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Finally, she returned to her room. It was a long time before she drifted into a restless sleep.
Marcos lay on the floor, unwilling to return to the soaked sheets of his bed. He could call someone to change them, but he knew from experience that he would sleep just as well on the floor as on the bed. The hard floor reminded him of what it was like to sleep in the jungle. Or on the street.
He hadn’t had nightmares this bad in quite some time. Lately, however, he seemed to experience them more frequently. Being cuffed to the bed in the hotel hadn’t helped, even if it had been of relatively short duration in comparison to his time in the enemy’s prison.
Regardless, the experience brought back the flood of memories and turned him once more into the kind of animal whose sole focus was survival.
He thought of Francesca standing in the hallway, of her wide eyes and tousled hair, and felt a mixture of hate and desire so strong it frightened him. When he’d jerked the door open, he’d wanted to haul her inside, strip her naked, and lose himself in her body for a few hours. It had taken all his will power not to do so.
He’d also wanted to lash out, to bind her to him and make her pay for dredging up the memories of his past. Not for the first time, he wondered if bringing her here had been a mistake. Perhaps he should have simply taken the jewel and returned to Argentina. But she was here now, and he was committed to the course of action he’d chosen.
Marcos would allow nothing—and no one—to ruin all he’d worked for. And he would survive his nightmares. He always did.
“Spanish lessons? Is this necessary?” Francesca blinked at the calendar Marcos had handed to her. It was filled with appointments. Spanish lessons, culture lessons, tango lessons, shopping, hair, nails …
It was already late morning. After the night she’d had, she’d slept in far longer than usual. She’d showered and dressed in a pale blue peasant blouse and white jeans, one of the best outfits she owned these days. She’d wondered if Marcos would be here, or if he would be gone to an office for the day. She’d hoped he would be gone, because she didn’t know what to say to him after last night.
She still didn’t.
Marcos looked implacable as she met his gaze once more. He also looked delicious, in spite of the restless night he must have had. His dark good looks were only enhanced by the white shirt and casual chinos he’d selected today. His shirtsleeves were rolled loosely, revealing his forearms. Powerful forearms.
One of them bore a crude tattoo of what she thought might be crossed swords. The ink bled at the edges, blurring the design. She didn’t remember that from eight years ago, but had she ever seen him in short sleeves?
Possibly not.
“You do not speak Spanish,” he said. “It is necessary.”
Francesca tore her gaze from his tattoo. “But I’m not going to be here very long, so why bother?”
Marcos shrugged. “Why bother doing anything, Francesca? Why get up in the morning to watch a sunrise, why eat ice cream, why read a book, why take a walk on the beach? Because they are worth doing, that’s why. Just as learning Spanish, for as long as you are here, is worth doing. Think of it as an adventure.”
“I don’t like adventures,” she replied. “I like everything the way I expect it to be, and I like my life the way it is. Was.”
“Yes, I seem to remember you were always a scared little rabbit.”
Embarrassment wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed. “I was shy.”
He snorted in disbelief. “That’s an old excuse. Don’t try to hide behind it.”
“I’m not hiding behind anything. And I know what I want. Don’t try to analyze me, Marcos.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, his sleeve dropping to cover the tattoo when he did so. “It is an observation, not an analysis.”
“So why do you have that tattoo?” she asked. Anything to deflect the conversation away from herself. Away from her shortcomings.
He lifted his arm until the sleeve fell away. She stared at the green-blue ink, suddenly unsure she wanted the answer. Especially if it had anything to do with the sounds he had made last night.
“I did not choose it,” he said. “But it was necessary. Necessary to prove I was loyal.”
“Loyal to what?”
His eyes burned into hers. “You don’t want to know.”
She swallowed. “Maybe I do. Does it have anything to do with your nightmares?”
If she’d expected a reaction, she didn’t get it. Instead, he closed the distance between them, reached out to tilt her chin up with a finger. “Nice try, querida. But it won’t work. Your first Spanish lesson is in an hour.”
Her skin sizzled where he touched. “Do you keep it to remind you of something? Because they can laser those off, you know.”
