off the main showroom and poured a cup of coffee. The bell dinged in the shop, letting her know someone had come inside.
Cup in hand, smile fixed, she returned to the shop to help the first customer of the day.
A tall man stood with his back to her as he bent over a case. Outside the door, two more men stood with arms folded across massive chests. The hair on the back of her neck prickled in warning. The old horror threatened to consume her, but she wouldn’t allow it.
Francesca set the coffee down quietly and slid her fingers toward the gun beneath the counter. They hadn’t had a robbery attempt in months now, but she was taking no chances. Memories of pain and blood, of the fear she’d had for her baby as her assailant had kicked and punched her, flooded in as her fingers touched the cool metal. She’d learned to defend herself in the aftermath of that dark time, learned that she could be cold and calculating if lives depended on it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man turned toward her and all the breath left her lungs. She had an impression of cold, cruel strength. Of a strong jaw, tanned skin, and thick black hair.
And then he spoke again.
“Buenos días, Frankie. Or should I say Francesca?”
Marcos Navarre did not like being made a fool of by anyone. And a fool was what she’d tried to play him for. The woman looking back at him was nothing like the sweet, shy girl he’d once thought her to be. This woman was cold, hard, and ruthless. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her.
At the moment she looked stunned, however. And maybe a touch vulnerable, though he dismissed the thought as fancifulness on his part. His protective instincts were too finely tuned, too accustomed to reacting to others’ fear and pain. That’s what a childhood in the streets of Buenos Aires did for a man.
He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t save everyone. Francesca d’Oro least of all. Oh yes, he’d had some misguided notion of rescuing her several years ago—when in fact she hadn’t needed rescuing at all.
As she’d proved to him again just a few hours past.
He’d felt sorry for her once, had resented her a bit later—now, he hated her for what she’d done. She’d stolen the Corazón del Diablo from him, and she’d forced him to endure the kind of captivity he’d never thought to endure again. He hadn’t spent long chained to the bed, but even a second was more than he cared to endure. He’d had to remember his darkest days, the blood and pain and fear as he’d been kept chained in a dark room and beaten for information all those years ago in the jungle.
Francesca couldn’t have known what had happened to him—he’d never told her about it—but he hated her for her selfishness, for reminding him of what it felt like to be utterly helpless.
He was here to make her pay.
A noise on the stairs captured Francesca’s attention before she’d recovered herself enough to speak. She took a step in that direction but was unable to halt the progress of the man who stumbled to a halt and stared at Marcos with barely disguised loathing.
“Please don’t, Gilles,” she said when the man looked ready to pounce on him. “It’s not worth it.”
The two exchanged a look and a different sort of rage blazed to life in Marcos’s gut. The way this man looked at Francesca, the way they communicated without speaking another word. It was nothing to Marcos, and yet—
She 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