The Devil's Heart

The scar scissoring from one corner of his mouth made him look so dangerous, so sensual. When he smiled it made him look more predatory, not less. He truly was a devil.

“Ah, but I would know, Francesca.” He grasped her hand, pulling it to his mouth. His breath stole over her skin in the instant before his lips seared her.

Her body reacted. God help her, it reacted. Sensation spread outward from that one hot touch of his lips. Flooded her senses. Brought parts of her to life that she’d thought were permanently shut off.

No! This was precisely why she couldn’t do this.

You have to, Francesca. You have no choice.

“Stop touching me,” she managed, her heart fluttering like a moth trapped in a jar.

His smile was still so wolfish. “I am not willing to ‘see’ other women, as you put it. I intend to be true to our vows, for as long as we are married.”

He was torturing her. There was no other explanation. He didn’t really want her—couldn’t want her. But if she didn’t agree to his plan, he wouldn’t help Jacques. Uniting d’Oro and Navarre once more would cement his possession of the Corazón del Diablo in the eyes of the world. He would be satisfied with nothing less.

Once he’d done that, perhaps he would lose interest in punishing her. Perhaps he’d let her go.

Francesca pulled her hand away. “I want the contracts drawn up first. I want to see it in writing.”

Marcos took out his phone and punched in a number. Moments later, he was speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. When he finished, he put the phone away and smiled again. That devastatingly handsome smile that proclaimed his intention to win no matter the cost.

“The contracts will be ready when we arrive.”

“I’d rather see them before I leave New York.”

“This is too bad,” he said. “My plane is prepared and the flight plan has been filed.”

“Flight plans can be changed,” she insisted.

Marcos’s eyes were hard. “Not mine.”

“You can’t force me to go with you,” she said, throwing one last desperate statement into the air between them.

“I will carry you onboard myself, Francesca, if you insist on acting like a child.”

“I’ll scream until someone notices—”

“And sentence your Jacques to certain death? I think not.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, turning to watch the city slide by before he could see a tear fall.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was as soft as satin, as hard as the Corazón del Diablo. “Then perhaps we understand one another after all.”

Francesca closed her eyes. She understood all right. Understood that she’d just sold her soul to the devil.

And deals with the devil never ended well…

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