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“This isn’t what you want, Francesca, not when you’ve been waiting for four years.” He speared her with glittering eyes. “I’m not capable of tenderness at the moment. What you would get would be raw, hard and meaningless.”
Her heart hammered. “Maybe that’s what I want too.”
Once more, he laughed that rusty, broken laugh. “I doubt that.”
She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, the intensity of his words scaring her more than she would admit. “What do you dream about, Marcos, that torments you so much?”
“Demons, querida. Many, many demons.” He stood and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her up. “And now it is time for you to go. Thank you for waking me.”
She pulled from his grasp before they reached the door, whirled to face him. “Why do you keep this locked inside? Why won’t you let me help you?”
His face was a cold mask in the darkness. “You can’t help me, Francesca. No one can.”
“No, it’s that you won’t accept help. No one has to suffer the way you do.”
“What would you know of it, mi gatita?” he demanded.
“I know a lot more than you give me credit for, Marcos.”
He pushed her against the closed door suddenly, then stepped in and trapped her with his body. “My control is on a thread. You really need to go before I do something we both regret in the morning.”
He kissed her hard, his lips demanding surrender. She opened to him without hesitation. He groaned low in his throat, gripping her ribcage as he held her hard against him and kissed her like he was a dying man and she his only hope of salvation.
She kissed him back without fear, her body igniting, her hope soaring that he would actually take her to bed and give them both the release they wanted.
They were moving and he was reaching for something—
And then he pushed her into the hallway and shut the door before she’d even realized he’d stopped kissing her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY FLEW ON one of Navarre Industries’ corporate jets to the Cuyo province. Bordered on the west by the majestic snow-capped Andes, the region was the center of Argentina’s wine production and boasted acres of vineyards that were fed by clean, cool melt-water from the mountains. Though the area was high desert, the plain around Mendoza was green with cultivation.
Francesca slipped on her sunglasses as she followed Marcos down the stairs that had been pushed up against the plane. She felt as if she could go back to bed and stay there for twelve hours straight. She hadn’t exactly slept well last night.
Marcos, however, looked as if he’d slept the whole night through. He was fresh, alert, and she wondered how on earth he did it. Because it had been 3:00 a.m. when she’d left his room. When she’d stumbled into the breakfast room at nine, he was already there.
They hadn’t spoken much, except for polite inanities. It was as if the fiery confrontation of last night had never happened. More than once she’d thought to broach the subject, to crack open the fragile egg of their silence on the matter, but she’d been unable to do it.
What was there left to say?
A car was waiting nearby. She thought they would drive straight to Magdalena’s place, had been trying to prepare herself for it all morning, but when they pulled into a shopping district, she figured he wanted to pick up presents for the family. She folded her arms over her lap and leaned her head back to catch a few minutes of sleep while she waited.
“Come, Francesca,” Marcos said.
“Why?”
She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses he wore, but she could feel them moving down her body.
“You need clothes. I neglected to take you shopping before we left Buenos Aires.”
“I have enough for a few days,” she said. “Surely this can wait.”
He removed the glasses. “What you have is not suitable.”
Heat burned into her cheeks. “Why not? Are we attending a masked ball or something?”
“What you have is not suitable for you, querida.” He waved his hand up and down her body. “These shapeless garments are not flattering.”
