Exotic Nights

And just like that, the truth of what she was feeling slammed into her, stole her breath away. She loved him.

She loved Marcos Navarre. This time it was real, not the childish love of an infatuated teenager. He was far from the selfish, cruel bastard she’d thought him to be. He felt things deeply, and he acted with more dignity and morality than anyone she’d ever known.

Including her own family. Her mother was selfish beyond belief, her sister had always been concerned with herself and the way she looked, and her father indulged them all with bigger and better gifts and trips. Not one of them had ever expressed concern over those less fortunate than they were. She didn’t ever remember any talk about favorite charities or reasons other than tax deductions to give money away.

And she’d been just as bad, living in her shell and worrying about herself and her secret—or not so secret—crush on Marcos.

Yet, in spite of loss and pain and a difficult childhood, Marcos had dedicated himself to helping others.

And she loved him for it.

The thought sent a little shiver of heat and joy racing up her spine all at once. And fear.

Because he did not love her in return, nor was he likely to do so. This was a temporary marriage, based on his desire to reclaim his family birthright once and for all. At the end of their time together, he would stick her on a plane and say goodbye forever.

“How is Armando?” he asked her.

“He seems fine,” she said. “Ingrid has taken him.”

Marcos shoved a hand through his hair. “This has never happened before. I cannot allow that child to go to an orphanage,” he finished fiercely.

Francesca finally conquered her paralysis. She went to him, slipped her arms around his waist and pressed in close, her head on his chest. He did not push her away. Instead, he squeezed her to him.

“Of course you can’t,” she said. “It won’t come down to that.”

“What a tiger you are,” he murmured. “So fierce, so strong in your beliefs. I am thankful you’ve never been disillusioned.”

She pushed back, tilted her head up to look at him. “I’ve been disillusioned plenty, Marcos. But that doesn’t mean I give up.”

He threaded his fingers through her hair. “I do not give up either. Perhaps we are more alike than I thought.”

Heat wound its way through her limbs, sizzling into her nerve endings. All he had to do was touch her—no, all he had to do was look at her—and she was on fire. She dropped her chin, certain he would see her heart in her eyes if she kept looking at him.

A baby’s wail ricocheted through the house. Marcos stiffened, though she knew it wasn’t out of annoyance or anger.

“We should go see what’s happening,” she said. “Maybe Armando will respond to one of us.”

“Sí,” Marcos replied, taking her hand and leading her toward the kitchen.

The scene they entered into was one of controlled chaos. Ingrid was extracting her hands from a pile of dough, her skin too covered in flour and gluten to quickly be free, and Isabelle was cleaning up an oozing pile of spaghetti that had spattered on the floor, the table, her, and Armando. A stoneware bowl also lay on the floor, shattered.

Baby Armando wailed at the top of his lungs in his high chair. Francesca hurried over to help Isabelle while Marcos grabbed a wet rag and wiped off Armando’s face. Then he lifted the toddler out of the chair, uncaring of the tomato sauce that got on his shirt as he held Armando close and began to bounce him up and down.

Armando kept wailing.

“Give him to me,” Francesca said when she’d helped Isabelle pick up the broken stoneware. Marcos handed him over, and though he continued to cry, he began calming down as she crooned a song to him. A song she’d sung to her unborn baby at night when her little girl would kick and keep her awake. It had often worked, or so she’d convinced herself.

It worked on Armando too. He lay his head on her shoulder and stuck his thumb in his mouth, though he still sniffled and hiccoughed.

“He likes you,” Marcos said, shooting her a smile that melted her insides.

“Only this time. Later, it could be you he prefers.”

Marcos’s smiled didn’t waver. “I doubt that, mi gatita. He knows he has found a soft heart in you.”

She turned from her husband, certain her face was red. Ingrid gave her a smile and a wink. Francesca couldn’t help but smile back. S

he carried Armando into the cavernous living area and sat down on one of the long couches there. Marcos was close behind, his hands in his jeans pockets, his shirt streaked with red sauce.