by Brenda Joyce
He eyed her. "Why are you so nervous?"
"I am hardly nervous," she lied.
He was amused and it was obvious. "I suppose I should apologize. But I am not really sorry. That mind of yours is so inquisitive, and no subject should be taboo. I cannot help myself. I was very curious as to what you were thinking."
"I am thinking that you are impossible. Why, Calder? Why ask me in front of Grace and Lucy? Why not debate the subject—and merit—of that piece of art at another, more appropriate time?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I do not care if Grace and Lucy see you as you really are."
She froze. Then heatedly, "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, unsmiling, "that I know you wish to impress them with being ever so proper—after all, she is Rick's mother, and God forbid she should not like you when you are so in love with her son." He calmly folded his arms over his chest. He had large, muscular arms and a broad chest, which was not noticeable when he wore a suit. His physique was noticeable now. "But you are not a proper little moron. You are an independent woman with a dizzyingly clever mind. Sometimes I think of you as a sponge, Francesca."
She folded her arms over her chest. "What does that mean?"
"It means you have a thirst for knowledge that is infinite. But most important, your mind is an open one."
She was mollified. Warily she said, "I am here to discuss a case." But speaking about Bragg reminded her of Lucy's angry declaration. Had his heart been broken by his wife?
"Oh, wait. Did I say love?" His brows lifted. "I meant lust. You are still lusting after my half brother, aren't you? Or have the two of you consummated your tragic, star-crossed affair?"
She closed her eyes and fought consciously to control herself. "We have been over this before. What Bragg and I do is none of your business. And as I shall never convince you that love exists, why should I bother yet again to defend myself? Do you want to help me solve a case or not?" she snapped.
"If you are on a case, then I might turn you over my knee myself," he said flatly. "As if you were twelve, not twenty."
"What the hell does that mean?" The tension had become unbearable. Her neck felt like it would soon snap.
"Is that, or is it not, a bandage on your hand?" he demanded.
"Have we not been over this before? I am a grown woman and—" She stopped.
He smiled at her, because they had been over this before, and he had been thoroughly insulting. "You are not quite grown up," he said softly.
"Because I am twenty? Or because I have yet to sleep with a man?"
His jaw hardened. "The latter."
She felt like making a comment about how that would change with Bragg, soon, but she decided that was not a good idea. For the expression in Hart's eyes was dangerous. "This is not a dangerous case," she finally said. "I do appreciate your concern, but you need not worry."
"I can't believe this—you! A few days ago you faced an insane killer, and now you are on another case?" His expression was thunderous. He turned abruptly and strode over to a sideboard. His movements were abrupt and hard, and she sensed that he was very angry with her now.
"You cannot control me, Hart." But clearly he was concerned for her welfare, and that was somehow thrilling.
He poured two glasses of whiskey, straight up, not replying or even looking at her.
"I am not drinking whiskey," she warned. As he moved, she could almost visualize the muscles and tendons in his back.
"Really? Then I shall go it alone." He turned, handing her a drink.
She refused to accept it.
He set it back on the sideboard and sipped. He made a sound of pleasure, all the while watching her over the rim of his glass.
She rolled her eyes, truly annoyed, wondering if the whiskey was better than the one he had given her on Wednesday, when she was in pain from her burned hand. It had been her first time ever drinking anything other than wine, sherry, or champagne, and she had truly enjoyed it.
"I brought this back with me from Ireland last year," he remarked calmly. "It is Irish whiskey, which is very different from scotch." His eyes were wide and as innocent as a baby's.
She tore her gaze from those fathomless black orbs, stared at her untouched glass, and looked grimly back at him. "Lucy wants to meet Daisy. Do you have a problem with that?" Daisy was his very beautiful mistress.
"Not at all. But I suggest you give Daisy some notice."
She had failed to provoke him. "Perhaps Grace might like to come along as well?"
He shrugged. "She is a feminist. She would like her, I think."
Francesca huffed. "How can I annoy you?"
"Easily, in fact. But if you fail to comprehend how, then I shall not be the one to enlighten you," he said. He sat in a chair and crossed his strong legs. On other men the gesture might be effeminate, but not on Hart. "Does my dear brother know you are on a case?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
"So you apparently control him," he remarked calmly, clearly enjoying his whiskey.
"I control no one!" She marched over to him, grabbed the glass he had set down on a table for her, marched back to a chair, and sat. She took a sip—ignoring his knowing smirk. She sat up straight. "Ooh," she said. She sipped again. Fire burned its way down her throat and right to her belly, and then to her loins. "This is good."
He laughed. "A woman after my own heart," he said.
And then the tears came to her eyes, blinding her. "Oh," she gasped, choking.
He was up and across the seating area as she coughed, sitting down beside her, his hand on her shoulder, as if to steady her. And suddenly it was on her nape, and it was a very large, very firm, and very warm hand. The tears remained, but Francesca stiffened. The fire had changed. She wanted to look at him, but she was afraid to move.
His hand had also become still, for he had felt it, too. That ugly beast that had arisen between them the night of the ball. Or had it always been there, lying in wait for them all along?
Slowly Hart dropped his hand and stood up. Then he looked down at her.
She looked up and did not look away. If only, she thought, with despair and a rush of something else, he were not so tall. If only he were not so dark, so wealthy, so smug and smart, so damn powerful, so interesting, and so sure of himself!
"Tell me about the case," he said, slamming down his entire drink in a gulp.
She had a brief moment to ogle him without his remarking it. She reminded herself that all women were attracted to him and, thus far, every instance of attraction was fatal. Besides, sexual attraction was not love. She damn well knew the difference. Didn't she?
"The case," he prompted, looking annoyed.
"Someone broke into Sarah Channing's studio and proceeded to cause what wreckage they could. Canvases were overturned, paint spilled everywhere. One canvas was slashed to ribbons, and the vandal began to write in red paint on the wall." She finally met his eyes.
"Is Sarah all right?" he asked.
She softened. He was not the heartless cad he wished the entire world to think him. "She is so upset. She cannot paint. In fact, she asked me to speak with you about that damnable portrait you commissioned." Now she did scowl.
And he did smile. "I am sure it will be lovely. I only wish you were posing nude."
She almost dropped her glass. Whiskey sloshed all over her hand. "Never! Are you mad?"
"No, I am an art collector, remember? Francesca, I have seen hundreds of women unclothed, and I have hundreds of nudes in my collection. The request is hardly an unusual one. If you were unclothed, your portrait would be a magnificent one."
She stood, sloshed more whiskey, then sat. She could only stare.
And she imagined herself nude in a portrait hanging on his wall.
Instantly she shoved the image far away. She didn't want to hang on his wall, dressed or undressed, not in any way, period!
"Francesca, it is only my wish. I would hardly ask you to consider it," he said very softly.
His silky tone washed over her in warm waves. "Good. Because I would refuse."
"But"—he did smile—"I am sure that one day I could entice you to pose for such a portrait."
"Never."
He merely smiled at her and sipped his whiskey, watching her carefully now.
This was the perfect moment to ask him why. Why did he even want her portrait? Instead, she said firmly, "Will there be a problem if there is some delay in Sarah delivering the portrait? Her studio is a shambles, and currently the police will not allow it to be restored."
He sighed. "One can never rush an artist, Francesca, and good things are worth the wait. In this instance, though, I am impatient."
"You are the most patient man I have ever met."
He merely smiled at her.
Suddenly the comprehension was searing—he was the most patient of men, but he was impatient, now. She knew she must not analyze this. "Sarah wants to know who did this, and why."
He paced and stared out of the window. From his library he had views of Fifth Avenue and the park. Then he turned. "If you are asking me if I know who might have done this, the answer is no."
"Have you heard of any other artist suffering a similar attack?"
His gaze locked with hers as he finally sat down. "No. And if there had been such an attack, I would have heard about it."
"Are you sure?"
He smiled and relaxed slightly. "Yes, Francesca, I am sure. A day does not go by that I do not visit an art gallery or museum. I know curators, gallery owners, other collectors and quite a few artists. Vandalism like this would be a heated topic in our small and privileged world of art. It might not make the news, but it would be the topic of conversation amongst our clique."
She nodded. "I do not know whether I am relieved or not that there has been no other instance of vandalism. Hart?"
His gaze moved back to hers. And briefly it settled on her mouth.
She tried to ignore the thought that came instantly to mind. "The canvas which was destroyed was a portrait of Bartolla."
He looked at her and then he laughed. "This is not about Sarah Channing then."
"That's what Lucy thinks."
"Lucy is clever," he agreed.
"So you also despise Bartolla?" She was now very curious, as she knew they had been lovers.
He seemed taken aback. "Why would I despise her?"
She hesitated. "Perhaps because you were lovers and it did not end well?"
He seemed amused. "We spent two nights together—and the entire day in between. Does that satisfy your obvious curiosity, Francesca, or do you wish for a few unsavory details?"
She stiffened, trying not to imagine the two of them in bed together—for two nights and an entire day. It was an easy feat. "I hardly need details," she muttered.
"I would be happy to supply them," he said, laughing. "Bartolla is as bitchy in bed as out. And there you have it. It was over before it even began. Bartolla Benevente is not my type of woman."
Francesca knew she flushed, and she was also surprised. "She isn't? But she is so extremely beautiful."
He stared her down. "Is she?"
She grew uneasy. "Oh, come, Hart. She is stunning."
"So are other women, more so, in fact. Take my stepsister, Lucy, or Daisy." He smiled fondly as he said his mistress's name. "And what about your sister?" He eyed her now.
Francesca wondered if he had excluded her on purpose and decided that he had. But she would not complain, oh no.
"They are all extremely beautiful women. And they are all interesting women, as well."
"Yes, they are," he said, his gaze unwavering.
She gave up. "And do I fit somewhere in this scheme of beauty?"
He laughed, with relish. "You are so easy to play! I told you the other day that you are very beautiful, far more so than any other woman. How quickly you forget," he said warmly.
Her heart would not keep still. That wasn't what he had said, oh no. He had said she was more beautiful than her sister—which was absurd—and that her beauty came from within, or something like that. Now had he said that she was more beautiful than any other woman? Had she misheard? Or was he again referring to her spirit or her mind?
Francesca reminded herself that he liked her. She reminded herself of the way he had undressed her with his eyes at the ball. Then she reminded herself that she should not care whether he thought her beautiful on the outside or not.
But she did care.
"What is wrong, Francesca?" Hart asked softly.
She shook her head, not looking at him now. She hated it when he whispered that way. "I have so much on my mind. That is all. I should go."
"Let me guess again. You are torturing yourself with unrequited lust for my brother? Or perhaps now guilt has come into play."
She leaped to her feet. There was guilt, but how could he know?
"You are very easy to read, my dear," he said as softly. "You are as simple to read as an open book—with large, oversize print."
She could not tear her gaze from his. This was not a safe subject, oh no.
"No self-defense?"
"I do not know what you are rambling on and on about," she said, a huge lie. "But do you have any idea who might wish to strike at Bartolla in such an odd way?"
"Not a single one," he said with narrowed eyes. "Be evasive, then. Change the subject."
"Hart, do you wish to help or not?"
"Frankly, Francesca, I do not give a damn what happens to Bartolla. In fact, there are very few people I am concerned about. But I am concerned about your involvement in another case. Leave this one alone. Bartolla can manage her own enemies, my dear." He stood. "Care for another whiskey?"
Francesca sighed, sinking back down on the couch. "I promised Sarah I would find out who did this and why. I do not break my promises, Hart."
He did not comment.
She looked up and caught him staring down at her. It crossed her mind that it would be a pleasurable afternoon indeed to sit in Hart's study with him, sipping Irish whiskey and fencing over indelicate subjects. He immediately turned away from her and to the sideboard. She said lightly, "Are you trying to get me drunk? I am coming to supper, you know."
He seemed surprised, for his shoulders stiffened. "I did not know. How did—let me guess. Dear Lucy invited you."
She nodded and thought about Bragg, with a twinge of worry and another twinge of unwelcome guilt. "Will you be present?"
"Yes, I will. Does that please you—or disturb you?" His gaze was probing as he faced her.
"I'm not certain."
He stared for a long moment. Then, very softly, he said, "At least, this once, you are finally being honest—with both me and yourself."
"What does that mean?" she cried, disturbed.
"I think you know." He moved away.
She leaped up and grabbed his arm from behind. "I don't have a clue."
He turned so quickly that she crashed against his chest. "Only because you refuse to have a clue," he said, his hands somehow closing on her arms as he steadied her.
For one moment, a moment of pure panic, she stared at his full, chiseled mouth, at the cleft in his chin, at the damp olive-colored skin and black hair in the vee of his shirt. His chest was extremely hard and solid against her breasts. She yanked away from him. "I have to go," she managed, but before she could turn—and her intention was to run—he took her wrist, detaining her.
Their gazes locked.
"I think it is time that we were brutally honest with each other," he said harshly.
She tried to back away, but his grip was uncompromising. She did not want to hear this, oh no. For with Hart she never knew what would come next. "Let's not," she gasped.
"I am sick of the hypocrisy here," he said warningly.
"I... I do not understand!"
"No? I think you do! You go on and on about my brother—whom you have told yourself that you love, as he is a man of virtue and a perfectly respecta
ble choice, except for the fact that he is unhappily married. But you come here, to me, staring at me as if I am a freak show—but we both know that that is not it, now is it, Francesca?"
She cried out, "Let me go!"
"I have had it! You want Rick as your husband, but I am the man you want in your bed. Admit it," he ground out.
"No, that's not it!" she cried, terrified of what might happen next.
"Afraid, Francesca? Afraid of the real woman inside of yourself?" he purred.
"I am afraid of you!" she snapped.
"I don't think so. It is not me you are afraid of. I think you are afraid of the truth; I think you are afraid of yourself." He finally released her. He was panting, and the artery in his neck was pulsing.
She backed away. "You're mad. Vain. Conceited. Arrogant!"
"Do I not get the chance to finish?" Both eyebrows slashed upward, and somehow he looked as innocent as a lamb.
"No, you do not—for I am leaving." She whirled—and his next words stopped her in her tracks.
"You are drawn to me, my dear, the way a woman is drawn to a man."
She trembled. "Please stop," she said desperately.
He stalked around her so that he was facing her. "And it frightens you. I frighten you. What you feel frightens you. Real lust frightens you!"
"I am in love with Bragg."
The most controlled rage she had ever seen crossed his face, but only for a half a second, and then it was gone. "I think you are a storyteller, Francesca, an impossibly adept storyteller."
"Leave me alone," she pleaded.
"No, I will not leave this alone. You came to me, my dear. I did not seek you out."
He was right—again. "Let's just leave this be, Hart. We are friends, remember?"
His gaze moved over her features, one by one. To his credit, it never slipped lower. "Yes. We are friends. But there is more, and it is sheer hypocrisy not to admit it."
She shook her head. She would die before admitting that to him.
"What's wrong, Francesca? Are you afraid that the story you have told yourself will blow up in your face?"
She gasped, because his meaning was far cruder than his words or his tone.
He tilted up her chin. When she tried to move, he caught her face in one hand. "You have told yourself that you have found your knight in shining armor, my brother Rick. Isn't that the truth? You met him and he fit the bill, so you have told yourself a wonderful story and, stubborn brat that you are, you have been clinging to it ever since. After all, what could be more appropriate than for Francesca Cahill, reformer extraordinaire, to fall in love with my reform-minded Republican brother? But wait! Being as this is a love story, there has to be an unhappy middle and, lo and behold, the perfect hero isn't quite so perfect after all. For he is married. Oh, wait! It isn't that bad, after all, for as it turns out he is a man of virtue, and he really loves you, while he despises his wife! And did I forget to mention that she is vile and evil? So the story can limp along, and true love might survive after all! Does this sound at all familiar, Francesca?"
