turned back to him then. “Marcos—”
“Tell your lover who I am, Francesca. What I am to you.”
There were two high spots of color in her cheeks. A moment later her expression hardened. “How dare you? You are nothing to me. Less than nothing.”
“This is not what you said when you promised to love, honor, and obey me for the rest of our lives.”
She didn’t look at her lover, not once. She didn’t have to. Marcos could tell the other man knew what their relationship had been. What manner of other things had she told him to get him to cooperate in stealing the necklace? Because Marcos knew this had been the man on the other end of the radio last night.
“We are not married, Marcos. Not any longer. You left, remember? And you did not contest the annulment.”
He let his eyes move lazily down her body. Though she was dressed in a baggy black sweater and jeans, they did little to hide the lush curves underneath. Francesca d’Oro had not looked like this at eighteen. If she had, perhaps he’d have been unable to leave for Argentina so soon after their sham of a marriage had taken place.
She’d shed the baby fat that had once clung to her, rounding her face. The thick glasses were gone as well. Her hair had been blonde before, and cut in an unflattering bob that only made her face seem plumper.
Now, the golden-streaked mass was closer to brown than blonde and fell halfway down her back. Her eyes were hazel, he noted, more chocolate than green or gold, and her mouth was kissable in a way he hadn’t remembered. Her lower lip was thicker than the upper, giving her an artless sexy pout.
He wanted to plunder that mouth, spend hours making love to it. The strength of the compulsion shocked him.
When he met her gaze again, he was almost amused to see the hate in her eyes. If she thought she hated him before, she was certain to do so even more when he finished with her this time.
“I suggest you give me the Corazón del Diablo now, querida,” he said coolly, twisting the endearment into an insult.
Her chin tilted up. “How did you find me so fast?”
He saw no reason to prevaricate. “You did not really think I would be so stupid as to trust that your family wouldn’t pull a stunt such as this? There is a GPS transmitter attached to the necklace. These things are quite small now.”
Her eyes closed briefly before snapping open to glare at him again. “It belongs to me, Marcos. You stole it on our wedding night.”
“You gave it to me, mi amor. I remember this clearly.”
“I would not have done so if I’d known you’d planned to abandon me.”
“Ah yes, you thought I was bought and paid for, sí? That Daddy’s money could bring anything your heart desired if only you begged him to buy it for you.”
She flushed pink. “You’re disgusting.”
He shrugged casually, though anger scorched a path through his soul. Because he’d allowed himself to be bought, hadn’t he? He’d wanted the Corazón del Diablo, had spent months attempting to purchase it from her father though he did not in truth have the money to do so.
But Massimo d’Oro was crafty. He’d given the jewel to his daughter. It was Marcos’s fault for always paying attention to her. He’d believed she was a sweet girl, an ugly duckling who wilted in the shade of her more beautiful sister. Francesca had worn her innocence like a mantle, and he’d fallen for the act. He’d paid attention to her because she’d seemed to blossom when he did so. She smiled and came out of her shell and he only felt more protective.
Until the day her father had informed him that the only way to obtain the Corazón del Diablo—and his help in wresting control of Navarre Industries from Federico—was to marry Francesca. He’d realized then what he should have known all along: she was a d’Oro, vain, spoiled, and shallow, just like her mother and sister. Her gifts were not theirs; she hadn’t been beautiful, so she’d had to use her other talents. And he’d fallen for it, just as they’d expected him to.
“You did not think I was so disgusting when you married me, querida.” He sliced a hand through the air. What was done was done. “Enough of this reminiscing. You will bring me the Corazón del Diablo now or I will let my men tear this place apart looking for it. Decide.”
Her answer was not what he expected, though perhaps he should have done so knowing what he did about her character.
“It’s mine, Marcos. But I will sell it to you. For the right price.”
Francesca wedged herself against the Bentley door and jerked the handle for the millionth time. She knew the result would be no different than before, but as furious as she was, she needed something to do.
Something besides launch herself at the man inside the car with her.
She’d already screamed until she was blue in the face. Marcos had threatened to gag her if she continued, so she’d stopped. In truth, her raw throat was relieved to have an excuse.
He had not reacted the way she’d expected. She hadn’t really thought he would agree to pay her a dime, but she also hadn’t believed he would kidnap her in broad daylight after he’d ordered his goons to search the store.
Furious tears pressed at the backs of her eyelids. Gilles had moved as if to prevent it from happening, but she’d begged him not to put himself in harm’s way for her. He would have done so anyway, but one of Marcos’s men pointed a gun at him and effectively ended the attempt. Gilles had stood by helplessly, fists clenching at his sides in impotent fury. She only hoped Jacques had slept through the raised voices and rhythmically slamming drawers.
What would happen when she was gone? How could Gilles keep the shop open and take care of Jacques too? Someone had to pick up Jacques’s prescriptions, fix his favorite soup of clear broth and a little bit of egg noodles, and order the supplies for his bench. He didn’t work often these days, but he still sculpted new creations out of wax when he felt up to it. When he finished a design, Gilles would cast it and start the rigorous polishing of the metal that was required before any gemstones could be set.
Oh, Jacques.
She crammed her fist against her mouth to stop the flood before it could break.
“Did you cry so prettily for me when we parted, Francesca?”
She swung her head around to look at him. “I’m not crying,” she forced out between clenched teeth. The coolness on her cheeks betrayed the lie, but she refused to wipe the wetness away. She would not give him the satisfaction. “And I most definitely would never cry over you.”
“Ah,” he said. “How tragic for me then.”
“Where are you taking me?”
His gaze grew sharp. “Buenos Aires, mi amor.”
Her heart began a staccato rhythm against her ribs. “What? You can’t do that! This is my home, people need me—”
“I did warn you,” he said,
