The Devil's Heart. Lynn Raye Harris

of the youngest d’Oro girl. Why he should still feel regret, when she’d manipulated him as much as any of them, was a mystery.

      Part of him insisted she was innocent—and part of him knew the dark depths to which the human soul could travel. Innocence was often a façade for treachery.

      “If you shoot me, querida, you will never have the jewel.”

      “Maybe I’ll have something far better,” she spat in a low voice.

      All of Marcos’s senses went on high alert. Something about that voice…

       Something he’d forgotten…

      “I’ll take that jewel now,” she continued. “It’s in the safe. Open it.”

      Fury began to uncoil within him. Who was this slip of a woman and how dare she try to rob him of his family birthright? She was not the first to attempt it, but she would not succeed.

      It was after the jewel had been stolen, when he was only a boy, that the military junta imprisoned his parents. They never returned. They were, like so many thousands of others, among the disappeared, those souls who were taken away by the ruling party and killed before democracy was restored in later years.

      He blamed his uncle far more than he did the diamond. If not for Federico Navarre’s ambition and greed, life would have been far different. But the Corazón del Diablo was all he had left of his family, and he would allow no one to take it from him ever again.

      “Apparently you have failed to think this through, little one.”

      She took a step forward, the gun rock-solid in her grip. And then, as if thinking better of it, she stopped, shook her head so slightly he wondered if he’d imagined the movement. “Shut up and open the safe. Now.”

      He stood stiffly for only a moment. “Very well.”

      If he were lucky, she’d get too close.

      Marcos strode toward the wall that housed the safe. Sliding the wooden panel aside, he flipped the dial in annoyance. Right, left, right. The tumblers clicked into place and the door opened.

      “Frankie,” a voice hissed. “Hurry.”

      Marcos stilled, straining to pinpoint the source. It had sounded oddly small and disembodied.

      “Frankie,” it said again, louder this time.

      “Shut up,” the girl said. “I’m working on it.”

      Ah, a radio. She was using a two-way radio to communicate with someone outside this room. Odd—and a rather inept choice for a skilled thief. Yet another puzzle piece to consider.

      “Step away from the safe,” she ordered, the gun glinting as she used it to motion him away. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

      Marcos backed away carefully, hands at shoulder height. The girl waited until he was nearly against the opposite wall before she moved. A flashlight blazed into life. She swept the interior of the safe, then spun toward him.

      “It’s not here,” she said in disbelief. “Where is it?”

      He almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but not quite. “There are plenty of other jewels. Take them instead.”

      Her voice shook. “The Corazón del Diablo. Where is it?”

      “It’s not here,” he repeated.

      “That’s impossible. I was assured—” The gun was leveled at him again, her voice full of purpose. “Where have you hidden it?”

      “Forget it, Frankie,” he said smoothly, emphasizing the name the voice had called her. She had been assured? By whom? “You’ve failed. Now take what’s there and go.”

      “You aren’t the one in control here, Navarre. You will not tell me what to do. Not ever again,” she added so quietly he wasn’t certain he’d heard her right. Never again?

      “Who are you?” he demanded, blazing hot anger sizzling through him like a living flame.

      Before she could answer—or tell him to shut up, most likely—he reached over and flicked the light switch.

      “Bastard,” she cried, blinking against the light that flooded the room. Yet still the gun was firmly pointed at him.

      He didn’t care. The girl, this Frankie, was compel-ling—and he’d never seen her before in his life. Sunstreaked hair was pulled into a tight knot at the base of her neck, its thickness indicating long length when her hair was down. Her skin was pale with a hint of golden color. Her eyes glared at him hot and dark. She was dressed in a workman’s black coveralls, but the garment was a size too small because it clung to her generous curves like a protective sleeve.

      She looked furious, determined—but then she bit down on her plump lower lip and he recognized it for what it was: a crack in her armor. A current of desire arced through him at that single display of vulnerability.

      Dios, now was not the time to be attracted to a woman. Especially not a woman with a gun pointed at his heart. Marcos clamped down on his wayward libido and tried to memorize everything about her. Should she get away, should she not shoot him in the process, he needed to remember what she looked like.

      Because—female or not, vulnerable or not—he was going to hunt her down. He would find her and he would make her pay for thinking she could rob him of his birthright.

      “Who are you, Frankie, and why do you want my necklace?”

      Her eyes widened briefly before narrowing again. The gun shook in her grip. Odd when she’d been so controlled only moments before.

      “You really don’t know, do you?” Her laugh was strangled. “God, of course you don’t. Because you’re selfish, Marcos Navarre. Selfish and cruel.”

      Some little bit of knowledge buzzed at his mind like an annoying mosquito. He brushed it aside impatiently. He had no time to puzzle out what it was. He simply needed to remember this woman—and possibly disarm and capture her—before she could get away. “The Corazón del Diablo is mine. You will not steal it from me this night, so either take what’s there and go, or shoot me and be done with it.”

      “I would like to,” she said, her voice dripping with menace and fury. “Believe me I would. But I want that jewel, Navarre. One way or the other, you are going to give it to me.”

      Francesca forced down the bile in her throat. When he’d flipped the light on, she’d thought she would die. If he’d looked at her with pity, or shook his head sadly, she’d have crumbled like a house of cards. Her will and determination would have evaporated like an early morning mist, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

      But there’d been no flicker of recognition in his eyes, no stiffening of his form, nothing to indicate he had the slightest clue who she was.

      And it hurt. Hurt like bloody hell that he hadn’t known her. After all, she’d been the one to give him the Corazón del Diablo in the first place. Like a love struck imbecile, she’d handed it over just the same as she’d handed him her heart.

      What happened next had been inevitable to all but the most blind of souls. He’d kept the jewel and discarded her love. Discarded her. She’d learned the truth too late. He’d conned her out of the diamond just like he’d conned her into believing he cared.

      The Devil’s Heart was aptly named. She’d given it to the devil and it had cost her nothing but heartache.

      And now he stood here so haughty and handsome in his custom tuxedo, looking down his fine nose at her as if she were a bug. Her traitorous heart thumped painfully.

      He was still so damn gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, and as handsome as any movie star. He had a silveredged scar that zigzagged from one corner of his mouth, a reminder of a long ago accident, she imagined. Far from ruining his dark male beauty, it only made