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For better or worse.
“I don’t think so, no. Because I don’t believe for an instant you would withdraw medical treatment from Jacques, not after what you said to me earlier. Unless it was a lie? Unless you only said what you thought I wanted to hear?”
He gazed at her steadily, his face a mask of detachment. Her heart thundered. Had she guessed wrong? Would he withdraw his financial support? Would he let Jacques die?
Had she gambled too much?
Marcos looked so cold, so remote and cruel that she wondered how she’d ever managed to be infatuated with him all those years ago. Why hadn’t she sensed that he was so brutal beneath that layer of charm he wore like a blanket?
Why didn’t she just wear the damn necklace and keep her mouth shut? Jacques’s care meant more than the principle of the thing.
“No,” he said, dark eyes flashing with an emotion she didn’t understand, “I would not stop his treatment.”
She stared at him, her breath shortening at the admission. It was the last thing she’d expected. Marcos Navarre had a human side. A side that cared for more than having things his way.
Francesca bowed her head to hide the strength of her emotional reaction. He didn’t need to know how much his statement moved her. But she would give him something in return, would make sure he understood that she intended to honor the agreement. Francesca d’Oro—Navarre—did not go back on her word once it was given. She had integrity, no matter what he believed about her.
“If it’s important to you, I will wear the Corazón del Diablo.”
Disbelief crossed his handsome face. “You just stated you would not. Most adamantly.”
Francesca shrugged as if it were nothing, when in fact it was everything. “If you had asked instead of ordered …”
“Why does this Jacques mean so much to you, Francesca?”
She met his gaze evenly. “He cared about me when no one else did. Jacques is the truest friend I have.”
“And Gilles? He is your lover?”
Her pulse throbbed in her temples. He didn’t deserve an answer to that, not after the blood test he’d forced her to endure, and yet …
“No. And he never has been.”
Marcos looked puzzled. “You are a beautiful woman. I wonder why this is not so.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Marcos. I think we know where we stand with each other now, don’t you? You married me for the necklace, and I married you for Jacques. Please don’t try and prop up what you assume is my wounded vanity. I know I’m not pretty enough for a man like you. And I don’t care. I’m me, and that’s enough.”
He suddenly seemed amused, which only served to irritate her. It wasn’t the first time this afternoon and she still didn’t understand how he could find humor in any part of this situation.
She looked away from him, out of the window at the passing traffic, and tried to concentrate on what it would feel like to be one of those happy tourists strolling along the sidewalk.
“You are quite different from who you once were,” he said. “I like that you fight back. Livia would not get the best of you any longer.”
Her chest felt like someone had turned a vise. She shoved the feeling away. “You would probably have married her back then if not for the necklace.”
Marcos laughed. “You underestimate me, querida. Your sister has never held any attraction for me.”
She whirled around to face him. “Everybody thinks Livia is beautiful. And you can’t tell me you don’t agree.”
“No, she is quite beautiful—or she was eight years ago. And she knew it too.” He picked up her hand, traced his finger along the edge of her wedding band while tingles of pleasure radiated up her arm. “But you have something far better than beauty, Francesca. You seem to know who you are. I like that.”
A pang of hurt throbbed to life inside her. “It’s taken me long enough,” she answered.
His eyes were hot as they moved over her face. “I believe you always knew to a certain extent. But yes, something has sharpened your sense of self-awareness. I wish to know what.”
She pulled her hand away, folded it against her body. “Shall we trade secrets like gossiping old ladies, Marcos? I’d not have guessed that was your style.”
“I think you will tell me before our time is up,” he said. He pronounced it with so much certainty that she wanted very much to prove him wrong, to knock him down a few rungs.
