Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  Julia started. “What is this?! Don’t tell me you are thinking of standing Calder up! He’s downstairs, Francesca. And why are you wearing that dismal dress?”

  Francesca was in despair, and worse, she was also miserable. She so wanted to fly downstairs and into Hart’s arms. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Not to him and not to herself.

  “Francesca, you are not going to back out now,” her mother said, as if reading her thoughts.

  “What are you talking about?” Francesca feigned innocence. “Mama, I am on a terribly grim case. I am worried about the missing girls. Worse, I didn’t have a chance to visit the cemetery where John Cooper claims Bonnie is buried. I am exhausted, really.”

  Julia always knew everything that went on in her household, and she clearly knew all about Francesca’s latest investigation, because she did not blink. Instead, she came forward, seized Francesca’s arm, and started her out the door. “I can see right through you, my dear. I know you are having second thoughts. Well, have them tomorrow! Besides”—she smiled as they went downstairs—“Andrew and I saw this production last week and it is magnificent. You will truly enjoy yourself.”

  Francesca doubted that. The reception room came into view, the entry hall beyond that. The floors were wide slabs of black and white marble, and plaster columns supported the ceiling. Francesca only saw Hart, clad in a black tuxedo, impossibly seductive, impossibly handsome. His back was to her—he was speaking with Andrew. Then he heard her and he turned.

  Her heart turned over hard. He held a bouquet of red and white roses in his hand. He smiled slowly at her.

  “My daughter, at long last. You will have to get used to it, Calder, but Francesca is so busy with her various affairs that she is always late.”

  “I don’t mind,” Hart said softly, his gaze never leaving Francesca. And briefly, the way he gazed at her was as if she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Which was absurd. “Are those for me?” she managed, tearing her gaze away.

  “Yes.”

  “Red and white roses. They’re lovely, thank you.” She accepted the bouquet, still avoiding his eyes, terribly uneasy now as well as dismayed.

  He murmured, “Red seemed terribly clichéd, if not appropriate. Passion and innocence. That’s you, Francesca.”

  She had to look up.

  He started, clearly seeing the despair in her eyes.

  She turned away, handing the bouquet to her mother. “Can you put those in my rooms?”

  “Of course.” Julia smiled. “Are you going to have supper after the opera?”

  “Yes,” Hart said, before Francesca could answer. “But I will have her home around midnight.”

  Francesca accepted her coat from a valet.

  “Enjoy yourself,” Julia said happily.

  Francesca nodded, kissed her father’s cheek, and walked out with Hart. The moment the front door was closed behind them, he said, “What is wrong?”

  Her heart lurched with dread. It was a moment before she could answer, and when she did so, it was as he helped her into his brougham. “Bonnie Cooper may be dead. That is what her father claims.”

  Hart settled on the seat beside her, reaching for her hand. Without thinking, Francesca pulled her palm away. She felt him stiffen; she turned to look at him. He stared, his expression impossible now to read.

  “Where is Rourke?” she managed too brightly.

  “He is meeting us at the opera. What is it, Francesca? Why are you behaving as if you are frightened of me?”

  She swallowed. “I am not afraid of you, Hart. That is one thing I have never been where you are concerned.”

  “Really? Then why are you flustered, uneasy? You only call me Hart when you are upset.”

  “The case,” she began.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said, hard.

  She stiffened. “I’m sorry.”

  He studied her as the coach rolled off. “Something has happened. I want to know what.”

  She didn’t want to lie to him. Lying to him felt wrong; it made her ill. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh ho.” His words were tight, his tone unpleasant. He sat back, watching her closely now. “Let me guess. You are having second thoughts about us?”

  She nodded miserably.

  “Now I wonder why,” he said softly, dangerously.

  She shrugged. “It’s just wrong, I think, to marry simply so we can jump into bed. It’s—”

  “Stop the nonsense, Francesca,” he warned.

  She tensed, her gaze meeting his.

  “First of all, you may be marrying so you can enjoy my favors, but that is not why I am marrying and you damn well know it.” He was angry but controlling it. “Who has been whispering in your ear? Oh—let me guess. My dear half brother!”

  “No.” She shook her head, swallowing again, terribly nervous. “Grace.”

  He stiffened as if shot. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We had lunch,” she whispered, feeling close to tears.

  “I do not believe this. Grace advised you not to marry me?”

  “No! Calder, she is worried that we are marrying for all the wrong reasons and she said so. She made me think. She asked me to think about rushing into this!”

  She saw him tremble. She became alarmed—he was livid. “Calder, this is not what you think! She has your—our—best interests at heart!”

  “How dare she interfere in my personal life,” he said dangerously.

  Oh, God, she shouldn’t have said anything. She reached for his arm—it was like touching a steel piston. “Calder, she loves you, it is so obvious, and—”

  “She thinks you should be with Rick. Doesn’t she?” he demanded.

  “No! She thinks Rick and Leigh Anne should remain married. But she is worried that I will hurt you!” Francesca cried.

  He stared, his eyes widening. It was a long moment before he moved, and then he looked away. “That is absurd.”

  “I think so, too. But what isn’t absurd is that marriage should be securely based on a foundation of love.”

  He didn’t answer, staring out the carriage window. They were traveling swiftly down Fifth Avenue now. Traffic was heavy, as it was a Saturday night. But it was moving at a handsome clip. Finally he looked at her. “I am hardly an expert on marriage, Francesca. But I have lived a good twenty-six years, and I have seen one or two good marriages in my entire life. A good marriage is based on many things, and from what I have seen, respect, friendship, and affection are far more important than ‘love.’ ”

  “I happen to disagree,” she said softly.

  “You are still wearing my ring,” he said flatly.

  She clutched her hand. It was impossible to speak; eternity seemed to pass. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that I am afraid, too?”

  She was stunned. “But . . . you seem so certain!”

  “I am certain . . . that I cannot lose you to another man. I am not letting you go, Francesca.”

  She thrilled, even though she did not want to. “I can’t imagine life without you,” she whispered. “The thought makes me sick. I don’t want to lose you, either. But marriage . . . ” She hesitated. “You see, Grace is right—but she is also wrong. You aren’t the one who is going to be hurt.” She felt a tear forming then. Her whisper became rough, hoarse. “I am the one who is going to care too much. I am the one who is going to be hurt.”

  Their gazes locked. A long and pregnant pause ensued. And then he was pulling her into his arms. “No.”

  She closed her eyes as her cheek touched his chest, as his arms gripped her tightly, as their bodies firmed, the one against the other. Pleasure warmed her. Being in his arms was like being in a safe and protected harbor, a harbor, though, surrounded by dangerously violent seas. As he held her, as she breathed deeply against his chest, she felt the new urgency begin, the new yet old desire.

  He kissed the side of her head, near her temple. “
I am not going to hurt you. I would hate myself too much,” he said roughly.

  “I’m afraid, afraid of what I might feel for you if I let myself,” she heard herself whisper.

  He hesitated, his embrace tightening. “Then let us stay friends, good friends, and we will have a marriage of friendship and passion. What could be wrong with that?” He kissed her temple now.

  Her body warmed, melting at the same time. Could she somehow keep her emotions at bay? If only he were not so fascinating. If only he did not have the ability to mesmerize her the way sorcerers might.

  She looked up. “I don’t know. I can never think clearly in your arms.”

  He smiled a little. “Have I ever told you that I find you adorable?”

  Her heart turned over with joy. “No. I like that, Calder.”

  His gaze was turning gray, into smoke. “I like you,” he said roughly.

  She waited, yearning now.

  He smiled a little again, then lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch of his lips was exquisite, hot and wet at once. She moaned softly, opening, but he merely brushed her lips teasingly, softly, repeatedly, until she could not stand it. Whimpering, she caught some short strands of hair at his nape, pulling, and he smiled against her mouth, murmuring her name. He tugged on her lower lip and, finally, claimed her fully for a kiss.

  The carriage darkened into shadow and heat.

  Francesca knew one thing. She wasn’t ready to give this man up.

  She just couldn’t.

  The intermission was spent by most of the opera-goers in the lobby, sipping champagne and sherry. Julia had been right, the production was fabulous, and Francesca had quickly been swept away into a story she knew by heart. Stepping into the lobby with Hart and Rourke was as odd as traveling through place and time. She shook her head to clear it as they paused in the midst of the glittering crowd.

  Hart held her hand. His mouth brushed her ear. “Champagne?”

  She scanned the faces surrounding them. “That would be nice.”

  “Who are you looking for, Francesca?” he asked.

  She didn’t look at him. “Sarah. I have been a terrible friend, Calder, as I told Mrs. Channing that we would be here and that Sarah intended to paint on all night instead of joining us.” Francesca’s heart skipped as she spotted Sarah and Mrs. Channing entering the lobby from another exit, clearly just leaving their box. Sarah was wearing a vivid red dress, one too gaudy for her tiny frame and small face, but Francesca didn’t wince—she was used to Sarah being the victim of her mother’s taste in fashion. “They’re here.” She waved.

  “What are you up to?” he breathed, laughter in his tone.

  “Go get champagne,” she ordered, poking him with her elbow.

  He bowed, his eyes oddly smoky, and he slipped off into the crowd.

  “Sarah! Sarah! Mrs. Channing!” Francesca waved frantically.

  Rourke, who stood behind her, came abreast. “The Channings are here,” he said, not sounding surprised.

  She glanced at him. He was amazingly handsome in his tuxedo, and a woman would have to be blind not to think so. “Isn’t that a surprise?”

  His amber gaze slid over her, and he smiled, clearly suspicious but not annoyed. “Truly.” Then he added, “My brother is here.”

  Francesca started and followed his gaze. Instantly she saw Bragg standing with a group of gentlemen that included Mayor Low. She warmed a little, and as she studied Bragg, she wondered if she would always be happy to see him. Then she wondered where Leigh Anne was.

  She looked again. He seemed grim. His smile was forced. Something was wrong.

  “Francesca, dear, how are you?” Mrs. Channing appeared, a true vision in a pearl-encrusted ball gown that was terribly overdone. She dripped pearl and diamond jewelry as well and wore a large pearl-and-diamond tiara. “Dr. Rourke, how wonderful to see you!”

  Rourke smiled, dimpling, and bowed over her hand. But even as he spoke, his gaze slipped to Sarah, who stood just behind her mother. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked very annoyed. “Have you been enjoying La Bohème?”

  “Julia Montana is fabulous,” Mrs. Channing said. “And to think she is an American!”

  Rourke turned more fully to Sarah. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, his gaze slipping over her figure. “You decided not to work tonight?”

  Sarah smiled tightly. “Mother insisted we come.” She gave Francesca a dark look.

  Rourke followed it and his brows raised, a speculative look in his eyes.

  Francesca clasped Sarah’s hand. “But aren’t you enjoying the opera?”

  Sarah softened. “Yes, Francesca, I am.” But then she gave her a plaintive look, one that clearly said she wished Francesca hadn’t interfered and put her in the position she was in.

  “Rourke? Rourke Bragg? Is that you?” a woman cried.

  Francesca turned and saw a gorgeous brunette her own age embracing Rourke. She frowned, not liking this development at all.

  “This is such a surprise!” the young woman exclaimed. Her sapphire gown was as stunning as she was. “What are you doing here?” She clearly was delighted to see Rourke, and she clung to his arm.

  “I’m visiting family. I could ask you the same thing, Darlene.”

  Francesca glanced at Sarah, who stared at them unblink-ingly. She tried to smile reassuringly, but Sarah was too rapt to see.

  “Daddy decided to visit his sister this weekend, so we all came up.”

  Rourke turned. “Darlene’s father is a doctor at the hospital where I am doing my residency,” he said. He made formal introductions all around.

  Darlene studied Francesca as he did so, glancing instantly at her hand, and when she saw the ring, she turned to Sarah. As quickly, she turned back to Rourke, clearly not bothering with a similar inspection. “I’ll have to tell Daddy you are here. Maybe you can join us for Sunday dinner tomorrow.”

  “I think my family has other plans,” Rourke said politely as Francesca strained to watch their every gesture and expression. Was there something between them? Rourke was impossible to read.

  Hart returned, carrying three flutes of champagne. “I see I am short several drinks,” he said dryly.

  Darlene’s gaze riveted on him, wide with interest. Francesca took her flute, kissing his cheek, instantly despising the other woman. “Thank you, darling,” she said.

  Hart had only given Darlene a mild glance, and he gazed at Francesca, clearly amused. “Anytime . . . sweetheart,” he murmured.

  “Darlene, this is my brother, Calder Hart. Calder, Darlene Fischer.”

  Hart nodded, appearing indifferent to the beauty standing in their midst.

  “Have we met?” Darlene asked, stepping closer. “You seem terribly familiar, Mr. Hart.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Rourke, it’s your turn to make a run for more drinks.”

  “No problem,” Rourke said mildly. “Sarah? Would you mind joining me? I am terribly clumsy when it comes to carrying delicate wineglasses.”

  Sarah started, flushed, and said, “Of course.”

  Francesca almost laughed. Rourke, clumsy? She didn’t think so. She watched them walk off, Rourke speaking to Sarah and Sarah replying. She continued to stare, and when Sarah finally laughed, she smiled. Her plan was working, or so she hoped.

  Then she realized that Darlene had taken a position on Hart’s other side and was saying, “So, are you an opera aficionado, Mr. Hart?”

  Francesca turned in time to see a coy smile, bright eyes, and a posture that positively enhanced Darlene’s already voluptuous breasts. Instantly she seethed.

  Hart smiled. “I am an aficionado of any of the arts when done in a superior manner,” he said. “I saw this production last week. I enjoyed it immensely and decided my fiancée must also see it.” He turned and pulled Francesca close. “Are you enjoying yourself, darling?”

  Francesca felt a dangerous emotion swirl within her chest. It felt terribly like love. She knew exactly what
he was doing—he was making it clear to Darlene that he was not available. How could she not love him for it? “I am having a wonderful time,” she said softly, meeting his dark eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Darling,” he corrected, kissing the tip of her nose.

  Francesca smiled, and when he released her, she had a chance to see Darlene watching closely. Instantly the other woman smiled. “When is the wedding?” she asked.

  Hart didn’t answer. Francesca said, “Soon. My mother is planning it, as I am too busy to do so.”

  “You are too busy to plan your wedding?” Darlene was mildly shocked.

  Francesca nodded. “Yes.”

  “My little bride is a sleuth,” Hart drawled. “She is on a case.”

  Darlene gaped.

  Francesca found Hart’s hand and squeezed it. Hart could be playful, and she hadn’t realized before. It was a new side, one she was thoroughly enjoying.

  Then, just past Darlene, she saw Rick Bragg walking by with Robert Fulton Cutting and his wife. Bragg was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t see them standing there.

  She was holding Hart’s hand, so she felt him stiffen. Something was wrong. She had remarked it before. Unease assailed her.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, rushing off without even looking at Hart. “Rick!”

  He didn’t hear her. Mrs. Cutting was chatting away, her husband smiling, Bragg as preoccupied as before.

  “Rick!” She seized his arm from behind.

  He started. “Francesca.”

  “Hello.” She smiled breathlessly at him, then smiled at the Cuttings. “How are you?”

  “Francesca, hello. We are fine, thank you,” Robert said. Then, “Would you excuse us? Rick, we will see you at the box.”

  Bragg nodded and they were alone in the crowd.

  “I didn’t know you would be here tonight.”

  He didn’t smile. “I didn’t know you would be here, either.” His gaze moved past her.

  She turned. Hart was observing them, but so was Dar-lene. Rourke and Sarah had rejoined the group, and they were listening to Mrs. Channing as she chattered away. Francesca knew Hart was displeased, but he would have to wait. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?” she asked quickly.