.

  Maybe she should have called Marcos, asked for a meeting. Told him flat out it was hers and she wanted it back.

  As if he would have listened! No, time was running out. For Jacques and for her. Livia and her mother had filed a suit claiming ownership. If they somehow won, or if the courts demanded Marcos turn the necklace over, she’d never see a cent.

  She didn’t have time to fight them all, nor did she have the money to do so. Perhaps she’d been wrong to steal it back, but she’d had no choice. Jacques was more important to her than a collection of polished carbon rocks and platinum.

  She’d tried everything she could think of to get the money for his cancer treatments. No one would insure him with a pre-existing condition. She’d even called her mother to beg for money, though she should
have known better. Penny Jameson d’Oro was no longer the fabulously wealthy socialite she’d once been. She had money, but to her it wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t part with a dime, and certainly not to the daughter she blamed for casting her into her current state of poverty—her word, not Francesca’s—in the first place.

  “Let me know when he wakes,” Francesca said. Gilles nodded.

  Francesca turned and made her way down the stairs to the shop. Thank God Gilles was here. The two of them took turns sitting with Jacques, and that enabled them to keep the shop going. Every bit of money they brought in was crucial.

  She knew that if she wanted, Gilles would become more than just a friend. He was her age, strong and energetic, and he had a string of girlfriends he dated from time to time, though none seriously.

  But she didn’t want to cross that line with him, not really, even if she sometimes felt so empty and alone. Memories of Marcos sliding his shirt open and fishing for that key made heat curl in her veins.

  Unwelcome heat.

  She pushed the image away. Romance wasn’t for her, and now was not the time to think about sexy Argentinians. She had to unload the Corazón del Diablo. Her stomach twisted.

  You’ve come this far, she told herself. Too late getting a conscience now.

  As soon as she opened the shop, she would make a few discreet calls.

  The morning was gray and gloomy as she unlocked the doors. The air was beginning to turn brisk with the promise of winter. Yesterday, she hadn’t seen her breath. This morning, it frosted and made her think about long ago days at her family’s estate, when the leaves turned golden and the apple cider tasted spicy and sweet on her tongue.

  She rarely thought of her life before, but seeing Marcos again dredged up memories of her past. She’d once daydreamed about what a life with him would be like, but he’d crushed her dreams beneath his custom soles. Life itself had dealt the final blow. She had no dreams left.

  She went to the small kitchenette off the main showroom and poured a cup of coffee. The bell dinged in the shop, letting her know someone had come inside.

  Cup in hand, smile fixed, she returned to the shop to help the first customer of the day.

  A tall man stood with his back to her as he bent over a case. Outside the door, two more men stood with arms folded across massive chests. The hair on the back of her neck prickled in warning. The old horror threatened to consume her, but she wouldn’t allow it.

  Francesca set the coffee down quietly and slid her fingers toward the gun beneath the counter. They hadn’t had a robbery attempt in months now, but she was taking no chances. Memories of pain and blood, of the fear she’d had for her baby as her assailant had kicked and punched her, flooded in as her fingers touched the cool metal. She’d learned to defend herself in the aftermath of that dark time, learned that she could be cold and calculating if lives depended on it.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man turned toward her and all the breath left her lungs. She had an impression of cold, cruel strength. Of a strong jaw, tanned skin, and thick black hair.

  And then he spoke again.

  “Buenos días, Frankie. Or should I say Francesca?”

  Marcos Navarre did not like being made a fool of by anyone. And a fool was what she’d tried to play him for. The woman looking back at him was nothing like the sweet, shy girl he’d once thought her to be. This woman was cold, hard, and ruthless. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her.

  At the moment she looked stunned, however. And maybe a touch vulnerable, though he dismissed the thought as fancifulness on his part. His protective instincts were too finely tuned, too accustomed to reacting to others’ fear and pain. That’s what a childhood in the streets of Buenos Aires did for a man.

  He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t save everyone. Francesca d’Oro least of all. Oh yes, he’d had some misguided notion of rescuing her several years ago—when in fact she hadn’t needed rescuing at all.

  As she’d proved to him again just a few hours past.

  He’d felt sorry for her once, had resented her a bit later—now, he hated her for what she’d done. She’d stolen the Corazón del Diablo from him, and she’d forced him to endure the kind of captivity he’d never thought to endure again. He hadn’t spent long chained to the bed, but even a second was more than he cared to endure. He’d had to remember his darkest days, the blood and pain and fear as he’d been kept chained in a dark room and beaten for information all those years ago in the jungle.

  Francesca couldn’t have known what had happened to him—he’d never told her about it—but he hated her for her selfishness, for reminding him of what it felt like to be utterly helpless.

  He was here to make her pay.

  A noise on the stairs captured Francesca’s attention before she’d recovered herself enough to speak. She took a step in that direction but was unable to halt the progress of the man who stumbled to a halt and stared at Marcos with barely disguised loathing.

  “Please don’t, Gilles,” she said when the man looked ready to pounce on him. “It’s not worth it.”

  The two exchanged a look and a different sort of rage blazed to life in Marcos’s gut. The way this man looked at Francesca, the way they communicated without speaking another word. It was nothing to Marcos, and yet—

  She turned back to him then. “Marcos—”

  “Tell your lover who I am, Francesca. What I am to you.”

  There were two high spots of color in her cheeks. A moment later her expression hardened. “How dare you? You are nothing to me. Less than nothing.”

  “This is not what you said when you promised to love, honor, and obey me for the rest of our lives.”

  She didn’t look at her lover, not once. She didn’t have to. Marcos could tell the other man knew what their relationship had been. What manner of other things had she told him to get him to cooperate in stealing the necklace? Because Marcos knew this had been the man on the other end of the radio last night.

  “We are not married, Marcos. Not any longer. You left, remember? And you did not contest the annulment.”

  He let his eyes move lazily down her body. Though she was dressed in a baggy black sweater and jeans, they did little to hide the lush curves underneath. Francesca d’Oro had not looked like this at eighteen. If she had, perhaps he’d have been unable to leave for Argentina so soon after their sham of a marriage had taken place.

  She’d shed the baby fat that had once clung to her, rounding her face. The thick glasses were gone as well. Her hair had been blonde before, and cut in an unflattering bob that only made her face seem plumper.

  Now, the golden-streaked mass was closer to brown than blonde and fell halfway down her back. Her eyes were hazel, he noted, more chocolate than green or gold, and her mouth was kissable in a way he hadn’t remembered. Her lower lip was thicker than the upper, giving her an artless sexy pout.

  He wanted to plunder that mouth, spend hours making love to it. The strength of the compulsion shocked him.

  When he met her gaze again, he was almost amused to see the hate in her eyes. If she thought she hated him before, she was certain to do so even more when he finished with her this time.

  “I suggest you give me the Corazón del Diablo now, querida,” he said coolly, twisting the endearment into an insult.

  Her chin tilted up. “How did you find me so fast?”

  He saw no reason to prevaricate. “You did not really think I would be so stupid as to trust that your family wouldn’t pull a stunt such as this? There is a GPS transmitter attached to the necklace. These things are quite small now.”

  Her eyes closed briefly before snapping open to glare at him again. “It belongs to me, Marcos. You stole it on our wedding night.”

  “You gave it to me, mi amor. I remember this clearly.”

  “I would not have done so if I’d known you’d planned to abandon me.”

  “Ah yes, you thought I was bought and paid for, sí? That Daddy’s
money could bring anything your heart desired if only you begged him to buy it for you.”

  She flushed pink. “You’re disgusting.”

  He shrugged casually, though anger scorched a path through his soul. Because he’d allowed himself to be bought, hadn’t he? He’d wanted the Corazón del Diablo, had spent months attempting to purchase it from her father though he did not in truth have the money to do so.

  But Massimo d’Oro was crafty. He’d given the jewel to his daughter. It was Marcos’s fault for always paying attention to her. He’d believed she was a sweet girl, an ugly duckling who wilted in the shade of her more beautiful sister. Francesca had worn her innocence like a mantle, and he’d fallen for the act. He’d paid attention to her because she’d seemed to blossom when he did so. She smiled and came out of her shell and he only felt more protective.

  Until the day her father had informed him that the only way to obtain the Corazón del Diablo—and his help in wresting control of Navarre Industries from Federico—was to marry Francesca. He’d realized then what he should have known all along: she was a d’Oro, vain, spoiled, and shallow, just like her mother and sister. Her gifts were not theirs; she hadn’t been beautiful, so she’d had to use her other talents. And he’d fallen for it, just as they’d expected him to.

  “You did not think I was so disgusting when you married me, querida.” He sliced a hand through the air. What was done was done. “Enough of this reminiscing. You will bring me the Corazón del Diablo now or I will let my men tear this place apart looking for it.

  Decide.”

  Her answer was not what he expected, though perhaps he should have done so knowing what he did about her character.

  “It’s mine, Marcos. But I will sell it to you. For the right price.”

  Francesca wedged herself against the Bentley door and jerked the handle for the millionth time. She knew the result would be no different than before, but as furious as she was, she needed something to do.

  Something besides launch herself at the man inside the car with her.

  She’d already screamed until she was blue in the face. Marcos had threatened to gag her if she continued, so she’d stopped. In truth, her raw throat was relieved to have an excuse.