Exotic Nights

“Perhaps you would not mind having blood drawn then. To verify.”

Oh how she hated him in that moment. She had half a mind to tell him no, to ask if he’d care to take other medical tests, but she decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It was a terrible invasion of her privacy, not to mention a hot dagger in her soul, but she only had to think of Jacques in a hospital, getting the best care money could buy.

“Draw all the blood you like. I have nothing to hide.”

“You are shaking,” he said, his brows drawing down as he studied her.

“I’ll stop if you go away.”

The tightness at the edges of his sensual mouth was back. The scar was white, and she knew she must have angered him.

Too bad, because he’d angered her. And hurt her.

“Please just go, Marcos,” she said, holding onto the edges of her composure by a thread. “I don’t want you here.”

He towered over her, six-foot four-inches of angry Latin male. “You may spend this evening alone, remembering your lover, but tomorrow we begin to act like a happy couple. Buenas noches, señorita. Hasta mañana.”

Before she could say a word in reply, he strode out of the door and closed it behind him. The maid arrived a few moments later and drew her a hot bath in spite of her protestations that she could do it herself.

She hadn’t planned to take a bath, yet she discovered when she sank into the fragrant water that she welcomed the chance to scrub away the chill that hadn’t left her since Marcos had asked if she was pregnant.

Francesca closed her eyes as she leaned back on the bath pillow Juanita had provided. Damn him!

He was arrogant and proud, far more so than she remembered. She used to be in love with him, but it was a naïve, girlish love. The woman in her couldn’t love a man like that.

She could want him, unfortunately, but she could never love him. Francesca tried to forget the way her body reacted when he’d held her. She’d melted, in spite of her anger. She’d wanted, for those few minutes he carried her, to be in his arms naked. To wrap her legs around his waist and feel the power of his body moving inside hers.

Oh God.

It was shocking to feel physical desire when she’d thought she would never do so again.

Francesca ran cold water into the bath to cool her heated imaginings, then climbed from the tub and dried off before she could start thinking of him again. She picked up the grey silk pajamas Juanita had left out for her. Briefly, she considered digging into the suitcase she’d hastily packed in search of her favorite cotton T-shirt, but the silk felt cool and soft, and it was so much easier to put them on than to search through her things for something familiar.

In spite of her exhaustion, she lay awake for what seemed like hours, listening to the strange sounds of a strange house and wishing she were back home in her tiny loft. She was just drifting off when a noise woke her.

A harsh cry. She bolted up in bed, her heart pounding. Had she imagined it?

But no, there it was again. A man’s voice, hard and harsh and full of anguish. She shoved the covers off and padded toward the door. Could no one else hear him? Should she get someone? What was going on?

Francesca pulled open the door and peered into the hallway. There was nothing there, nothing but silence and moonlight. Another sound came from behind the door across the hall and her pulse shot higher.

Slowly, she crept toward the entry, arguing with herself the whole way. Whoever was behind that door needed help, didn’t he? But maybe he didn’t. Maybe he would be angry with her for intruding.

She reached for the handle, twisted it. But the door was locked. The voice cried out again and any reservations she had evaporated. He sounded as if he was in pain. She pounded on the door, calling out to whoever was inside.

The noise stopped abruptly. Another minute and the door was wrenched open. Marcos stood in the opening, a sweat-soaked T-shirt clinging to his skin.

Francesca took a step backwards at the wild look in his eyes. “I heard something,” she said. “I-I—”

“You are quite safe here,” he said harshly. “You need not worry about intruders.”

She blinked. Was he deliberately misunderstanding her?

“I thought someone was hurt.”

“No one is hurt.” He looked weary for a moment, but then the hard façade was back and he seemed angry. “Go back to bed.”

The door slammed in her face. Francesca stood there in the silent hallway, wondering if she’d imagined the entire thing, wondering if she should knock again and make sure he was all right.