Deadly Illusions (4 page)

But there was no escaping Julia. “Francesca!” Julia Van Wyck Cahill cried. Her tone was stern and it halted her daughter in her tracks.

Her cheeks warmed with guilt. Francesca felt like a thief
caught with her hand in someone else's safe, not for the first time. Well, there was no escaping now. Slowly, she returned to the threshold of the room, attempting a pleasant smile for the large audience.

All conversation stopped. Mild stares were turned her way.

Julia stood. There was no mistaking the resemblance between Francesca and her mother. Julia was blond, blue-eyed and still of a fine figure. She had been a reigning beauty in her day. As always, she was resplendently dressed in a blue evening gown of silk and lace with three-quarter sleeves, with sapphires at her ears and neck to match. She seemed rigidly displeased, but Francesca did not notice. Instead, in shock, her gaze whipped past her mother to the dark man sitting so indolently at the table in its center.

There was no vacant place, because Calder Hart had taken it.

But he was supposed to be in Chicago,
wasn't he?

Her heart slammed and raced.
Calder was home.
“You're back,” she whispered, stunned, and their gazes locked.

He slowly got to his feet, a very slight smile on his dark face, and he bowed.

Francesca had missed him and there was no denying it. Maybe her attraction to Hart was purely physical, but she dearly hoped not. And if it was, then she was not the first to be so foolishly smitten.

Francesca had always assumed she would one day marry a man like her father, someone respectable, admirable, honorable, a reformer and an activist—someone like Rick Bragg. Instead, she was engaged to the city's wealthiest businessman and most notorious womanizer. She still remained uncertain as to how this had happened, and so quickly. One moment she was friends with the enigmatic and oh-so-charismatic Hart and he was under suspicion for murder. The next, they were secretly engaged—until he had taken matters in his own hands, tired of
her procrastination, making a public announcement. How had she fallen in love with Calder Hart? And was it even love?

Whenever she was with Hart, she felt as if she had boarded a locomotive that had lost all its brakes and was speeding downhill on an endless track. But as frightening as it was, she would not jump off, oh no.

She had made up her mind.

Francesca could hardly breathe as Julia said, “Are you going to join us, Francesca? You are a bit late, of course, but I am sure the traffic must have been terrible. And as you can see, your fiancé called. Of course, I invited Calder to stay and dine with us.”

Francesca had the utmost difficulty tearing her gaze from Hart. But there was an odd note in Julia's tone, anxiety, per haps, or tension. And then she gave up, simply staring at the man who had somehow, inexplicably, offered marriage, mum bling, “I had better go upstairs and change.”

Calder stepped away from the dining table. With some alarm, he said, “Francesca, are you about to faint?”

Francesca had no clue as to what he was speaking about. Before she could react he was at her side, his arm around her waist as if holding her up. “I'm afraid my fiancée needs some air,” he said firmly, and before either Andrew or Julia could speak, he was propelling her from the room.

Hart was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was clad in a dark suit. The pitch-black wool might have been dour on another man, but on him it only heightened a sense of danger and made him more alluring. Hart's gaze moved over her face and Francesca knew she blushed, her heart continuing to race wildly. His dark eyes—midnight blue flecked with gold—slipped down her jacket and skirts.

She began to smile, leaning against him. They crossed the hall and entered a salon, Hart's strong arm an anchor about her waist. He stopped just inside the salon, one with a dozen
opulent seating areas. Smiling back at her, he pushed the door closed with his foot.

She choked down her rising laughter. “That was painfully transparent.”

He took her in both arms. “I have been away for two very long weeks, Francesca,” he murmured, “and we both know I don't care what the present company says or thinks.”

She knew she should protest as his hands slipped to her shoulders. Not because she did not want his kisses, but because her father was very opposed to Hart and was testing him in every way to see if he was worthy of her. Julia, on the other hand, wanted the match and openly gloated about it. She grasped his shoulders, too. “I think you missed me, Hart.” She felt certain that he had and she grinned, never mind the heat slamming through her body.

“How clever a deduction,” he said. “And it's Calder, darling—or am I making you nervous?” A dimple winked in his cheek. He
was
making her nervous, damn him for knowing! They had only shared a few hours of intimacy together, and she had forgotten how devastating it was being in his arms, his hard, strong body pressed up against hers. Clearly he was aroused, and she decided to ignore the question. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

“Bold wench,” he said, and she heard laughter in his tone. “You did not answer me, darling. Why am I making you nervous?” And he stared intently into her eyes, no longer smiling at all.

She stared back, her breath suspended. “I don't know,” she finally said. “These past few weeks have felt so odd. I have been drifting about in a fog. It's almost as if it has all been a dream. I expect to wake up and find you a figment of my imagination!”

Surprise was there in his eyes, which were turning the color of ash. But his grip tightened on her. “I'm flattered, Francesca,
but I am not a dream. In fact, some women find me a nightmare.”

She wet her lips, well aware of all the broken hearts he had left in his wake. “I don't,” she began. “Calder—”

He cut her off, pulling her close and covering her mouth with his.

Francesca lost all coherent thought. He knew how to kiss a woman, as he had seduced so many, but this time he wasn't interested in seduction. As his mouth instantly opened hers, as he penetrated deeply with his tongue, she sensed his need to possess. She melted as he kissed her again and again, somehow standing, her legs useless, desire pooling between her thighs, a flood. Hart had come to hold her face in his hands as he continued to kiss her as deeply as he could. Somehow, she managed to realize that he had really missed her. His desire felt explosive. She was beyond thrilled.

She tore her mouth from his. It was hard to speak as she clung to him. “Why don't you take me home tonight,” she finally gasped.

His eyes widened. “I won't pretend I am not tempted and highly so, but nothing has changed. We wait until our wedding night, Francesca.”

Her hands fisted and she pounded him once on the chest. “Damn it! I hate your nobility!”

He smiled at her. “I'm the least noble man you know. But I won't treat you like the others.”

“You've never offered marriage to anyone else, so even if we share a bed before the wedding, you are not treating me like the others!” she cried. But this was a useless battle and she knew it. They'd had it several times before.

He stepped away from her, murmuring, “I'll take care of you, but this is not the time or the place.”

She finally began to breathe, trembling now. She knew what he meant. She had been in his bed, once, for a few hours. He had touched and kissed her everywhere, giving her more pleasure
than she had ever dreamed possible. It had been sheer ec stasy. She blushed just thinking about it. “When?”

He laughed and turned away, raking his hand through his coarse, dark hair. “As soon as the opportunity presents itself,” he said, amusement in his tone.

“What is so entertaining about this?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

He stood at the fireplace, both hands on the marble mantle, and he gave her a look over his shoulder. His eyes were hot; his tone was not. “This is far harder for me than you, darling. Trust me.”

“Let's move up the wedding,” she demanded.

“You know it is your father who insists upon a year.”

“I am going to change his mind,” Francesca vowed grimly.

He turned and faced her, making no effort to come close. “There is blood on your jacket,” he remarked.

Surprised, she glanced down at herself. When she saw a large, obvious smear of dried blood on the bottom of her blue wool jacket, she gasped. Then the comprehension dawned and horrified, she looked up.

His smile was grim. “Only you would walk into a dinner party covered in blood. Another case…darling?”

She found her voice. “No wonder Mama sounded so strange! Oh, dear! And I am not covered in blood—it is one smear!”

“There's a patch on your skirt, too.” His tone was flat and surprisingly calm.

Which meant nothing. With Hart, it could be the lull before the storm. Francesca carefully noted a spot near her left knee. “I must have brushed the sheets,” she remarked, more to her self than to him.

“The sheets? Care to elaborate?” How casual he sounded.

She wrung her hands and met his gaze. “Did everyone see?”

“Undoubtedly.” He softened, approaching and taking her
small hands in his large ones. “We will be the talk of the town, will we not, darling? I can see it now. My indiscretions, my past, my penchant for depravity, my shocking art—all will become passé. You shall meet me at an affair covered in blood, or with the smell of gunpowder on your clothes and in your hair. Now, instead of gossiping about me behind my back, they will gossip about you. They shall whisper that we are the oddest match, but that we deserve one another.” He actually smiled, clearly enjoying the notion.

“This isn't funny,” she said, her heart sinking. “I know you don't care about your reputation, but I do care about mine, or at least, Mama cares, desperately, and—”

He suddenly reached out and reeled her back into her arms. “I know it hurts you to be called an eccentric, but with me at your side, they can call you far worse and it simply will not matter. As my wife, you will be able to do as you want. Surely you know that, Francesca? Our marriage will give you more freedom to be what you truly are than you have ever dreamed of.”

She stared, stunned. Of course, she knew Hart liked to shock society, as he so disdained its conventions, and he had the wealth and power to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased. But she frankly hadn't considered the power she would gain as his wife. He was right. They might gossip about her be hind her back, but as Mrs. Calder Hart, no door would ever be closed to her. As Mrs. Calder Hart, she could do whatever
she
pleased, whenever she pleased to do it.

The concept was stunning.

He chuckled softly. “You are usually a step ahead of the game, Francesca. I see how surprised you are, and how pleased.” He added, “I am glad that is not the reason you are marrying me. It isn't my wealth you are after and it isn't posi tion and power. Hmm. It must be my kisses. Now, tell me about this latest case.”

She became aware of his powerful body and snuggled closer.
“It is definitely your kisses, Hart, that have so ensnared me.” She laughed softly as the notion of marrying any man merely from desire was so absurd, but then her smile faded. Hadn't she been worrying about that very possibility just that afternoon? The notion was far too frightening. She quickly changed the subject. “Did you read about the Slasher in Chicago?”

His gaze as intent but far different, he shook his head. “No.”

Francesca quickly told him about the first two victims. “Do you remember little Bridget O'Neil?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, I do. Of course. We rescued her from that child-prostitution ring.”

“Her mother found a woman murdered next door to their flat. And from the look of it, it was also the work of the Slasher. At least, that is what we think.” She thought about the trip she must make to police headquarters that next morning. It was her first order of business, actually. She needed to know if the police had surmised that the Slasher had indeed been the murderer. Afterward she would call on Francis O'Leary.

Then Francesca realized that Hart had tensed, and she knew what was coming. She wished she had chosen her words with more care.

“We?” he asked, his gaze direct, his tone sharp.

She winced to herself and sighed. “Bragg was at the crime scene. He was as concerned as I was for Maggie Kennedy's safety. We happened to be there at the same time and apparently we are both on the case.” She avoided his eyes, wondering if there would be a jealous eruption. With Hart, she never knew what to expect. He was entirely unpredictable, at times arrogant and secure, at others, jealous and enraged.

His jaw flexed. “Of course, your latest investigation involves my dear, so
noble
half brother.”

She met his gaze and sensed the storm clouds, but did not see them. “He is the commissioner of police!”

“He has more to do than investigate common crimes—he
has a detective force for that.” Hart walked away from her. His shoulders seemed rigid now.

She followed. “You have no reason to be jealous,” she said, and the moment she spoke she regretted it.

He turned. “I never said I was jealous. The last thing I am is jealous of Rick.” His eyes had turned dark.

“If he wishes to pursue an investigation, I can hardly stop him.”

“Of course not. But the question is, do you welcome his attention?” And his tone was mocking.

She tensed. “Hart, we are engaged. I have made my choice and a sincere commitment. Good God, a moment ago I was fainting from passion in your arms! I don't want Bragg to be between us, especially not when my profession will constantly bring me into contact with him.”

He sighed. “You are right. I am jealous. I have been gone for two weeks, and every day I have been acutely aware of the fact that at any moment, you could change your mind and take him back.”