Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  Now was not the time to argue. “Mama, I know all about Bragg’s wife.”

  Tears filled her eyes. Clearly she had not heard. “Oh, God. I so love Andrew. What have I done?”

  Francesca tugged her hand. “Go after him. Now!”

  Julia seemed about to do so, and then she stiffened. “I cannot,” she said.

  Bartolla entered the hotel lobby, unable to contain the soft thrill of anticipation that washed over her in warm, almost sexual waves. She glanced around and saw the restaurant where she was expected. Smiling, she crossed the parquet floors, which were covered with Persian rugs.

  She was aware of heads turning her way as she passed. She knew she left a wake of interested men craning their necks to get a better look at her.

  She had dressed with extreme care for her engagement. The royal blue suit exposed her trim waist, her womanly hips, and a larger expanse of bosom than was usual for day. She had found a new lip rouge at the Lord & Taylor store. Instead of the usual crimson, it was a darker, berry-colored stain. It did amazing things to her fair complexion, and it made her green eyes sparkle. But then, she had carefully applied kohl to the rims, and she had used it on the tips of her lashes as well.

  A pale blue fox stole completed her look. She knew she looked elegant, sensual, and wealthy, but not in that order. In fact, she had to look twice at a young six-foot-tall bellman who ogled her as she passed. He was a superb male specimen, all muscle, blond and blue-eyed, his features strong and pleasant. She sent him a soft smile. God, it had been too long!

  She wished Evan Cahill were not engaged to her little cousin. But even if he were not, she could not lead him into her bed anyway—the stakes were simply too high. She felt faint now, thinking about him.

  They hadn’t even kissed.

  And then there was all that Cahill money.

  She was still smiling as she stepped into the dining room. She was purposefully late, a half an hour late, as she wished to be the one to make the entrance.

  But her party was not present. Dismayed and then annoyed, Bartolla was led to a small table set for two, where she took a seat, ordered a tea, and then tried to appear indifferent to the fact that her grand entrance had been denied.

  To amuse herself as she waited, she allowed several gentlemen to make eye contact with her, in spite of the fact that they were with their wives or sweethearts. One gentleman went so far as to drop his card by her feet as he walked by on his way to the men’s cloakroom. Bartolla picked it up and tucked it into her bodice for use on a rainy afternoon.

  She straightened.

  Every male head in the restaurant turned.

  Bartolla looked at Leigh Anne Bragg and sighed. Nothing had changed. The tiny woman remained impossibly beautiful—perhaps because she was as small as a child yet as curved as a woman. Or was it the flawless face with the huge green eyes that always seemed to look slightly bewildered and perfectly innocent? Added to those assets was a perfect rosebud mouth, which was perpetually swollen, and Bartolla knew exactly what men thought of when they looked at those lips. She sighed again. In spite of the fact that she was the tall one, the red-haired one, the statuesque one, Leigh Anne always turned more heads when they were together. Bartolla had decided it was her air of innocence that was the most enticing of all her charms.

  Leigh Anne Bragg saw her from across the room and waved airily, smiling.

  Bartolla smiled back and stood. She knew there was nothing innocent about Leigh Anne Bragg, but that only made her an extremely interesting woman. And the fact that Leigh Anne was so clever that she never confided anything about herself only made their friendship more challenging. Bartolla could never be certain what the other woman was really thinking or feeling, even though they had spent entire afternoons together last summer in the south of France, even though they had briefly run in the same circles in Venice and Florence.

  Every man in the room turned to watch as the two extremely beautiful women hugged.

  “You are more beautiful than ever!” Leigh Anne exclaimed as she took her seat. She wore a dark green suit that matched her eyes, trimmed with mink, which Bartolla suspected had cost her a small fortune, as the material was clearly Chinese silk and extremely expensive. Had Bartolola been wearing the same suit, she would have worn it with every emerald she owned. Leigh Anne wore a single diamond pendant on a black ribbon, which nestled in the hollow of her throat. Her long jet-black hair, which was thick and straight, fell unfashionably to her shoulder blades, like a cape. She had not one stitch of makeup on. She did not need any. Her lashes were thick and black, her cheeks tinged with pink, her lips ruby red. If Bartolla were less secure, she might hate and envy the other woman.

  But Bartolla had never been jealous of another woman. She was simply not jealous by nature.

  She saw that Leigh Anne wore her small engagement ring, the diamond being perhaps a carat and a half. She also wore her wedding band.

  “Thank you. Widowhood suits me, I am afraid,” Bartolla laughed.

  They both laughed.

  “And you have not aged a day. You are as lovely as ever,” Bartolla said, smiling.

  Leigh Anne’s face fell. She leaned anxiously forward. Bartolla felt rather certain that she had not one anxious bone in her entire body. “Do you think so? I have been so distressed, Bartolla, so terribly distressed, ever since I heard the news.” Her eyes were wide and innocent and fearful all at once. Tears seemed to moisten them.

  How delicious this is, Bartolla thought. It was going to be such an interesting winter. “Yes, I am so sorry.”

  “They say he is dying,” Leigh Anne managed. “My father is dying, and my mother is beside herself, as is my sister.” She cast her eyes down at the table. “If he dies, I shall be responsible for everyone.”

  Bartolla hadn’t even known there was a sister, and she hadn’t realized they were going to discuss Leigh Anne’s father. “I am so sorry,” she repeated, instantly bored. And then she had a thought. “I am sure your husband will feel some responsibility toward your family, dear.”

  Leigh Anne smiled brightly. “I do not know what I shall do,” she said, looking on the verge of tears. Clearly she had no interest in biting the hook Bartolla had cast. But then she said, “And now there is this woman.”

  Bartolla straightened, trying to look surprised, inwardly amused. Oh, yes. It would be such an interesting winter, not that she had anything against Francesca Cahill. In fact, she truly liked her, as she was a very independent woman, just like Bartolla.

  And just like Leigh Anne. “What woman?” She blinked.

  “Why, Cecelia Thornton was the first one to tell me about her—and then you sent me that letter!” Leigh Anne took her hand. “Bartolla, thank you so. For being such a dear friend and for having that letter hand-delivered, or it might have been weeks before I learned of her.”

  “What else could I do?” Bartolla murmured.

  Leigh Anne straightened now, placing both hands, apparently, on her lap. Her demeanor was demure. She murmured, glancing up from under her long lashes, “Now. You must tell me everything there is to know about this Francesca Cahill.”

  Eleven

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — 7:00 P.M.

  Francesca was rigid with tension, which could not possibly be a result of nerves, as their supper guests arrived. Julia was greeting Rathe and Grace Bragg as they stepped into the hall, but Francesca stood at its far end, on the threshold of the salon where they would sip a cocktail before their meal. She had refused to dress with care for her mother’s miserable effort at matchmaking; then, at the last moment, when it was far too late to tong her hair, she had had her maid, Bette, help her tear off an old and boring dove gray gown, replacing it with her new turquoise one, which she had worn the night before to the Plaza. She had managed to loosen her chignon and pull a few wisps of hair out so they feathered her face and neck. She had even dabbed rouge lightly on her lips. She knew damn well what she was doing. She wanted Hart to think her beautiful, as fooli
sh as that desire might be.

  Julia and Grace were embracing, but not warmly, and their exchange was both cautious and polite. Francesca could imagine why, for what common bond would a wealthy socialite share with a crusading suffragette? Rathe was saying that Hart and Rourke would be there at any moment, as Hart had gone to pick up Lucy at the Plaza and Rourke was checking up on Sarah Channing.

  Her father had just come downstairs and he paused beside her. “You are so beautiful tonight, Francesca,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling. His eyes were sad.

  Instantly, Francesca recalled the terrible argument she had witnessed that afternoon. She took his arm and kissed his cheek. “Please make up with Mama. Please.”

  He said, “This is not your affair, Francesca,” quietly, but still, his words were a shock.

  And he was wrong. “Papa! It is my affair! You are my parents—and Evan is my brother!”

  He patted her shoulder, smiled firmly, and left her standing there. “Rathe! It is so good to see you!”

  Rathe strode forward and the two men clasped hands, smiling now, their expressions as warm and friendly as their wives’ had been cautious and wary. Suddenly Lucy stepped into the house, devastatingly beautiful in a Persian lamb coat that had been dyed burgundy to match her dress. Hart was behind her.

  As she and Julia clasped hands and exchanged greetings, Hart’s gaze found Francesca instantly. She felt more tension overcome her and she forgot to breathe.

  His gaze found her, slid over her, and then he was smiling at Julia and murmuring a polite and charming greeting. Oddly, Francesca felt her cheeks warming. She quickly turned and stepped into the salon, needing to compose herself.

  What was Julia thinking? Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone? Why were reputable young women expected to marry and bear and raise children? How could she convince her mother to leave her alone!

  Francesca crossed the opulent room, which was a smaller version of the grand salon, and she pushed open the terrace doors. It had remained frigidly cold all day, but she was somewhat numb inside of herself to begin with now, as she had decided not to think too much in order to get through the evening. So what difference would it make if she became numb on the outside as well? She felt a bit like a poor player in an even poorer stage drama. But far worse was the fact that, even with her emotions carefully on hold, she had a feeling of real dread, which she just could not deny. She simply knew that the evening was going to be a terrible fiasco.

  She tried not to think about it.

  She walked to the edge of the slate-floored terrace and stared up at a sliver of moon. A million stars danced in the sky overhead—it was far too cold to snow. Which was fine—they’d had a record year for snowfall, anyway, and the winter had just begun.

  She closed her eyes, shivering. Bragg was probably in his library at No. 11 Madison Square, alone, a glass of brandy at his elbow, immersed in police paperwork. Thinking about him now caused a hurtful pang in her heart. The girls were probably finishing up dinner in the kitchen, the table and floor a mess, unless Mrs. Flowers, the new nanny, had somehow taught Dot that throwing food was not a form of play. And was Katie still sulking? Had she begun to eat like a normal child? Peter would be at the sink, playing housemaid as well as cook. She smiled at that particular image, picturing him in an apron. How her heart wished that she were there. The scene was such a domestic one.

  But she was not his wife, and now, it did not appear that she would ever be his wife.

  An image of how she thought his wife looked flashed through her mind. A petite image of dark-haired perfection. She hugged herself harder. Any day now, Leigh Anne might appear in her … their … his … life.

  “Are you insane?” Hart breathed against her neck.

  His breath had been warm and soft. Francesca jumped, turning to face him, as he settled his black dinner jacket upon her bare shoulders, not even asking her if she wished for it or not. Briefly his large hands lingered as their gazes locked. And for one moment, as she looked into his eyes, she could not speak.

  She pulled away. “I do hope not.” She could not smile. She was dwarfed by his jacket, and it made her realize how big he was and how small she was in comparison. The satin lining was like silk upon her skin and remained warm from his body. Worse, his jacket smelled distinctly male. A touch of spice, a touch of wood, and some fine Scotch or Irish whiskey.

  And something else, she decided, her heart hammering. It was easy to decide what that something was, given Hart’s inclination to spend any and all extra time in a paramour’s bed.

  His eyes were moving over her features slowly, as if mesmerizing each and every one. “It is no more than ten degrees out tonight, Francesca. Why are you brooding outside?”

  “I’m not really brooding,” she said, a complete lie.

  He tilted up her chin. “A book, remember? To me you are an open book, and I know you are out here testing the limits of your ability to perform mental gymnastics. Why not relax and enjoy the evening?”

  She almost smiled, then caught herself. “Perhaps I don’t wish to relax.”

  His black gaze was steady. “Do you wish for me to make an excuse and leave?” he asked quietly.

  “No!” She hadn’t even thought about it, and the vehemence of her reply surprised them both.

  He grinned. “I am flattered.”

  “Don’t be. But I do have a request.”

  His slashing brows lifted.

  “Go inside and pour a double scotch. We’ll share.” That would be the best way to survive this night, she decided.

  “Oh, ho,” he said with another grin. “This shall be an interesting evening.” He gave her a long and lazy look and strolled back into the salon.

  Francesca felt frozen. And not from the cold. There had been amusement in his regard, and warmth—so much warmth—and something else. It was extremely hard to define what that something else was; after all, they were only friends and would never be anything more. How could a mere look from Calder Hart be so provocative? He had a way of looking at her that hinted at sexual speculation.

  Did he even know what he was doing?

  She shivered.

  He returned, two glasses in hand. “This will warm you up,” he said.

  She was happily diverted and truly amazed. “How did you manage this? Did my mother see?” she asked, pleased. This would certainly improve the evening.

  “She did, although she pretended not to,” Hart said, clearly amused.

  “You can do no wrong in her eyes,” Francesca said, disbelieving, and then she took a sip. “Yummy,” she sighed.

  “I see I have thoroughly corrupted you. I am pleased,” he laughed, also sipping his drink.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked, after taking a second drink, enjoying the scotch thoroughly.

  “How can I be cold when I am under a sky filled with stars with such a beautiful woman beside me?” he asked with a quiet smile, one of contentment.

  She felt her smile vanish.

  His did, too. Then he sighed. “I am sorry, Francesca, but that kind of flattery, which I am used to giving to women without even a thought, simply formed itself.”

  “It was rather superficial.” She hated being the recipient of the kind of thoughtless charm he directed upon the rest of her sex. “I wish you wouldn’t treat me the way you treat other women.”

  “My dear, I hardly treat you the way I treat the rest of your gender.” He gave her a significant look. “That issue we laid to rest on Saturday, I believe.”

  They had. For if he chose to treat her as he did other women, right now, she would be in his bed and not on the terrace sipping whiskey.

  “Actually,” he said, appearing a bit surprised and thoughtful, “it is true. I am not cold, and I am in my shirtsleeves,” he remarked. As if she did not know. He stood inches from her, and every time he raised his glass, his custom shirt rippled over his chest, arms, and shoulders. She glanced at his chest and shoulders again. “The sky is extraordinary toni
ght, and frankly, so are you. And I do mean my every word, Francesca.”

  She backed up. “Hart.”

  “Do not be a ninny. We are friends, good friends now, I hope, and you know as well as I do that you are unique. One could never find a carbon copy of Francesca Cahill should he search the entire world over.” He turned his attention to his scotch, as if he found the liquid in his glass fascinating.

  His praise was stunning. Francesca was oddly paralyzed, and then a small thrill began to wash over her, which she was reluctant to feel but helpless to stop.

  “Does my praise bother you, Francesca?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, no … yes.”

  For a moment he looked at her and did not speak. “If I cannot be honest with you, then we cannot be friends,” he said simply.

  She took a big gulp of scotch, felt her insides now thoroughly warmed, and said breathlessly, “You are right.”

  “I am usually right.”

  She eyed him. They were on safer ground now. “Not always?” It was hard not to smile a little, so she did.

  He grinned. He had perfectly spaced, extremely white teeth and one dimple in his right cheek. Still, he did not look boyish when he grinned; he looked more like an archangel sent to tempt the innocent. “Not always, Francesca. And at last, you allow yourself a smile.”

  “God, that is a relief!” she quipped, ignoring his comment. “You can be so insufferable at times, one might conclude that you are of the mind that you are always in the right.”

  “Not I. One does not lift one up by his bootstraps, attaining a shipping and insurance company, an enviable art collection, and several stately homes, through arrogance and close-mindedness.” He lifted his glass in a salute. Then he sobered. “So? Are you ready to tell me why you were out here alone, frowning with worry, your expression so sad, when I first stepped outside?”