by Brenda Joyce
She had worn the red dress because Calder Hart liked it.
And she hadn't removed his ring from the chain around her neck in an entire month, not even once.
"I think that's a good idea," Bragg said. He glanced grimly at Hart, then said, "That is Mrs. Davies, and I have seen them together several times recently."
Now she would truly retch. He had promised her fidelity. But then, if they were no longer engaged, the promise did not count. "She is quite alluring."
"She's a widow," Bragg said sharply. "She and Hart are of the same nature."
Francesca felt herself bristle. "So you know her?"
"She has a reputation."
She should not defend him. Not now, not ever again. "He may be notorious, Bragg, but he has always been a perfect gentleman with me," she said. And that was the truth—until the moment they had become engaged.
Bragg was exasperated. "You adore defending him!"
"Hardly," she said, feeling waspish as well as ill.
"I have to go," he said abruptly. But he made no move to return to his wife. "When can we speak? Truly? It's been too long, Francesca," he said.
She softened but kept Hart in the line of vision from the corner of her eye. "Tomorrow?"
"I would like that," he said. He nodded and hesitated, then picked up her gloved hand. "Do not tax yourself tonight—and not over him." He kissed her hand, surprising her, and turned away.
Francesca tore her gaze from Hart, who remained oblivious to her presence in the room, somehow, and watched Bragg join Leigh Anne. The stunning, petite brunette smiled up at him, placing her small hand on his arm, and Francesca could feel how worried she was, even if her expression remained calm and composed. Then Francesca took another glance at Hart—who now had his back completely to her—and she could stand it no more. She fled through the closest door and into the nearest hallway.
There she collapsed against a plain white wall, refusing to cry but aware of the extent of how crushed she was. Servants moved past her—the hall led to the kitchens. The clatter of pots and pans loud in the background, Francesca had one desire now; she had to escape the ball—and Hart. She had to go home.
It was really over.
She hugged herself, turning from the wall, knowing that somehow she must regroup if she was to exit the party in a decorous manner.
"Did you really think to run away from me?"
She froze as his soft drawl washed seductively over the nape of her neck, and then her heart thundered with alarm and fear. Slowly she turned to face him.
She had forgotten how much he overwhelmed her. Francesca inhaled sharply as their gazes clashed and locked. He was darkly, disturbingly handsome, but not in any classical way. His undeniably virile good looks came from how dangerously seductive he was. It had nothing to do with his eyes, navy flecked with brown and gold, or his strong, straight nose, or his dark skin and midnight hair, or the muscular body that was hidden by his clothes. It had everything to do with the smoking sensuality his entire being exuded, that and the aura of power he forever wore.
He had been born a bastard on the Lower East Side. His mother, once a whore, had died when he was a small child. Now Hart was one of the city's wealthiest and most successful businessmen, a world-renowned collector of art, a man who had risen from the ashes of nothing to acquire almost everything.
He was smiling at her. But it was a fixed smile that did not reach his cool eyes.
Francesca inhaled again. He stood mere inches from her and she remembered every moment she had spent in his powerful arms. More memories assailed her, rapidly, one after another. She recalled the first time she had ever glimpsed him, in Rick Bragg's office, a darkly disturbing and enigmatic figure; his handing her a very generous donation for one of her societies in the restaurant of the Plaza, where he had been briefly pursuing her sister; her first sip of fine Scotch whiskey, shared with him. She had been a fool to run away, she thought instantly. There was something about this man that she could not quite put her finger on—something different, unique. And his presence—as always, powerful and overwhelming—had turned her brain to useless mush and her body to soft putty. But she owed him an explanation and an apology—if he would even listen.
"And when were you going to tell me that you had come back?" he asked darkly.
She opened her mouth to tell him that she had had no choice but to succor an old friend, that she hadn't run away, that she had returned that day—and then she stopped. She had only lied to him once, in that stupid note, and she would never do so again. "I knew you'd be here tonight. I'm sorry," she added helplessly, her tone sounding tremulous to her own ears.
If only she could breathe. If only she could think. If only she could recall why she had decided to flee the city for her heart, her soul, her life.
Their gazes held. He said finally, grimly, "You provoke me as no woman ever has."
Foolishly she whispered, "I don't mean to."
For one more moment they stared. And then he seized her wrist and held up her left hand. They both stared at her fourth finger now, Francesca as if hypnotized. No ring adorned it, neither on top of the glove nor beneath it.
Francesca wanted to tug her gloved hand free, but her muscles had lost their ability to function. She knew that she had to explain the fact that she did not wear his ring and the reason she had really left town. Now was the perfect and appropriate time. But the blood was rushing in her veins, pounding in her ears, causing her to become exceedingly dim of wit. What should she do?
"So this is your decision," he said tersely.
Francesca gasped in real surprise, their gazes clashing, hers startled, his hot. She suddenly realized what he was assuming—that she was ending their engagement—but he was wrong. The notion had been debated in these past four weeks, of course, but she hated that very idea. She simply did not know what to do—but before she could protest, he tilted up her chin. "And when were you going to tell me? Or did you think to run away and hide like a frightened child?" He demanded. "You cannot hide from me. Did you enjoy your stay at the Monument Inn, darling?"
She gasped, stunned. "How did you know where I was?"
His jaw flexed hard. "I made it my business to know. Money buys anything, Francesca."
"No," she managed, trembling. "It doesn't buy loyalty— it doesn't buy love." Only one person had known where she was going—her friend Sarah Channing. He had clearly forced the information from her.
He made a derisive sound. "Like hell it doesn't."
She found it hard to breathe; he seemed trembling and breathless as well. "Hart, this isn't what you are thinking."
"No?" He was incredulous. "Do tell me what I am thinking, Francesca, please do! And it's Calder, damn it."
His anger always unnerved her. And when she was nervous, she always called him Hart. She took a deep breath for composure and even courage. "First of all, what I did was perhaps thoughtless, but I didn't mean to hurt you," she began worriedly, trying to think of what to say and how precisely to say it.
"Hurt me?" His dark brows slashed upwards again. He laughed. "You hardly hurt me, Francesca. Do you really think my feelings so fragile?"
Of course she hadn't hurt him. The man was an island unto himself—he needed no one. She stiffened. "I am sorry I inconvenienced you, then."
His eyes darkened. "You did not inconvenience me, either," he said grimly. "You are your own woman, an exceedingly independent one, and if you wish to travel, it is your right." Suddenly he gripped her left wrist and held her gloved hand between them. "When were you going to tell me?"
He did not give her a chance to speak. "I thought we had more than a passing attraction to one another, Francesca, no, I know we have more than that. We are friends, or have you forgotten? Has fear—has Rick—so addled your brain that you have forgotten why we are so fond of one another in the first place? That we began as friends and that, no matter what does happen, we shall end as friends?"
And she felt despair. "We are friends
," she whispered, meaning it. "I could not bear to ever lose your friendship, Calder. Do not talk of endings!"
He started, his expression changing, almost appearing taken aback.
She swallowed and tried to find the right words. "I went away to think. It's been so hard. Things are moving so quickly. I—" She faltered.
"You what?" he asked, not letting her off the hook.
"Marriage is forever. I do not want to make a terrible mistake."
"And marrying me would be a terrible mistake?" he asked softly.
"I did not say that!" she cried. "Do not dare put words in my mouth!"
"Then what are you saying, my dear? And do not become an incoherent lack wit now!" His gaze hardened.
But she was. Her mind spun. She simply could not give up this man, and she knew instinctively that if she backed off from the engagement, she would. If she rejected him, how could they remain friends—even if she wanted to? She met his dark, smoldering gaze and smiled a little, a smile he did not return. He was frighteningly intense now.
She wrung her hands. "You have made this so very complicated by wishing to marry me, A part of me wishes we could go back to the way things were a month ago!"
"A month ago Rick's wife hadn't returned and you were denying all the passion you feel for me. Poor Francesca." He was only half-mocking. "Torn between tawdry lust and true love."
She trembled. "That isn't fair," she tried.
"Life is rarely fair. And do you deny it is Rick that you love? Do you? I am the man you merely wish to bed." He stared, waiting for her response, his eyes as hard as obsidian.
He was wrong—in a way. Rick Bragg was no longer attainable, and yes, she had fallen in love with Bragg and he would have made the perfect husband, but so much had happened since then. And while she could admit how much she wanted to share Calder Hart's bed, their being friends made it so much more than lust. But did that mean they should really marry? He had complicated their good friendship by his proposal—and she had accepted so very hastily, without any real reflection. But a month of reflection hadn't solved anything, not really—she was scared to lose Calder Hart, but she wished the speeding locomotive she had leapt aboard would simply slow down. "I don't deny the passion I feel." And the frustration made her reckless. "We would not be in this dilemma if you had done the deed and taken me to your bed!"
He made a sound, one of sudden amusement, perhaps, and suddenly stroked her cheek. "The only way you will ever get me in bed is on our wedding night. How many times do I have to make myself clear? You I will not ruin."
"For a notorious womanizer, one the world thinks to have not one shred of morality, you do know how to frustratingly play the saint."
"I would never even try to play the saint, my dear."
She shuddered. "Everyone claims I am stubborn. But you are truly the stubborn one. And if you want the truth, I still cannot comprehend why you really want to marry ... me."
"Why are we rehashing that subject? You know you are my one and only friend, and that seems to me the perfect basis for our marriage. And darling, I am hardly the stubborn one in this pair. You have decided that you will love my esteemed half brother until the end of time, never mind that his little vixen of a wife is in his home and in his bed. And because of that damnable fantasy—a script you have written for an audience of one—you would ruin what could truly be a very enjoyable union. We suit, Francesca, very well, and neither one of us would ever become old, bored, or staid in the other's company." He was grim. "You may keep the ring. Cash it in. Donate the money to your charities. Call it a farewell from me."
Tears came, making it hard to see. He was the most generous man she had ever met. "No."
"What?" He started.
"I never said I am ending our engagement."
He was a master at controlling his emotion; his face did not change, but she saw the spark of surprise alight in his eyes.
She swallowed hard. "In fact, the ring is in my purse, and I wore it on a chain against my bosom the entire time I was away. I truly needed some time away—without pursuit—without pressure—from anyone." In truth, Hart had been so honorable with her it had become frustrating, but his determination that she would one day be his wife, and Bragg's fervent belief that his half-brother was only using her, had become pressure she could not bear.
He seized her and pulled her right into his arms. "So nothing has changed?" he asked softly.
Her mind began to spin into jumbled thoughts, the effect of being in his arms, her bosom against his impossibly hard chest.
"Do not bother to reply," he murmured, his tone as seductive as the drape of silk. "If this is a game you are playing, you are adept, Francesca," he breathed. "As adept as a courtesan tease. Frankly, I have had enough."
She looked into a pair of smoldering eyes, truly alarmed. "I am not trying to tease. You know I do not play games. I am genuinely afraid." She did not add, "of you."
But he knew. "How many times do I have to tell you that I will never hurt you? I intend to take care of you, Francesca," he murmured. "I intend to show you the finer things in life... and some of the more controversial, the shocking, and the prurient, as well."
She stilled, except for her heart, which beat like mad, firing her blood.
His hands slid from her shoulders down her nearly bare back, large, warm, strong. He held her firmly but did not pull her closer. "My clever little sleuth," he whispered, "what am I to do with you?"
She opened her mouth to tell him that she was quite capable of taking care of herself, but all speech was lost, finally, and not just because of his sensuous touch—but because he smiled at her and it reached his eyes.
He wasn't angry with her. Not anymore.
Her heart turned over hard. "Kiss me?" she suggested, her gaze moving to his firm, mobile mouth. She could taste his lips just from the sheer memory of them.
"I am thinking about it," he said, with some humor. "It has been a very long month."
She leaned against him, her hands finding the lapels of his tuxedo. Instantly, sensation burned a heated course through her entire body. "Calder ..."
He leaned closer. "It's Calder, now, is it? What am I going to do with you?" His mouth brushed hers. "Perhaps I need to marry you sooner rather than later," he said, brushing her lips lightly again. "Never run from me, Francesca. Promise me," he demanded then, his mouth hovering against her lips.
She really didn't hear. His lips caused a terrible pressure to quickly build, both between her thighs and in the tips of her breasts. She tried to move closer and was stunned by the hard, insistent pressure of his arousal. Abruptly, his hands tightened. "Promise," he demanded again.
"I promise," she muttered, not quite sure what she was promising.
Hart smiled and claimed her mouth.
Francesca was always surprised by his consummate kisses, his skilled touch. He knew how to play with her lips, her tongue; he knew how to stroke and fondle her body and arouse her to weeping desire. He covered her mouth, opened it, using his tongue to caress the corners, and as she moved more deeply into his arms—against the ridge of quivering male muscle against her hip—his mouth moved to a spot between her jaw and the lobe of her ear. His tongue wreaked havoc there. She clung, her knees seeming to vanish into thin air. She ran her fingers through the short hair at his nape, over his strong neck, down his shoulder blades, his back. His wicked mouth moved down her throat, causing her to moan and gasp, causing her nipples to harden and hurt. His hands splayed low on the sides of her hips— and the thin layer of silk between his fingertips and the flesh just inches from her groin ignited. She whimpered, trying to pull him even closer, into her, as he found her mouth with his, as their tongues sparred and their bodies rocked. Her back became wedged between him and the wall. His thighs, his chest, all rock-hard, immobilized her there.
Suddenly he broke the kiss, turning his cheek to the wall. Francesca cried out in protest, dizzy and dazed. Hart's heavy breathing filled the hall.
And Francesca's first coherent thought was that she had managed to thoroughly arouse this man, a master of self-control. He lifted his head and looked at her, and their gazes locked.
Francesca saw the smoking ash-gray desire first, but beyond that, there was keen intelligence and dark, deep reflection. She fought for coherent thought—some plot was being hatched there in his mind—she could feel his clever wheels turning.
He tilted her face upwards so that their eyes met. "I have had enough, Francesca," he said softly, warningly.
Her eyes widened with surprise. And sanity had returned. Pots and pans were clanging in the background, servants were actually passing them by, and their conversation in the kitchens, punctuated with song, could be clearly heard. They had just made a terrible public display and servants loved to gossip. But more importantly, what, exactly, did Hart mean?
"Come with me, Francesca," he said flatly, taking her hand.
"What?" She inhaled, trying to still her trembling, trying to think.
He gave her a long, dark look. "I have had enough of our silly, sophomoric game. Haven't you?"
She did not understand. She was afraid to understand. But he was already guiding her down the hall and toward the door that led into the front hall, his hold uncompromising, his strides hard and long.
It crossed her dazed mind that she must be extremely disheveled. Had her hair come down? She touched it and was relieved to find her coiffure in place. As she ran after him, she glanced down, but her dress seemed to be, miraculously, in order and where it belonged. "Calder, perhaps I should repair to the ladies' room."
He gripped her hand more tightly, quite dragging her, through the fatal doorway. "It is time to end this nonsense."
She began to understand as he pulled her swiftly through the crowd, and her heart leaped with excitement, overcoming any lingering fear, any remnants of dread. He was right. This was nonsense. She must make up her mind and go through with the marriage, and if it did not work out, well, so be it! She was hardly a romantic fool, or she had never been one until recently. She was strong—she had already proven that. If she married him and she could remain aloof, guarding her heart with care, then he would not be able to ever hurt her and they would do very well indeed.
