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 pov-erty—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