Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  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 selfcontrol. 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.

  Ladies and gentlemen were stepping back to let them pass. Hart seemed to have become a man with a mission, and no one dared stand in his way. Francesca saw her brother and the countess as she passed, but they were a blur. She saw Mrs. Davies, who appeared annoyed and far less of a blur. She reminded herself to ask him about that. Then she saw her parents.

  Julia Van Wyck Cahill was a stunning blonde who had clearly passed her striking looks on to her daughters. She did a double take when she saw Francesca with Hart, and then she began to smile. Julia adored Hart and had been scheming for some time to match him up with her younger daughter.

  Andrew Cahill had made his fortune in Chicago in meatpacking. He was short and stout, with a characteristic look of benevolence upon his whiskered cheeks. He also took a second look upon seeing Francesca towed along by Calder Hart, but then began to turn darkly red. Unlike his wife, he was not impressed by Hart’s accomplishments and knew of his reputation as a ruthless womanizer.

  Hart paused, whipping an empty flute from a passing tray. He tapped his nail upon it. “Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?”

  The conversation dimmed and died in the hall. Everyone turned their way.

  Francesca now stood by his side, feeling faint, thinking, This is it, oh, dear God, but given the fatal attraction she felt for this man, that and his charisma, there was simply no other choice.

  “Miss Cahill has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my wife,” he announced loudly to the crowd gathered around them. “But in fact, the honor is all mine.”

  There was one brief moment of surprised silence, and then the applause began—followed by some male shouts of congratulations and a few hurrahs.

  Francesca trembled. She blinked and saw Julia beaming in delight, then glimpsed Mrs. Davies, looking shocked. She glanced around and saw that every single lady in the room wished to throw a dagger in her heart.

  Hart chuckled, murmuring, “Yes,
if looks could kill, you would be dead now, my darling,” and he took Francesca’s purse from her, extracting the ring. Francesca forgot all about the crowd. Everyone in the room seemed to vanish into thin air, every voice disappeared, and she was alone with Calder Hart. Their eyes met. His dark gaze was beyond tender. So much so that it was a blow to her heart. Francesca could not look away. What did that oddly gentle look mean? That, coupled with his soft smile, was enough to win any woman’s heart, much less hers.

  “Tonight calls for champagne,” he said softly. “A celebration, the two of us, alone.”

  She inhaled, knowing what being alone with him would mean. He smiled and slid the eight-carat diamond onto her gloved finger. Francesca stared down at it, feeling blinded, but whether by the dazzling diamond or the magical moment, she did not know. Her heart was trying to tell her something, and she felt a tear leaking down her cheek.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly in her ear, and he kissed her cheek.

  Francesca was somewhat blinded now as she looked up and met his gaze. “Is that a promise?”

  “It is far more. It is a vow,” he said. Then he turned her around and held up her hand.

  The ladies exclaimed loudly. There were gasps of awe and admiration, male cheers, more hurrahs. Someone exclaimed at Hart that he had finally gone and done it. Hart agreed, and the men laughed. Francesca felt even more faint as the feeling in her breast intensified. It was as if a huge balloon were inflating inside of her chest. And she knew she could not manage it. Her knees began to give way.

  He knew and put his arm around her, holding her up. “Do you need a glass of water?” he asked with concern.

  She decided she would not faint, as she had never done so before, and certainly not upon the announcement of her engagement. And as she murmured, “No, I am fine,” she saw her parents approaching.

  Julia was clapping her hands in excitement and delight. Francesca’s father, however, was clearly furious.

  “Are you certain you are fine?” Hart asked, a whisper in her ear, solicitous and concerned.

  Francesca was about to affirm that she was when she saw Rick Bragg.

  He was as pale as a ghost. He stared, disbelieving and incredulous.

  She started forward instantly, forgetting about Hart. She had to explain.

  Hart gripped her hand, yanking her back. “I’ll be damned if I let you chase after him now! When we have just announced our engagement!” he said low and darkly.

  He was right—he was also wrong. Francesca was miserable as she watched Bragg mutter something to his wife, turn on his heel, and stride with stiff, set shoulders from the reception room. He was clearly leaving the ball. And Francesca desperately needed to speak with him now. He must not accuse her of treachery; after all, his wife had returned to his life and, as Hart had said, even to his bed.

  Francesca closed her eyes, anguished. Then she opened them and saw Leigh Anne staring at them—at her. Their gazes met. She seemed as surprised as everyone else, but if she was pleased, she hid it well. Then Leigh Anne hurried after Bragg, who was waiting for her at the front door.

  “Mr. Cahill, sir,” Hart was saying.

  Francesca was pulled into her mother’s embrace. “My darling girl, this is a dream come true!” Julia cried. “I am so happy for you!”

  “Thank you, Mama,” Francesca managed, glancing at Hart and her father. They were having a terse exchange, and she gathered Hart was to present himself the next day to discuss the matter of an engagement. Then she caught her sister’s eye.

  Connie grinned at her widely, like a happy and well-fed Cheshire cat.

  Francesca gave in and smiled back. She was engaged to the man who had been the city’s most eligible bachelor, but the magic of the moment had vanished, leaving something sordid and worrisome in its place. Then she saw young Joel Kennedy stepping past the departing Braggs into the front hall.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. Joel was far more than a downtown street urchin—until recently he had been a cut-purse and a thief, or rather, he had resorted to such desperate measures to aid in the support of his fatherless family. He was a small boy with jet-black hair in an ill-fitting and shabby wool coat, a felt cap atop his head. Patches were on the knees of his corduroy pants. His hands were jammed in his pockets. He looked terribly uncomfortable and out of place. And when their gazes met, he signaled at her urgently, mouthing something at her. She thought it might be, Trouble, and her body stiffened with alarm and keen interest.

  She had recently hired him as an assistant, and now she wondered if he had a new case.

  “Kennedy?” Hart intoned with mild surprise. Then he said wryly, “Well, I suppose I should have anticipated this moment, although hardly so soon.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Francesca said, not hearing him at all. Only something dire would bring Joel into a society function. And whatever that something was, it clearly involved her—or needed her attention. Francesca hurried across the room. “Joel! It’s so good to see you!” she cried, embracing him.

  “Miz Cahill! Thank the lord you are back!” he said in return, appearing stricken.

  She clasped his shoulder warmly. “What has happened?”

  “Me mom’s friend’s daughter been missing fer three whole days,” he said urgently. “Poor Mrs. O’Hare been over every day, cryin’ like a storm. We all been prayin’ you would come home!”

  Francesca stared, every single concern, worry, and aspect of her personal life vanishing from her mind. This was frightful news indeed. “A child is missing? She has been missing for three entire days?” she asked briskly, her mind racing.

  Joel nodded grimly. “Little Emily O’Hare. I known her me entire life,” he added.

  This was dire. Francesca did not have a good feeling about the child’s fate, not if she had been missing for three entire days. “We must interview the child’s parents immediately,” she decided. “It’s still early. I doubt it is past nine o’clock. We can do so right now,” she added impulsively.

  “I’ll go flag down a cab!” Joel cried, rushing away.

  “So you are on another case?” Hart breathed from behind her.

  She whirled, barely meeting his inquiring gaze, as she needed her coat. Then, to a passing servant, “My red cloak, please.” And to Hart, “I am afraid so. A young girl has been missing for three days. Time is of the essence, Hart, so do not argue with me. The night is young—I wish to interview the child’s family tonight.” Impatience ruled—she had to get downtown immediately.

  Hart sighed, shook his head, and said to another valet, “Sir. My coat and gloves, please.”

  Francesca started. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you really think I would allow you to sleuth about the city tonight, in that dress, undoubtedly in some very unsavory wards, with only Kennedy for protection?”

  She felt herself blink and it took her a moment to understand. “You don’t mean—what are you saying?”

  “I am coming with you, my dear.” He smiled at her.

  She was amazed. “You are accompanying me on my investigation?”

  “Indeed, it appears that I am.”

  She was thrilled. There was simply no denying it. Hart would sleuth with her tonight. He would accompany her on a new adventure. But very nonchalantly she shrugged. “Very well, if you really think it is necessary. I do think I have proven that I can take care of myself.” She accepted her red cloak from the valet.

  “I do think it is necessary, so humor me, my dear.” He accepted and shrugged on his black coat.

  “There is one thing,” Francesca said as they went to the door.

  “Pray tell.”

  “You are an amateur when it comes to criminal investigative work, and you must keep out of my way.” She knew she was being very tart, but there was a line in the sand, and he must keep to his side of it.

  “Whatever you say, darling,” he said contritely.

  He was far too meek, but she would worry about it later.


  They followed Kennedy outside, into the chill and moonless night.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  THURSDAY, MARCH 27, 1902—10:00 P.M.

  HART’S COACH WAS A lavish affair, a six-in-hand with elegant velvet and leather appointments. As the carriage sped through the night-darkened city, Francesca began asking Joel about Emily O’Hare: “Do you know anything about her disappearance?”

  Joel shook his head, a negative. He sat beside her in the forward-facing seat, Hart having settled on the opposite squabs where he lounged far too comfortably. Francesca kept her regard where it belonged. “Only that she went out on Monday with a nickel for a fresh loaf. An’ she ain’t niver come back.”

  Joel had already given Francesca the missing child’s home address—the O’Hares lived in the same tenement as his own family, on Avenue A and 10th Street. It was a grim neighborhood, where gangs of kids ran wild amidst a strong criminal element. However, hard-working and honest folk such as Joel’s mother, Maggie Kennedy, also lived there, doing their very best to raise their children in the most genteel manner possible. Francesca sighed. “Does Mrs. O’Hare have any clues whatsoever?”

  “Don’t think so. Didn’t know what to ask her, Miz Cahill, with you bein’ gone and all,” Joel said.

  “Has she gone to the police?” Hart interjected calmly.

  Joel nodded. “Them flies told her people disappear in this city all the time, that’s what they said.”

  Francesca simmered with anger. Thank God she had come home. She finally looked at Hart, whose presence in the coach was actually a distraction. They shared a knowing glance. Had little Emily’s home address been Fifth Avenue, her disappearance would have been attended to within hours. Francesca knew this for a fact, having worked on a child abduction case before.