Exotic Nights

“I hate you,” she whispered, turning to watch the city slide by before he could see a tear fall.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was as soft as satin, as hard as the Corazón del Diablo. “Then perhaps we understand one another after all.”

Francesca closed her eyes. She understood all right. Understood that she’d just sold her soul to the devil.

And deals with the devil never ended well …

CHAPTER THREE

THE FLIGHT TO Buenos Aires took more than ten hours. Though they’d traveled in luxury aboard Navarre Industries’ corporate jet, Francesca was exhausted by the time they arrived. She hadn’t slept well since the night before when she’d stolen into Marcos’s hotel room and liberated the Corazón del Diablo.

Though it was dark when they landed, the city lights bathed the night sky in a pale pink glow. Francesca stumbled on the stairs leading from the jet, but Marcos caught her around the waist and kept her from tumbling down the gangway. His fingers burned into her back as he guided her the rest of the way down.

A sleek Mercedes waited for them nearby. Francesca sank into the interior and moved as far away from Marcos as she could get. He immediately took out his phone and made a call. She listened to the lyrical sound of his voice speaking Spanish as the car left the airport and headed into the city. She spoke tolerable French and German, could read Latin, but she’d never learned Spanish. She was certainly regretting that now.

Marcos eventually finished his call and they rode in silence. The city moved by at a quick pace, but a few things caught her attention.

The obelisk that looked like the Washington Monument, which sat at the center of the very wide street down which they’d been traveling, for instance. When she remarked on it, Marcos informed her it was called El Obelisco and had been built to commemorate the four-hundredth anniversary of the city.

“There are concerts held here from time to time,” he said, and she realized there was actually a semi-circular swath of grass and concrete on one side of the monument that could accommodate many people.

In fact, though it was dark, there were people everywhere, lingering around the obelisk or crossing the wide street. She even spotted a couple doing the tango. There was a crowd gathered to watch, but the scene slid by before she could see much of the dance.

In spite of her exhaustion, in spite of the reason she was here, the color and movement of the big city excited her. She’d traveled quite a bit as a child, but she’d never been to South America. Her mother had loved to frequent Paris, Rome, and the Med. While she and Livia fidgeted inside hotel suites with their tutors, her mother attended fashion shows and shopped like there was no tomorrow.

Perhaps her mother had been onto something, since most of her father’s fortune died when he did. Penny Jameson d’Oro no longer took shopping trips abroad. A fact for which she firmly blamed Francesca.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a street so wide,” she said in a rush, pushing away the ugly, depressing thoughts that came whenever she thought of her mother.

“No, you are not likely to do so either. This is the Avenida 9 de Julio; it is the widest street in the world. There are twelve lanes of traffic.”

“Fast traffic.” Cars zipped along at Autobahn speed—or so it seemed.

“Sí, people are in a hurry to get where they are going.”

“And where are we going? Is it much farther?” As much as she feared reaching their final destination, she also wanted to collapse on a bed and sleep for the next twelve hours.

“We are nearly there,” he said. “My family home is in Recoleta.”

“I thought we were in Buenos Aires. Have we left it behind?” It was entirely possible, she supposed. As tired as she was, they could have driven to another city and she wouldn’t have really noticed.

“Recoleta is a barrio, a neighborhood.”

“Did you grow up there?”

The corners of his mouth tightened, the scar whitening. “No. When my parents were taken, I was sent to live with relatives.”

“Taken?” she said, zeroing in on that single word.

Not died, not left, not went away and never came back. Taken.

“It is a long story, Francesca, and more appropriate for another night. Suffice it to say I have reclaimed the family home and moved back into it.”

The car turned, and soon they were cruising along an avenue lined with ornate buildings that looked as if they’d been plucked from the streets of Paris and set down here. The architecture was ornate, beautiful, and decidedly French rather than Spanish. Soon they came to an iron gate that swung open on a mechanical hinge, then passed through and halted before an imposing white façade.

A lush collection of palm trees and flowering grasses grew in the little courtyard near the entrance. A man in a uniform hurried out to greet them as they stepped from the car.

“Señor Navarre, bienvenido.”