Exotic Nights

“Thank you, Miguel. It’s good to be home again.”

A phalanx of men moved to the rear of the car and began removing luggage. Marcos ushered Francesca inside a grand entry hall with a giant crystal chandelier, black and white marble floor tiles set on the diagonal, and a huge Venetian mirror on one wall.

The elegance made her stomach flip. She hadn?

?t been inside surroundings such as these in years. The weight of expectation threatened to crush her. Already she felt the walls closing in. She’d left deportment behind, left luxury and the expectation that went with it in the past. This place made her feel small, insignificant.

How could she do this now? How could she survive it? She would make mistakes, would fail where she should not. She wasn’t cut out for this life, couldn’t possibly masquerade as his wife for a single day, much less three—or six—months.

Marcos grasped her hand. Francesca uttered a little cry of surprise, then shivered when he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the tender skin of her wrist. They’d spent the last several hours barely speaking to each other, and now this. It disconcerted her, flustered her.

What was he up to?

He gazed down at her, his expression a mixture of heat and hatred. It confused her, but not as much as his touch did. Why did she react? Why did she feel as if every cell of her body was straining toward him, wanting more?

“Until morning, mi amor. Juanita will show you to your room.”

A young woman in a starched uniform stood nearby. She curtsied when Francesca looked over at her. Francesca gave her a weary smile, hoping she didn’t look too wild eyed, before turning back to Marcos.

“Please don’t call me that,” she said in a low voice. She had to keep a distance between them, had to keep him from addling her with his sleek words and expert touch. She was still far too vulnerable to him, and it shocked her. She’d thought she’d left that girl in the past.

One dark eyebrow arched. “You do not like it? You would prefer Frankie now?”

Francesca pulled her hand away the instant his grip lightened. “No, of course not. But I don’t want you calling me your love either. We both know I am not.”

“Sí, we do indeed. And yet there is an appearance to maintain. We are marrying soon.”

Francesca’s heart skipped a beat. Dear God, what had she agreed to? She hadn’t truly realized it until she’d walked into this … this palace.

Jacques, she told herself, she was doing it for Jacques.

“There’s no reason to pretend we care for one another,” she replied. Getting through the next few months would be hard enough. Pretending to feel things for this man was beyond her ability. She’d built a wall after he’d abandoned her so brutally; she didn’t want to breach it ever again.

His expression grew hard. “There is every reason, Francesca. As my wife, there will be many public duties you must perform. I won’t have my reputation suffer simply because you are too spoiled to play the part you’ve agreed to. While you are here, while we are married, you will be happy to be my wife. Comprendes?”

Public duties. She would never pull it off. They’d know she was a fraud the instant she entered the room. And Marcos would not help Jacques.

She swayed on her feet before she could lock her knees. It was simply weariness and shock—fear, perhaps—that nearly made her fall. Marcos caught her, sweeping her into his arms and against his chest.

“No, please, it’s all right,” she managed. “Put me down.”

He said something in Spanish, something low and dark, then barked out an order to the room in general before striding toward the curving staircase.

“I’m just tired,” she said, hot embarrassment—and something else that contained heat—washing over her at the contact with his body.

She hadn’t been this close to him when they were married, hadn’t felt the power of his arms around her. But oh how she’d wanted to. How she’d dreamed of him sweeping her up just like this and carrying her into their bedroom while she laid her head against his shoulder and breathed in the wonderful scent of his aftershave.

Then he would lower her to the bed, whispering those words mi amor, before stripping her and kissing her and making love to her all night long.

But that was when she’d been eighteen. Now it was a nightmare to be so close to him. And to feel things she hadn’t felt for a man in almost four years.

He strode up the steps and down a long hall while she clung to him. The maid, Juanita, hurried past him at a run and threw open a door. Marcos carried Francesca inside and over to a low settee that stood beneath a tall window.

She closed her eyes as he set her down, both grateful and disappointed that he was no longer touching her.

When she opened them, Marcos stared down at her. “If you are pregnant with your lover’s child, you had better tell me now.”

She gaped at him, a sharp pain slashing into her heart. She felt like screaming, or laughing, or maybe even crying at the irony of the accusation, but she would do none of those things. She simply bit down on her lip and shook her head. “I’m not,” she finally managed to force out. “I’m exhausted. I need sleep, not an inquisition.”