Exotic Nights

She hadn’t expected it, and she certainly didn’t want it. But she had to take it for Jacques’s sake. Indeed, if not for Jacques and the way this money would enable her to take care of him, she would refuse to accept even a dime from Marcos Navarre.

She flipped the page, scanning for the most important part. When she found it, relief surged through her. Jacques’s medical expenses were covered one hundred percent, no matter the cost. Francesca’s eyes flooded with tears. She blinked them back, scanning the legalese for a trick or a condition.

There was none, other than the agreement to wed and be Marcos’s hostess, bedmate, and partner for the duration of the marriage. Her heart thumped at that, but it was the price she had to pay to take care of Jacques. She would not fail him.

“Give me a pen,” she said, cutting off the man on her right in mid-explanation. He reached into his suit jacket, but Marcos was there first, handing her an expensive, custom-made pen. She touched it to the paper and smoothly signed her name.

Just like signing a deal with the devil.

Marcos took the folder, laid it on the desk and signed, then closed it and handed it to the waiting lawyers. The two men departed, and they were alone. Humiliation was a strong brew in her veins, but it was the price she had to pay—and at least it would be of short duration in the scheme of things.

“I’m glad that’s over,” she said, tilting her chin up. “It was clever of you to put that part in about the marriage being consummated. No one will ever question the validity of it now.”

Marcos studied her with that peculiar mixture of heat and hate she was accustomed to. Though perhaps there was less hate this time? But, no, surely she only imagined it.

“And what if I intend to follow the contract to the letter?” he said, his voice as smooth and silky as polished glass.

Francesca managed to shrug, though her heart sped up at the thought. “Then I suppose I agreed to it.”

“Sí, you did indeed.”

She pushed to her feet. She wanted to get away from him, wanted to go into another room and try to forget the way he made her heart pound simply by looking at her. “If you are finished with me, I believe I have a tango lesson to attend.”

“Not this afternoon. We have another matter to attend to.”

“And what is so important it takes precedence over the tango?” she asked as sarcastically as possible.

His mouth curved in a smile. An impossibly devilish smile. Her sense of foreboding rocketed into high alert.

“Our wedding, mi amor.”

CHAPTER FIVE

MARCOS SUPPOSED HE should be offended, and yet he found that he was mostly amused. He should still be angry, but everything was going his way and that pleased him.

Francesca clearly did not feel the same. She flashed him a look of pure loathing as he helped her from the limousine that had taken them to the Civil Registry Office. It was rather like a kitten trying to imitate a tiger. She simply couldn’t pull it off, no matter how she tried.

And he found it amusing, though he wasn’t quite certain why.

She smoothed the fabric of the peach silk dress she wore. When she’d come down the stairs in this garment that set off the tawny gold of her hair, he’d been glad she hadn’t chosen to wear white. This color suited her so much more appropriately than white or cream would have done. The only problem was in the cut of the dress. It was shapeless, as if she feared to show her curves. He would need to make sure something was done about that, he decided.

“I’m surprised you didn’t wear black,” he murmured as she accepted his arm and they turned to walk into the building.

“I wanted to, but I somehow failed to pack a black dress in the fifteen minutes you gave me back in New York.”

Marcos chuckled. “So prickly on your wedding day.”

She did not join in his amusement. “It didn’t work out the first time, Marcos. I’m not expecting a vastly different experience the second time. And how did you manage this so quickly? I had read there are no quickie marriages in Argentina.”

“I have influence, querida. Money is a powerful motivator.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you indeed,” he said. “If not for my money, your Jacques would not be receiving the treatment he so badly needs.”

Marcos still hadn’t puzzled out why the old man meant so much to her. He’d asked for a report on her life since he’d last seen her on their wedding night eight years ago, but the information he’d received was sketchy. Shortly after her father had committed suicide, she’d left home for good. She’d gone to work for Jacques Fortier in his small jewelry shop and led an unremarkable life.

A life quite different from how she’d grown up. It made no sense to him, but he’d made enough odd choices of his own over the course of his thirty-four years not to question too deeply why others did the same.