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Or was she crying?
She was brave and tough, his little tiger kitten. The thought of her crying twisted his heart into a knot. He didn’t want to make her cry.
He’d tried to push her from his mind as the days dragged by, tried to continue running his business and the Foundation.
But she’d left a hollow spot inside him with her absence. He’d thought it would fill up slowly, but it never did. The hole grew bigger with each passing day, until he realized what a fool he’d been.
He had to win her back. Determined, he turned and picked up the cuffs. She would come, and he would prove to her that he needed her, that he could be the man she deserved.
Francesca hadn’t bothered to change out of her jeans and sweater before shoving the jewel box in her purse and bounding outside to the idling limo that waited at the curb. Now that she’d arrived, however, she was beginning to regret that she’d not taken time to make herself look a bit more presentable.
The grand foyer, with its rows of tall columns and gleaming surfaces, was understatedly elegant. And she was completely out of place. She’d hoped Marcos would meet her in the lobby, but instead she was pointed to the elevators and given an access key with a room number printed on it.
She rode the elevator up to the fifty-first floor. Thank goodness he’d not stayed here the first time, or she’d never have been able to get inside. When she entered the luxurious Presidential suite, it was quiet except for the hiss and crackle of the gas fireplace in the living room. Was he even here?
“Marcos?” she called.
“In here.”
She followed his voice, emerging into a bedroom with spectacular views of Central Park and the night sky. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
Marcos was on the bed, fully clothed, leaning against the headboard. One arm was raised over his head. His wrist was cuffed to the bedpost.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
He smiled, though the scar at the corner of his mouth was white. “Therapy.”
She hurried over to his side, dropping her purse on the floor. “Where is the key?”
“I’m not quite sure. I threw it out of reach before I closed the cuff. I did not wish to chicken out, as you Americans say.”
“Marcos, that’s insane!” She turned in a circle, looking for a slice of silver in the dim lamplight.
“Perhaps, but I had to do something.”
She popped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “There are many things you could do about it, but this probably wasn’t the best idea. What if I hadn’t come?”
“I knew you would.”
“What if I hadn’t been home? What if I hadn’t got the package tonight? They’d have taken it back to the ware house and attempted redelivery tomorrow.”
“I had faith.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “My God, Marcos, couldn’t you have simply picked up the phone?”
He looked suddenly wary. “I was afraid you wouldn’t listen.”
“And this is designed to make me listen?” She turned away, intent on finding the key. Marcos didn’t say anything, and she knew he was fighting with himself. Trying not to panic, she was certain.
Her heart pounded so hard. The blood rushed in her ears, drowning out sound. She had to find that key, had to free him. Knowing what she did, she couldn’t stand to see him like this. He may think trial by fire was therapy—a typical alpha male way of approaching things—but it was killing her to know he was in pain.
Falling to her hands and knees, she patted the carpet. When she felt something small and cool, she snatched it up. Her hands shook as she inserted the key into the lock. Marcos leaned toward her, his face practically touching her breasts as she worked the catch. Desire flared to life inside her as he took a deep breath.
“You smell good, mi gatita.”
The lock clicked and the cuff snapped open. Marcos put both arms around her before she could take a step away.
“I have missed you,” he said.
