Exotic Nights
She needed to get the necklace and get out before his paramour arrived. Another person would complicate matters. Perhaps that was what he was counting on—the arrival of a lover and the inevitable confusion that would follow.
“Hurry up,” she said as he knelt beside the bed. “And don’t try anything funny. I will shoot you, I swear.”
He looked at her evenly. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Francesca gripped the gun harder. “Don’t try me, Marcos. One handed,” she added when he began to reach beneath the bed.
He kept one hand on the floor where she could see it and reached under the bed with the other. She heard the scrape of metal against the tile and then he emerged with a long black box.
“Now shove it over here and get on the bed,” she said.
He stood to his full height and kicked the box with a vicious jab that sent it flying toward her. She stuck her foot out to stop it, wincing as it slammed into her.
“You can leave now,” he said, his voice cold and deadly. “Leave the box and go, and I will not come after you.”
“On the bed,” she commanded.
One corner of his mouth suddenly crooked in a sensual grin. She didn’t fool herself that he was anything other than angry. He was as alert as a panther, constantly looking for a way to catch her off guard.
“And here I thought you only wanted me for my jewels.”
“On the bed, Marcos. Hurry.”
“As you wish,” he said. “Shall I strip first?”
When she didn’t answer, he sat on the bed and eased back against the headboard. Francesca swallowed. God, he looked like a banquet of sinful delights as he leaned back casually, one knee bent. When he slipped open another stud, his shirt fell apart to reveal smooth, tanned skin that she’d once ached to kiss.
She’d never gotten to do so, but she’d wanted to desperately. And still he had no idea who she was. Incredible. She’d lost weight, but she hadn’t changed that much. She was still Francesca d’Oro, as awkward and ungraceful as ever.
His inability to recognize her was yet another slice of proof, as if she needed more, that he’d never really been interested in her.
“Like what you see, querida?”
Francesca gave herself a mental shake, then reached into her pocket and withdrew a set of handcuffs. She tossed them at him. He caught them one handed, all pretense of seduction gone. His eyes gleamed with poorly disguised hatred.
And something else.
Was it fear she saw in the depths of his gaze? A tremor rolled over her, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t leave this room safely if he wasn’t restrained. She tightened her grip on the gun, her sweaty palms making it harder to hold with each passing second. She had to get this done and get out.
“Cuff yourself to the bed. And make sure I hear the snap.”
His grip on the stainless cuffs was white knuckled. “You really need to shoot me,” he said evenly. “Because I will find you. And what I do to you when that happens will make your worst nightmare seem like a pleasant dream.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered. “Now do it.”
He glared at her a moment longer, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly. But then he snapped one cuff to the bedpost. He fitted his wrist into the other cuff, his eyes hard on hers. She would almost swear his lips were white around the edges. But no, Marcos Navarre was afraid of nothing, certainly not of being handcuffed to a luxurious bed in a posh hotel. In fact, she would bet he’d been cuffed to beds before—though for infinitely more pleasurable reasons.
The cuff snapped in the stillness. For good measure, he jerked his arm against the restraints; they held fast and Francesca let out her breath.
Until he spoke.
“I will find you, Frankie. You will pay for this in ways you cannot imagine. I will start by binding you like a dog—”
“Shut up,” she bit out, the gun wavering as she pointed it at him. But her heart pounded so hard it made her head feel light. He had no idea that she’d already suffered her worst nightmare. Nothing this man could do would ever equal what had been done to her when those thugs had beaten her half to death and killed her unborn child. “I don’t want to hurt you, Marcos. But I will, I swear to God, if you force me to do so.”
“Then open the box and retrieve your spoils,” he said coldly. “Because I assure you we will meet again.”
She bent to retrieve the strongbox at her feet, fumbling with the key as she did so. Adrenaline pumped into her veins, the rush of it heady and swift. Soon, she would have the Corazón del Diablo in her possession. Life would go back to normal again. Jacques would get well and keep making beautiful jewelry. She would continue running the small shop where they sold his creations.