Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (26 page)

She looked again. He seemed grim. His smile was forced. Something was wrong.

“Francesca, dear, how are you?” Mrs. Channing appeared, a true vision in a pearl-encrusted ball gown that was terribly overdone. She dripped pearl and diamond jewelry
as well and wore a large pearl-and-diamond tiara. “Dr. Rourke, how wonderful to see you!”

Rourke smiled, dimpling, and bowed over her hand. But even as he spoke, his gaze slipped to Sarah, who stood just behind her mother. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked very annoyed. “Have you been enjoying
La Bohème?”

“Julia Montana is fabulous,” Mrs. Channing said. “And to think she is an American!”

Rourke turned more fully to Sarah. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, his gaze slipping over her figure. “You decided not to work tonight?”

Sarah smiled tightly. “Mother insisted we come.” She gave Francesca a dark look.

Rourke followed it and his brows raised, a speculative look in his eyes.

Francesca clasped Sarah’s hand. “But aren’t you enjoying the opera?”

Sarah softened. “Yes, Francesca, I am.” But then she gave her a plaintive look, one that clearly said she wished Francesca hadn’t interfered and put her in the position she was in.

“Rourke? Rourke Bragg? Is that you?” a woman cried.

Francesca turned and saw a gorgeous brunette her own age embracing Rourke. She frowned, not liking this development at all.

“This is such a surprise!” the young woman exclaimed. Her sapphire gown was as stunning as she was. “What are you doing here?” She clearly was delighted to see Rourke, and she clung to his arm.

“I’m visiting family. I could ask you the same thing, Darlene.”

Francesca glanced at Sarah, who stared at them unblink-ingly. She tried to smile reassuringly, but Sarah was too rapt to see.

“Daddy decided to visit his sister this weekend, so we all came up.”

Rourke turned. “Darlene’s father is a doctor at the hospital
where I am doing my residency,” he said. He made formal introductions all around.

Darlene studied Francesca as he did so, glancing instantly at her hand, and when she saw the ring, she turned to Sarah. As quickly, she turned back to Rourke, clearly not bothering with a similar inspection. “I’ll have to tell Daddy you are here. Maybe you can join us for Sunday dinner tomorrow.”

“I think my family has other plans,” Rourke said politely as Francesca strained to watch their every gesture and expression. Was there something between them? Rourke was impossible to read.

Hart returned, carrying three flutes of champagne. “I see I am short several drinks,” he said dryly.

Darlene’s gaze riveted on him, wide with interest. Francesca took her flute, kissing his cheek, instantly despising the other woman. “Thank you, darling,” she said.

Hart had only given Darlene a mild glance, and he gazed at Francesca, clearly amused. “Anytime . . . sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Darlene, this is my brother, Calder Hart. Calder, Darlene Fischer.”

Hart nodded, appearing indifferent to the beauty standing in their midst.

“Have we met?” Darlene asked, stepping closer. “You seem terribly familiar, Mr. Hart.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Rourke, it’s your turn to make a run for more drinks.”

“No problem,” Rourke said mildly. “Sarah? Would you mind joining me? I am terribly clumsy when it comes to carrying delicate wineglasses.”

Sarah started, flushed, and said, “Of course.”

Francesca almost laughed. Rourke, clumsy? She didn’t think so. She watched them walk off, Rourke speaking to Sarah and Sarah replying. She continued to stare, and when Sarah finally laughed, she smiled. Her plan was working, or so she hoped.

Then she realized that Darlene had taken a position on
Hart’s other side and was saying, “So, are you an opera aficionado, Mr. Hart?”

Francesca turned in time to see a coy smile, bright eyes, and a posture that positively enhanced Darlene’s already voluptuous breasts. Instantly she seethed.

Hart smiled. “I am an aficionado of any of the arts when done in a superior manner,” he said. “I saw this production last week. I enjoyed it immensely and decided my fiancée must also see it.” He turned and pulled Francesca close. “Are you enjoying yourself, darling?”

Francesca felt a dangerous emotion swirl within her chest. It felt terribly like love. She knew exactly what he was doing—he was making it clear to Darlene that he was not available. How could she not love him for it? “I am having a wonderful time,” she said softly, meeting his dark eyes. “Thank you.”

“Darling,” he corrected, kissing the tip of her nose.

Francesca smiled, and when he released her, she had a chance to see Darlene watching closely. Instantly the other woman smiled. “When is the wedding?” she asked.

Hart didn’t answer. Francesca said, “Soon. My mother is planning it, as I am too busy to do so.”

“You are too busy to plan your wedding?” Darlene was mildly shocked.

Francesca nodded. “Yes.”

“My little bride is a sleuth,” Hart drawled. “She is on a case.”

Darlene gaped.

Francesca found Hart’s hand and squeezed it. Hart could be playful, and she hadn’t realized before. It was a new side, one she was thoroughly enjoying.

Then, just past Darlene, she saw Rick Bragg walking by with Robert Fulton Cutting and his wife. Bragg was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t see them standing there.

She was holding Hart’s hand, so she felt him stiffen. Something was wrong. She had remarked it before. Unease assailed her.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, rushing off without even looking at Hart. “Rick!”

He didn’t hear her. Mrs. Cutting was chatting away, her husband smiling, Bragg as preoccupied as before.

“Rick!” She seized his arm from behind.

He started. “Francesca.”

“Hello.” She smiled breathlessly at him, then smiled at the Cuttings. “How are you?”

“Francesca, hello. We are fine, thank you,” Robert said. Then, “Would you excuse us? Rick, we will see you at the box.”

Bragg nodded and they were alone in the crowd.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight.”

He didn’t smile. “I didn’t know you would be here, either.” His gaze moved past her.

She turned. Hart was observing them, but so was Dar-lene. Rourke and Sarah had rejoined the group, and they were listening to Mrs. Channing as she chattered away. Francesca knew Hart was displeased, but he would have to wait. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?” she asked quickly.

“I’m fine.”

She plucked his sleeve. “You seem disturbed.”

“It’s been a long day, Francesca,” he sighed.

She sensed that was true. “Where is Leigh Anne?”

He did not bat an eye. “She isn’t joining me tonight.”

Francesca stared. What did that mean? Was Leigh Anne ill? Or were they fighting? “It’s a wonderful opera,” she said lamely.

He made a sound. “I wouldn’t know. I had better go back to the mayor’s box,” he said.

She took his hand. “If something is wrong, if I can help, please, you know I’d love to.”

He softened. “Thank you. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

She nodded, not wanting to discuss the case now.

He slipped his hand free and walked away.

Francesca watched him for another moment, until he disappeared through an exit, and she returned to Hart’s side.
His gaze slid over her, not quite pleasantly, and she tensed. But she smiled as she slid her hand into his. “Maybe we should return to our seats.”

“You haven’t drunk your champagne,” Hart said.

She met his gaze.

He held it for one moment and then looked away. “So tell me, Darlene, how often do you visit our fair city?”

Francesca knew Hart was annoyed with her. He remained as courteous as ever, but there was no mistaking that he had tried to provoke her by spending ten minutes during the intermission in conversation with Darlene. Now he held her elbow, guiding her down the wide front steps of the opera house. A line of double- and triple-parked coaches and carriages lined Broadway in front of the theater. Rourke, Sarah, and Mrs. Channing were behind them—Mrs. Channing had eagerly accepted Rourke’s invitation to join them for the second half of the performance in their box. The crowd was heavy on the street, but Francesca saw Darlene and her father climbing into a cab. She hoped to never see the gorgeous other woman again.

Then she saw Bragg with the Lows. They were parting company, and again she wondered why Leigh Anne had not shown.

“Shall we?” Hart intoned.

She glanced at him and saw that he had followed her gaze. She bristled, glanced back at the Channings and Rourke, and said, “I would like a word with you. Alone.”

He inclined his head, his gaze narrow enough to make her uneasy. “Excuse us,” he said. They were all having supper together that night.

Hart and Francesca walked away and faced each other, Hart releasing her arm. “Maybe you wish to court Darlene,” Francesca said tersely, then could have kicked herself, as that was not what she wanted to say; in fact, she did not wish to discuss Darlene.

Hart smiled tightly. “I’m only interested in courting one
woman, Francesca. You.” His gaze was black and very direct.

She could almost forgive him his utterly immature jealousy. “You have no right to be annoyed with me. You have known from the moment we met that Bragg is my best friend.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “So now he is your
best
friend? That is news to me, Francesca.”

She flushed. Things were awkward enough between her and Bragg, and it had been a slight exaggeration to call him her best friend. “You know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t.”

“He will always be a dear friend, Hart, even after we are married. Your jealousy is inappropriate.” He stared.

She became uneasy. “Aren’t you going to respond?”

“Very well. You wanted to marry him. You have spent several hours passionately in his arms—or so I believe. And my jealousy is inappropriate? I don’t think so, Francesca. We are engaged. You are going to be my wife. I have no intention of looking the other way so you can run off to console your oh-so-noble star-crossed lover.” His eyes glittered now.

She stepped back. “He is not my lover.”

“But he was. Except that I talked you out it, didn’t I? When you were rushing headlong into a very nasty affair, one which could only have tragic consequences, when I was a real friend to you, and not romantically inclined, I cared enough—as a friend—to beg you to think about the consequences of an affair with a married man.”

She inhaled harshly. He was right. “Still, we will always be friends. You will have to accept it. And your flirting with that ugly woman was immature, Hart!”

He dared to smile. “Yes, it was. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and I find her distasteful, too.”

She blinked. Her heart sped. “Can you ever respond the way I expect you to?”

He took her hand and reeled her in. “That would be boring, don’t you think?”

She was in his arms. She made a slight effort to dislodge him, not really wanting to, because she loved being in his arms, against his chest. “You will have to trust me, Calder, when it comes to Rick.”

“I do trust you,” he said, “but I am insanely jealous when you rush off to him. And I do believe with just cause.”

She could only stare breathlessly at him.
He was insanely jealous
. She tried to remind herself that Hart was jealous of his half-brother no matter the subject, just as Bragg was jealous of Calder. But it didn’t work. She realized she was smiling. He was insanely jealous of her!

“Stop looking so pleased,” he breathed, smiling now.

“I
am
pleased,” she said, smiling even more. “You don’t have to be jealous,” she began, her instinct to reassure him. But in a flash then she thought about all she had shared with Bragg and she knew how false her words were. Calder had every reason to be jealous, because she shared a special bond with his brother that no one could sever, not ever, not even him.

He raised a brow, clearly skeptical.

“We are engaged,” she said, touching his face. “And the one thing you must know is that I will be loyal to you.”

“I know that,” he said.

She hesitated, because clearly he had more on his mind. “What is it?”

“Your loyalty isn’t enough.”

She flinched. “What more can I give you? What else could you possibly want?”

He hesitated now, his jaw hard and tight, his eyes as black as the night.

“Your heart,” he said.

Hart hesitated on the threshold of the very exclusive and private club, a club of which he was not a member. He had
paid handsomely to get in—he had bribed the doorman with fifty dollars. “The Jewel” had a very sordid reputation—one of lechery, drunkenness, drugs. It was also well known that here a gentleman might find any type of pleasure that he wished—should he be able to afford his own exotic habits.

The Jewel was housed in a Fifth Avenue mansion that had once, half a century earlier, belonged to a Flemish merchant. From the spacious front hall where Hart stood, he could look into a salon and a dining room, all elegantly furnished, right to the original paintings hanging on the walls. Several young gentlemen gambled at poker; others dallied with young, lush prostitutes. The whores were all attractive and expensively dressed. In the dining room several patrons and their paramours were dining. Not far from where Hart stood, a pianist ripped out a jaunty tune on a grand piano. Beyond the pianist, a wide staircase led to the two upper floors of the house, where one could indulge in one’s whims, both sexual and otherwise.

A woman approached. Hart instantly knew she was the madam of the house, but he did not know if she was the owner. She was in her thirties, blond, elegant, beautiful—the pale blue gown she wore was high-necked and had sleeves to the elbows; still, it could not disguise her superb figure. She wore several small rings—a sapphire and two diamonds, as well as a beautiful sapphire bracelet. Everything about her was understated. As elegant and modestly clothed and jeweled as she was, she could easily enter any genteel salon and fool everyone present into thinking she was a real lady. She was smiling as she paused before him, but he was a master at reading people, and he knew she was alarmed by his presence.