She flushed. “I don’t think so,” she said, pulling away from him, trembling. He let her go. This was becoming impossible, she thought, dismayed and rubbing her arms. While she could fend off his marital advances—and she would, always—being around him had become the greatest challenge. He was too disturbingly attractive, too seductive, and she couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to go to bed with him. Never mind that her thoughts were illicit and shameless; never mind that she loved someone else.
She knew it would be wild, wonderful.
She eyed the sofa one more time.
“I can read your thoughts,” he said softly.
She jumped guiltily. She must not think about anything now except for her mission. She must not think about how experienced he was in love affairs, or how seductive he was, or what he might murmur in her ears if she ever lay in his arms. She must not think about the hard, male body just inches away from hers. “I doubt it.”
He smiled at her. “You will have to learn patience, my dear. And not because it is a virtue. And not because you are the most impatient woman I have ever met.” He was thoughtful now and she would give her right arm to know exactly what was on his mind. “But because some things are simply worth anticipating—some things are so very worth waiting for.” He gave her a long, unwavering look. He wasn’t smiling and he wasn’t amused now.
She inhaled. He had a point, one she must ignore. It was one thing to imagine making love to a man, another to actually do so. After all, she was not ever getting married and she was not the kind of woman to become Calder Hart’s mistress—even if he could be persuaded to change his odd morals toward her.
She had no intention of ever breaking Rick Bragg’s heart.
Then she thought about his lovely wife and felt real despair. She also recalled that just a few days ago—before she had come face-to-face with Leigh Anne—she had been determined to become Bragg’s mistress. She had nearly seduced him.
She looked at Hart. Even if she ever changed her mind, she doubted she could seduce him. Not that she was contemplating it. He was simply out of her league.
“You might think to change the direction of your thoughts,” he murmured.
She folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts. “So now you read minds?”
“Only yours.”
“Then tell me what I am thinking.”
He smiled slowly at her.
She wished she hadn’t thrown such a challenge at him.
“You are wondering if you might tempt me beyond my avowed resolutions,” he said.
She flushed. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Francesca!” he exclaimed. “I thought we had put all hypocrisy behind us.”
“Very well!” she cried, feeling pushed to her very limit. “I am attracted to you. There, are you satisfied? I have wondered what it might be like if you made love to me. Are you happy now? And I wonder why you do not try, when you have seduced half of the women in this town!”
He was chuckling now. “You are so very frightened of the future,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, my dear.”
She scowled, furious now. “You’re gloating!”
“Only a little.”
“Who is your latest conquest?”
“A gentleman never tells.”
She glared.
He laughed again and raised his hand. “Yes, I know. We both know I am not a gentleman. Still, as we are not yet affianced, I don’t think I need to share any lusty details with you—or do I?”
Since she had met him, every time she crossed his path socially he had a beautiful woman on his arm, a widow, a divorcée, or a married but unfaithful lady. It had become impossible to tolerate, really. “I am tired of this game,” she finally said.
He uncoiled his lean, dangerous body and approached. She flinched but did not move back. He touched her cheek. “I am hardly surprised. But this game does have a conclusion, as I think you know. I thoroughly believe it will satisfy us both.”
She was breathless, queasy, and yearning all at once. His dark eyes held hers, and the unwavering look filled her loins. She wet her lips. “If we weren’t friends, would you pursue me the way you do the others?”
“Isn’t it enough that I wish to marry you, and you alone?” he asked, dropping his hand but not moving away.
“No.”
He stared. “But we are friends,” he finally said, deadly earnest now. “You are my first friend, ever. And we have already gone over this—but you refuse to understand. I don’t dabble with virgins, Francesca. In fact, I have never slept with a virgin—and while it is miraculous that you still happen to be one,” and he gave her an annoyed look, “that is something I only intend to do on our wedding night.”
“None of this makes any sense,” she said desperately. She would never understand why a man who hated the institution of marriage had decided to marry her. She paced and sank down on the leather sofa, placed just below a huge genre painting of a barefoot woman on a beach, a basket in her arms, two naked children racing past her. If only she dared to seduce him, they would undoubtedly get their insane and fatal attraction over with, and he would no longer wish to marry her—and they could resume being friends. As it was, her body wanted to go up in flames and she could hardly breathe. She wondered what would happen if he kissed her now.
She thought she might faint—or explode.
But he was stronger than she, he was resolved, his morals made no sense, as he was a self-professedly immoral man, while she, she was perilously close to tears.
“My poor dear,” he said softly, lifting her chin, his fingers long and strong. “You will not change my ambition. I have made up my mind. For better or for worse. And I do think it will be for better, not for worse, Francesca. We shall have a very enjoyable lifetime. You shall solve your cases and I shall collect my art—I intend to work less after we are wed—and we shall travel, my dear, as much or as little as you wish. It shall not be boring; of that I can assure you.”
He would work less. They would travel. She wanted to plug up her ears. She dared gaze up at him—he loomed over her now. “If I tell you till I am blue in the face that I am not getting married, not ever, not to anyone, will you ever believe me?” She had to look into his eyes. He exuded self-confidence, wealth, power. He exuded virility, and it was more than male; it was almost beastly. She wondered if he continued to pursue women other than his mistress, Daisy. She wondered if he continued to sleep with as many women as he chose. She wondered when he had last seen Daisy. It crossed her mind that she had not seen his mistress in a while. As they were friends, a social call was overdue.
And he hadn’t mentioned what he would do with his mistress should he really marry someone.
“No.”
“So I shan’t waste my breath.” She looked away. She should be relieved that he hadn’t swept her into his arms and into his bed—or onto his couch. She was relieved. Intellectually, at least. She wondered if there was medication available to relieve the rest of herself.
“Please don’t,” he said firmly. “Now, is this why you have come visiting? To discuss our current impasse once again? I am hardly on your beaten path, being this far downtown.”
She leaped up, recalling her mission, Evan’s black-and-blue countenance coming to mind. “No.” Maybe she should simply leave—she could always ask Hart for the loan another time.
“You look terrified.” His gaze was searching. “Am I terrifying you?”
She shook her head, dreading what she must do. “I am terrified, Hart. I am terrified of something I must beg of you.”
He became utterly still.
Would he hate her after this? Would he lower his opinion of her? His esteem? His respect? Would he think her to be no different from the other ladies who wished to be in his bed for the jewels he could offer in return? She wet her lips.
He said, “You must never be afraid to ask anything of me, and you shall never beg anything of me. Ask and yo
u shall receive.”
She realized that she wasn’t certain she could do this. But she had to help Evan—yet she must not alienate this man. The urge to cry choked her for a moment. “Not this time,” she gasped. “You may think differently about me, rather soon, Hart.”
“No. What could you possibly want from me—so desperately?” His eyes were narrow and filled with speculation—and his clever, penetrating wit. “Ah, I see. Money. You need money.”
She nodded miserably, avoiding his regard. “I desperately need a loan. I swear I will pay back every single cent. It may take some time—perhaps a dozen years.” She wanted to disappear into thin air, but Evan’s face with his pirate patch and swollen lip haunted her now.
“How much?” he asked too quietly.
She hesitated, daring to peek at him. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
“I see.” He turned away, his gaze shuttering, so she could not see into his eyes—so she had not a clue as to his reaction to her request. He walked behind his desk, his back to her, remaining calm, composed. She felt ill, faint. She wondered if their friendship had just ended. She wondered if their relationship had just ended.
She should be pleased if that was the case. Because then he would not want to marry her and her terrible dilemma would be solved.
Francesca hugged herself.
She started, her arms falling to her sides. She realized he was removing a large landscape that was an odd but beautiful kaleidoscope of color from the wall, the cliffs vague, the sea patches of blue and white paint. A safe was there. She gasped as he swirled the lock and quickly opened the door. “Hart?”
He took out a bundled-up wad of dollars. Francesca’s eyes widened as he removed bundle after bundle—as she realized what he was doing. When he had stacked up an amount that covered one-quarter of his desk and which Francesca could only assume was $50,000, he closed the safe and faced her. “You need only ask,” he said directly.
She gasped. “Hart!”
“However, this is a large sum of money. I only ask you in return that you allow either Raoul or myself to deliver it to whomever it is going to.” He faced her, his steady regard holding hers.
She sank down in a chair, not looking away, not even once. She clutched the arms, stunned. “You’re loaning it to me? Such a sum? Like that?”
His face softened. “I am giving it to you, Francesca. You need not pay me back.”
She could only stare, in shock. And then her heart leaped and she tried to ignore the sudden elation accompanying its wild beat. It almost felt like joy. She covered the top of her bosom with her hand. Not only was he loaning her the money; he hadn’t batted an eye, and he did not seem to hate her for her terrible request. “Of course I will pay you back,” she managed. How could he be so generous? How?
“Never. You are the woman I wish to marry, and this is a gift. End of subject,” he added seriously.
“No.” She somehow stood and did not fall down. She was trembling again. “I will pay back every penny, Hart, and I do mean it.”
He shook his head, but he was amused. “How? With your dowry? I don’t need this money, Francesca. I refuse to take your money as well. It is my pleasure to give it to you. Let us leave it at that. Please,” he added.
She had never heard him use the word please before. She could only stare, and then she sat back down, at a complete loss.
She wanted to cry. With relief, and emotions she dare not identify.
This man was handing over a lifetime’s worth of savings, and not even asking her what she wanted it for. He didn’t even want it back.
But of course, she would pay him back, one day. But God, Hart might have a terrible reputation, he might shock society at will, but he was the most generous man she had ever met. And her worst nightmare had not come to pass—he still felt fondly toward her.
“Don’t cry,” he said softly. “Not over money, my dear.”
She looked up. He had come to kneel beside her chair. Now he took her hands in his, and there was so much strength there. “I am not crying over the money,” she sniffed. “I was afraid you would hate me for asking.”
He touched her cheek. “I could never hate you.”
Their gazes locked. He did not remove his hand. Francesca stared into his nearly black eyes and thought she saw love shimmering there in those almost unfathomable depths. Instantly she leaped up—away. Hart didn’t believe in love and he did not love her and she had no intention of ever fooling herself, not even for a moment! And now, as if he had been about to take her in his arms—as she longed for him to do—he jammed his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. He stared.
“Thank you, Calder.”
“As I said, it was my pleasure.”
“You haven’t asked me why I need such a sum?” she managed.
“If you wanted me to know, you would tell me, would you not?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “I can’t tell you.”
“And I am not asking.” He hesitated, looking grim now, and moved behind his desk. “I feel rather certain I know what the money is for.”
I can’t tell you, Hart.”
“I understand. But that is why either Raoul or I must deliver this sum for you. I do not want you going near the man to whom this money is owed,” he said, very firmly.
She thought about how badly Evan had been beaten up. LeFarge was conscienceless. She shivered, hating him with an inner rage for what he had done—and then for mocking them all by sending his regards to her brother. Did Hart know the money was a partial payment for her brother’s gambling debts? Did he know Evan’s creditor was Andrew LeFarge? “Raoul can deliver it,” she said slowly.
He nodded. “Fine. Have arrangements been made?”
“No.” She shook her head, remaining amazed. “I hardly expected to walk out of your offices this afternoon with fifty thousand dollars in my hands.”
His grin flashed, heartbreakingly white. “Darling, I doubt you could lift the satchel this money must go into.” Then, seriously, “Shall I make the arrangements for you? I prefer for you to be involved as little as possible,” he said.
She hesitated, searching his eyes. “You know.”
“There is only one reason you could need fifty thousand dollars, Francesca,” he said kindly. “Shall we cease all pretense?”
When she did not speak, he said, “Has Evan been threatened again?”
There was so much relief in sharing this burden. “No.” She swallowed. “God, Calder, I am so afraid for him!”
He hurried to her and this time he took her gently into his arms. “You need not fear for him now. Let me take this to LeFarge myself. He will not dare go after your brother again; I promise you that,” he added grimly, a dangerous light in his eyes.
She swallowed, trying not to think about being held by this man, against his broad, muscular chest. Oddly, along with the terrible attraction she felt for him, now she also felt safe. “You would do this for me—I mean, for Evan?” she whispered, moved almost to tears again.
“I am doing this for you,” he said softly. “Let us be clear on that point.”
She smiled and sniffled again.
“Come.” He strode around his desk, taking her arm. “Enough maudlin humor. I have a meeting uptown. Can I give you a lift? I also wish to discuss Friday evening with you.”
She nodded, smiling a little. “That would be very nice, Calder. And what is Friday evening?”
“I would like to take you to a new exhibition at the Gallery Duval, followed by dinner at my favorite restaurant. Rourke will chaperon us,” he added with obvious amusement at the thought.
She stiffened as they left his huge office. And then she thought, Why not? The evening would be an enjoyable one, and if she did not accept, she would wind up going to someone’s dinner party with her parents. And that would be, as always, uninteresting and dull. “I gladly accept,” Francesca said with a real smile. In fact, she looked forward to the evening.
Mr. Edwards came
rushing forward with her coat and gloves. Hart lifted a brow. “That was surprisingly easy,” he said.
“You see,” she flirted. “I shall always keep you on your toes.”
He laughed, taking her coat from Edwards and wrapping it around her himself. “That is a part of my calculations,” he murmured softly.
“I do have one small favor to ask of you,” Francesca said, as Joel joined them. “May we stop briefly at Number Two-oh-two East Tenth Street? It will save me a trip downtown later tonight.”
“Of course.” But his gaze narrowed now as he accepted his own black wool coat from Edwards. “And whom are we calling on?”
“A vagrant, Hart. A drunken vagrant who I hope was a witness to Grace Conway’s murder.”
CHAPTER
TEN
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—7:00 P.M.
“. . . BABY WILL FALL, CRADLE and all, ha ha ha!”
“Francesca, this woman is too drunk to have seen anything. Not only that, she is mad!” Hart exclaimed, at once grim and exasperated.
The gray-haired woman sat on the very same stoop adjacent to Number 202 that she had occupied on Tuesday night when Grace Conway’s body had first been found. She was a heavy woman of indeterminate age, with unkempt and dirty gray hair that stuck out from her filthy brown wool cap. Her overcoat had large holes, and beneath it Francesca glimpsed a thin cotton shift. Now the woman’s chubby cheeks were brilliantly red, undoubtedly because the bucket of beer was already half-empty. She continued to sing “Rock a Bye Baby,” frequently making up the words, and every so often breaking into laughter.
“We should go,” Hart said, annoyed. He was the epitome of elegance in his black coat, fine black gloves, and highly polished French calf shoes. He did not wear a hat. Francesca had never seen him with his head covered.
“No,” she said, sitting down beside the drunken woman. “Hello,” she tried with a smile.
The drunk ignored her—or maybe she hadn’t heard her—or, as she did not even look at her, maybe she didn’t even know that someone had sat beside her. She swilled from her bucket. Quite a bit of beer sloshed down the front of her coat. She smelled sour, but it was more than beer.
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