Exotic Nights

What did Marcos feel when he was moving inside her like this? Did he feel the joy too? Or was it just the usual sort of pleasure a man felt in a woman’s body?

He caught her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him as he made love to her. Her heart pounded in her chest, her temples, her throat. Surely he could see the way she felt shining in her eyes, hear it in the gasps and moans she couldn’t help.

“You are beautiful, Francesca,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”

“Marcos, I—” She closed her eyes, swallowed. “I can’t think … of anything … but you.”

He kissed her—hot, wet, deep—stroking into her faster and faster until she finally shattered with a cry that felt like it had been ripped from her throat. The pleasure didn’t stop there, however. Marcos slipped his hand between them and brought her to climax again, stroking her with his fingers and his body, this time following her over the edge when she went.

Soon, he rolled away, and though she mourned the loss of him, she welcomed the cool air rushing over her skin. He lay beside her, his chest rising and falling, his eyes closed. He was absolutely the sexiest thing she’d ever seen in her life. His body glistened with sweat, the hard muscles and smooth planes making her want to climb on top of him and repeat the experience.

To have all that to herself? To enjoy the power and beauty of a man like Marcos Navarre whenever she wanted? She was lucky, yes, but simply having sex with him wasn’t enough. Would never be enough.

She’d never thought she would feel this way. After her baby died, part of her had died too. To feel love for someone, the kind of love that ripped you apart and sewed you back up again with every waking moment, was not something she’d been prepared for.

She studied his body without hesitation. He’d thrown an arm over his eyes. His hand lay against the pillow, his wrist turned out, the underside exposed. She leaned forward, studying the pale marks there. How had she not noticed this before? Marcos had very fine scars, so fine they weren’t apparent until you were up close, in a band across his skin.

Carefully, she reached out and traced one finger along them. He flinched, but did not jerk away as he’d done in the past. Then she traced the scar on his abdomen. He dropped his arm, his eyes glittering as he watched her.

“You said you would make those men bleed for me, Marcos. And I would take the pain of these away, if I could.”

“I know you would.” He caught her fingers in his, kissed them. “I am sorry for what happened to you, Francesca. I can’t help but think if I hadn’t come into your life, it would have turned out differently.”

“And if your uncle had never betrayed your parents and bartered the Corazón del Diablo to my father, perhaps my life would have been different. Or perhaps not.”

“Have you always been so stoic?”

“Definitely not.” She turned toward him, traced the line of his arm until she was at his wrist again. “Will you tell me what this is from?”

He closed his eyes, the pain on his features apparent. “I’ve never told anyone.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s brutal, Francesca. Ugly.”

“You mean ugly like being beaten so badly you lose your baby and can never have another one?”

He swore. She didn’t think that was a good sign, but then he said, “I was captured by the enemy, chained in a dark room for days on end with no food, minimal water, and every incentive in the world to escape.” He lifted his wrists, turned them out so she could see the fine markings on both. “I did not succeed, by the way.”

Her heart was pounding for an entirely different reason now. She’d handcuffed him to a bed, for God’s sake! She remembered the way he’d looked at her, the hatred in his eyes then. She’d humiliated him, forced him to recall his worst memories while she’d taken the Corazón del Diablo and disappeared into the night. No wonder he’d been so angry when he’d tracked her down.

“They beat me for information, but I did not give it to them. And they left me in the dark with rats and snakes coming in through the crumbling walls.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I spent one night with a python curled next to me for warmth. Why it didn’t strangle me, I still don’t know.”

“Oh, Marcos,” she breathed, tears pricking the backs of her eyes.

“I’ve seen too much ugliness, Francesca. And I suppose it’s right you know, because you need to understand that I’m not capable of love, not really. I had it burned out of me in the hell of my life.”

Pain wound around her heart, squeezed. “I don’t believe that.”

He pushed her back on the pillows, his handsome, tortured face hovering so close above hers. “Believe it, Francesca.” His head dipped, his lips touching the hollow of her throat where her pulse beat hard and strong. “I am capable of this,” he murmured, his tongue touching her pulse point, “of passion and sex. And I do want you. But I don’t love you. I can’t.”

Though he was soon inside her again, taking her to the edge of pleasure and beyond with his skillful lovemaking, it didn’t feel nearly as joyful as it had the last time.

Marcos bolted upright in bed, the dregs of the nightmare fading almost immediately as Francesca stirred beside him. She didn’t wake, and he thought with some amazement that perhaps he hadn’t cried out. Or maybe she was simply exhausted from their lovemaking. He’d taken much from her in his quest to drive the memory of tonight’s events from his head.

Poor Ana Luis. Her body had been smashed almost beyond recognition in the single-car accident that claimed both her and the boy who was the son of a neighboring vintner. As horrible as those memories were, the image of Francesca rocking little Armando, who was now an orphan, and her quiet insistence on learning all of Marcos’s deepest secrets with just a soft word and equally soft touch, were the primary things on his mind.

He’d told her everything. He had no secrets from this woman, and that alarmed him in some respects. How was it possible he’d told her those things?