Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Page 5

  It instantly brought to mind images of him looming over her in a big brass bed. “Good morning,” she chirped like a foolish and silly bird.

  He flashed a grin at her. Then, not taking his gaze from her, not even for an instant, he said, “Good morning, Rourke,” to his foster brother.

  Rourke murmured a greeting but faced Francesca. “Can it not wait?” he asked. “Sarah needs a few more days to rest. I prefer her not to become agitated.”

  It was so hard to look away from Hart’s mesmerizing stare. Her heart was skipping uncontrollably, and her knees were betraying her, too, for they had become terribly weak. She somehow turned to Rourke. “There has been a murder,” she managed. “I must speak with Sarah as soon as possible.”

  Rourke stiffened. “A murder? But how does this affect Miss Channing?” he demanded, eyes wide.

  Hart spoke before she could answer. “No, the real question is, Francesca, how does this affect you?” he said grimly, gripping her elbow and turning her back around.

  His touch made her breathless. But she had finally admitted to herself the other day that she was as fatally attracted to him as all women were—he had merely to enter a room to leave her undone. Now he was no longer in the same good humor as a moment ago. “I am sorry, Calder, but I did not dial up another murder for my own entertainment.”

  He stared into her eyes. Then, “Might I assume you wish a private conversation with me?”

  She nodded, eagerly and in relief.

  But Rourke gripped her hand now. “Francesca, how does the murder involve Sarah?”

  She met his gaze and saw his concern. “A woman was murdered in an artist’s studio, Rourke. And the killer destroyed her studio very much as he did Sarah’s.”

  Rourke paled. “Is Sarah in danger?”

  Francesca touched him. “I don’t know. Last night, Bragg sent two roundsmen to the Channing home, as a precaution.”

  Rourke nodded grimly.

  Hart purred, but not quite pleasantly, “After you, Francesca.”

  She darted a glance at him as she hurried past his tall, strong body and saw the heat smoldering in his eyes. But whether he was angry now because she had so quickly become involved in another case, or because he was astute enough to know that last night she had been with his half brother, she did not know. “The library?” she asked in the hall.

  Instead of answering her, he crossed the front hall, pushed open the door to a huge salon the size of a poor man’s entire flat, and waited for her to precede him in. Francesca did so, trying not to panic. She must stay calm or she would never succeed in letting Hart down. If only they were still discussing the case. There she was on firm ground, and he was a link to the inner sanctums of the city’s art world. But she had not come to discuss the investigation with him, and there was no more avoiding what had to be done.

  He closed one teak door behind them. “Is Sarah Channing in danger?”

  She faced him, keeping twenty feet between them now. And she softened—he wasn’t heartless, which she already knew, and moments like this proved it. Concern was reflected by his dark, intent eyes. “We really don’t know.”

  His arms were folded over his broad chest. His biceps bulged against the soft but expensive white cotton of his shirt. “We.”

  “I meant that I hardly know, as the investigation has just begun! Hart, this is not why I have come.”

  “I know why you have come, my dear,” he said flatly. “I have been expecting you, but not quite this early.”

  “You have?”

  He launched himself off the door, approaching. His strides were long but coiled. Francesca stood her ground, no easy task. “So you and Rick are off on another investigation,” he said softly—dangerously.

  She nodded. “You know this is what I do.”

  “I know that. It is one of the many attributes you possess which make you so unique. How often do you wish to put yourself in danger—to face death?” He was openly angry now, as her life seemed to be constantly in danger these days. “What the hell is wrong with my brother?” he exclaimed. “His wife has returned and he still gallivants about with you!”

  She stiffened. “He is my friend—just as you are. And nothing more!” she said hotly.

  That halted him in his tracks. “Do not patronize me.”

  She bit her lip. “There is no other recourse, now.”

  “So that is your most recent conclusion?” His gaze was searching.

  She had the sudden urge to cry. But she must not. “How could there be any other conclusion?” she whispered forlornly.

  “Poor Francesca,” he suddenly murmured, and before she knew it, he had taken another stride and was cupping her face in his two large hands. She stilled, but not on the inside. Inside, her heart beat madly, her breath escaped, her knees buckled, and her loins filled. Their gazes locked.

  His eyes weren’t really black. They were the darkest shade of brown imaginable, with navy blue flecks. “In a way, I am so sorry for you.”

  His kindness would make the tears fall. “Please, do not be kind now, Hart. Be anything but! Mock me!”

  He smiled a little and his hands seemed to tighten on her face. Francesca felt her heart lurch with excitement, and she looked at his mouth, so close to her own. They had never kissed. Not even once. The most notorious womanizer in the city had chosen to treat her with the utmost respect. Now, finally, after all this time, he was going to kiss her!

  Francesca could not wait.

  Her body shifted toward him of its own volition. Her thighs touched his. Her breasts, encased in too many layers of clothing to count, brushed the cotton of his shirt. Her nipples pebbled and hurt. It became impossible to breathe, anticipation consuming her.

  He stroked her cheek and released her. Then he walked oh-so-casually away, as if he had not felt the beast that had risen up yet again between them.

  She could only stare, stunned. He had said he intended to marry her. What was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he kissed her?

  He turned, sitting on the thickly rolled arm of a gold velvet sofa, looking impossibly relaxed. But he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his posture caused the fabric of his trousers to strain across his hips, and Francesca saw that he was aroused. Her heart thundered in response.

  But why should she be surprised? He had said he wanted her. He had told her so to her face.

  But he was so calm, so cool, so controlled. If he were Bragg, right now she would be in his arms and on that sofa.

  “You are staring,” he said softly.

  She flushed and looked up, with guilt.

  His smile was tender and amused. “I can think about you, my dear, and become excited. You should hardly be surprised.”

  “I . . . I’m not . . . exactly,” she stammered. “Hart, how can you be so controlled?”

  “Experience, I suppose. And then there is determination. I told you I will not ruin you, Francesca. The day I take you to bed is the day we are married.” He smiled at her as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  And her bubble burst. “Then it shall never happen,” she said angrily.

  He laughed at her. “Here we go! The moment I have so been waiting for. I shall enjoy this drama, I am certain.”

  She wanted to strike him. But she had done so once, and the consequences had not been pleasant. She clasped her own trembling hands so she would not do anything so foolish again. “That is why I have come this morning. I can’t marry you, Hart. I can’t marry anyone, not ever,” she added in haste. And she meant it. She could not marry him because she was in love with Rick Bragg. Besides, the fatal attraction that she felt for him was hardly love.

  His expression did not change. But he stood up, reminding her again of a lion, that is, a dangerous predator in no rush, one absolutely sure of attaining a hearty meal. “I see. You intend to martyr yourself upon my brother’s marriage and political future?” Both brows lifted.

  And Bragg had called her a martyr, too. “No!” she cried. “That is not it!�
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  “So now you lie. To me—or to yourself?” He started toward her.

  She became still, even though she wanted to back away. “I am not lying to you.”

  “Yes, you are,” he said softly, dangerously, slowly circling her now. “Because we both know you have decided that Rick is the one true love of your dreams. We both know Leigh Anne has come back and you cannot triumph over her.” He circled her again. She didn’t dare move. “If you did not know my brother, I do believe I would have you accepting an old-fashioned marriage proposal at my feet within a week.”

  “How arrogant! How insufferable!” she said, seething.

  He grinned, pleased. “I do believe you are not the first woman to call me such. Darling, I do not want to fight.” He circled her wrist with his hand.

  She froze.

  His grip on her wrist remained, but now he compromised it, and he lifted her hand to his lips. He kissed it.

  That foolish little caress of his mouth made her go hot.

  He lifted his eyes and his own gaze told her that he knew. “I never want to fight with you, my dear. I can think of far better ways to spend our time.” His mouth curved.

  He was thinking of taking her to bed. She just knew it. And he was mesmerizing—she had to blink hard and shake her head in order to break his spell. For now was not the time to have an image of herself in a wedding dress, being pushed down onto his bed. “I just can’t,” Francesca whispered breathlessly—desperately. “Please, Hart. And you are not a marrying man. You told me so! Several times, in fact!”

  He let her go. “All rakes have their day.”

  She didn’t believe him. “That is what Mama said.”

  “Julia is a fine, strong, and clever woman. I like her, by the way.”

  “Oh no,” Francesca said, in more despair. She could see it now, Hart and Julia, allied against her. For Julia had made it clear that Hart was the suitor of her choice. “Why, Hart? Why? I mean, there are those who will think you are doing this because . . .” She faltered.

  He grew still and watchful. “Because?”

  She wet her lips. “Because of Rick. Because you hate Rick and want to take away anything he wants or loves.”

  “You know better than that.”

  She was ashamed then. “Yes, I do. But I still do not understand!” she cried.

  “I have grown exceedingly fond of our friendship, Francesca. I have grown exceedingly fond of you.”

  “But . . . that is not love,” she finally returned.

  He sighed. “If you expect me to fall on my knees and confess undying devotion . . . I will. But I do not believe in love, and that has not changed. I admire you. I want you. I enjoyed every single moment we have shared. Well”—he shook his head and almost laughed—“except for the ones when you turned some of my hair gray. I desire more of your friendship, more of your companionship. I desire you in my bed. Isn’t that enough?”

  She squared her shoulders. “No. It isn’t enough, Calder, not at all.”

  “Impossible woman,” he said fondly. “If I told you that I loved you, would it change your mind?”

  She stared, undone. In fact, she was so shaken that she could not even think.

  He sighed. “Francesca, the one thing I will never do is lie to you. I really do think love is a synonym for lust. I think it is a convenient justification, in today’s society, to leap into bed with the person one desires. How many happy marriages are there? Name one,” he added in a soft challenge.

  Now she wanted to cry. But it had nothing to do with Rick Bragg and everything to do with Calder Hart. Her mind raced. “Mama and Papa are happy,” she finally said, after a pause that might have been a full minute. She did not want to recall their vicious argument the other day, an argument during which her benevolent father had walked out on Julia. They had been fighting over Evan’s gambling debts and reluctance to marry Sarah Channing.

  Hart raised a brow. “Sunday night, before dinner, you told me that they were at odds,” he said.

  She grimaced in more despair. “They are not fighting now. They love one another, Hart; they do.”

  He shrugged. “I prefer not to mold your thoughts. You are free to believe as you choose. I only expect that same graciousness from you.”

  She stared at him. “Of course I am free to think as I choose,” she said, thinking about how her mother would argue that point, and then adding the concept of an entire society determining what one could, or should, and should not do. “I can’t marry you. I am not marrying you. I am sorry, Hart, but that is my final answer.”

  He stared.

  The urge to cry vanished. She tensed, not liking his far too speculative and watchful regard. “Hart?” She sensed he was about to pounce.

  He began to smile. “Francesca, you may protest, rationalize, fantasize, until you are old and gray—I will not change my mind.”

  She stiffened even more. “Then we are at an impasse, you and I.”

  “I doubt it.” He started toward her. She did not move. But he didn’t touch her, instead, he paused beside her, close enough that she could smell his cologne, and breathed, “I always get what I want, my dear.”

  She was about to refute that, but he moved behind her and said, “Whether the object of my desire is a painting. . . .” And his breath feathered her nape. “Or a sculpture.” He moved beside her. “Or a lucrative shipping contract.” He paused in front of her, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her skin. “Or a woman,” he finished.

  She had become paralyzed. It was rather how she imagined it felt to be caught in a spider’s sticky, fatal web. The terrible part was, she believed him. She knew this man could move a mountain should he decide to do so. “No, Hart. Not this time,” she finally said.

  He looked at her and stared, unsmiling, no longer amused, confident, and very, very intense.

  She wet her lips. “Because if you insist upon this course of action, you shall lose our friendship.” The words had popped out of their own accord.

  His eyes widened. In that moment, as she saw the rush of anger, she knew she had gone too far. “You threaten me?” he demanded.

  She leapt backward, away from any proximity with him. “No!”

  “Oh ho, I know a threat when I hear one!” he cried, closing in on her.

  She backed up, hit a chair, and fell into it.

  He loomed over her and placed both hands on either arm, imprisoning her there. “Do not ever threaten me, Francesca,” he warned.

  “It wasn’t a threat. But you are placing me in a terrible position!”

  “And to think I thought you valued our friendship as much as I do,” he said harshly.

  And she saw the hurt in his eyes. “I do!” she cried desperately. “It was so foolish of me to say such a thing! Hart! I didn’t mean it!” And it was she who now reached up to cup his face in her own hands. “Hart! I didn’t mean it!”

  He shook her off. “Never threaten me, my dear. And know this: I am a very willfull man. And I am also a very patient one. If you think it through, you will realize that we should do very well together—and that I am offering you a way out of the miserable mess you have made for yourself.” He straightened and gestured at the door, a demand that she leave. “It has been an entertaining morning, but I am afraid I have a full agenda today. Good day, Francesca.”

  She somehow got to her feet, unaided. “Hart—” She hated ending their conversation this way. In fact, she simply could not. She needed to have him smile at her, even if it was smug, and call her “my dear.”

  “Good day.” He was firm. “Alfred! Show Miss Cahill out.” And after Alfred appeared, opening one of the two teak doors, Hart strode out with long, hard strides, the anger still etched upon his face, although it was fading now.

  Francesca hugged herself. Why did they always come to odds? The answer was obvious. Because he was more than stubborn and he felt he was always right.

  But she had stupidly threatened to end their friendsh
ip. How could she have said such a thing when she hadn’t meant it? What if he remained so angry that he ended their friendship? Real fear paralyzed her then.

  In such a short time, his friendship had become irresistible to her.

  “Oh, dear. Miss Cahill, here.” Alfred handed her a freshly laundered handkerchief.

  Francesca took it and dabbed at her eyes. “He is so very angry with me,” she whispered, and it struck her then how unbearable this impasse was. She needed Hart, as oddly as it seemed, as a dear and a staunch friend. But he clearly was not going to come around to her way of thinking. Dear God, he still intended to marry her. What should she do?

  She closed her eyes. Marrying Hart would be like throwing oneself in front of a runaway locomotive. It would be suicide.

  She looked at Alfred. “I think I must go after him,” she said hoarsely.

  “There, there, Miss Cahill, no harm has been done,” Alfred said kindly.

  “I am afraid you are wrong,” Francesca said.

  “Mr. Hart cannot stay angry with you for very long, Miss Cahill,” Alfred returned, smiling as if he knew something she did not. “I do promise you that.”

  Francesca looked at him through rising tears, panic, and confusion. “He wants to marry me, Alfred.”

  “I know.” Alfred beamed. “He told me so last night.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1902—9:00 A.M.

  FRANCESCA HAD JUST HANDED off her coat and was about to dash down the hall, in order to then amble into the breakfast room as if she had just come downstairs for the first time that morning. But her father chose that moment to appear in the entry hall, carrying the Herald. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw her. “Francesca? Where have you been at this early hour?”

  She looked at him with a bright smile, her mind racing. He would hardly believe her if she told him that she had been out for an early-morning stroll, as it was freezing outside. “Good morning, Papa,” she said, noting that he looked tired and not at all like his usual self. “Is Evan awake? And how is he this morning?”