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Francesca was numb, but not from cold. She’d been back for three weeks and she hadn’t heard from Marcos at all. She’d made it through that last day with him, hosted the cocktail party gowned in a gorgeous ruby red dress and wearing the Corazón del Diablo, and met the very sweet couple who would probably become Armando’s parents.
Marcos had smiled and mingled as if nothing was wrong, and her heart had cracked every time she’d heard him laugh. He’d agreed so easily to her request. So easily that she knew she truly meant nothing to him. A part of her had harbored the hope that he would refuse, that he would be forced to realize she meant something to him after all.
He had not. The next morning, she hadn’t even seen him before the car arrived and it was time to go. It was as if he’d cut her from his life completely once he’d agreed to her request.
Francesca walked down the street with her collar turned up and her eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of her. Soon, the snow would turn black with dirt and footprints—which would certainly match her mood more accurately.
A pang of longing for the warmth of the high desert in Mendoza sliced through her. Worse, a pang of longing for the man who’d shared those glorious days with her rode hard on its heels. She thought about Armando, wondered if he was in his new home yet. She hoped he would be happy and healthy and have the kind of life his mother would have wanted for him.
Marcos had not called or sent any form of communication since she’d left Argentina. She had expected divorce papers, but it was still early. They could be delivered any day now.
At least there was a bright spot in her otherwise dreary life. Jacques’s condition was improving tremendously. He was actually beginning to get color back into his cheeks. He was coming home in a few days, though he would have to return twice weekly for treatment. A nurse would be accompanying him for around-the clock-care.
One more thing for which to be grateful to Marcos. Jacques wasn’t out of the woods yet, but the doctors grew more optimistic each day.
Francesca took the steps up to her apartment and let herself in, unwinding her scarf and dropping it onto a chair. She shrugged out of her coat and hung it up, then went to the kitchen to check on the soup she’d left simmering at the back of the stove.
How easily she’d slipped back into her normal life—and how strange and empty it all seemed.
The buzzer to the downstairs door rang. She went to the intercom and, once she’d determined it was a deliveryman, let him inside. Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach as she stood on the landing. Could it be the divorce papers?
The man came up the steps with a small package clutched beneath one arm. He had her sign an electronic form, keyed in some information, and handed the parcel to her. Francesca thanked him, then went inside and took the package to the counter in the kitchen.
There was no return address, and she had no idea who might send her something express delivery.
Though perhaps it was something from the hospital. Something of Jacques’s. She grabbed a pair of scissors from a drawer and sliced into the cardboard.
A velvet box lay nestled among the air packets. She lifted it out, puzzled. When she flipped open the lid, her heart skidded to a stop before it began to beat double time.
The fiery yellow glow of the gemstone winking at her from a sea of white diamonds was unmistakable. She snatched up the folded note that lay beneath the Corazón del Diablo.
Come to the Four Seasons. There is a car waiting.
Marcos
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MARCOS STOOD ON the fifty-first floor, gazing out of the window of this luxurious suite, and wondered if she would come.
Of course she will come.
He’d sent the necklace as a gesture of his surrender. But was it too subtle? Would she be so angry with him that she would not take the chance?
He scraped a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. He eyed the handcuffs he’d bought.
Could he really do what he planned to do?
Yes, because she will come.
Francesca had said she loved him, and he’d held onto those words for the past three weeks. They’d rung through his head every minute of every day. At first, he’d believed that letting her go was the right thing to do.
But nothing had been the same once she’d gone. He’d watched from a window as she’d climbed into the car, feeling numb. Then he’d made himself watch as the car pulled into the street and disappeared into traffic.
He’d stood there for a long time after, envisioning the journey to the airport, wondering what Francesca was thinking.
Was she hating him now? Co
ngratulating herself on a lucky escape?
