Exotic Nights

“Of course,” she said, because there was nothing else to say.

Marcos nodded. “Good, I’m glad you agree.”

But she did not. Instead, she hurt inside, hurt for all that would never be. For what she would never have.

And she realized, as the pain wrapped its tentacles around her heart, she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t stay here for the next couple of months, sharing Marcos’s bed, hostessing his parties, living with him and loving him and knowing he did not feel the same. Would never feel the same.

Because she was damaged, and though she believed he was very sorry for what had happened to her, he would never be able to love her, to have her as his wife when she could not give him the children who would inherit his empire someday.

And she just couldn’t live with that knowledge anymore. She had to leave, and she had to do it soon.

“I think I’ll go to bed now,” she said, standing.

Marcos’s expression was carefully blank. “Goodnight, Francesca. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she inclined her head in reply. Then she turned her back and walked away.

Marcos didn’t go to her bed that night, though he ached to do so. But she was angry with him, he knew, and it bothered him far too much that she was. He stayed away because he wanted to prove to himself he could do so, that Francesca had no real pull on him other than the desire that constantly pounded through his veins.

He wanted her, but he would be disciplined about it. Besides, a night alone would do them both good, would help to clear their heads about everything that had happened at the Bodega Navarre.

He’d loved spending time with her, and though their stay had been tinged by tragedy, there had been real joy in being there with her. She’d been a rock through the whole ordeal, and she’d helped to take care of the baby though it had surely made her think of the child she’d lost. He’d admired her very much then, and he’d even let himself consider what it would be like to tear up their contract and convince her to stay with him.

Because he enjoyed her company, craved her body, and felt more at ease with her than he ever had with anyone. It was as if she understood him.

But on the day of the funeral, when they’d stood at the gravesite and watched the coffin being lowered into the ground, he’d realized he couldn’t ask her to stay. She deserved better. She deserved a man who wasn’t so damaged by life that he could never love her, and she deserved to have a home and, yes, even an adopted family if she chose.

He’d known, looking into her eyes that night, what she’d wanted from him. She’d wanted him to say they could keep Armando, could live as a family together, and though part of him strongly wanted to do so, he’d done what had to be done.

It was the right thing to do. Francesca would thank him someday.

The next morning, he breakfasted with her. She was aloof and distracted, he thought, but she was no doubt still hurt. She fidgeted with her food, pushing it around on the plate, before she finally speared him with golden-green eyes.

“I’m leaving, Marcos,” she said.

He ignored the funny little flip his heart did. “Where are you going?”

“Back to New York.”

He wanted to howl. “We have a contract, querida.”

“I know. And I also know you won’t cease Jacques’s care. That was my only incentive to stay, when I thought you would do so. But you’re too good, Marcos. As angry as you might be with me, you won’t hurt someone you can help.”

“I might,” he said, though it was an empty threat. “The Corazón del Diablo—”

“Is yours. I will write you a letter stating my family has no claim and never has. I didn’t want it, Marcos. I only wanted the money to take care of Jacques. Now that I don’t need it, I don’t care.”

“Will you at least tell me why?”

She dropped her gaze to her lap and swallowed. Then she looked at him again, her heart shining in her eyes. “Because I love you. Because I want you to have what makes you happy, Marcos, and I’ve realized that it’s not me. And I can’t stay here with you when I know it’s hopeless. If you care for me at all, even just a little bit, you have to let me leave.”

He felt as if someone was squeezing a giant vise around his chest. He didn’t want to let her go, not yet. But how could he not? He’d upended her life once before when she’d thought she loved him. He could not in good conscience do so again. It was wrong, so very wrong to keep her here simply to suit his own needs.

No matter how much he wanted to.

“Very well,” he said, the words scraping his throat like sandpaper. “I will make the arrangements.”

Snow had come early to New York that year. The sidewalks were blanketed in a crisp layer of white, and everything looked magical and fresh.