The Corsican Gambit Read online

  The Corsican Gambit

  Sandra Marton

  FROM THE BACK COVER:

  It's the nineties, for heaven's sake...

  Intelligent women simply do not find themselves won in a card game in Monte Carlo. But Maximillian Donelli makes his own rules, and tonight Francesca Drury is his. Her loyalty to her brother offers no alternative—she has to go through with this crazy charade.

  But kidnapping! Who does Max Donelli think he is? Her brother's archrival, that's who. And now Max's potent sexuality promises to weaken Francesca's defences—and threatens to make her a traitor....

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE’D ALMOST been too late. Charles had insisted that she join him at the Cafe de Paris for drinks with a fat little man whose name and title had been meant to impress.

  She'd stayed the minimum time that convention re­quired, then begged off, murmuring apologies despite the look of disapproval on her stepbrother's handsome face.

  "Forgive me," she'd said, pushing back her chair, "but I've-I've got an appointment."

  A smile curved across Francesca's mouth. It hadn't been a lie, not in the strict sense of the word. This was an appointment, a far more pleasurable one than the game of "Can You Match This?" that Charles and the fat man had been playing with their seemingly casual talk of Bentleys and Rolexes and out-of-the-way luxury vacation spots. But that sort of thing wasn't for her. She much preferred sitting here, in their hotel suite, watching the sun expand into an enormous crimson fireball that set ablaze the sleek yachts at anchor in the harbor.

  It was a spectacular sight-and the least pretentious one she'd seen since arriving in Monaco two days ago, she thought, sighing as the sun began its final plunge behind the hills of France. Not that she didn't like the tiny principality: its narrow, winding streets had an old­ world charm, despite the high-rise apartment buildings that crowded on Monte Carlo.

  It was just that she'd never seen so much expensive artifice in all her twenty-three years. Everything seemed to spell "excess," from the gilt cherubs that adorned the ceilings of the Casino to the jewels that glittered at the throats and fingers of the stylishly dressed women who drifted from Bulgari to Cartier to Piaget along the Avenue des Beaux Arts. Charles disagreed. "Not excess," he'd said that morning when she'd demurred at spending an outrageous sum of money on a silk catsuit that had caught her eye. "It's success, Francesca. The look of affluence." And then he'd motioned to the shop assistant to wrap the jumpsuit and put it on his charge account. "Just relax and enjoy yourself, darling. That's why I brought you along:'

  Francesca sighed as she stepped back into the room. Yes, she thought, that was what he'd said when he'd first asked her to come to the conference of inter­national financial advisers with him. But she'd gone on a couple of these junkets before; experience had made her wary.

  "I can't," she'd said, offering the first excuse she could think of. "I'm needed at the gallery."

  Charles had touched her hair, the way he'd used to when they were little.

  “I'm sure you're a wonderful assistant, darling, but I hardly think they'd deny you a holiday."

  Francesca had looked him straight in the eye. "Will it be a holiday, really? Or will it be lots of cocktail parties and banquets where everyone tries to impress the hell out of everyone else?"

  Charles had laughed and given her the smile that had been able to melt her since she'd first seen it, when she was eight and he seventeen.

  "We'll have a good time, I promise. Do say you'll come with me-you've never been to the Riviera. It'll be fun."

  Eventually she'd agreed. The trip had sounded like fun: Charles had talked about the sea and the sun and the wonderful little towns that stretched between Cannes and Monaco until Francesca could almost envisage them. She'd dreamed of spending lazy days on the beach, the silken glide of a warm sea, and long hours in which to do nothing but strengthen the bonds between herself and her stepbrother. They'd been close as children, but lately they seemed to have drifted apart.

  Francesca grimaced as she unzipped her Lagerfeld linen dress and slipped it from her shoulders. She should have known what she was letting herself in for when Charles had suddenly urged her to buy herself some new things at Saks, but by then all the arrangements had been made. And now, here she was, shuttling from luncheon to tea to cocktail party to dinner, smiling on cue and trying her best to be what Charles teasingly called Spencer Investment's secret weapon.

  "You're the firm's best asset," he kept saying. "Let me show you off." And, when she'd protested that she didn't feel comfortable being shown off, Charles had sighed. "I know, darling. But you can smile and in one evening win us business it might normally take me a year of hard work to gain."

  How could she protest when she owed him so much? He had taken care of her in the years since their parents' death in a plane crash and had been as kind and thoughtful as any big brother, even if they weren't re­lated by blood. He'd offered no complaint in taking on the burden of managing Spencer's alone when she'd shown an interest in art, not economics.

  And Charles had done well. The family-owned firm had been prosperous long before she and he had in­herited equal shares of its controlling stock, but lately its success had been almost phenomenal. Charles was too modest to tell her much about what he'd done; she knew only that he'd come up with a series of brilliant and innovative investment strategies that had moved Spencer's ahead of its competitors.

  For a man who'd had to repeat virtually every math­ematics and economics course he'd taken at university, it was quite a turnaround, and Francesca was proud of him. If she could help, even a little, by dressing up and smiling "politely and meeting the other conference at­tendees, well, she would grit her teeth and do it.

  But not tonight. Tonight, their next to last in Monaco, was hers and hers alone. She would wear no couture gowns, no jewels, no carefully applied makeup. She wouldn't dine on lobster at La Coupole, or on caviar and champagne at Louis XV

  Francesca smiled as she kicked off her shoes and dress, then pulled on a pair of white cotton pants and a matching knitted top. Her fingers flew as she pulled back her shoulder-length wheaten hair and twisted it into a French braid. Tonight, they were going to do all the things she'd been longing to do for the past two days. First a brisk walk to the top of Tete de Chien to see the view, then pizza at Pinocchio's. Just picturing Charles eating pizza was enough to make her smile become a grin.

  She plucked a pair of sandals from the cupboard and slipped her feet into them. After supper, she was going to try and talk him into driving their rented Mercedes to Juan-les-Pins, or Nice. Francesca laughed softly. Ac­tually, she was almost hoping Charles might refuse. Then she could take the car out herself and try driving la grande corniche, the legendary, breathtaking road be­tween Monaco and Nice...

  “Francesca?”

  She looked up, startled. The bedroom door swung open and Charles stepped into the room, his face illumi­nated by the moonlight coming through the open balcony door.

  "What are you doing in the dark?" he said. "Are you all right?”

  "Yes, of course. I'm fine."

  "First you run off that way and now I find you moping around in the dark:'

  “The moonlight suits my mood, Charles." She heard the click of the switch and she blinked in the sudden glare of light that flooded the room. "Hey," she said lightly, "what are you trying to do? Blind me?"

  Charles's brows rose. "Is that what you're wearing to the Marquesa's party, darling?" He laughed pleasantly. "I hardly think it will go with my tuxedo."

  Francesca's face fell. "What party? Charles, you promised I could have tonight to myself."

  "Yes, I know. But we've only just been asked." He walked to her cupboard and peered into it.
"I wouldn't go, normally, not with such a last-minute invitation. But that whole Madrid bunch will be there, the ones I've had such difficulty doing business with."

  "Well, you won't need me along, will you? I mean, it will be a big party, with lots and lots of people."

  "Where's that gold thing you wore the night of my birthday last month? Didn't you bring it with you?"

  "Charles, you're not listening to me. I'm not much for parties, you know that."

  "Ah, here it is." He turned to her, smiling, holding out the glittering gown. "The Marquesa especially men­tioned you, Francesca. She said she looked forward to seeing you again." When she said nothing, he sighed. "But I suppose I can always offer your apologies."

  Francesca stared at his crestfallen face. "Does my going really matter so much?" she asked slowly, watching him.

  He shrugged. "You know how it is, darling. See and be seen, that's what it's all about. But if you don't want to—"

  She sighed. "Give me half an hour," she said, kicking off the sandals.

  Charles smiled and dropped a kiss on the top of her head as he made for the door.

  "Thank you, darling. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

  "Yes, you will." Francesca smiled, too. "You'll spend all of tomorrow with me, doing whatever I like."

  His smile grew tight. "I'm not exactly dragging you off to purgatory, you know."

  "Aren't you?" She laughed. "Well, we'll just wait and see.”

  Two hours later, wearing the slim gold gown as Charles had requested, her hair twisted into a soft knot atop her head, Francesca had decided that if this wasn't pur­gatory, it was awfully close to it. For one thing, it didn't seem to be the Marquesa who'd been looking forward to seeing her; it was the Marques. He gave her a wet kiss that would have landed on her lips if she hadn't turned her head in time, then looped a soft, beefy arm around her waist and spent the next twenty minutes breathing gin in her face while he twirled her around the crowded dance floor.

  She was saved by the Marquesa, who dragged her off on a tour of what she called her "cottage”. The humble designation was almost ludicrous. The "cottage" was, in reality, an enormous stucco structure with vine-covered walls, a red-tiled roof, formal gardens, and a breath­taking view of the sea far below.

  And yet, as big as the house was, it was almost im­possible to draw a breath of air. The rooms were jammed with heavily laden tables of food, trays of drinks, and clots of people straining to make themselves heard over the bands.

  "Two," the Marquesa bubbled, "one for the-how you say?-the rock. And one for the other kind, the cheek to cheek."

  As it turned out, both were a waste. By eleven o'clock both dance floors, located at either end of the huge house, were so crowded that no one could move a foot, let alone dance, even though Charles kept urging her out on the floor each time someone invited her.

  "Go on, darling, have a good time," he kept saying.

  She tried. But the men were the same sort that she knew from New York and the fact that they were here, on the Riviera, didn't make them any more interesting. She didn't like the way they talked, dropped names as if they were crumbs, or the way they all smelled of the latest designer cologne, and she especially didn't like the way some of them tried to hold her.

  "Having fun?" Charles kept saying.

  He was, by the looks of him. Then the Marques re­appeared and put a hand on each of their shoulders, Charles fairly beamed.

  "You will join me at midnight for supper."

  It was a statement, not a question, but Francesca smiled pleasantly and said she wasn't really very hungry.

  Charles smiled at her, but she could see that he was annoyed.

  "My sister's forever dieting," he lied. "But I'm sure she's not going to pass up all that delectable food. We'd be delighted to join you, my lord."

  The Marques slapped him on the back. "Good. Let's have a chat first, shall we? I'd like to hear more about those investment opportunities of yours."

  Francesca let out her breath as the two men headed away from her. She was going to have to have a talk with Charles tomorrow. It was one thing to be polite, but it was quite another to—to make her feel as if she were being offered up for barter. Certainly, that wasn't her stepbrother's intention, but it was how he'd made her feel. Once she made Charles aware of it...

  "Hello." She looked up. A young man whose name she didn't recall was smiling at her, a flute of champagne in his outstretched hand. "I thought you looked thirsty, so I came on a mission of mercy."

  Francesca took the wine and sipped at it as he launched into a discussion of the difference between the beaches on the Riviera and those in South America. He seemed determined to compare every grain of sand he'd ever seen. She smiled as best she could, hoping she wouldn't yawn—and then, suddenly, she felt a curious sensation, sort of a tingling along her spine.

  Someone was watching her. She knew it; she could feel his eyes on her. She blinked and tried to concentrate on what the boy beside her was saying. Something about the beaches in the Bahamas, and—and­—

  The strange feeling came again. But it was silly. How could she feel someone looking at her? Besides, it was impossible. In a room this crowded, you'd never be able to look at anyone except the person right next to you.

  Still, the idea that she was being watched persisted.

  Francesca turned slowly, as if she were only shifting position, and scanned the crowded room surrep­titiously—and yes, there was someone watching her, a man. She had never seen him before. She knew that im­mediately. He was not the kind of man who would be easily forgotten. He was dressed no differently from many of the other men, in a white dinner jacket. He even wore a ruffled shirt, as did the others. But the softness of the shirt only emphasized the hardness of his tanned, strong-jawed face, and the tailored jacket made the most of his broad shoulders, hinting at a lean and powerful body.

  There was a woman with him, a stunning brunette in a creamy satin gown. Her hand lay possessively on his arm, her lovely face was turned up to his. But he wasn't paying her any attention; he was looking beyond her to Francesca through eyes that seemed blue, or perhaps black. Yes. Black. As black as the night, as black as the sky would be if all the stars were gone.

  Her breath caught as their glances met. She wanted to look away, but his eyes held hers for what seemed an eternity, and then a slow, cool smile curved across his mouth. His gaze fell, moved down her body with slow deliberation before returning just as slowly to her face. His smile changed, grew private, and sent a message racing through her blood. Francesca felt her heartbeat quicken; color rose under her skin and flooded her face.

  Suddenly, the brunette turned, her gaze following his. She stared at Francesca, her lovely face hardening, and then she swung in front of the man, grasped his wrist and pulled him toward the dance floor. The crowd surged around them, swallowing them up, and Francesca sud­denly realized she had not drawn a breath since the moment she had first seen him.

  Her hand trembled as she put down her glass.

  "Will you excuse me?" she said politely, and before the young man beside her could answer she slipped past him and made her way to the door.

  The terrace was only a little less crowded than the house, but at least the air wasn't as thick. Francesca stood still for several seconds, taking deep breaths, and then she gave a little laugh. Maybe Charles was right and she needed to eat something. She was light-headed, she had to be. It was the only way to explain that non­sense just now.

  Francesca made her way briskly toward the wide brick steps that led down into the gardens surrounding the house. Who wouldn't be light-headed after trying to breath perfume and cigarette smoke for two hours? A walk would clear the cobwebs.

  The gardens had been terraced to take best advantage of the steep slope. A narrow path zigzagged through flowering shrubs and heavily laden rosebushes, and soon she was far from the noisy confusion of the party. Her steps slowed. This solitary walk had been a good idea. And—it was solitar
y, wasn't it? For an instant, she'd felt as if she was being followed—followed by the man she'd seen across the room.

  Her heartbeat skidded at the thought. She paused, lifted and half turned her head, listening, trying to sense his presence. The thought of him coming after her was­—was...

  Francesca laughed softly. Yes, she thought, coming to the stone wall that marked the path's end, she was most definitely light-headed. What she'd do, when she got back to the house, was head for the buffet table. Unless, by some stroke of good fortune, Charles had finished his business with the Marques and they could—

  "They say you can see Italy from here."

  She whirled around. It was him, the man who'd been watching her earlier. He was standing an arm's length away, his body blocking the narrow path.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  He smiled. "Enjoying the view, the same as you. Do you object?"

  A flush rose in her cheeks. "It's a public garden." His smile broadened. "Really? I think the Marquesa would be distressed to hear that."

  "I didn't mean it that way, exactly. I meant..." Her flush deepened. Ridiculous, to be this tongue-tied. And even more ridiculous to stand here and play this stran­ger's game. She drew herself up. "Excuse me."

  His brows rose. "Yes?"

  Francesca gave him her coolest look. "Would you mind stepping aside? I'd like to get by."

  He stepped forward into a pool of moonlight. "But you haven't even taken a look at those mountains," he said softly. "They're the Maritime Alps. They mark the Italian border."

  "Really?" Her tone was as cool as her expression. "I have a better view than this from my hotel room. Now, if you'd please—"

  He reached out as she started to sweep past him, his hand closing lightly on her bare arm, his fingers cool on

  her skin.

  "You wanted me to follow you." His voice was low­-pitched and firm with conviction. "I watched you. You turned and searched for me."

  Color raced into her cheeks. "I did no such thing." His eyes were as black as a bottomless pool as they swept across her face.