“You can’t force me to go with you,” she said, throwing one last desperate statement into the air between them.

“I will carry you onboard myself, Francesca, if you insist on acting like a child.”

“I’ll scream until someone notices—”

“And sentence your Jacques to certain death? I think not.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, turning to watch the city slide by before he could see a tear fall.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was as soft as satin, as hard as the Corazón del Diablo. “Then perhaps we understand one another after all.”

Francesca closed her eyes. She understood, all right. Understood that she’d just sold her soul to the devil.

The Devil’s Heart

By

Lynn Raye Harris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LYNN RAYE HARRIS read her first Harlequin Mills & Boon® romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead she married a military man, and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com

To my agent, Karen Solem, whose awesome advice and unwavering support are so very much appreciated. Thanks for everything.

Prologue

Centuries-Old Missing Treasure Resurfaces

Washington, D.C.—Last night onboard his yacht anchored in the National Harbor, Massimo d’Oro hosted a party for his daughter. Francesca, the youngest child of the Italian businessman, celebrated her eighteenth birthday in a style to which lesser mortals can only dream. The party was attended by many of Washington’s social elite, and the birthday girl’s dress was rumored to have been custom designed by the House of Versace. The party is said to have cost Mr. d’Oro over one hundred thousand dollars.

Most spectacular of all was the gift Mr. d’Oro bestowed upon his daughter: a ninety-carat diamond necklace, the centerpiece of which is the fifty-five carat flawless yellow diamond known as El Corazón del Diablo (The Devil’s Heart). This gem, once belonging to the Kings and Queens of Spain, was last known to have been in the possession of the Navarre family of Argentina; it has been lost since the 1980s.

Chapter One

Eight years later…

“I BEG YOUR pardon?” Marcos Navarre stared at the slight figure dressed in dark clothes. The gun pointed at his heart never wavered.

“I said move.”

This time the voice was less gruff. Marcos stepped away from the hotel room door, hands up just enough so this intruder wouldn’t think he was about to do something crazy.

Like lunge for the gun.

If he could get close enough, he would do just that. This wasn’t the first time he’d been on the business end of a weapon, and fear was not what motivated his seeming compliance. He’d become inured to violence during the years he’d spent living in South American jungles with a guerilla army. He knew without doubt there was always an opportunity, in situations like this, to gain the upper hand. So long as his hands were free, there was a chance.

No, fear was not at all what he felt. Rage was the word he was looking for. Bone deep rage.

The person facing him was small, though he knew better than to mistake small for weak. Darkness shrouded the room and he couldn’t make out any details about his visitor. But Marcos had several inches of height, and many more stones of weight to his advantage.

The moment he had an opportunity, he would act. The key was to remain free, and to keep his senses on high alert. He refused to consider what he would do should this intruder attempt to restrain him in any way. Memories flashed into his mind: a dark room, the sharp odor of sweat and rage, and the feel of his own blood dripping down his wrists.

No. Focus.

“You are wasting your time,” Marcos said mildly. “I am not in the habit of keeping large amounts of cash in my room.”

“Shut up.”

Marcos blinked. The gruffness in his intruder’s voice was gone. The person holding a gun on him so coolly was most definitely a woman. He relaxed infinitesimally.

Dios mío.

Who had he offended this time? Which of his exlovers was so incensed as to carry her desperation this far? Fiona? Cara? Leanne?

He was generous with his mistresses, yet there were those who refused to accept his decision to end the relationship when the time came. Was this a jilted lover—and why couldn’t he place her immediately? He was not so callous as to ever forget a feminine body or voice when they gave him such pleasure.

No, not a jilted lover then. Unless he was growing forgetful. Marcos frowned. It did not seem like ly. He’d had a lot on his mind lately, yes, but surely not so much as to render him incapable of remembering a woman he’d been intimate with.

He kept his hands in her sight, moving carefully into the middle of the room to await instruction. She shrank back when he passed by, then righted herself boldly as if irritated she had done so.

Several moments passed in complete silence but for the whisper of the ceiling fan overhead.

“Retrieve the jewel,” she said, all pretence of being a man gone from her voice now. So she’d made a decision to give up that deception, had she?

Bueno. It would make it easier for him to learn her identity.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She growled impatiently. The gun gleamed bluish in the moonlight shafting into the room. He noted that she’d added a silencer. The thought did not give him comfort.

“You know very well what I mean. The Corazón del Diablo. Bring it to me if you wish to live.”

Ah, so now it made sense. He should have ignored the ridiculous claims of the d’Oros and refused to bring the jewel back to America. But his business interests here could suffer if he did not put an end to their fraudulent claims. The courts in Argentina had already ruled in his favor. He did not need an American court’s approval to keep what was rightfully his. What he’d paid for in blood.

Had this woman been sent by the d’Oros? Was the lawsuit merely a ploy to get the stone back into the United States so they could steal it? The old man was dead, but the girls were still alive. He shoved aside the pang of regret he felt when he thought of the youngest d’Oro girl. Why he should still feel regret, when she’d manipulated him as much as any of them, was a mystery.

Part of him insisted she was innocent—and part of him knew the dark depths to which the human soul could travel. Innocence was often a façade for treachery.

“If you shoot me, querida, you will never have the jewel.”

“Maybe I’ll have something far better,” she spat in a low voice.

All of Marcos’s senses went on high alert. Something about that voice…

Something he’d forgotten…

“I’ll take that jewel now,” she continued. “It’s in the safe. Open it.”

Fury began to uncoil within him. Who was this slip of a woman and how dare she try to rob him of his family birthright? She was not the first to attempt it, but she would not succeed.

It was after the jewel had been stolen, when he was only a boy, that the military junta imprisoned his parents. They never returned. They were, like so many thousands of others, among the disappeared, those souls who were taken away by the ruling party and killed before democracy was restored in later years.

He blamed his uncle far more than he did the diamond. If not for Federico Navarre’s ambition and greed, life would have been far different. But the Corazón del Diablo was all he had left of his family, and he would allow no one to take it from him ever again.

“Apparently you have failed to think this through, little one.”

She took a step forward, the gun rock-solid in her grip. And then, as if thinking better of it, she stopped, shook her head so slightly he wondered if he’d imagined the movement. “Shut up and open the safe. Now.”

He stood stiffly for only a moment. “Very well.”

If he were lucky, she’d get too close.

Marcos strode toward the wall that housed the safe. Sliding the wooden panel aside, he flipped the dial in annoyance. Right, left, right. The tumblers clicked into place and the door opened.

“Frankie,” a voice hissed. “Hurry.”

Marcos stilled, straining to pinpoint the source. It had sounded oddly small and disembodied.

“Frankie,” it said again, louder this time.

“Shut up,” the girl said. “I’m working on it.”

Ah, a radio. She was using a two-way radio to communicate with someone outside this room. Odd—and a rather inept choice for a skilled thief. Yet another puzzle piece to consider.

“Step away from the safe,” she ordered, the gun glinting as she used it to motion him away. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Marcos backed away carefully, hands at shoulder height. The girl waited until he was nearly against the opposite wall before she moved. A flashlight blazed into life. She swept the interior of the safe, then spun toward him.

“It’s not here,” she said in disbelief. “Where is it?”

He almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but not quite. “There are plenty of other jewels. Take them instead.”

Her voice shook. “The Corazón del Diablo. Where is it?”

“It’s not here,” he repeated.

“That’s impossible. I was assured—” The gun was leveled at him again, her voice full of purpose. “Where have you hidden it?”

“Forget it, Frankie,” he said smoothly, emphasizing the name the voice had called her. She had been assured? By whom? “You’ve failed. Now take what’s there and go.”

“You aren’t the one in control here, Navarre. You will not tell me what to do. Not ever again,” she added so quietly he wasn’t certain he’d heard her right. Never again?

“Who are you?” he demanded, blazing hot anger sizzling through him like a living flame.

Before she could answer—or tell him to shut up, most likely—he reached over and flicked the light switch.

“Bastard,” she cried, blinking against the light that flooded the room. Yet still the gun was firmly pointed at him.

He didn’t care. The girl, this Frankie, was compel-ling—and he’d never seen her before in his life. Sunstreaked hair was pulled into a tight knot at the base of her neck, its thickness indicating long length when her hair was down. Her skin was pale with a hint of golden color. Her eyes glared at him hot and dark. She was dressed in a workman’s black coveralls, but the garment was a size too small because it clung to her generous curves like a protective sleeve.

She looked furious, determined—but then she bit down on her plump lower lip and he recognized it for what it was: a crack in her armor. A current of desire arced through him at that single display of vulnerability.

Dios, now was not the time to be attracted to a woman. Especially not a woman with a gun pointed at his heart. Marcos clamped down on his wayward libido and tried to memorize everything about her. Should she get away, should she not shoot him in the process, he needed to remember what she looked like.

Because—female or not, vulnerable or not—he was going to hunt her down. He would find her and he would make her pay for thinking she could rob him of his birthright.

“Who are you, Frankie, and why do you want my necklace?”

Her eyes widened briefly before narrowing again. The gun shook in her grip. Odd when she’d been so controlled only moments before.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Her laugh was strangled. “God, of course you don’t. Because you’re selfish, Marcos Navarre. Selfish and cruel.”

Some little bit of knowledge buzzed at his mind like an annoying mosquito. He brushed it aside impatiently. He had no time to puzzle out what it was. He simply needed to remember this woman—and possibly disarm and capture her—before she could get away. “The Corazón del Diablo is mine. You will not steal it from me this night, so either take what’s there and go, or shoot me and be done with it.”

“I would like to,” she said, her voice dripping with menace and fury. “Believe me I would. But I want that jewel, Navarre. One way or the other, you are going to give it to me.”

Francesca forced down the bile in her throat. When he’d flipped the light on, she’d thought she would die. If he’d looked at her with pity, or shook his head sadly, she’d have crumbled like a house of cards. Her will and determination would have evaporated like an early morning mist, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

But there’d been no flicker of recognition in his eyes, no stiffening of his form, nothing to indicate he had the slightest clue who she was.

And it hurt. Hurt like bloody hell that he hadn’t known her. After all, she’d been the one to give him the Corazón del Diablo in the first place. Like a love struck imbecile, she’d handed it over just the same as she’d handed him her heart.

What happened next had been inevitable to all but the most blind of souls. He’d kept the jewel and discarded her love. Discarded her. She’d learned the truth too late. He’d conned her out of the diamond just like he’d conned her into believing he cared.

The Devil’s Heart was aptly named. She’d given it to the devil and it had cost her nothing but heartache.

And now he stood here so haughty and handsome in his custom tuxedo, looking down his fine nose at her as if she were a bug. Her traitorous heart thumped painfully.

He was still so damn gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, and as handsome as any movie star. He had a silveredged scar that zigzagged from one corner of his mouth, a reminder of a long ago accident, she imagined. Far from ruining his dark male beauty, it only made it seem more\ potent. He had the kind of Latin good looks that made women prostrate themselves at his feet.

Just like she’d done. Idiot.

Her life had been ruined by that single act of falling for Marcos Navarre’s smooth lies and sensual body. For thinking she had a future with him if only she gave him what he wanted. She’d been stupid. How could a man like him ever be interested in a chubby, shy, ugly girl like her?

He couldn’t. Her sister had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. She’d believed Livia to be jealous. Livia, the beautiful one. The one who should have been the object of Marcos’s attention. But Francesca hadn’t wanted to accept the truth and she’d tumbled them into ruin with her need to be loved.

He’d fooled them all, she reminded herself. Charmed them all.

Didn’t matter. It was her fault the Navarres destroyed d’Oro Shipping. Her fault that her father shot himself, that her mother clung to the remnants of her wealth in a drafty old house in Upstate New York, and that her sister barely ever spoke to her.

She’d made poor choices, choices that had cost her much more than hurt pride in the end.

She was through letting life beat her up and take away the people she loved. Her grip on the warm metal hardened.

Jacques was not going to die, not if she could help it. The old man had taken her in when she’d fled after her father’s death, had given her a job and taught her everything he knew about the jewelry business. He’d also nursed her through the darkest moments of her life when she’d wanted to die, along with the child she’d never gotten to hold. After Marcos’s betrayal, it had taken years to let a man into her life. Robert hadn’t thrilled her the way Marcos had, but she’d told herself it was simply her youthful longings making Marcos seem so much bigger than life in her imagination.

Getting pregnant was an accident, but she’d wanted her baby as soon as she found out. Robert hadn’t, though he’d stuck around for a few months, had even gone through with an engagement as if he were prepared to be a husband and father. Until she started to show. That’s when he walked out.

When she lost the child so brutally, Jacques was the only one who cared, the only one who was there for her.

She loved Jacques and she owed him.

“The necklace, Marcos,” she said firmly, leveling the gun at his heart once more. “I’ll take it now.”

“It’s not here, querida. You waste your time.”

Francesca lowered the gun to point at his groin. “Killing you would be too good. Perhaps I will simply have to deprive the female world of your ability to make love ever again. I am quite a good shot, I assure you.”

She’d learned out of necessity. And though she never wanted to harm another human being, she had no compunction about making this man think she would do so if it meant she could save Jacques.

His voice dropped to a growl. A hateful, angry growl. “You won’t get away with this. Whoever you are, Frankie, I will find you. I will find you and make you wish you’d never met me.”

Her heart flipped in her chest. She ignored it. “I already wish that. Now give me the jewel before you lose the ability to ever have children.”

Bitterness twisted inside her as she said those words. How ironic to threaten someone with something she would never wish on another soul. But she had to be hard, cold, ruthless—just like he was.

He stared at her in impotent fury, his jaw grinding, his beautiful black eyes flashing daggers at her. Very slowly, he reached up with one hand and slipped his bowtie free of its knot. Then he jerked it loose and let it fall.

Francesca forced herself to breathe normally as he undid the stud at his neck and his shirt fell open to reveal the hollow at the base of his throat.

“What are you doing? This is no time to attempt a seduction, Navarre,” she said icily.

His fingers dipped into his snowy white shirt and came up with a silver chain. He tugged it upward, slipping it over his head and tossing it at her. Francesca caught it smoothly, though her heart thundered. She wasn’t sure how she’d caught it when she’d barely seen him throw it.

The chain was warm from his skin, yet it burned into her as if it were on fire. She clenched it tightly, only realizing there was a key at the end of the chain when she felt it in her palm.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“There is a strongbox under the bed. The necklace is inside.”

Too easy. He’s up to something.

No, he simply cared about his balls more than he did the necklace. Typical. And exactly what she’d been counting on when she made the threat.

Francesca waved the gun. “Get it for me.”

Marcos shrugged, then moved off toward the bedroom as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She followed at a distance that kept her out of his reach if he were to turn suddenly. She put nothing past him. She hadn’t known him well at all, still didn’t, but she knew he was a dangerous man.

A devil wrapped in a beautiful package.

It’s what had drawn her to him in the first place, the danger of all that sharp, sensual, broody masculinity that hid the kind of dark secrets she hadn’t begun to guess at in her sheltered life. That and the way he’d seemed to smile only for her.

Francesca suppressed a snort of disgust.

That naïve girl she’d been was gone. Buried in the past. The woman she was now knew all about secrets and pain.

She stopped in the doorway as Marcos moved toward the giant king-size bed that dominated the room. Silk sheets were turned down in anticipation of his arrival, and a silver bucket of champagne gleamed with sweat on the night table. Two crystal glasses sat beside the bucket.

Francesca clamped down on the rush of heat that flooded her limbs. Her ears grew hot. Of course he was expecting a woman. Wasn’t he always expecting a woman?

She needed to get the necklace and get out before his paramour arrived. Another person would complicate matters. Perhaps that was what he was counting on—the arrival of a lover and the inevitable confusion that would follow.

“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 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 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.

He had not reacted the way she’d expected. She hadn’t really thought he would agree to pay her a dime, but she also hadn’t believed he would kidnap her in broad daylight after he’d ordered his goons to search the store.

Furious tears pressed at the backs of her eyelids. Gilles had moved as if to prevent it from happening, but she’d begged him not to put himself in harm’s way for her. He would have done so anyway, but one of Marcos’s men pointed a gun at him and effectively ended the attempt. Gilles had stood by helplessly, fists clenching at his sides in impotent fury. She only hoped Jacques had slept through the raised voices and rhythmically slamming drawers.

What would happen when she was gone? How could Gilles keep the shop open and take care of Jacques too? Someone had to pick up Jacques’s prescriptions, fix his favorite soup of clear broth and a little bit of egg noodles, and order the supplies for his bench. He didn’t work often these days, but he still sculpted new creations out of wax when he felt up to it. When he finished a design, Gilles would cast it and start the rigorous polishing of the metal that was required before any gemstones could be set.

Oh, Jacques.

She crammed her fist against her mouth to stop the flood before it could break.

“Did you cry so prettily for me when we parted, Francesca?”

She swung her head around to look at him. “I’m not crying,” she forced out between clenched teeth. The coolness on her cheeks betrayed the lie, but she refused to wipe the wetness away. She would not give him the satisfaction. “And I most definitely would never cry over you.”

“Ah,” he said. “How tragic for me then.”

“Where are you taking me?”

His gaze grew sharp. “Buenos Aires, mi amor.”

Her heart began a staccato rhythm against her ribs. “What? You can’t do that! This is my home, people need me—”

“I did warn you,” he said, his voice deceptively mild and completely at odds with the fire in his gaze. She had the distinct impression he was enjoying himself.

“You don’t want to do this.”

“I do. Remember those words, Frankie?” He smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his expensive sleeve.

“Stop toying with me, Marcos. And don’t call me Frankie.”

His dark eyes pierced her. “I thought you liked it. Is this your lover’s pet name for you?”

Francesca wrapped her arms around her to ward off the chill creeping over her body. This man was nothing like the handsome young Argentinian who’d been so nice to her. But that had been a game, hadn’t it? He’d only been nice to her in order to win her affection, to fool her into thinking he cared for her.

Once he’d gotten what he wanted, he’d left her to face the shame alone. He’d never even kissed her for God’s sake! She’d been married to him for all of three hours and, aside from a peck on the cheek at the justice of the peace’s office, they’d never shared a single kiss.

“You have to let me go,” she said. “I can’t be gone very long. Jacques needs me—”

“Ah yes, the man who owns the shop. Is he your lover too?”

She gaped at him, too shocked to summon outrage. “You went to all this trouble to find me, to find out who I was, and you didn’t bother to learn that Jacques Fortier is seventy-five if he’s a day, or that he’ll die if I don’t go back?” He looked so cold and unfeeling that a sob burst from her in spite of her best effort to prevent it. She stuffed the rest of them down deep before they could escape. “I need that necklace, Marcos. It’s the only way to save Jacques. I need the money.”

His mouth twisted. “A very likely story, Francesca. You forget that I know you, that I know what you are capable of. This Jacques may be sick, but he is simply the excuse you use to try and make me feel pity for you. You were always very good at that.”

“No.” She leaned toward him, tried to convey her sincerity, her desperation. “I’ll go with you, I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll sign a paper saying I gave the necklace to you and that my mother and sister can have no claim to it. But you must help Jacques. Please.”

He stared at her for so long she began to fear he hadn’t heard her. “I have a better idea,” he said, his voice so low she had to lean forward again. His gaze dropped and she realized that her baggy sweater was dipping perilously low, that he could see her bra and possibly the curve of her breasts.

As if her body could have any effect on him. No, she knew from experience that she did nothing for Marcos Navarre. She shifted position slightly, but only out of modesty. She could parade before him naked and he would not be affected.

“Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yes, I believe you would,” he replied after another moment of letting his gaze wander.

Heat sizzled in the air between them. Her heart thumped, but she reminded herself it was only anger that charged the air, nothing more. What else could it be?

“You will come to Buenos Aires. Willingly, querida.”

“I will,” she replied quickly, though the thought filled her with dread. So long as he used his resources to help Jacques, she would dance naked on a tight rope if he demanded it. And yet she was curious. “Wouldn’t a sworn statement to the authorities here be enough?”

“It might, but I prefer my solution. You will marry me—again—Francesca. Only this time, it will be a marriage in truth.”

Her breath refused to fill her lungs properly. The blood rushed from her head, making her feel suddenly weightless. Of all the things she’d thought he would say, of all the things she would actually do to save Jacques, he’d chosen the one thing that would surely destroy her.

Marriage to him. Again.

“That’s insane,” she gasped. “I won’t do it.”

“Yet it is my price.”

Francesca closed her eyes as she struggled to breathe normally. He had to be toying with her. This was part of his punishment for her, though she failed to see how it could possibly benefit him in any way. He was not attracted to her. Never had been. So what was the point?

Did he know about her ex-fiance? About her poor baby who’d been taken from her too soon? She hadn’t been with a man since the miscarriage—was this his way of tormenting her? Did he really mean to marry her and bed her?

She’d said anything but she’d not considered this. The one thing that terrified her more than any other. She wasn’t the naïve girl who’d once loved him, she wasn’t in danger of losing her heart, but to be forced into intimacy with him when the act made her think of what she’d lost? Of what she could never have? Of the babies she would never, ever hold in her arms?

“You don’t want me,” she choked out. “You can’t.”

“Not permanently, no. I want you long enough to stop any claims to the Corazón del Diablo that your family might raise.”

She had to find her center of calm, had to disconnect from the swirling emotion and deal with this situation as cold-bloodedly as he did. Her fingers shook as she clasped them together in her lap. She’d learned how to adapt, how to disconnect. She would do it here and now, in spite of how he churned her emotions. “How long, Marcos?”

He shrugged. “Three months, perhaps six.”

Six months. Dear God.

She couldn’t.

“I’ll go with you. I’ll sign papers stating the Corazón del Diablo is irrevocably yours, and I’ll stay in Buenos Aires for three months if you’ll help Jacques. But I can’t marry you. There’s no reason for it.”

“There is every reason,” he said, his voice cracking like a whip against her senses. “I will have no more questions about who owns the stone. It is mine by right, by birth. Any questions of ownership will be dead once we marry.”

She felt like someone was squeezing her, sucking all the air from her space. “How do I know you’ll keep your word, that you’ll help Jacques?”

“I’ll put it in writing.”

He was boxing her in and the box was growing smaller by the second. How could she refuse? How could she deny Jacques the same care he’d given her when she’d needed it? Comfort, care, and love. Francesca closed her eyes, swallowed.

“There would be no need for a marriage in anything more than name,” she said, the words like razor blades in her throat. “You can continue seeing other women. When the time is up, we can divorce and no one will be the wiser.”

The scar scissoring from one corner of his mouth made him look so dangerous, so sensual. When he smiled it made him look more predatory, not less. He truly was a devil.

“Ah, but I would know, Francesca.” He grasped her hand, pulling it to his mouth. His breath stole over her skin in the instant before his lips seared her.

Her body reacted. God help her, it reacted. Sensation spread outward from that one hot touch of his lips. Flooded her senses. Brought parts of her to life that she’d thought were permanently shut off.

No! This was precisely why she couldn’t do this.

You have to, Francesca. You have no choice.

“Stop touching me,” she managed, her heart fluttering like a moth trapped in a jar.

His smile was still so wolfish. “I am not willing to ‘see’ other women, as you put it. I intend to be true to our vows, for as long as we are married.”

He was torturing her. There was no other explanation. He didn’t really want her—couldn’t want her. But if she didn’t agree to his plan, he wouldn’t help Jacques. Uniting d’Oro and Navarre once more would cement his possession of the Corazón del Diablo in the eyes of the world. He would be satisfied with nothing less.

Once he’d done that, perhaps he would lose interest in punishing her. Perhaps he’d let her go.

Francesca pulled her hand away. “I want the contracts drawn up first. I want to see it in writing.”

Marcos took out his phone and punched in a number. Moments later, he was speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. When he finished, he put the phone away and smiled again. That devastatingly handsome smile that proclaimed his intention to win no matter the cost.

“The contracts will be ready when we arrive.”

“I’d rather see them before I leave New York.”

“This is too bad,” he said. “My plane is prepared and the flight plan has been filed.”

“Flight plans can be changed,” she insisted.

Marcos’s eyes were hard. “Not mine.”

“You can’t force me to go with you,” she said, throwing one last desperate statement into the air between them.

“I will carry you onboard myself, Francesca, if you insist on acting like a child.”

“I’ll scream until someone notices—”

“And sentence your Jacques to certain death? I think not.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, turning to watch the city slide by before he could see a tear fall.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was as soft as satin, as hard as the Corazón del Diablo. “Then perhaps we understand one another after all.”

Francesca closed her eyes. She understood all right. Understood that she’d just sold her soul to the devil.

And deals with the devil never ended well…

Chapter Three

THE FLIGHT TO Buenos Aires took more than ten hours. Though they’d traveled in luxury aboard Navarre Industries’ corporate jet, Francesca was exhausted by the time they arrived. She hadn’t slept well since the night before when she’d stolen into Marcos’s hotel room and liberated the Corazón del Diablo.

Though it was dark when they landed, the city lights bathed the night sky in a pale pink glow. Francesca stumbled on the stairs leading from the jet, but Marcos caught her around the waist and kept her from tumbling down the gangway. His fingers burned into her back as he guided her the rest of the way down.

A sleek Mercedes waited for them nearby. Francesca sank into the interior and moved as far away from Marcos as she could get. He immediately took out his phone and made a call. She listened to the lyrical sound of his voice speaking Spanish as the car left the airport and headed into the city. She spoke tolerable French and German, could read Latin, but she’d never learned Spanish. She was certainly regretting that now.

Marcos eventually finished his call and they rode in silence. The city moved by at a quick pace, but a few things caught her attention.

The obelisk that looked like the Washington Monument, which sat at the center of the very wide street down which they’d been traveling, for instance. When she remarked on it, Marcos informed her it was called El Obelisco and had been built to commemorate the four-hundredth anniversary of the city.

“There are concerts held here from time to time,” he said, and she realized there was actually a semicircular swath of grass and concrete on one side of the monument that could accommodate many people.

In fact, though it was dark, there were people everywhere, lingering around the obelisk or crossing the wide street. She even spotted a couple doing the tango. There was a crowd gathered to watch, but the scene slid by before she could see much of the dance.

In spite of her exhaustion, in spite of the reason she was here, the color and movement of the big city excited her. She’d traveled quite a bit as a child, but she’d never been to South America. Her mother had loved to frequent Paris, Rome, and the Med. While she and Livia fidgeted inside hotel suites with their tutors, her mother attended fashion shows and shopped like there was no tomorrow.

Perhaps her mother had been onto something, since most of her father’s fortune died when he did. Penny Jameson d’Oro no longer took shopping trips abroad. A fact for which she firmly blamed Francesca.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a street so wide,” she said in a rush, pushing away the ugly, depressing thoughts that came whenever she thought of her mother.

“No, you are not likely to do so either. This is the Avenida 9 de Julio; it is the widest street in the world. There are twelve lanes of traffic.”

“Fast traffic.” Cars zipped along at Autobahn speed—or so it seemed.

“Sí, people are in a hurry to get where they are going.”

“And where are we going? Is it much farther?” As much as she feared reaching their final destination, she also wanted to collapse on a bed and sleep for the next twelve hours.

“We are nearly there,” he said. “My family home is in Recoleta.”

“I thought we were in Buenos Aires. Have we left it behind?” It was entirely possible, she supposed. As tired as she was, they could have driven to another city and she wouldn’t have really noticed.

“Recoleta is a barrio, a neighborhood.”

“Did you grow up there?”

The corners of his mouth tightened, the scar whitening. “No. When my parents were taken, I was sent to live with relatives.”

“Taken?” she said, zeroing in on that single word. Not died, not left, not went away and never came back. Taken.

“It is a long story, Francesca, and more appropriate for another night. Suffice it to say I have reclaimed the family home and moved back into it.”

The car turned, and soon they were cruising along an avenue lined with ornate buildings that looked as if they’d been plucked from the streets of Paris and set down here. The architecture was ornate, beautiful, and decidedly French rather than Spanish. Soon they came to an iron gate that swung open on a mechanical hinge, then passed through and halted before an imposing white façade.

A lush collection of palm trees and flowering grasses grew in the little courtyard near the entrance. A man in a uniform hurried out to greet them as they stepped from the car.

“Señor Navarre, bienvenido.”

“Thank you, Miguel. It’s good to be home again.”

A phalanx of men moved to the rear of the car and began removing luggage. Marcos ushered Francesca inside a grand entry hall with a giant crystal chandelier, black and white marble floor tiles set on the diagonal, and a huge Venetian mirror on one wall.

The elegance made her stomach flip. She hadn’t been inside surroundings such as these in years. The weight of expectation threatened to crush her. Already she felt the walls closing in. She’d left deportment behind, left luxury and the expectation that went with it in the past. This place made her feel small, insignificant.

How could she do this now? How could she survive it? She would make mistakes, would fail where she should not. She wasn’t cut out for this life, couldn’t possibly masquerade as his wife for a single day, much less three—or six—months.

Marcos grasped her hand. Francesca uttered a little cry of surprise, then shivered when he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the tender skin of her wrist. They’d spent the last several hours barely speaking to each other, and now this. It disconcerted her, flustered her.

What was he up to?

He gazed down at her, his expression a mixture of heat and hatred. It confused her, but not as much as his touch did. Why did she react? Why did she feel as if every cell of her body was straining toward him, wanting more?

“Until morning, mi amor. Juanita will show you to your room.”

A young woman in a starched uniform stood nearby. She curtsied when Francesca looked over at her. Francesca gave her a weary smile, hoping she didn’t look too wild eyed, before turning back to Marcos.

“Please don’t call me that,” she said in a low voice. She had to keep a distance between them, had to keep him from addling her with his sleek words and expert touch. She was still far too vulnerable to him, and it shocked her. She’d thought she’d left that girl in the past.

One dark eyebrow arched. “You do not like it? You would prefer Frankie now?”

Francesca pulled her hand away the instant his grip lightened. “No, of course not. But I don’t want you calling me your love either. We both know I am not.”

“Sí, we do indeed. And yet there is an appearance to maintain. We are marrying soon.”

Francesca’s heart skipped a beat. Dear God, what had she agreed to? She hadn’t truly realized it until she’d walked into this…this palace.

Jacques, she told herself, she was doing it for Jacques.

“There’s no reason to pretend we care for one another,” she replied. Getting through the next few months would be hard enough. Pretending to feel things for this man was beyond her ability. She’d built a wall after he’d abandoned her so brutally; she didn’t want to breach it ever again.

His expression grew hard. “There is every reason, Francesca. As my wife, there will be many public duties you must perform. I won’t have my reputation suffer simply because you are too spoiled to play the part you’ve agreed to. While you are here, while we are married, you will be happy to be my wife. Comprendes?”

Public duties. She would never pull it off. They’d know she was a fraud the instant she entered the room. And Marcos would not help Jacques.

She swayed on her feet before she could lock her knees. It was simply weariness and shock—fear, perhaps—that nearly made her fall. Marcos caught her, sweeping her into his arms and against his chest.

“No, please, it’s all right,” she managed. “Put me down.”

He said something in Spanish, something low and dark, then barked out an order to the room in general before striding toward the curving staircase.

“I’m just tired,” she said, hot embarrassment—and something else that contained heat—washing over her at the contact with his body.

She hadn’t been this close to him when they were married, hadn’t felt the power of his arms around her. But oh how she’d wanted to. How she’d dreamed of him sweeping her up just like this and carrying her into their bedroom while she laid her head against his shoulder and breathed in the wonderful scent of his aftershave.

Then he would lower her to the bed, whispering those words mi amor, before stripping her and kissing her and making love to her all night long.

But that was when she’d been eighteen. Now it was a nightmare to be so close to him. And to feel things she hadn’t felt for a man in almost four years.

He strode up the steps and down a long hall while she clung to him. The maid, Juanita, hurried past him at a run and threw open a door. Marcos carried Francesca inside and over to a low settee that stood beneath a tall window.

She closed her eyes as he set her down, both grateful and disappointed that he was no longer touching her.

When she opened them, Marcos stared down at her. “If you are pregnant with your lover’s child, you had better tell me now.”

She gaped at him, a sharp pain slashing into her heart. She felt like screaming, or laughing, or maybe even crying at the irony of the accusation, but she would do none of those things. She simply bit down on her lip and shook her head. “I’m not,” she finally managed to force out. “I’m exhausted. I need sleep, not an inquisition.”

“Perhaps you would not mind having blood drawn then. To verify.”

Oh how she hated him in that moment. She had half a mind to tell him no, to ask if he’d care to take other medical tests, but she decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It was a terrible invasion of her privacy, not to mention a hot dagger in her soul, but she only had to think of Jacques in a hospital, getting the best care money could buy.

“Draw all the blood you like. I have nothing to hide.”

“You are shaking,” he said, his brows drawing down as he studied her.

“I’ll stop if you go away.”

The tightness at the edges of his sensual mouth was back. The scar was white, and she knew she must have angered him.

Too bad, because he’d angered her. And hurt her.

“Please just go, Marcos,” she said, holding onto the edges of her composure by a thread. “I don’t want you here.”

He towered over her, six-foot four-inches of angry Latin male. “You may spend this evening alone, remembering your lover, but tomorrow we begin to act like a happy couple. Buenas noches, señorita. Hasta mañana.”

Before she could say a word in reply, he strode out of the door and closed it behind him. The maid arrived a few moments later and drew her a hot bath in spite of her protestations that she could do it herself.

She hadn’t planned to take a bath, yet she discovered when she sank into the fragrant water that she welcomed the chance to scrub away the chill that hadn’t left her since Marcos had asked if she was pregnant.

Francesca closed her eyes as she leaned back on the bath pillow Juanita had provided. Damn him!

He was arrogant and proud, far more so than she remembered. She used to be in love with him, but it was a naïve, girlish love. The woman in her couldn’t love a man like that.

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