The Corsican Gambit Read online

  "Didn't you?" he asked softly.

  Suddenly, she wanted to tear free of his hand and run for the lighted safety of the house. But the light touch of his fingers on her arm imprisoned her, as surely as if it were a manacle of steel.

  "You flatter yourself." Her voice was calm, cool with contempt despite the racing beat of her heart. "And now, if you'd be good enough to let go of me—"

  He laughed. "I'll bet that's never failed you yet, has it? That regal bearing, the frigid tone."

  "You're talking nonsense."

  "Hell, it probably brings them to their knees each time." His teeth flashed in the darkness. "Don't you feel any guilt for what you did to all those young men?"

  Francesca twisted against his hand. "Will you let go of me?" she said furiously.

  "I have to admit, it was fascinating to watch you.

  Playing with those poor boys, letting them kneel at your feet." His smile changed, grew as intimate as the one he'd given her when she'd first looked into his eyes. "Is it all a game, bellissima?" His hand slid to her wrist and tightened on the fragile bones. "Or is it only that no man has ever made you want him?"

  A tremor raced along her flesh. "If you don't let go of me this second," she said, "I'll—I'll—"

  His laughter cut across her careful speech. "You'll what? Scream?"

  "Yes." Her voice shook. "I will. I'll scream and scream..."

  "Go on, then," he whispered. His arm slid around her and he drew her to him, while his free hand slid up her throat and cupped her chin, tilting her head back until her mouth was turned up to his. "Scream, if that's really what you want to do." His thumb moved slowly across her lips. "But first kiss me, kiss me with your mouth as you did with your eyes when you looked at me tonight. And then—then tell me you want to leave."

  Her breath hissed raggedly from between parted lips. "You're crazy," she whispered.

  He smiled. "Am I?" he said, and his mouth came down on hers.

  Francesca went still at the first touch of his lips, telling herself that he would let her go if she offered no reaction. Later, when she was safe in her hotel room, when the moon and the stars were once again steady in the firmament, she would wonder if it was that initial still­ness that had doomed her.

  If she'd fought him, perhaps his kiss wouldn't have become so seductive. Perhaps he wouldn't have moved his mouth over hers as he did, teasing her, urging her to open to him. Perhaps he wouldn't have moved his tongue lightly along her barely parted lips until she felt as if she were being touched by a flame.

  Something dark stirred deep within Francesca's soul, and she began to tremble. A sound whispered from her throat, so soft it seemed almost lost in the encompassing night. But he heard it, understood it, and he gathered her to him, his hand sweeping down her spine and molding her body to his.

  "Yes," he said fiercely, "yes."

  The triumph in his voice carried through her like an electric charge. She felt herself explode like sheet lightning. Her mouth parted, her hands lifted; she caught his shirt in her fingers, rose on her toes, pressed closer to him.

  His groan was primitive and elementally male. "I wanted to do this the minute I saw you," he whispered, Her head fell back as his lips trailed a fiery path down her throat; she felt him pluck the pins from her hair, felt it tumble to her shoulders. He thrust his hands into it and brought her face to his. "Bellissima, " he said in an urgent whisper. "You are so beautiful."

  God, what was happening to her? She was drowning, drowning in a sea far warmer than the one that beat at the rocks far below. Her hands rose again and linked behind his neck. His hair was thick, silken to the touch. Her eyes closed as his mouth moved against her skin. What would it be like to feel his naked body against hers? Would his skin be hot, like his mouth? His body would be hard; it would press her down into the softness of his bed.

  Noises drifted through the garden toward the dark comer where they stood locked together. The crunch of gravel, the tinkle of laughter...

  Francesca stiffened in the man's arms. Sanity re­turned quickly, along with the fear of discovery.

  "Let go of me!" He raised his head slowly, his eyes blurred with arousal as they focused on her face. "Dammit," she hissed, pushing against his chest, "didn't you hear me? Someone's coming."

  His hand closed around her wrist. "My car is just outside." There was urgency in his voice. "We can be in Nice in half an hour."

  "No. Are you crazy? I can't—"

  "Paris, then. Rome." He pulled her off the path, into the shadow of a palm tree and kissed her until she was breathless. "I know a hill above the city where the star­light falls on an ancient circle of stones." His hand moved over her, laying possessive claim to her flesh. "Let me make love to you there, inamorata, with only the moon to see.

  She felt herself waver. But the footsteps were closer now, and suddenly she saw herself as others would see her, as he must see her, a woman lost in the arms of a man she had never seen before, a man whose name she didn't even know.

  She turned, whirling out of his arms just as a group of laughing guests appeared on the path.

  "Whoops," a voice called in a slurred giggle, "what have we here?"

  People fell back, laughing, as Francesca pushed her way past them. She heard a peal of drunken laughter, then an angry voice she knew must be his, but by then she was flying toward the lighted safety of the house.

  Charles was waiting at the terrace steps. "Where in hell have you been?" he demanded, his voice low and tight with anger. "The Marques looked everywhere." He stepped back and stared at her. "What happened?" he said. "Just look at you, Francesca. You look-you look..."

  She flushed as he looked at her. She could imagine how she appeared, with her hair undone and her flushed face. But there was no way to explain, not without hu­miliating herself. Instead, she forced herself to meet Charles's stare calmly.

  "I'm going back to the hotel, Charles."

  If she'd thought he was going to question her, she was wrong.

  "Yes," he said, "but the Marques-"

  Her head came up. "To hell with the Marques," she said, her voice trembling.

  Her stepbrother looked as if she'd struck him. "Shh," he said, waving his hand and glancing back at the house.

  Francesca spun on her heel and started marching towards the narrow road that wound down the steep hillside.

  "I'll take the car," she said over her shoulder. "You can phone for a taxi."

  There was a moment's silence, and then Charles ut­tered a sharp oath and fell into place beside her.

  "What the hell's gotten into you tonight?" he grumbled.

  It was, she thought unhappily, a damned good question.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FRANCESCA opened her bedroom door quietly, then peered into the sitting room of the suite she and her step­brother shared. Charles was already seated at the breakfast table buttering a croissant as he frowned over his copy of the International Herald Tribune.

  She drew back. The desire to close the door and stay hidden behind it until he left the room was almost over­whelming, but what would that gain her? She'd have to see him, sooner or later, and anticipating the moment would only make it worse.

  Last night, Charles had honored her silence. Francesca made a face. That wasn't really accurate. The truth was, his anger at her had made him sullen. It was a trait he'd always had. Usually, she responded to his sulky stillness by trying to joke him out of it.

  But last evening she'd taken advantage of it. She hadn't said a word to him after they'd left the party, nothing except a quickly murmured "good night" after they reached their suite, and then she'd gone into her room, shut the door, and tried to make sense out of what had happened in the Marques's garden.

  She sighed. She had never, in all her life, behaved that way before. There was just no explanation for it. The man was good-looking, yes, but she knew lots of good-­looking men. They were a staple of the New York social scene. It was true that not all of them-perhaps none of
them-had quite the same air of blatant masculinity as the stranger, but so what? She wasn't a teenage girl, so starry-eyed that she swooned when a sexy man came on to her.

  And that was certainly what he'd done. All that stuff about the way he'd felt the moment he'd first looked at her...

  Francesca closed her eyes in disgust. That line was so old it creaked!

  So if all that were true-and she knew it was-then why had she fallen into his arms? Heat flared beneath her skin. Why had she melted at his touch? She didn't even know his name...

  "Is it only that no man has ever made you want him?"

  Her eyes flew open. His voice was inside her head but it was so real that it seemed, for an instant, in the room with her. She would never forget the sound of deep and very definitely American, despite all the caras and bellissimas.

  "Francesca? Is that you, darling?"

  Charles was calling her. Time to face the music, she thought. She took a deep breath, then glanced into the mirror. Her face was paler than usual, but other than that she looked herself.

  "Francesca?"

  Take another breath. Now smile...

  "Yes," she called, and she stepped briskly into the sitting room, as if this day were no different than any other.

  Charles looked up. "Good morning."

  "Good morning." She bent and kissed his cheek. "Mmm, the coffee smells wonderful. Just what I need.'

  She sank into the chair opposite his. Charles looked at her, then reached for the pots of coffee and hot mil that stood on the serving cart.

  "Shall I pour?"

  "Please." She watched as he tilted the pots and poured twin streams of steaming white and black into her over size breakfast cup. "Perfect cafe au lait," she said smiling. "You've learned to do that very well in the past days."

  Her stepbrother offered her the basket of warm croissants and brioches.

  "You know what they say," he said pleasantly, "when in Rome..." He fell silent, watching as Francesca broke off a piece of croissant and spread it with raspberry jam. "Well, now. What shall we do today?"

  It was all she could do to keep from breathing a sigh of relief. No questions. Thank goodness. Because she certainly had no answers.

  "That is, if you're free."

  She smiled as she put down her butter knife. "Of course I'm free. You know that. Today's our last day­ we said we'd go see the Oceanographic Institute, remember?"

  Charles put his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

  "Yes, so we did." His eyes were cool. "I thought perhaps you'd made other plans."

  "Other plans? What do you mean?"

  He shrugged. "You tell me."

  There was a faintly taunting quality to his voice. Francesca stirred uneasily.

  "How can I," she said, "when I don't know what you're talking about?"

  An unpleasant little smile caught at the corner of his mouth. "It occurred to me that you might have made arrangements to meet your friend."

  "My...?" She swallowed. "What do you mean?"

  "I was referring to the man you had that romantic little tryst with last night."

  Two crimson circles flamed in her cheeks.

  "That's unkind. I didn't tryst with anyone," she said.

  "Please, Francesca." Her stepbrother sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not an idiot."

  She drew a deep breath. "Charles

  His voice was cold. "There's no point in trying to deny it. I saw the way you looked."

  He shrugged and turned away from her. "There wasn't any choice."

  Francesca caught her lip between her teeth. It was true, she thought, watching his tensed shoulders, life had asked a great deal of her stepbrother. Augustus Spencer had married her mother when Francesca was eight and Charles seventeen. Nine years later, when their parents' plane had crashed against a Colorado mountain peak, Charles had suddenly had to assume the responsibility for running the investment firm his father had founded and the responsibility of raising her, as well.

  He had done it all with no complaints, asking nothing in return until recently, when she'd finished her art courses at university, and then it had been only that she occasionally play hostess or accompany him to an im­portant social event.

  Francesca felt a stab of conscience. It was little enough to do for the man who'd been father, brother, and pro­vider for the past six years.

  Having supper with the Marques last night certainly wouldn't have killed her.

  She sighed. Charles was still standing at the window, his back to her. She called his name softly. "Charles?"

  "What?"

  She walked to his side and put her hand on his arm. "I-I didn't mean to let you down last night."

  There was a silence, and then he sighed, too. "And I didn't mean to jump down your throat."

  "I just didn't like the way the Marques kept after me."

  Charles turned to her. "He likes you, darling. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

  "I suppose not. It's just that there was something in the way he looked at me..."

  He smiled. "Silly girl. I told you, he's fond of you, that's all. He has a granddaughter about your age."

  Francesca laughed a little. "The way he looked at me didn't seem terribly paternal."

  "I'm sure you read him wrong. He's really a very nice old man."

  She sighed. "In that case, I'm doubly sorry I disap­pointed you."

  "If you really mean that---"

  "You know I do."

  Charles put his arm around her shoulders. "Well, then, we can make our apologies this evening. The Marques asked us to join him at the Casino. He said he'd look forward to having you beside him as a good ­luck charm."

  Francesca's stomach clenched. "Must we?"

  Something flashed in his eyes-anger, she thought, or even rage-but it was gone so quickly she told herself she'd imagined it.

  "No," he said smoothly, "of course not. I'll phone and send our regrets."

  "You're sure it's not a problem?"

  "Don't worry about it, darling." He gave her a smile, but now she could see that what she'd glimpsed in his eyes was disappointment. "I don't want you to do any­thing that makes you uncomfortable. The old boy probably won't miss us. I think he invited half of last night's guests to join him this evening."

  "We wouldn't be his only guests, you mean?"

  Charles shook his head as he reached for the phone. "No, not hardly."

  "Well, then..." She puffed out her breath. "Let it go." He turned an inquiring glance toward her, and she smiled. "We'll join the Marques, just as you planned." Her smile widened. "I don't know if I'll bring him good luck, but the Casino should be fun."

  "Thank you, darling." Her stepbrother kissed her forehead. "Now, let me just make a couple of quick phone calls and we'll be on our way."

  It was only after he'd left the room that Francesca realized that if half of last night's guests were going to join the Marques at the Casino one of them might well be the man she'd encountered in the garden last night.

  The possibility was enough to send a shiver of alarm racing to her nerve endings. She had absolutely no wish to see him again, ever.

  Her chin lifted. But she wasn't going to hide in her room in the hope of avoiding him, either. He had helped her make a fool of herself, but what had happened was over and done.

  The sooner she put the whole nonsensical incident behind her, the better.

  The day passed quickly. Charles was perfect company, as charming and as attentive as he could be when he wished, ushering her first to the Oceanographic Institute, where they gaped at huge octopuses and gasped at tanks filled with colorful Pacific fishes, and then to the Jardin Exotique which boasted succulents and cacti that equaled any Francesca had seen in the American southwest. They toured the cool, cliffside cave that still bore the imprint of the coast's prehistoric inhabitants, then had a late lunch of salade nicoise at a noisy, pleasant cafe near the Hotel Hermitage.
r />   Charles insisted on strolling the Avenue des Beaux Arts and window-shopping all the trendy boutiques. He bought himself a new gold tank watch at Cartier. "The exchange rate's in our favor," he said, and when Francesca peered into Dior's and sighed over a silk gown shaded in all the colors of the sky at sunset, he insisted she must have it.

  "It's perfect for you, darling."

  "But it costs a fortune, Charles. And I don't need it."

  "Wear it tonight," he said, "for the Marques, and we'll write it off as a business deduction."

  He said it lightly with a joking smile on his face, but Francesca was hard-pressed to smile in return. And later that evening, when she looked into the mirror and saw how the fall of pink-and-crimson silk clung to her body, softly molding itself to her breasts and hips, she felt a sudden flush of discomfort.

  She reached behind her and started to unzip the gown. She had other gowns in the closet, as pretty as this. What would it matter if she wore one of them, instead?

  There was a knock at the door, and it swung open. "Francesca?" Charles smiled at her. "You look lovely," he said. "And you're ready right on schedule."

  "Well, actually, I'm not. I was just going to-"

  "Ah, I see. You were trying to close that zipper. Well, turn around, darling, and I'll do it for you."

  "No. I mean, that's not-"

  But it was too late to protest. The zipper slithered closed, and Charles took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. His pale eyes swept over her, and she had the crazy thought that, for an instant, they glittered like ice.

  "Perfect. The Marques should be delighted." Francesca laughed uncomfortably. "What?"

  "I'm joking, darling," he said, as he put his arm lightly around her waist. "Now, come on. Let's see if we can win everything we've ever wanted tonight."

  Monte Carlo, the heart of the tiny principality of Monaco, was the name of both the world-famous Casino and the rocky hill on which it stood. It was a handsome example of la belle epoque, its towers and decorative facade reflecting the overblown splendor of the final years of the nineteenth century.