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His finger dropped away, his gaze shuttering. “It is my own business, Francesca.”
She stared at him for a moment before clearing her throat and gazing at the calendar again. “Surely I don’t need to learn the tango.”
“It is the national dance of Argentina.”
“And two-stepping to country music is rather popular in America. I don’t remember you attempting to learn this when we married before.”
“The two-step is hardly a national dance, and you are only half-American.” His brow furrowed. “Come to think of it, I never saw you dance in all the months I knew you.”
“I don’t like to dance.”
It wasn’t true, but she’d always seemed to have two left feet when she’d gone to ballet classes. Livia flourished while Francesca stumbled. She’d been too fat to get her leg up on the bar, a fact which her mother took so seriously she ordered Francesca be fed a diet of lean chicken, fruit and rice until she could achieve the feat. It took two months, but she had got her foot on that bar. And she’d kept it there, even if she was graceless in every other way.
Marcos raked a hand through his hair. “Then you will learn. It is expected that my wife will be able to tango.”
His wife. The words gave her chills. And another feeling she didn’t dare analyze. “I don’t seem to remember this was a requirement before. And I’ve yet to see a contract, so this talk of what I must do as your wife is rather moot at the moment.”
“The contract will arrive soon. And I don’t seem to remember having much of a say in anything to do with our marriage before.” The look he gave her was loaded with suppressed fury.
Her ears burned hot. She’d been too young and star-struck to question her good fortune when they’d married. She’d thought it was real, fool that she was. “That’s not my fault.”
“Isn’t it? I was nice to you, and you thought that gave you the right to have me for your own.” He swore in Spanish. “You sent your daddy to buy me like I was a prized pony, Francesca. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Sudden fury burned through her bones, leaving hot ash in its wake. She was tired of taking the blame for their sham of a marriage and the consequences it had wrought on so many lives. Suspicion went both ways, whether he realized it or not.
“Why were you nice to me, Marcos? Did you hope my father would agree to let you marry me? That the Corazón del Diablo would be yours because I was young and stupid and loved you blindly?”
He took a step toward her. “How dare you try to turn this around? You were spoiled, selfish, a d’Oro female accustomed to getting what she wanted. And you wanted me. Nothing could have stopped you—and I was fool enough to fall for your shy and innocent act.”
He thought she was like her mother? Like Livia? She would laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. He’d never known her at all. Everything she’d believed about him had been a lie. She’d known it for a long time now, but to have to relive it opened old wounds.
Francesca jabbed a finger into his chest. “There was no reason for a man like you to be nice to me. I was nothing, less than nothing to you. I wasn’t capable of attracting a busboy’s attention, let alone yours, so you were only nice to me for one reason. You wanted me to fall for you. It was part of your plan all along.”
He made a sound in his throat very like a growl. “You did not possess the necklace when I first met you. Your father had it, though he would not admit it. And I was nice to you then, before you ever possessed it, because I felt sorry for you.”
Francesca drew in a sharp breath. Of course she’d known he’d felt sorry for her. Of course.
So why did it hurt to hear him say it?
Because he’d ruined the fantasy, the slim hope she’d harbored that it was something about her, something he saw that no one else did. He felt sorry for her, nothing more. She turned away from him, more
affected by the admission than she cared to admit. It was years ago. Over and done with. Why did it matter? She’d certainly dealt with far worse blows to her ego since then.
Far worse.
She drew in a fortifying breath and turned back to him. Her lip trembled; she bit down on it. “There was a lot to feel sorry for, wasn’t there? Forty extra pounds of it.”
His face was a thundercloud. “Weight is not important.”
She laughed. “Oh yes, of course it’s not. That woman in your hotel suite didn’t have an ounce of extra fat, nor have the models and actresses you are usually photographed with. Well, rest assured Marcos, I will endeavor not to embarrass you by asking for second helpings at the dinner table.”
“A woman’s weight is only important to her,” he said. “If she is comfortable in her skin, then weight is unimportant.”
“God you’re a hypocrite.” Anger rolled through her in a fresh wave. “You never even kissed me. We were married and you never kissed me properly because I disgusted you.”
“I never kissed you because I was angry.” He took a step closer, looming over her. “I’m still angry. But I should have kissed you. I should have taken everything you offered.”
Francesca took a step backward, her breath catching at the look in his eyes. She’d challenged him—and he wasn’t about to back down. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but don’t you dare kiss me now. It’s too late for that.”
