Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (32 page)

He stared up at it now, simply furious.

Instead of the Frenchwoman in her corset and petticoats, he saw Francesca in Rick Bragg’s arms, her face soft with caring, compassion, love.

He cried out, throwing the glass of scotch at the mantel, where it shattered.

Hart paced. He had to face it, didn’t he? Francesca remained in love with Rick. She would always love him, because she was as stubborn as a woman could be—it was one of the things he found so endearing about her. She simply never gave up.

But when it came to his half brother it wasn’t endearing; it was provoking, annoying, infuriating . . . enraging.

He reminded himself that for a woman in love with another man, she was terribly hot and passionate in his, Hart’s, arms.

He was a man of the world. In this one way, she was no different from most men and women. Choosing the socially appropriate spouse—while choosing the sexually appropriate lover. She might have once wished to marry Bragg, but it was he, Hart, whom she wished to bed.

He slumped down on a ruby-red sofa. His head pounded now, the force terrible, painful, and the illicit images remained,
of his worst rival and the woman he planned to wed.

He wrenched around to stare up at his new portrait. New images of Francesca danced in his head, replacing the seductive model, in that stunning red dress, her hair coming down, her eyes dewy and soft from his kisses. She was everything that was fine and good in this ugly, sordid theater called life. She was like the sun, warming everything she gazed upon—warming him. He had smiled more in the past two months since first meeting her than he had in his entire life. He knew they would be good for each other; he’d never doubted that their marriage would be an interesting one in every possible way.

He had been looking forward to it. He, Calder Hart, the most heartless of sworn bachelors, had been anticipating his marriage to Francesca Cahill, crime-solver extraordinaire.

Another image intruded, Francesca and Bragg in each other’s arms, but instead of there being anguish, there were warm smiles. How many times had he seen them share an exclusive look? How many times had he watched them, instantly becoming the intruder, an outsider? But goddamn it, he was her fiancé it was Bragg who was the outsider now! And he closed his eyes, hard.

He was an extremely smart man. He was not a man who made excuses, who conveniently fooled himself. He was the outsider, not Bragg, and it would always be that way, even after their marriage, because it had been that way his entire life. He had never once measured up to his older brother, and he never would be accepted by anyone, not even Francesca, in Bragg’s place.

He opened his eyes, stared at the portrait, and cursed himself for being a fool.

He had to face the terrible truth. Leigh Anne was at death’s door.

If everyone else wanted to be optimistic, let them be. He had spoken to Rourke and then Barnes before stopping by her room, and he knew the truth. She was by no means
out of the woods, and they were sugar-coating just how seriously ill she was. She had suffered major surgery on her leg, had lost a tremendous amount of blood, and was now fighting an infection. She was currently stable; at any time she might go into shock, a coma; tomorrow she could even take such a turn for the worse that she would die.

He stood, inhaling sharply, temples throbbing.
Leigh Anne might die.
Dr. Barnes had refused to give him odds. Rourke had thought it about fifty-fifty. Who was he fooling? Francesca might want to be in his bed, between his legs, but the moment Leigh Anne was dead, she would be back in Rick’s arms, and it would be his bed that she was warming.

If Leigh Anne died, Francesca and Rick would be free to marry after all.

And instead of a familiar and welcome rage, there came the first stirrings of panic. Hart did not know the feeling— and he did not want to know it. Firmly he told himself that he didn’t care—and it was a monstrous lie. He did care, very much; he could not bear Francesca leaving him for his goddamned half brother. He could not bear losing her, not now. She had become as important to him as the air he breathed, as the sunlight on his face.

Hart looked up at his intricate ceiling. Not very long ago he had laughed at men who were smitten with a woman, who wanted to marry, who cared. Caring had changed him, and sometimes he liked the changes; now he hated them. The vulnerable, frightened, and needy orphan he had been as a child had been deeply buried a long time ago. A powerful, indifferent, and selfish man had replaced that boy. Now the boy felt perilously close, perilously near. Hart despised the boy.

He reminded himself that she was far too good for him. That she deserved his noble, civic-minded half brother. She deserved a white picket fence and dinners of state. She deserved the finest things life could offer; she deserved to have all of her dreams come true, every single damned one of them; she deserved true love.

In that instant, his future paraded itself before his very eyes, a future without the clever and ingenious Francesca Cahill. There would be more women than he cared to have, women whose faces would be forgotten before they had even left his bed; there would be business to conclude, deals and negotiations, new companies to form, build, steal, acquire. When he was sixty, he’d have a twenty-year-old mistress and more money than any man had a right to. He’d have a dozen fine homes scattered about the globe and a collection of art worthy of a European museum. And dear God, he’d have his portrait of Francesca, too, wouldn’t he? Her good-bye gift to him.

He walked over to the mirror above the bar and smiled grimly at himself. And his blackest self reared up, taunting and insistent. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the devil.

You don’t have to give her up. But you already know that, don’t you?

Hart fought against the ugly voice inside of his head.

So what if Leigh Anne dies? Take what Francesca has been offering, seduce her—ruin her—and she will have to marry you.

He opened his eyes and stared at himself in the mirror. And he saw the man who didn’t just move mountains; he saw the man who commanded a mountain to come, and it came. It was the reason he had built a fortune from pennies; he simply did not know how to lose or give up.

But Francesca had the kindest and most selfless heart of anyone he knew. She deserved more than passion and friendship; she deserved love. And that he could not give to her.

She deserved Rick Bragg. And to make matters worse, he truly knew it.

Seduce her. Seduce her tonight. Make sure you are caught in the act—or close to it. You won’t have to wait a year, my friend, and once her father knows you have compromised her, nothing will prevent your getting what you want. Nothing will come between you and Francesca, not
even that bastard brother of yours, not even Rick.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

Then he thought he heard a knock on the bedroom door. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? He walked across the huge bedroom and opened it.

Alfred smiled grimly. “Sir, Miss Cahill is downstairs. She has asked to see you. What shall I tell her?”

He stiffened.
Seduce her. Here is your chance
. He wet his lips and heard himself say, “Send her away. Tell her anything that you wish.”

Alfred hesitated.

Hart was livid. “Do it, Alfred, do it
now.”

“Yes, sir. And before I go, is there anything I can—”

“No.” Hart shut the door rudely in his face, then leaned against it, sweating.

Fool. You had the perfect chance.

Hart quickly recrossed the room, as if he could really and truly outdistance the evil voice in his head. He poured another scotch and downed it in a single gulp.

He poured another scotch, calming now, this time sipping it. The liquor was doing what he wanted it to do; it was silencing the worst side of him.

“Calder?”

He whirled—and gazed at Francesca Cahill, smiling tentatively at him, standing on the threshold of his bedroom.

And here is golden opportunity, knocking at your door. He laughed.

Hart trembled. “Francesca, you should not be here. Not now, not tonight.”

She smiled at him. “I’m not leaving,” she said.

S
UNDAY
, M
ARCH
30, 1902—7:00 P.M.

“Y
OU ARE VERY BOLD
.”

Francesca smiled firmly. “Yes, I am.” She couldn’t help glancing around, trying not to appear awestruck by his palatial bedroom. She refused to stare at the bed—not that she hadn’t seen it the moment she’d stepped into the room or, rather, the moment after she’d seen Hart. As she had imagined, it was huge.

“I’m giving you one more chance to leave,” Hart murmured.

Francesca started—his tone was soft and sexy, seductive. She had come to explain about that afternoon at the hospital, and she had been expecting jealousy and anger, not this. She took a breath. “We need to speak.”

His brows lifted, his expression sardonic. “In my private rooms?”

“One day these will be my rooms, too, won’t they?” she said, her heart racing at the notion. She gave up. She turned
to stare at the bed. “I’m afraid to ask. Have kings slept there?”

“And princes and dukes—and undoubtedly their lovers, too.”

Her gaze flew to his. He wasn’t smiling. He was staring. “Calder. Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be all right?” he returned smoothly.

A vast space separated them—the distance of two or three bedrooms. His behavior seemed—and felt—odd. It was almost as if he were playing a game—carefully, deliberately. Francesca approached, thinking about being at the hospital, about comforting Rick—and Hart having seen. “You’re not angry with me?” she asked, realizing that her tone was unsteady. It was impossible, in spite of the room’s dimensions, not to be acutely aware of being alone with Calder Hart in his bedroom. Now, as she came closer, she saw how disheveled he was. His dress shirt was unbuttoned well past his chest, revealing an interesting slab of muscle and some equally interesting black chest hair. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His forearms were also dusted with hair, and sculpted with tendon, bone, and muscle. But then, she knew exactly how strong he was.

“Why would I be angry with you?” Hart drawled softly.

She halted, meeting his gaze. It was impossible to look away. She wet her lips. “I wanted to explain—but I see I don’t have to.”

He turned and walked away. Francesca watched him go to a bar built into the wall. As he poured two drinks, she saw his carefully neutral expression in the mirror above the countertop. His being so mild of manner and temperament was very odd. It wasn’t right. She was vaguely alarmed.

But it was delicious, being alone with him in his bedroom. She smiled a little then, turning to really look around. She gazed upon a dozen museum-quality rugs, antique tables, exquisitely upholstered chairs, tufted ottomans, exotic mirrors. There were four sofas in the three different seating areas. She saw a large cast-iron box that appeared distinctly Spanish on one small table. A round red lacquer Chinese
box was beside a different table. As she studied the room’s contents, she knew exactly which items Hart had chosen and which had been purchased by his decorator. She smiled, pleased with herself.

When he spoke, she felt his breath teasing her nape. “I think you could use a drink.”

She turned and he stood so close, staring at her with such watchful eyes, that her skirts brushed his thighs. She stepped back, accepting the drink. Why was he regarding her that way? As if she were a mouse in a laboratory experiment? “Thank you, Calder. Not for the drink. For not being in a jealous rage. I must admit, I am terribly surprised—and very relieved.”

He said nothing, saluting her with his glass.

She had an idea that he was also thinking about their being alone in his bedroom, so she sipped quickly. As the incredibly smooth scotch floated over her tongue, she smiled. “My, this is good.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

Their gazes locked. Francesca couldn’t hold his gaze—there remained something different about him that she could not identify—and she turned away, disturbed but frankly titillated. “It’s terrible about Leigh Anne,” she murmured.

“Yes, it is. A tragedy.”

Francesca would have whirled to see if he was mocking, but instead, she stiffened. There was a portrait hanging over the fireplace, and the woman in it looked like her!

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Hart whispered from behind.

She could only stare. “For one moment, I thought that was me!”

“It was painted twenty years ago, in Paris,” he said softly, his breath teasing her neck.

Francesca could not move, as the implications of his having this portrait there in his room, facing his bed, tried to sort themselves out in her mind. “Why? Why did you put this here?” she asked roughly.

His hands cupped her shoulders. “Because,” he said,
nuzzling her nape, “it seemed extremely appropriate.”

She didn’t move. She couldn’t. He stood close enough that she felt a stiff hardness against the edge of her hip. She inhaled, trembling—it was his manhood, wasn’t it?

His hands slid down her arms. “She kept me company while you were away,” he breathed.

She swallowed. “What are you doing?”

She felt his smile against her skin. “Kissing you.” And his lips brushed the side of her neck.

Her eyes closed. Red-hot desire paralyzed her. Hart wrapped her in his arms, still from behind, and she felt every inch of his arousal, straight up, against her. He crushed her even closer, his strong arms lifting her breasts. His mouth moved with increasing urgency on her neck and he breathed her name, a seductive sigh.

Francesca gasped, clinging to forearms.

“I missed you when you were gone,” he whispered, covering her breasts with his hands.

“I missed you, too,” she managed, surprised by his boldness. Her nipples hardened instantly.

“I hope so,” he murmured, sliding his hands slowly down her belly.

Francesca tried to restrain herself, but she could not; she began shaking like a leaf, knowing where he would soon go.