Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (30 page)

“Hart! This isn’t fair! I can’t become engaged—I simply do not want to get married!”

“The only way you will ever enjoy my favors is if we are wed. And that is that,” he said.

She was furious. She jerked free of his grasp. It was on the tip of her tongue to capitulate and be done with it.

Both brows raised. “If looks could kill, I should now be dead.”

She thought of how easily he had made love to his mistress. “I want to become your mistress, Hart.”

He straightened. “Absolutely not.”

“No. I am in earnest. Deadly earnest. Make me your mistress and take me to bed. Forget this insane urge to marry!”

Now he started laughing all over again. “No. Francesca,
I know how you feel—many, many years ago, I was a virgin, too. Trust me. It will all work out . . . eventually.” His laughter increased. He was truly enjoying himself—at her expense.

“But you want me!”

“Yes, I do, but not in a cheap and sordid way. I have no intention of using you.”

“So you use Daisy? Cheaply? Sordidly?” Francesca accused.

He regarded her carefully now. “Yes, I do. I have bought and paid for her, Francesca.”

Images rushed over her, hot, wet, huge. “I saw you. I saw you make love to her this afternoon!” she cried.

It was a moment before he seemed to understand. His gaze narrowed and his expression became impossible to read. “I beg your pardon?”

“I spied. I saw her put her mouth all over you! I saw you without your clothes. . . . I saw—”

His hand closed over her arm. “You spied on me and my mistress?” He was too calm—dangerously so.

Francesca’s mouth was hanging open. She closed it, wishing she had even a single clue as to what the black glitter in his eyes meant. Had he known she was watching the encounter that afternoon?

“Did Daisy know? Was she privy to your little scheme, Francesca?”

Was he angry? Or was that glitter in his gaze amusement? Still, she did not like the way he had uttered her name. “No! Daisy did not know!” How Francesca regretted her lapse of self-control. “I didn’t want you to know I had called on her, and she let me hide in the adjacent room. I was supposed to sneak out, but instead, I opened the door and watched you both.” He continued to stare dispassionately. She squirmed. “I mean, I meant to leave, but one thing happened after another, and I simply couldn’t,” she added, certain he understood her meaning.

A silence fell.

It was terrible.

Then he thrust open the carriage door. “Please come with me, Francesca,” he said firmly.

Her heart raced with alarm as she obeyed. Why had she told him what she had done? Why? Was he angry? Would he end their relationship—retract his offer of marriage? She would be furious if she were him. And his grip on her arm was uncompromising.

She tried to pull away, but he would not let her do so. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered.

“You have a habit of regretting your behavior when it is simply too late,” he said flatly. “Did it ever occur to you that if I wished for you to watch me make love to another woman, I might have arranged it?” He was very cold.

“It isn’t the end of the world,” she said. She wanted to tell him that it had been the most incredible moment of her life but decided against it.

“No, it is hardly the end of the world.”

“Would you have let me watch if I had asked?” She had to know.

“No.”

She winced. “Are you angry, Calder? You are so good at hiding your feelings that I cannot tell.”

He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “I am annoyed.”

What in God’s name does that mean
? she wondered.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Francesca?”

She gaped—and began a slow burn. “Of course not!”

He began, finally, to smile. “Little liar,” he said softly.

His words washed over her like a ribbon of silk, a deep, intimate, and sensual caress. “This is not the relationship I wish for us to have,” he said as softly. “If I wanted you as a whore, I would take you as one.”

More graphic images assailed her. “I’m sorry,” she said again, breathlessly. If only she knew what he was really thinking! Would he retract his offer of marriage? The oddest pain stabbed through her chest in the vicinity of her heart. Any other man would do so, but Hart wasn’t like other men. “I fear my character is a highly defective one,” she said
slowly. “I am always in trouble, Hart, trouble of my own making, and I know it.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, unsmiling and unamused.

“I take it you wish to politely inform me that you have changed your mind?”

“Changed my mind?” He was surprised. “About marrying you? No, Francesca, I am sorry, but you are not off my hook. I am angry. I don’t like snoops—I don’t like being spied upon. But I intend to see the day when you are wed and in my bed. Sooner,” he added grimly, “rather than later, I might add.”

Relief swamped her.

“Listen carefully to me.”

Relief vanished—she came to attention.

“You are not a whore. You are not a woman whom I have bought and paid for. There is admiration, respect, and affection between us. I treasure those things. They are qualities I have never before shared with any woman. When we are in bed, it shall be the two of us, alone.”

She began to understand. She began to genuinely regret spying upon him. It would be a long time, if ever, before she would be able to forget what she had seen.

“But now, because of your foolish, irrevocable behavior, Daisy will be in bed with us, too, won’t she?”

Francesca suddenly wanted to cry. “I never thought—”

“No, you did not.”

“But it will only be a memory.”

“One that taints the many moments we will share.”

“But what about all of your memories?” she cried. “Won’t they disturb you at an inopportune time?”

He rolled his eyes. “I never think about the women I have bedded, Francesca. Each and every one has been and remains meaningless to me.”

She stared, and elation crept over her, slowly but surely. “Even Daisy?”

“Even Daisy,” he said. He began to smile, then wiped his expression clean, as if he refused to bend, and he took her hand and pulled her into his arms. “How can any
woman, even Daisy, compare to you?” he asked, his tone finally warming.

“Quite easily, I fear,” she said, but she was smiling, and their eyes met and held. “Will you forgive me?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he said, but humor had crept into his tone. “I can see that the course of our marriage will be a rocky road indeed.”

“I can accept tomorrow,” she said, and she laid her cheek on his chest. Instantly his hand stroked over her coiffed hair.

Desire renewed itself. “Can we seal our bargain with a kiss?” she whispered, looking up.

He gazed down at her, tender, amused. “You saw
everything
?”

She nodded, blushing now. “I saw everything, Hart, every single thing.”

He stared down at her thoughtfully. Francesca almost held her breath, wondering what to expect. It was not his next words.

“So your education begins.”

In the entry hall, Rourke and Sarah paused, the doorman taking Sarah’s coat. Sarah thanked him, acutely aware of Rourke behind her, and said, “You don’t have to wait up for me, Henry. I will lock the front door when Rourke leaves.”

“Thank you, Miss Channing, and good night,” Henry said, walking out.

Leaving her alone with a stranger.

“I hope you enjoyed the evening,” Rourke said rather distractedly. He was glancing out the window by the front door. Sarah wondered why, and she wondered if he would now leave. But of course he had to leave, as Hart and Francesca were outside in the carriage, waiting for him.

“The evening was very enjoyable, and I am glad Mr. Hart is buying that Levitan. It is splendid.” She became excited merely recalling the Russian landscape.

Rourke stepped closer to the window, as if he had not
heard her. “Did Bragg withdraw the roundsmen? I do not see a single police officer anywhere.”

Sarah tensed. “I have no idea,” she said, moving to his side so she could look outside, too. Rourke was right. No police officer was in sight. And standing so close to Rourke, she felt smaller and skinnier than ever. She stepped back, away from him. “He must have dismissed them. You yourself said I am not in danger and that Miss Conway was the killer’s real target.”

He met her gaze, and even though he smiled, she saw how serious his eyes were. “Yes, I believe that, but until the killer has been apprehended, I think my brother should leave his men here.”

“Well, your brother knows what he is about.” Sarah was brisk now. It was simply too awkward being alone with Rourke at such a late hour. He was simply too much for her to manage—too charismatic, too attractive—he overwhelmed her space; he reminded her of how plain and thin she was. She was sorry she had told Henry to go off to bed, but she always hated keeping the servants up. “It is late. I must get up early and prepare for the sketches I will do when Francesca arrives.” She forced a smile—it felt terribly awkward.

But he smiled back at her, a smile that brought forth both of his dimples and creased the corners of his eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” It was almost as if he were teasing.

“Of course not,” she said tersely, a lie.

“I am teasing, Sarah,” he sighed. Then, “You don’t like me, do you?”

She was stunned by his bluntness. “I hardly know you, Rourke. It would be premature for me to either like or dislike you, don’t you agree?”

“No, actually, I don’t. I feel that it is easy to get a sense of a stranger upon a first meeting. I feel that somehow I must have offended you, yet the more I think about it, the more certain I am that I have not.” He waited, staring, his smile gone.

“You haven’t offended me,” she said, feeling miserable and avoiding his gaze. “You saved my life.”

“You weren’t dying. Sarah, do I make you uncomfortable?”

She looked at him. “Yes.”

He stared, his gaze searching.

She said, “I think I should retire now.”

He caught her by the arm. “Are you running away?”

“Of course not!” But she was and they both knew it.

“I think you are running away from me, but I do not know why.” He was reflective. “You have no trouble talking to Hart.”

Sarah bit her lower lip, suddenly desperate that she run. “Good night, Rourke.” She was firm.

But his regard changed as he studied her. “Could it be that you find a single, available gentleman like myself threatening?”

“That is absurd. I am engaged, Mr. Bragg, or have you forgotten?”

He suddenly smiled ruefully. “I actually did forget. For an instant.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I am sorry for pressing you.”

She was trembling. “Good night,” she said again, shaken to the core. He knew the truth. She must avoid him now at all costs.

“I do not wish to argue with you,” he said softly.

“We do not know one another well enough to argue. Good night.” She turned and this time hurried down the hall, as quickly as she could without actually running.

But she strained to hear him leave as she did so, and she did not hear his footsteps or the front door closing—which she would have to go back to lock. Then she decided it did not matter if he wished to stand there alone in the darkly lit foyer. Besides, he would go in another moment or so.

If only she did not feel guilty for being so terribly rude. What was wrong with her?

She shuddered. Everything was wrong, she thought, suddenly
despondent. She was about to marry a man she liked but did not love; her studio had been destroyed; she had nightmares now, every night, about the intruder. And Rourke haunted her thoughts, waking and not, no matter how she told herself that he did not.

Sarah forced her thoughts to change—she had work to do. The corridor was lit at intervals by sconces. The door to her studio remained firmly closed. The police had given her permission to clean it up yesterday, and now Sarah opened the door, knowing the staff had turned the shambles back into a normal, well-kept room. She reached for the lamp on the side table by the door.

A large male hand clamped down on her mouth.

Sarah tried to scream, uselessly.

And terror overcame her. Her worst nightmare had come true—he had come back!

He pulled her back against his hard, aroused body. He laughed and whispered obscenities in her ear. She struggled, the smell of paint suffocating, but her struggles only aroused him more. He began to tell her what he wished to do to her. He was going to fuck her, again and again, and then, when the moment was right, he would take the stocking and pull it tight
. . . .

Sarah struggled against him, the recollection of that first attack assailing her, and too late she wished she had not pretended that it hadn’t happened—she wished she had told the truth.

“Little whore, did you really think I’d forget you?” he whispered, grinding his erection against her buttocks.

She couldn’t breathe. His hands were large and strong on her throat, and like vises, tightening and tightening. Blackness was exploding in her brain. Fireworks followed. He removed his hand from her mouth and she gasped for air, precious air. . . . Silk whispered around her throat.

And she knew it was the end.

“Get off of her!” Rourke screamed.

The man froze, and then she was free.

Sarah fell against the wall, gasping like a fish out of
water, sinking to the floor. She held her burning neck, tears flooding her eyes in response to the pain and the aftermath of terror. Gentle arms pulled her down onto her back. She saw Rourke’s golden eyes, and then he was tipping her head back, his mouth covering hers.

Fear renewed itself; for one moment she was in the throes of confusion, but then she felt and tasted the air he was pushing into her lungs and she sucked it down, again and again, until she could breathe—until she became aware of the taste of his lips, the pressure of his mouth, his hands gently clasping her head, so large, so strong, and so gentle. He ceased his ministrations. Their gazes locked. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.