Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
Page 21
“What do you really want, Francesca? What do you really want with my brother?”
She backed up, staring at him, unable to look away.
“If you truly want my advice, I suggest you be brutally honest now,” he said flatly.
She hesitated, suddenly confused. What did she want? Truly?
Panic assailed her—she knew what she wanted! It was Hart’s charismatic presence, that was interfering now with her mind. She shook off the cobwebs of bewilderment. “I want to marry him, have his children, support him in his run for the Senate, grow old with him, and reform the world together with him,” she said.
His jaw flexed. “No white picket fence?”
“You asked, Calder. That is what I want.” She hugged herself.
“He will not divorce her, and she is in good health. Is that still what you want?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone.
She almost told him that Bragg had considered divorcing Leigh Anne, but as they had now ruled that possibility out, there was no point. “Yes,” she said, in a way feeling a bit like a student reciting expected answers.
He folded his arms across his chest. His biceps swelled as he did so. “You know, men have been getting rid of unwanted wives for centuries,” he remarked casually.
“They … what?” she gasped in shock.
“I do believe Henry the Eighth beheaded a couple of his wives, did he not? And then there was that earl, Leicester, I believe, whose wife had a convenient accident on the stairs? She did die from the fall. And there is always poison—”
She grabbed his rock-hard arm. “Enough! Are you trying to be funny?”
“I am simply telling you that there is historical precedent for getting rid of an unwanted spouse.”
“Are you suggesting that I … that I …” She simply could not continue.
He stared.
She suddenly realized what he was doing. He was pointing out that unless she became a murderess, her dreams were entirely hopeless.
“No, Francesca, I am not suggesting that you commit murder,” he said softly.
Tears filled her eyes.
He cupped her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said, a rough whisper.
She closed her eyes and felt the warmth and strength of his hand, turning her face more fully into his palm. Instantly his palm vanished.
Her gaze flew open and they stared at each other.
She bit her lip, tried to breathe normally, failed. Perhaps making him a confidant had been a terrible mistake. But then, she had known the evening would come to this, hadn’t she?
“Let’s join the others. By now their tongues are wagging.”
She did not move.
“What is it?”
She was so confused, she realized. “You really haven’t been helpful.”
“That’s because you are more stubborn than a hundred mules, and you simply do not listen,” he said.
She was annoyed. And annoyance was a relief. “Calder. What would you do, if you were me?”
“I am not you.”
“That was not helpful, either.”
He shrugged.
She hesitated.
“What is it that you wish to ask me? Why are you suddenly tongue-tied?”
Tension filled her. He had raised the subject of murder to teach her a lesson, but his lesson had raised a single, important question—one that was horrifying, one she sensed the answer to. “Would you ever … . commit murder?”
He had been avoiding her eyes; now he looked up instantly and their gazes locked. “Yes, I would.”
She knew it.
“If someone I loved was in danger, I would commit murder in order to protect that person,” he said. “I think we had better go inside,” he added, nodding toward the French doors, “as your mother is looking for us.”
Francesca whirled and saw Julia standing ten feet away in the doorway of the salon, outside. She was incredulous. Her mother was close enough to have heard Hart’s words, yet there was no disapproval on her features. In fact, she was smiling at them. “Do come inside,” she said cheerfully. “We are going in to dine.” She turned and left.
A touch on Francesca’s arm made her flinch. Breathless, she looked at Hart, who had gripped her elbow. “Shall we?”
Her mind jumped with lightning speed. She balked, refusing to go in. “You do not believe in love,” she said.
“Did I say love?” His smile was lazy, easy—he had recovered his natural arrogance. “It was an unfortunate slip of the tongue.”
They went inside.
Twelve
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — 7:00 P.M.
Even though he did not love Sarah Channing, he felt guilty as he was admitted into the Channing home. Visiting Sarah in order to see how she was faring was a pretext for seeing the countess; he was that badly smitten. They had come to understand each other so well, and when he had mentioned he would stop by in the early evening in order to visit his fiancee, Bartolla had smiled at him, understanding—or so he thought. Now, as his coat was taken, the Channing butler said, “Miss Channing has remained in her rooms all day, sir, but I shall send her your card. Shall I inform Mrs. Channing that you are here?”
“That is not necessary. I would hate to interrupt her Sunday evening,” Evan said. He was filled with impatience, and it was hard to remain impassive of expression. He felt like pacing about like a restless caged lion. Had Bartolla understood? Was she present in the house? Would he have a chance to see her, even if it was but for a moment?
And if only Sarah did not stand between them!
Of course, Evan had not changed his mind about ending the engagement, and he felt certain his frustration would soon be at an end. However, he would wait until Sarah was feeling better before he sat down with her to give her the blow.
He did not dread the encounter entirely. Francesca had said Sarah had no wish to marry, and as astonishing as that was, he knew his sister well, and she fervently believed her words. So Sarah would undoubtedly be pleased to be let off the hook. Perhaps, he mused, she had a yearning for someone else. But he doubted it. Sarah was just not terribly interested in men. Her life was her painting, it seemed.
He found it a bit odd.
Of course, if Francesca were somehow wrong, the encounter might become terrible indeed. But Evan could not think about that. He owed too much money to the wrong kinds of people, and planning how to elude and evade them was what preoccupied most of his waking hours.
That and his father.
Evan stood abruptly, his fists clenching, his entire body coursing with anger. Why had it taken him all of these years to finally tell the old man to shove it? One could only be pushed so far, he mused. He had been pushed about by his father his entire life, yet he had always swallowed his anger and he had always been respectful and obedient. He had always done what he had been told to do, yet Andrew had never shown one sign of encouragement, never uttered one word of praise. If he stayed at the office until ten in the evening, his father’s response was to ask if he had finished a report. And if he hadn’t, while no more was said, the disapproval was there, in his father’s eyes.
There was always disapproval in Andrew Cahill’s eyes.
And when he did, finally, score a touchdown, in his senior year at Columbia, there had simply been no praise. Brad Lewis had scored eight TDs for the season, and that was what Andrew had been talking about at supper that night.
He could not win. Not ever. And the reason was an astoundingly simple one. Because he was not like his father and he never would be.
He had not been born dirt poor on a farm; he had not worked his fingers to the bone saving every possible penny, while slowly but surely rising to a position of self-made success. It wasn’t even fair to be judged by the chart that was Andrew’s life, because he had been born in a canopied bed in a Lake Michigan manor.
He almost hated Andrew Cahill now.
Perhaps, in fact, he did.
And the depth of this emotion frightened him. He
had never felt anything like it before. But it was his anger—and hatred—that had enabled him to stand up to the old man and finally, after all of these years, tell him off. And of course, the old man had let him walk out and go.
Because he didn’t care enough to beg him to stay.
It was too painful to contemplate—the love Andrew had for Connie and Francesca, the disgust he had for his own son. Trembling, Evan faced a window, but blindly. It was hard to see now.
But he had done the right thing. He cared as much about his father as his father cared about him. He was not going to be his whipping boy any longer, oh no. Thank God he would never have to spend another minute in that office, poring over slaughterhouse accounts! Thank God he was not going to have to wed and bed Sarah Channing. From this moment on, he would live his life as he chose, not as his father wished.
Of course, he might not live for very much longer if he did not raise at least $50,000, fast.
Fear pierced through him, arrow-straight. A real father would come to his son’s rescue, he thought bitterly. And he realized that he had never had a real father and now he did not have any father at all.
“Evan?” Bartolla murmured from the threshold of the salon.
He turned at the sound of her voice and, shockingly, desire seared him with sudden, shattering force. Of course he wanted her. He had from the first moment they had met. It did not matter, either, that he was experienced enough to know that the countess was a tease, just as he was experienced enough to know that she would astound him in bed and he would not be the first or the last of her lovers. It had been a long time since he had wanted a woman as much as he wanted her; and now, immobilized by anger and grief and arousal, he thought about taking her a dozen different ways.
They hadn’t even kissed, for crissakes.
Bartolla smiled at him, a seductive, intent smile that reached her lovely green eyes, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. She was clearly dressed for an evening affair in a daring sapphire blue gown; Evan had never seen her demure or ladylike in appearance—her dresses were always figure-hugging and revealing, with an exotic, seductive flair. She had the most amazing body: long legs, full hips, full breasts.
“This is such a surprise,” she said in a conversational tone. “You must be here to see Sarah. A few moments ago she was sleeping,” she added.
“A pity,” he returned evenly. Actually, his tone was rough with need, and he tried to clear it. “I had so hoped she was doing better.” He walked toward Bartolla and abruptly closed the door behind her—surprising them both.
“Evan?” Bartolla asked, her eyes wide.
He hesitated for one moment, warring with himself. Then he seized her shoulders and claimed her mouth.
For one instant, she was rigid with surprise, and then she melted against him, her arms going around him, her mouth opening wide and hot for him. He had met her weeks ago, and this moment was long overdue—he moved her against the wall, anchored her head with his hand in her nape, where he grasped a handful of curls, and he used his thigh to spread both of hers. Their tongues mated, the way their bodies were trying to.
He tore his mouth from hers to kiss the soft underside of her throat, muttering, “I need you desperately.”
She gripped his head, urging his face lower. “I want you desperately, too.”
He moved his mouth back and forth over the edge of her bodice, using his tongue there, while she rode his thigh.
“Oh, God, Evan,” she gasped, and he was also experienced enough to know that she was now as fully aroused as he was, and he thought he could quickly bring her to a climax, if only he dared.
He pushed down her dress and a large, erect nipple was bared.
She froze.
He knew she was thinking about Sarah and Mrs. Channing. “You are the loveliest woman I have ever seen,” he whispered, and then he drew her nipple into his mouth.
She held his head hard, whimpering in soft, low, sexy tones.
He tugged her nipple with his teeth and she cried out; instantly he gentled. His hands moved over her buttocks, which were soft and round and perfectly plump. He grasped them, separating them.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, tonguing his ear. “Oh, please!” she cried, licking it.
He straightened and their eyes met and he took her hand and pressed it over the elongated ridge of his arousal. Her eyes heated even more, and she smiled, not looking away.
For one moment he considered doing something absolutely inappropriate, considering his affianced status and the time and place where they stood, and an image of her bending over him, sucking him into her mouth, sucking long and hard, as they stood there in the salon, paralyzed him.
She ran her nails up and down that ridge, still smiling a soft, sexy smile.
He kissed her, hard. Then he tore his mouth from hers and walked to the opposite end of the room, panting and seriously close to losing all control. He stared out of a window that faced the back gardens, blanketed now in snow. He supposed but was not sure that the Hudson River would be visible in the light of day.
If Bartolla was moving, he could not hear a thing. He felt her eyes on his back.
Still highly aroused, he raked his hair with one hand, sighed, and turned. He had been right; she remained with her back against the wall, staring. But she looked exactly as she had when she had first walked in—she must have repaired her hair, and her bodice was back in place.
No, she did not look exactly as she had when she had walked in—she looked like a woman who had been making love.
“I am sorry,” he began roughly, meaning it.
“No. You don’t have to apologize, not to me.” Her smile was brief but anxious. “We’re both adults, and rather experienced ones at that. We both know that this has been brewing from the moment we met.”
“Yes, it has.” He smiled a little, liking her even more for being so straightforward. “I didn’t call here tonight to ravage you.”
“I know.” She approached him swiftly then and laid her forefinger on his mouth. “Ssh. It’s all right. I am feeling what you are feeting.” She hesitated. “Perhaps more.”
He stared, trying to comprehend her, his heart accelerating. “More? What do you mean?”
She shook her head with a sad little smile. “This can never happen again, Evan. You know that.”
He seized her hands. A little voice in his head began to warn him not to speak, but he ignored it. “Can you keep a confidence, Bartolla?” he asked softly.
“You know that I can,” she returned, her gaze unwavering upon him.
Because she was breathless, it was difficult not to keep glancing down at her spectacular bosom. He forced himself to concentrate on her face, amazingly aroused again. “I am ending it with Sarah. As soon as she is well enough, I shall tell her.”
Bartolla’s eyes widened; clearly she was stunned. “But your parents? Mrs. Charming? I mean, I know this was arranged for certain reasons.”
“My father does not control me anymore,” Evan said flatly. “I have taken a stand, and nothing shall change my mind now.”
She stared. Her full bosom moved even more strenuously against the flimsy material of her gown. Her nipples were clearly erect. “Oh dear,” she managed finally.
He swallowed hard, sweating now. “I know Sarah is your cousin,” he began, suddenly wondering if, in spite of Bartolla’s passionate nature, she might not condemn him for his actions, “but I cannot marry a woman I do not care at all for. I may marry one day, but it will be for love.”
“No, that is not it,” she breathed, gripping his hands as tightly as he held hers. “The two of you are a terrible mismatch, and Sarah doesn’t even want to marry—not ever. She only wants to paint. I just did not expect you to break it off; somehow, I thought Francesca might persuade your father to do so—eventually.”
Evan was relieved. “I will tell Sarah as soon as she is well,” he murmured.
She nodded, her gaze unwavering on his face.
“I know,” she murmured.
He whirled and their gazes locked.
A flush covered her cheeks and heat filled her eyes.
And he thought, One more kiss, I am a man, not a boy. … He seized her and she cried out, but he cut off her cry, tearing at her mouth with his. Her teeth cut his lips; he penetrated her fully with his tongue, thinking about getting down on his knees and using his tongue against her sex, between her legs. Their tongues entwined, their mouths fused. He clasped her buttocks and lifted her up two inches, until she was against his loins. Fire blazed in his mind, only fire.
And he knew that he simply could not wait—he would have to take her now.
She tore away. “Someone’s coming!” she cried in a stage whisper.
He was so aroused it was a moment before he understood, but by then it was too late—a knock sounded.
Evan straightened like a shot, hearing another knock now. He adjusted himself, his shirt, his tie. “Your hair,” he said grimly, now appalled with himself and his behavior. He was not a free man yet.
And as he stepped quickly forward, tugging up one of her slim shoulder straps, the door slowly opened.
He leaped away from her as she whirled to face the intruder. It was Rourke who stepped through the door.
His face impassive, his amber eyes hooded, Rourke looked from Evan to Bartolla and back again. The man was a rake, for Evan knew a ladies’ man when he saw one, so he had to know what had just transpired between them. However, he gave no sign. And whatever his reaction was to the affair, he gave no indication of that, either.
“The butler told me you were here,” he said. Now his gaze slid over Bartolla, inch by inch.
She stood straight and still, a smile pasted to her face, letting him take his fill. She did not flush.
Evan’s fists closed. He felt like pounding the other man for looking at the countess in such a sexual way.
“I had hoped to see Sarah,” Evan said, hoping his voice would not betray him. It did—his tone was rough with need, and he coughed to clear it.