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“You have far too much confidence in yourself. Not every woman feels the urge to succumb to your charm.”
“But you will, querida.”
“Not a chance,” she vowed, though her pulse jumped at the look on his face. Where was that hint of anger he always viewed her with? When it was missing, he reminded her of the old Marcos. The Marcos she’d fallen for because he was nice to her.
He arched one dark eyebrow. His scar made the gesture that much more wicked. “You should not have said that, Francesca.”
“Why not? Someone needs to tell you that you aren’t irresistible. Besides, have you ever considered it might be your money and not your sparkling personality that makes women fall at your feet?”
Marcos laughed. The sound was rich, uninhibited. She liked it, much to her dismay.
“Dios, you are stubborn. But I never could resist a challenge.” He leaned in, cupped her jaw in one broad hand, and kissed her before she realized what he was about. “I will enjoy taking you to bed, Francesca. And I will learn all your secrets while we are there, I promise you …”
CHAPTER SIX
THE SUN HAD dropped beneath the horizon over an hour ago. The air coming in through the windows had the bite of early spring, but Francesca did not move to shut the pane. She liked the coolness rushing over her skin. Funny to think that in New York it was fall and the temperature was probably the same.
The heat in her body hadn’t diminished since the moment Marcos had kissed her in the car. She’d even stood beneath a cool shower as she’d prepared for tonight. The second she’d gotten out and dried off, the warmth came back.
How could her body refuse to cooperate with her head? Her head knew that Marcos was bad news. Her heart knew it too.
Her body, however, stubbornly wanted to straddle his and fulfill all the fantasies she’d ever had about him.
Francesca studied her reflection in the mirror. Her cheekbones were barely visible in the roundness of her face. She’d lost forty pounds in the last eight years, but still her face was too full. And her hair. God. Her hair was thick and unruly and hadn’t been touched by a real stylist in years. Once, she’d had artful blonde highlights and lowlights incorporated into her tresses. Now, they spilled over into natural waves that weren’t colored. The blonde wasn’t as strong as it had once been, and she was afraid her hair was too brown. Mousy.
The last time she’d had it cut was a year ago. Now, it hung down her back, a long mass of naturally curly spirals that were anything but elegant.
She eyed the black dress hanging nearby with longing. And fear. They’d stopped at a boutique on the way home, Marcos insisting she needed a proper gown for tonight. All her efforts to choose something that flowed over her body without clinging anywhere were thwarted as Marcos instructed the shop girl to dress her in something strapless and form fitting.
When she’d emerged in this dress, her breasts shoved into a push-up bra and her waist corseted so tight she’d never be able to bend over, he’d looked mildly surprised. And interested, in a way she’d have never thought possible. For the first time, she’d begun to believe that maybe he wasn’t lying when he said he intended to bed her.
And that scared the hell out of her.
Because Marcos Navarre was still the sexiest man she’d ever known. Even his scar was sexy. The more she was with him, the more she wanted to kiss her way across his jaw, to feel the silvery zigzag beneath her lips before claiming his mouth in a kiss.
Stop.
Thoughts like those were dangerous. She couldn’t really be vulnerable to him anymore. It was a long time ago, and she was an entirely different person. She was no longer naïve or innocent, no longer believed the best of people.
With one last look in the mirror, Francesca gathered a shawl and the tiny studded purse that matched the dress, and made her way down to the foyer. Marcos was talking with the majordomo. When he turned to her, the words he’d been speaking seemed to die away.
His gaze raked over her. She stood stiffly, more uncomfortable than she cared to admit in clothes that clung to, instead of masking, her faults. Why hadn’t she insisted on the kind of garment she preferred?
Marcos came over and took her hand. When he lifted it to his lips, the shiver that slid down her body wasn’t entirely surprising.
The force of it was.
“You look lovely, mi esposa.”
“So do you,” she said, and then cursed herself for the inanity when he chuckled.
But he was lovely. The tuxedo he wore had been custom fit to his powerful body. The shirt was as white and crisp as new snow, the jacket and pants as black as sin. Marcos was tall and imposing. He smelled expensive, and he looked absolutely edible.
Just as he had the night she’d broken into his room and held him at gunpoint.
He hadn’t forgotten it either, if his expression was any indication. “Perhaps we can play cops and robbers later, yes?” he rumbled in her ear, his lips brushing her cheek as he withdrew. “Though I hope you won’t mind if we only pretend there is a gun.”
“I might need a real one,” she said. “It helps get me in the mood.”
