Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  “I am going down the hall to check on a file,” Bragg said. He glanced at Francesca with obvious concern. She wanted to send him a small, reassuring smile but she simply couldn’t.

  He walked out.

  A terrible silence fell.

  Francesca walked past Hart to close the office door, acutely aware of his powerful presence. Then, slowly, she turned. “I will always love you.”

  “Don’t.”

  She bit her lip. “Why can’t I profess my feelings? I have already realized that if you never loved me—as you claimed yesterday—then it is truly over. I would never chase you, Hart. I would never beg for your affections. However, even if our past relationship was a lie and if you never loved me and it is over, I will still be your friend.”

  His eyes widened. Finally, she had an honest reaction from him.

  “You see, I can still see the good in you,” she said softly.

  “Don’t you dare!” he exploded, turning dark with anger.

  She went still. She watched him flush and instantly rein in his temper. She fought her own wildly racing pulse. He was not immune to her or her feelings, she thought, at once relieved and thrilled. Her faith in him had the ability to arouse him! Very softly, she said, “And if you did love me, then this will pass, and when you come to your senses and realize I was not at fault yesterday, I will receive you with open arms.”

  His expression tightened. “I have come to my senses. I came to my senses when I realized I was a fool to consider marrying you.”

  She stared. “Because I am such an eccentric woman? One you lust for but do not love?”

  “No, Francesca, because you are genuinely honest, with a heart of gold and enough passion and ambition for a dozen men—because your heart is pure. We never suited, my dear.”

  “What on earth does that mean? We suit very well!” she cried.

  He spoke very softly then. “How often have I said that you deserve Rick, or someone like him? Our estrangement is for the best. Yes, yesterday I was angry. You left me standing at the altar in front of most of New York society. It was rather unpleasant—it was shocking. But I have had time to think about it. I am the wrong man for you.”

  “I do believe that is my decision!” she cried. “You are the perfect man for me!”

  “My decision is final. You can do better, and I have little doubt that you will.” His smile was as twisted as earlier.

  “My God, are you once again trying to protect me?”

  His stare hardened. “I am not being noble, so do not even think it.”

  “If you are claiming that you are not good enough for me and using yesterday as an excuse to break it off with me on the grounds that I can do better, then I will most certainly think you are being noble!”

  He laughed abruptly, mockingly. “I might be using yesterday as an excuse, but you certainly used that note as an excuse to avoid marriage to me, my dear.”

  She froze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  He couldn’t possibly believe what he had just said. “I couldn’t wait to take our vows! I couldn’t wait to walk down that aisle as your bride and then return up the aisle as your wife!”

  “You knew deep in your heart that I am your second choice and when the note arrived, you seized the opportunity to race off chasing ghosts, Francesca—avoiding marriage to me.”

  She cried out. Did he actually think she had subconsciously used that invitation as a means of escaping marriage?

  “Have you truly forgotten that, when we first met, you were in love with my brother, and mine was the shoulder you cried upon?” he asked very softly. His black gaze was piercing.

  She trembled. Of course she hadn’t forgotten, but she would not say so. “I love you.”

  One dark brow slashed upward. “I truly believe Rick’s marriage is doomed. The two of you are perfectly matched—everyone thinks so. Even I think so.”

  “Stop it!” she gasped, her heart beating so wildly she felt faint. “Why are you doing this?”

  “That note—fate—intervened yesterday, saving you from a lifetime in my clutches. I am not sorry. And you should not be, either.” He was final.

  It was a moment before she could find her voice. “I am not in love with Rick, and I had no doubts about marrying you. I did not race off after my portrait because on some secret level, I wanted to avoid marriage to you. I went to save my reputation! I truly meant to arrive at the church in time. But, in case you have forgotten, I was locked inside the gallery, Hart! I was prevented from attending our wedding.”

  He shook his head, pacing away from her. “It is done, Francesca.”

  She inhaled. “Only a few weeks ago, you ended our engagement when you were arrested for Daisy’s murder, but you loved me then. You said your feelings hadn’t changed. Do you still love me?” she cried.

  He did not blink. “I am fond of you. Enough to want the best for you.”

  “Damn it,” she cried. “Stop thinking to protect me from yourself!”

  He stared for a long moment and said quietly, “But I am the one ruining you now, Francesca. Again.”

  She tried to grapple with his declaration. “Whoever stole that portrait is hoping to ruin me, Hart, and that person is not you.”

  His mouth curled. “That portrait only exists in the first place because I commissioned it. Had I been a true gentleman—someone like my brother, perhaps—that portrait would not be as provocative and compromising as it is. I asked you to pose nude. And now, your future is at stake.” His smile returned, but it was a simple baring of his white teeth. “Do not tell me that I am not the one responsible for the predicament you are now in.”

  He blamed himself—of course he did.

  He added, “Last time, it was my past that caught up with us. Now, it is my black soul.”

  She cringed. “Your soul isn’t black. It is not defective, not in any way. I not only love you, I admire you—and I always will.” But she knew how impossible and unyielding he was in this kind of instance. When Hart decided he must protect her, nothing could dissuade him.

  “Then you are a fool.” He was angry, she saw. His mouth was hard and tight. Muscles clenched in his jaw.

  “Do you want me to see you as some despicable, selfish reprobate?” she cried.

  “Yes, goddamn it, I do!” he cried in return, harshly. “Instead of anticipating the day you feel otherwise, it will finally be here!”

  She could not understand such gibberish. She stepped forward and touched his strong jaw. “Never.”

  For one moment, his skin burned, rough and unshaven beneath her hand. In that moment, she wanted to be in the circle of his arms, feeling every inch of his hard body against hers, his powerful heart pounding against her breasts. He pulled away. “Don’t.”

  She wet her lips. “Don’t tempt you? Entice you? Why? Be cause when I touch you, you want me?”

  He strode past her, his hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers. He stared outside the office window at Mulberry Street, his face hard and tight. He finally said, “The stirrings of my body are meaningless.”

  She did not believe it. He was too jaded to become so swiftly aroused. “I miss you,” she whispered. “And I need you.”

  He turned, his hands still in his pockets. “I am here to help you solve the case, as this is, ultimately, my fault.”

  She began shaking her head. “Blame me, if you are to blame anyone, for being such a fool as to pose nude.”

  He was silent, but she knew he hadn’t stopped blaming himself—and he never would.

  At least they were talking. At least he cared enough to want to help her now. She said carefully, “So you are here to help us find the painting?”

  He became wary. “I don’t want you hurt, Francesca, and I do not want you ruined.”

  She was very still. “You still care.”

  His wary expression did not change. “I will always enjoy your company. I will always appreciate your intelligence and wit. I
feel as you do—that we will always be friends, unless the day comes where you turn your back on me. So yes, I still care. You are a special woman. I am here as your friend.”

  Francesca sighed. Had she really thought to maneuver him into some kind of declaration of love? “And after we find the portrait and the thief?”

  “I will remain your friend, supporting you in all your endeavors and choices.”

  It was hard to breathe properly, much less speak. “And if you remain my choice?”

  He gave her a warning look. “You cannot pursue me and win.”

  She trembled. “So we are no longer engaged.”

  He said quietly, “I am sorry, Francesca. It was a mistake.” His gaze moved to the eight-carat diamond she was wearing. “That should be in a safe.”

  She hugged herself. She wanted Hart back. Of that, there was no doubt. But she had no idea how she should proceed. Just then, honesty seemed the best policy. “I am wearing your ring to my grave.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose that is your decision.”

  She looked at the beautiful diamond. It glittered with stunning fire from her finger. Softly, not looking up, she said, “I will not give up on us.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  She jerked to meet his speculative gaze.

  “You will come to your senses soon enough, Francesca, because my powers of persuasion—and seduction—will no longer be exercised.”

  He was the most powerful man she knew. Even if he loved her still, she wasn’t sure he would change his mind once he had committed to such a strong decision.

  Ironically, his reasons were moral, when he claimed to be as amoral as a man could be.

  A silence had fallen. He still stood by the window behind Rick’s desk. She stood in the middle of the office, not far from the fireplace, no longer at liberty to move close to him, to touch his arm or take his hand or even blurt out whatever was on her mind. A gulf yawned between them—the gulf made by his decision to end things. It felt as vast as an ocean.

  The pain of heartbreak stabbed through her again. She was never going to stop loving him, she thought. And even the greatest of oceans could be traversed.

  A soft rapping on the door sounded and Rick poked his head in. He glanced at her and then Hart, before stepping back into his own office. “I suppose the lack of fireworks is an indication that some progress has been made?”

  Francesca hugged herself rather miserably. She did not know what to say. Clearly, they had arrived at some kind of truce. He meant to aid her in the investigation, which meant they would work closely together. There was hope. It was not over yet.

  “I am here to offer my services in this investigation,” Hart said, ignoring Rick’s flicker of surprise and the concerned glance he cast at Francesca. “By the way, I have fired every one of my investigators. I believe it is time to roll up my shirtsleeves and resolve this matter once and for all.”

  Rick said, “As much as I’d like to decline your offer, I’ll take all the help I can get. No one is better connected than you are to the art world of this city. I imagine that most art dealers would jump at the opportunity to aid you. We were about to interview Daniel Moore. Whatever his story is, Hart, you can certainly verify it.”

  “I stopped by the gallery this morning.”

  Francesca looked at him in surprise.

  “I had never heard of it. The work there is quite commercial—and inferior. Moore does not know his art. He might be a charlatan, simply out to make a quick dollar.”

  “That is a leap to make, based simply on his artistic judgment,” Rick said.

  “Yes, it is. But time will prove whether my leap is correct or not.”

  “Maybe Moore allowed our thief into his gallery,” she said. “Perhaps there was remuneration. In any case, I would welcome a blackmail note.”

  Rick took her elbow. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “I cannot imagine the thief not sending a blackmail note,” she said, glancing at Hart. “I feel as if one is impending.”

  Hart frowned. “If the thief wanted cash, he would have ransomed the portrait long ago, instead of waiting for our wedding day. The thief wishes to toy with you—to torment you.”

  “Or he or she wishes to torment you,” Rick said flatly to his half brother.

  Hart shrugged. “That remains a distinct possibility. My coach is outside.” Hart shoved off the wall he had been leaning against. “I can take Francesca to question Moore.”

  Her heart leaped wildly, exultantly, again. “Rick, we could go now and fill you in later.” She wanted this time alone with Hart.

  He looked carefully at her, warning in his eyes. “I do not mind you interviewing Moore without me, Francesca. But are you sure you wish to do so with Hart, after all that has transpired?”

  She looked at Hart, who gazed back at her. “I think the worst is over,” she said, truly hoping that was the case. “He has come to help, and we remain friends. And we are agreed on one point—that portrait must be recovered, and quickly.”

  “That portrait must be destroyed,” Hart said.

  “Fine,” Rick said. “But keep me posted on what you discover.”

  Francesca could barely believe that she was leaving Bragg’s office with Hart. She smiled at Rick, then started out, clutching her purse. Hart fell into step behind her.

  It felt odd and yet perfectly familiar. She dared to glance sidelong at him, hoping he would not suspect how nervous she now was.

  His gaze was sober. “After you, Francesca,” he said, gesturing at the elevator.

  She faltered. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He was looking at her directly, without anger, his gaze holding a significance she could not decipher. And in that moment, she knew there was hope. He was on her side, no matter the decision he’d made—and decisions could be changed. She smiled a little and preceded him into the cage.

  An awkward silence came between them as they drove downtown.

  Uncertain of what to make of their relationship, Francesca forced a smile. “Please, let’s not be formal with one another.”

  “And how is asking for a list of suspects formal?”

  “It was your tone.” She smiled warmly this time. “I do not think I will be good at this, Hart.” When he remained silent, she said, “We are very close, and I can hardly pretend otherwise.”

  He shrugged, his dark gaze steady.

  She sighed. He could be so impossible! “Solange Marceaux is at the top of my list. I am hoping to find the prostitute I met when I was masquerading as one. Dawn might know where Solange is.”

  “And how will you find Dawn?”

  “I will begin by interviewing Rose,” Francesca said, glancing intently at him.

  He remained calm. “My investigators spoke to her at length, Francesca. She was very hostile to them. I do not trust her, not even now, as there is so much past history between us. She remains hateful of me.”

  “I don’t believe that Rose would go this far to hurt me.”

  “No, but she might go this far to hurt me.” He added, “Rose lives in a brothel off Sixth Avenue. Two months ago, I had Daisy’s house thoroughly searched. We found nothing.”

  Francesca started. “You thought Rose had taken my portrait and hidden it there? How would she have ever known about it?”

  “Where else would she hide it if she took it? Under her bed?” His smile was brief. “I commissioned your portrait rather publicly, Francesca—at a ball, in front of guests. The fact that Sarah was painting it was rather common knowledge.”

  “Yes, but only you, Sarah and I knew it was a nude, Hart. When you first commissioned it, you asked me to pose in my red ball gown.”

  “I remember.” He gave her a significant look that made her flush. He had been so jealous at the ball. It was the night they had realized that desire charged their relationship. “I admit that I was grasping at straws. In any case, you should talk to her. I am sure you will be at you
r most persuasive, and if she knows anything, you will discover it.”

  He had such faith in her abilities, she thought. “Thank you.” She smiled, but he turned to glance out his window. She almost sighed. The coach turned onto Broadway. She began to think about the gallery owner, whom she hoped was home. As it was a Sunday afternoon, he might be out and about, strolling in a park, or dining in a restaurant with his wife—if he was married. She leaned forward eagerly, toward Hart, to see which street number they were passing.

  “Number 529 is ahead,” he said softly.

  She brushed his arm with her shoulder, and she simply looked at him, not moving away. The Hart of old would have touched her cheek and removed a tendril of hair there. Instead, he was the one to break eye contact, looking out of his carriage window again.

  Francesca settled back in her seat as their coach stopped. She would dwell on her personal life later. Impatient now, she was pleased that Hart did not wait for Raoul. He opened his door, stepping out, then very politely, as any gentleman would, helped her out to the street.

  “Thank you.” She started forward swiftly as Hart told Raoul to find a convenient space to park the coach. Number 529 was a squat brick building containing two apartments per floor. Daniel Moore’s name was on the plaque that read 2A. “He is on the second floor.”

  Hart reached past her to open the heavy front door, and they entered a pleasant hall with a Persian rug and a brass chandelier. Against one wall, a handsome, if tired, table with gilded claw feet stood, a painting of a house in the snow in a wood frame above it. The oil painting was terrible—Francesca had seen enough art to know the difference between a layman’s rendering and that of a genius. “This has come from his gallery, I think,” she said.

  “I would definitely say so.” Hart took her elbow, turning her toward the stairs. She smiled impulsively at him. He dropped his hand and she knew he hadn’t thought before touching her in such a familiar way.

  She was going to reclaim their love, she thought fiercely, her pulse pounding. Then she turned her attention to the interview about to take place. She hurried up the two flights of stairs, Hart behind her. The moment she knocked on Moore’s door, a blonde woman of about thirty answered.