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And, most significantly, that Marcos had a heart beneath his hard exterior. He’d taken care of Jacques. He rescued children. And, dear God, he’d lived a life of hardship and deprivation on the streets of Buenos Aires.
She thought of the teen they’d seen leaning into the sleek car. Her mind couldn’t help but wander toward another thought: had Marcos had to endure such things on the streets?
She’d told him he was amazing. Heat flamed through her at the memory. Had she learned nothing in the last eight years? Marcos might be more than she’d believed, but he didn’t want her childish admiration any more than he ever had.
The way he’d ignored her the rest of the way home, and then excused himself once they’d arrived, was proof of that. It was their wedding night, and though she’d been afraid on so many levels of actually being intimate with him, she’d not expected he would go to bed alone. Especially not after she’d felt the proof of his arousal when he’d held her close on the dance floor tonight.
She did not kid herself about the strength of his reaction to her. He’d wanted her because she was available, because he’d married her and it was his right.
He’d slipped beneath her defenses tonight with his impassioned plea for those children, and with his shocking story of having been one of them. She didn’t like the way it made her feel, the way she wanted to slip her arms around him and hold him tight. She should be relieved he’d gone to bed alone, and yet she was restless.
Francesca glanced at the bedside clock; the irony of the thought that this marriage had already lasted longer than their previous one came crashing through her. Yet she was as alone tonight as she had been that night so long ago.
With a growl of irritation, she yanked open the French doors fronting the veranda and stepped out into the cool night air. The thin cotton tank and sleep pants she wore were little protection from the chill, but her blood was so heated she didn’t yet feel the cold.
“You wish to make yourself ill?”
Francesca spun toward the voice. Marcos emerged from the shadows, still clad in his tuxedo pants and white bespoke shirt. His tie was undone, and the shirt gaped open where he’d unbuttoned the first few studs.
“Not at all,” she replied. “I couldn’t sleep and wanted some fresh air.”
“You should have put on a robe.”
She wrapped her arms around her torso. “I’m not cold.”
He moved closer. The shiny skin of his scar gleamed in the reflected light of the courtyard. He looked like a devil in the night. A very dark, very powerful, very sexy devil. Why oh why could he not be ugly and brutish? Why couldn’t he be mean and cruel with no redeeming qualities whatsoever? Why couldn’t she seem to keep her dislike of him wrapped tightly around her heart, like an impenetrable shield?
“You are shaking,” he said softly, one finger reaching out to skim over her bare arm.
“It’ll stop if you go away,” she said. Let him figure that one out.
He tilted his head to one side. “You said that to me last night. But you aren’t scared of me, Francesca. You might despise me, but you don’t fear me.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t even sure she despised him as much as she once had. Oh, she knew better than to believe she meant anything to him other than a means to an end—and that alone was reason enough to keep her heart locked up tight. But how could she despise him with the strength she’d had only yesterday?
She couldn’t.
“What do you want from me, Marcos?”
“I want what men usually want, querida.”
Her heart thrummed. “But why?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” he said, his voice containing a kind of wonder.
“I know that I’m not the kind of woman you want. I’ve seen the photos of you from time to time. You date models, beauty queens, debutantes. I’m just a plain Jane, Marcos. I’ve always known it. I’m not polished or beautiful, and I’m not the kind of woman you would choose to marry of your own volition.”
“You have always been lovely, Francesca. But I will admit that I have not always known it.”
When he reached for her, she couldn’t make herself move away, even though she knew she should do so. Her pulse was tripping and a sharp pain arced through her soul. I have not always known it.
She should put as much distance between herself and this devil as possible. Because he was bad for her heart, her soul. He was bad and dangerous and she trembled with excitement in spite of it.
Or perhaps because of it.
His body was big, solid. He caught her close and, instinctively, she brought her hands up to rest on his chest. Beneath the soft material of his shirt, his skin was hot. Her palms tingled.
Before she could speak, could think of a word to say in reply, his mouth claimed hers, hot and passionate—and perhaps even with an edge of desperation.
