Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  She inhaled, all of her problems tumbling through her mind. How much should she tell him? Should she tell him anything at all?

  She realized that she so wanted to confide in him. Standing beside him now, alone in the night, she almost basked in his strength and power. He was strong, smart, and opinionated, she would always respect his advice, and, oddly, she felt that her secrets would be safe with him.

  How odd.

  But she had attained a warm and fuzzy glow, now, that was exceedingly pleasant. She wasn’t drunk, simply … relaxed. Perhaps the scotch was the reason she wished to wag her tongue so boldly.

  “Francesca? What kind of internal debate are you waging?” He was amused again. His good humor made his nearblack eyes sparkle as he regarded her over the rim of his glass.

  She watched him sip and swallow. She watched a muscle move in his strong throat. “I have the oddest urge to tell you all. But of course, I dare not make you my confidant,” she said.

  “But why ever not? Hasn’t it occurred to you that I might make a valuable confidant and an even more valuable ally?”

  He had said as much once before. She stared.

  “I only want to help. But the truth is, I don’t think I even have to ask. If you are distressed, there can only be one cause.” His humor instantly began to fade.

  She stiffened, tore her regard from his—no easy task—and sipped her drink. She was not going to discuss Bragg with him, not when they had been having a perfectly fine time, not when such a discussion would only cause him to lose his temper and her to become upset.

  “So now what has he done?” Hart asked, an edge to his tone, his glance dark and even wary.

  She had finished half of her drink. She looked up. “Evan has left Father’s company and the house. He intends to break off his engagement to Sarah and find new employment and a flat. Mama is heartbroken.”

  Hart smiled. “Good for him.” He raised his glass in a mock salute to her brother.

  “You approve?”

  “I do. And I would say his stab at independent thinking and behavior is long overdue. Besides, he and Sarah do not suit.”

  Francesca agreed with him completely, and she was surprised. “You do not think he needs a woman like Sarah to temper his ways?”

  “I think he is a grown man who must learn through his own experience. And I think he has every right to marry or not as he chooses. I do not see your brother as being ready for marriage, Francesca. I also sense he is a romantic, just like you.”

  Francesca could not be more surprised. “He is romantic. He is constantly falling in love—with the Grace Conways and Bartolla Beneventes of the world.”

  Hart laughed and shook his head. “Give him a bit of advice. He might think to avoid involvement with Bartolla, as she will only hurt him in the end.”

  Francesca nodded grimly. Then, “If anything happens with the countess, I am sure it will be quite casual.”

  “Why? She is a widow, and your brother is a catch.”

  “You think she wishes to marry my brother? But why? She is wealthy and independent now—no, Calder, you are wrong.”

  He shook his head and laughed again. “Do not come crying to me another time, for I will remind you that this time I was right. So what did your father hold over Evan’s head? I assume the engagement was a forced one.”

  Francesca hesitated, surprised once more at how astute Hart was. She had another odd feeling—that if she asked Hart to help her brother financially, he would. “Evan has incurred a few debts.”

  One brow rose. “A few?”

  She hesitated again.

  He patted her shoulder. “I understand. So what is the real reason you are troubled tonight?” His gaze held hers.

  She looked away instantly. “Mama and Papa are fighting,” she replied. “It is too terrible to describe.”

  He appeared exasperated. “All married couples fight, Francesca. No one lives happily ever after.”

  “They don’t fight. Ever. And they truly love each other, Calder.”

  Hart eyed her, the pause a long and tense one now. Tension crept into his voice when he finally spoke. “I know you are brooding about Rick. Who else could cause you such grief?”

  “He does not cause me grief,” she said, meeting his gaze reluctantly.

  “No? How odd. I see it differently; I see you as nothing but distraught ever since you have fallen in so-called love with him.”

  She eyed him warily but saw no sign of an imminent tempest. “Why does he always come up when we are trying to have a conversation?” she asked.

  “Because he is causing you pain and I don’t like it,” he said flatly.

  She turned away. In a way, he was right. But it wasn’t Bragg causing her heartache; it was the circumstance in which they found themselves.

  She jumped nervously when Hart touched her shoulder, turning to face him.

  “Nervous?”

  She pulled away. “I am not nervous. It is just that this evening is extremely trying.”

  “Yes, it is trying,” he agreed.

  That was not an answer that she had expected. “What does that mean?” she demanded, her heart beating a bit too wildly for comfort.

  “I think you know, as we have discussed this matter the other day.”

  She stared.

  He touched her cheek with a fingertip. “I’d like nothing more than to take you in my arms, Francesca, and I know you’d like nothing more, too.”

  “That’s not true!” she cried instantly, and then fell still, horrified because her words were a lie.

  For, in a way, she would die to experience one devastating kiss.

  His grim smile was a knowing one. They stared at each other. “And now you are feeling utterly disloyal to my brother,” he said calmly.

  “Disloyal?” she managed. Deny everything, she thought with panic. “The one thing I am is loyal,” she snapped. “And trustworthy.”

  He sighed, annoyance crossing over his features. “As if I do not know that! You owe him nothing, Francesca. You certainly do not owe him loyalty—or fidelity—in any form. If you enjoy my company, if you have thought about me in sexual ways, you have no reason to feel disloyal or guilty.”

  She could not cross her arms, because of the drink she held. She quaffed down as much as she possibly could and began to choke.

  “Oh, Christ,” he said, his tone amused. He set his glass down on the terrace slates at his feet, then patted her back gently.

  And even through his jacket, which she wore, his hand was so distinct. She coughed again and, finally, gasped for air. “Hart … I don’t think about you … that way!” Had she ever told a bigger lie? How many times had she thought about him in bed with both Daisy and Rose? Not to mention his making love to Bartolla? She had even begun to think about him and Connie once!

  “You know, Francesca, you are adorable when you lie to yourself, but if you think to lie to me, you are out of your league,” he said with a soft smile. He thumped her once again, a bit too hard. “Better?” he asked, still smiling.

  “I do not feel disloyal and I do not feel guilty when I am with you,” she managed, her tone husky now. She tried to glare and failed.

  “Did I mention guilt?” He shook his head. “You can try a man’s patience, Francesca. I am completely honest with you, but you are terrified of being honest with yourself and thus with me.”

  She handed him her scotch and crossed her arms tightly. “Do you want honesty?”

  He stared and a terse pause ensued. “It would be a refreshing change,” he remarked dryly.

  She had a dozen questions; she would only ask two. “Lucy said Leigh Anne broke his heart.”

  Hart rolled his eyes in annoyance. “And to think I had deluded myself in thinking you might remain on the topic of us.”

  “He told me it was only lust. Did she break his heart, Calder? Was he in love with her?” Francesca cried, grabbing his sleeve.

  “Christ. This is so boring.” He placed her dr
ink alongside of his, on the ground by their feet. He gave her a cool look and Francesca knew there would be no mercy now. “Dear, Bragg was head over heels for his little wife. He was smitten at first sight, but then, she is extremely lovely, and she led him around by his nose from the moment that they met. His infatuation was laughable indeed. It took him a very long time to realize that the woman he so loved was disloyal, self-serving, and selfish—not to mention a bit of a whore.”

  Francesca stared, feeling ill. “Are you trying to hurt me?” she finally whispered.

  “No, I am not. I am telling you what half of the world knows. Within weeks he announced that he intended to marry her, and no one, not I, not Rathe, not Rourke, could persuade or reason with him. Everyone begged him to wait. But he refused to heed anyone, and I think it is obvious why he was so eager to tie the knot.”

  Francesca hugged herself. “You are cruel.”

  “Are you going to become ill? If so, I would like some warning.”

  She shook her head, turning away from him. Bragg had been in love, and his lust had led him to marry a woman he hardly knew within months of their meeting. He had wanted her that badly.

  Francesca couldn’t help drawing a comparison—with her he was the epitome of self-control.

  Hart sighed in exasperation.

  “Go away,” she heard herself say, and there were tears in her voice.

  His hands closed over her shoulders. She tensed but did not jerk away; he pulled her backward, and she felt his chest against her back, just for an instant. He turned her gently around and she found herself loosely in his arms. “Stop this, Francesca. What difference does it make if Rick loved another woman four years ago?” His tone was surprisingly soft, gentle, and kind. He pushed some wisps of hair out of her face. “Why are you on the verge of tears? That was four years ago. He was as young, hot-blooded, and naive then as you are now,” he continued softly. “He may have been twenty-four, but he was a boy, and now he is a man,” he soothed. His fingers brushed her cheek.

  She trembled. He hadn’t released her. She was acutely aware of his hands, his chest, his face, so close to hers. Mostly, she was aware of his steady gaze. She tried to think clearly, to answer the question, but it was hard, given the proximity between them. “I don’t know. I’ve never loved anyone before. But he has. And … he still does.” There, she had said it.

  He was staring, surprised. “He despises her, Francesca. And honestly, he does love you.” He hesitated, grim. Their gazes remained locked. “I think I am jealous of my brother, in this one instance.” He released her, retrieved one glass from the slate at their feet, and drank.

  What did that mean? She gripped his arm. “What does that mean?” she whispered, stunned.

  “God knows. Here’s to you.” He finished the drink, looking put out and put upon.

  She stared. No, it was impossible, she finally decided. He did not mean that he wished she loved him the way she loved Bragg. It was simply absurd.

  “Shall we go inside? I think I am finally cold.” His gaze had certainly cooled and she could not see what he was thinking now.

  “No.”

  He started. “I beg your pardon?”

  Francesca hugged herself. They had come this far … . “I am in trouble, Hart.”

  He started. “What kind of trouble?” His tone remained calm, controlled.

  “I’m not sure. But maybe you can tell me.” She hesitated, her heart pounding now, with terrible force. Once she made him her confidant, there was no turning back. “Can I trust you? Not to say anything, not to interfere? Merely to advise?”

  “I told you the other day that you can trust me, Francesca. But what is it you want from me? And why aren’t you going to my brother instead?”

  “I want your advice and your opinion,” she said breathlessly. No one would understand the situation and be able to analyze it better than Hart, as he knew all of the players firsthand. She knew he would be ruthless in his assessment of her dilemma, but the time had come to face the worst reality that there was.

  “Fire away,” he said, but tersely, and he was not smiling.

  She nodded and not removing her gaze from his, she slid her hand into the low bodice of her dress. As she fished around her bosom, she felt herself flush. He seemed quite accustomed to women retrieving odds and ends from within their undergarments, for he did not even blink as she pulled the folded note out. She handed the tiny square to him.

  He gave her an odd look and began unfolding the page. He gave her another look, turned toward the light spilling from the house, and read it. “Well, well,” he said, facing her. “So Leigh Anne has heard the news and wishes to meet you.”

  There was a huge relief in having shared her secret with him, and she faced him, trembling with anticipation. “What do you think of this?”

  “I think you had better stay away from her; that is what I think. What does Rick have to say about this?”

  She simply looked at him.

  “Oh, ho. This is a situation indeed.” And he dared to smile, with real mirth. “You haven’t told him?”

  She shook her head. “I meant to, but—”

  “You meant to?” He was disbelieving, and now he had the audacity to laugh. “His wife knows the two of you are on the verge of an affair—or are having one.” He gave her a quick look, and it was a question. Francesca didn’t move. “She is on her way to New York, she is on her way here, and you haven’t told him?” He laughed again, harder.

  “This is not funny!” Francesca shouted.

  “Oh, but it is. I am so sorry!” he cried with mirth.

  She punched his arm.

  He stopped laughing. “I am sorry. I suppose, caught up as you are in this sordid little love triangle, you cannot see the irony of the situation. Do you intend to tell my poor brother that his wife is on her way to town, or do you wish for him to be shocked into a heart attack when he sees her on his doorstep? I mean, they have been separated for four years.”

  “You think I should tell him,” she breathed, never looking away from his dark and handsome face.

  He ceased smiling. “You know you should tell him,” he said flatly.

  She grasped his hands. “I am afraid, Calder. I am so afraid.”

  His hands closed over hers. He seemed to pull her closer. “Yes, I can understand why you would be afraid.”

  He never minced words. He never told her what she wished to hear. Francesca felt tears rising. She was so afraid to ask, but she had no choice now. “Does he still love her?”

  Hart hesitated. Francesca vaguely realized he clasped her hands against the solid wall of his chest.

  “Calder!” she cried, terrified.

  He sighed. “He despises her, Francesca, but isn’t hatred on the same coin as love? Isn’t it merely the flip side? And don’t they have unfinished business to conclude? And isn’t she legally his wife?”

  “You are not reassuring me,” she whispered. “You are making it worse.”

  “I will never lie to you, Francesca,” he said firmly. “Not ever.”

  Oddly, she was frightened now, but his words washed over her like a soothing wave.

  And he sensed the change in her, as he softened and his tone was gentle when he spoke. “Poor Francesca. Your little fairy tale is going to blow up, isn’t it? In a few days, when she comes to town, you will have to face a truly horrid reality.”

  “Yes, I think so,” she whispered.

  He pulled her into his embrace, and for one instant she felt every inch of his tall, strong body and his heart beat steadily, powerfully, against her breasts. She felt his cheek on the top of her head. She felt his hand caress the babysoft hair at her nape. Then he released her, completely. “Do you really want my advice? Other than the advice I have already given you, which is to forget my brother completely and spare yourself any further grief?”

  She nodded fearfully, but confusion seemed to reign. Hart’s hard chest, his beating heart, his hands … Bragg’s golden eyes, th
e warmth there, his perfectly beautiful little wife.

  “Stay away from Leigh Anne. Tell Rick promptly about this note, and then avoid her at all costs,” Hart said.

  “Why?” She was mesmerized by him now, by his stare, his intensity, his words.

  “Why? She is clever, Francesca, and, unlike you, has not one moral fiber to her being. She will swallow you whole, then spit you out in tiny, useless, mangled pieces that no one will ever recognize. You cannot fight her and win. You simply cannot.”

  “This is not a battle,” she managed, riveted by him.

  “A battle?” His brows lifted. “Darling, this is not a battle. Unless you come to your senses and forget this absurd notion that you love my brother, this is war.”

  It had become impossible now, with Hart there, inches away from her, reeking sexuality, to really feel the depth of her own emotions, but she knew where her true feelings lay and she said, “I do love him.”

  He sighed with exasperation and looked up at the stars and said, “Jesus does not help fools.”

  “What does she want from me, Calder? And why does she intend to confront me?” Francesca asked simply.

  He took her arm and pulled her close, but not into his embrace. “Whoever said she wishes to confront you? Listen carefully, Francesca, and I will tell you about women like Mrs. Rick Bragg.”

  “I don’t care about other women, only about her.”

  He ignored that. “She might not love Rick, but she will never allow another woman, especially someone like you—someone fine and good—to steal his heart away, much less to steal him away. It is classic. She didn’t want him—but you cannot have him. Not to mention the fact that her ego is huge and she is vain. She will not be humiliated by having her husband love another woman. And then there are her bills. She has most of what she wants, I believe. So now, if you insist upon clinging to my brother, you will have a huge war to wage, for undoubtedly she will accept the gauntlet. And, Francesca, you are too ethical to ever win such a war.”

  Francesca wet her lips. Mechanically she asked, “What should I do?”