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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.
