Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  “Nothing,” she lied. “I am terribly late!”

  Connie and Julia exchanged glances. Julia said, beginning to smile, “Now why was I not informed of this evening’s affair?”

  Connie shrugged, smiling. “I’ll help her. And I will find out all the details, Mama,” she added, lifting her silk skirts and hurrying upstairs.

  In her bedroom, Francesca flung open an armoire and stared wildly at all of her gowns, many of which were new, due to the fact that she had so wanted to help Maggie Kennedy, she had hired her to make a dozen dresses that she hadn’t even needed. A sea of brilliant color swam before her eyes. She had to cancel the gallery and supper tonight.

  Because she simply could not face Calder Hart just yet.

  “Miss Cahill? Let me help you,” Bette said, entering the bedroom.

  Francesca leaped around, startled, because extremely graphic images of a very naked and very aroused Calder Hart refused to leave her treacherous, stubborn, disloyal mind. Francesca muttered, “I don’t know what to wear.”

  Connie laughed.

  Francesca saw her coming up behind Bette and started, because her sister’s smile seemed genuine and she hadn’t seen such an expression on Connie’s face in so long. “Thank God you are here!” she exclaimed.

  “Having trouble deciding on a gown, Fran?” Connie teased. “And since when did you even care if your shoes came from the same pair!”

  “I need help!” Francesca cried. “And I need to speak with you.” She rushed to the door. “Bette, would you give my sister and myself a moment, please?”

  “Just wait,” Connie said, strolling over to the armoire. “Where are you and Calder off to, tonight?”

  “I have decided to cancel,” she said grimly. “In fact, I am positive I am ill!” In fact, the more she thought about what she had done, the sicker she became. If Calder Hart ever learned of her spying, he would never speak to her again.

  She knew it. The act had been an unconscionable one. She had invaded his privacy and his trust. What was wrong with her!

  “Dinner, I suppose? Perhaps at Sherry-Netherland’s?” Connie guessed.

  “He will be here at six,” she snapped, frantic. “And no, we are going to supper at some place downtown where the food is excellent, but apparently it is not elegant, so no one who knows us will be there. And we shall attend an art exhibition first.” She hugged herself.

  “The turquoise,” Connie decided. “It is new, it is the latest, it is intriguing, and it will make your eyes appear even bluer than they are.” She took the gown and handed it to Bette. “Please press this. And tell the doorman to seat Mr. Hart with Mama when he comes. Thank you.”

  The maid hurried out.

  Francesca ran to the door and slammed it closed and looked at her sister. “I can’t go.”

  “Fran, what has happened now?” Connie asked with real caution.

  “I have done something too terrible for words.”

  Connie raised her pale brows. “Well, I am sure you are eloquent enough to share your latest faux pas with me, your closest friend and sister.”

  “I spied on Hart.”

  Connie crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing. “What does ‘spy’ mean?”

  “It means I watched him make love to his mistress.”

  Connie finally understood and she paled. “You did what?”

  “I know, I am a fool, an idiot, and terribly amoral!”

  “Fran? Whatever possessed you?” Connie asked worriedly. “How could you?”

  Francesca sank down in a chair. Glumly she said, “I was calling upon Daisy. I wanted to find out more about her relationship with Calder. When he called, I hid, because I did not want him to know that I was there, prying into his affair with his mistress.” Francesca looked up. “He told Daisy he is ending it with her when we become engaged.”

  “That is wonderful,” Connie said, at once her usual self again.

  “He said he will be faithful,” Francesca told her, still in some disbelief as far as that announcement went.

  “Mama is right. Every rake has his day. Apparently Calder has had his,” Connie said, sounding delighted.

  Francesca did not smile. “Daisy was very upset. She seduced him. I should have left; I simply could not move.”

  Connie sat down in the adjacent chair. “Fran, I know you like Daisy, but you must be wary of her now. Her interest is in remaining Hart’s mistress, even after you are wed.”

  Francesca was grim. “No one can tell Hart what to do, and he is too clever to be manipulated.”

  “All men can be led about by a woman, Fran. If you get my meaning.”

  Francesca thought about the way Daisy had so boldly seduced him, and she grew afraid. “What are you telling me?”

  “I am telling you to make certain Daisy’s bags are packed and she is out the door when you and he are finally married.”

  Francesca caught herself nodding; then she leaped to her feet. “Wait! We are both forgetting one important fact. I am not marrying anyone!”

  Connie also stood. “Why not? Hart adores you; he is a premier catch; he is rich. Why ever not?”

  Francesca gave her a disbelieving look.

  Connie made a face. “Haven’t you heard? Rick Bragg has reconciled with his wife. We saw them at the opera last night in a party that included the mayor and Mrs. Low.”

  Francesca said, “I know.” And the hurt returned, slight now, but nagging. With it came so much regret.

  “So?”

  “I don’t want to marry anyone! For God’s sake, it is a lifelong commitment! If I marry Calder, it will be until I die!”

  “Well, considering the fact that you are a sleuth and in constant danger, your marriage might not be as long as you think,” Connie said cheerfully.

  Francesca grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at her.

  Connie laughed.

  Francesca smiled, too. It was so good to hear her sister laugh again and speak like herself. Of course, her anger had been frightening—as was the fact that she blamed Fran for the state of her marriage. But anger was far better than melancholy.

  There was a knock on the door. Connie opened it and received the dress from Bette. “I will help Francesca dress.” When Bette was gone, the two sisters faced each other. “You do want to spend the evening on the town with Hart, don’t you?” Connie said with a knowing smile.

  Francesca sighed and gave it up. “His company is very enjoyable. There is only one problem.”

  “That is?”

  “How do I look him in the eye . . . ever again?”

  Francesca felt uncharacteristically glamorous. The turquoise gown had small cap sleeves, a low-cut silk bodice, and a layered chiffon skirt in two shades, turquoise and silver. When Francesca had studied herself critically in the mirror, her every movement had caused her gown to shimmer, as if iridescent. Connie had dabbed a hint of rouge on her cheeks, then found a darker lip rouge in her handbag and insisted Francesca use that, too. Connie had taken off her small diamond cross necklace, and the glittering cross was now nestled just above Francesca’s cleavage. Bette and Connie had worked like mad to tong Francesca’s hair, sweeping it loosely up and carefully setting it with Mr. Randolph’s Spray Elixir. Then, to Francesca’s dismay, Connie had poked and prodded at the mass of hair, pulling pieces free here and there, so that tendrils caressed her cheeks and neck. In the end, the effect was disturbingly sensual.

  Long white gloves completed the ensemble, and as Francesca did not have any bracelets that Connie liked or admired, her orders for the evening were for Francesca to keep her gloves on at all costs.

  “You have never been more beautiful,” Connie whispered. “Your eyes are sparkling with excitement, Fran.” She kissed her cheek as they paused on the ground floor.

  “They are not sparkling—they are glittering . . . with fear,” Francesca said tartly, breathlessly. She could hear Hart’s low murmur and Julia’s answering tone. How happy her mother sounded.

  “Sil
ly woman,” Connie chided, sounding as happy. She poked Fran in the back and she started forward. The moment she could see into the salon where Hart and both of her parents sat, she saw him.

  He appeared extremely relaxed, almost lolling upon one chair, dangerously dark and handsome in his tuxedo, and smiling at something her mother was saying. Francesca shoved every single illicit memory out of her head. For the rest of the evening she intended to have amnesia.

  Hart saw her and leaped to his feet.

  Francesca faltered and their eyes met.

  For one moment, as he looked at her, something smug covered his features, and she thought, terrified, He knows. He had seen her in that first moment when Daisy had begun her seduction, and he had known she was present the entire time he made love to his mistress.

  He was smiling now, but his gaze was merely warm and admiring. “Francesca, good evening.”

  Francesca couldn’t move. Was she mistaken? Because now there was nothing on his face or in his eyes to suggest anything but the affection he felt for her and the esteem he held her in.

  Francesca knew she was paranoid. She had every reason to be, and had she not been so, she would be certifiable. Now, gazing at him, she simply did not know what to think.

  He chuckled, coming forward. “Why are you so pale?” he asked, his tone so low, it was doubtful that anyone could overhear him. “You look as if you are being led to the guillotine.” He lifted her hand and kissed the air above it.

  She inhaled. Images of him in all his glory, doing indescribable things to Daisy, filled her mind. Her body tightened with yearning and heat. If she married him, he would do those things to her. Aghast, Francesca turned that thought off. How would she make it through the evening? Francesca forced herself to respond. “Connie has dressed me up. I feel like a pretty doll. I do not feel like myself.” The lie was a terrible one. She rather liked having become an elegant and sensuous creature of the night.

  His smile broadened. His gaze was impossibly warm. “You are as beautiful in navy blue; however, I prefer the temptress who is afraid to look me in the eye tonight.”

  She jerked and met his gaze—his eyes were filled with laughter. He did know! Didn’t he?

  “I am almost afraid to ask why you are looking at me with such trepidation,” he said, his smile fading. “Is something amiss?”

  “I am very late,” she said in a rush. “I have kept you waiting for half an hour.”

  His good humor returned. “But you are late, no doubt, because you flew in the door, having forgotten the time, involved in your case. Other women are tardy as a ploy.” He didn’t seem to mind that he had been kept waiting, not at all. Then, dropping his voice, he murmured, “Some things are worth waiting for.”

  Francesca was mesmerized by his stare. Did he refer to his having waited for her—or to her waiting for the moment when they made love? Was this an innocent comment, or was there an innuendo that referred to her spying upon him and Daisy that afternoon?

  He turned to Connie, who stood behind her, and greeted her pleasantly. Francesca did breathe when he finally turned away. She glanced back at her sister and mouthed, Does he know?

  Connie shook her head warningly, then placed her finger over her lips, clearly indicating that Francesca must not speak a single word on the illicit subject.

  Both Julia and Andrew were on their feet. Julia looked like a cat that had lapped up all of the cream, while Andrew appeared grim and displeased. But then, Francesca knew he did not like Hart because of his womanizing ways and his frequently careless manners. “Do have a wonderful evening,” Julia said, kissing Hart’s cheek.

  “We shall do our best,” Hart returned. “Andrew.” He extended his hand firmly.

  Andrew took it reluctantly, without an answering smile. “And what time will you have my daughter home?”

  “Before midnight,” Hart suggested, looking unperturbed. But then, he was infamous for not caring what people thought and said about him. Clearly he couldn’t care less that Andrew Cahill openly disliked either his courtship of his daughter or him or both.

  Andrew nodded and then hugged Francesca. His eyes softening, he said, “Enjoy your evening, my dear.”

  Francesca nodded and hugged him. She hesitated, then whispered in his ear, “He’s not as bad as you think, Papa.”

  Andrew grunted, refusing to give in.

  Francesca settled on the velvet squabs, making certain to keep a safe distance from Hart. He seemed to know exactly what she was about, because he eyed her with amusement but did not comment, instead instructing Raoul to drive them downtown to Cooper Square. Francesca tried not to think, but it was impossible. Images of Hart and Daisy flooded her mind. And that, of course, made her distinctly uncomfortable, causing the carriage to feel small, closed, and airless. She wondered if a confession would alleviate her distress and her guilt.

  “Francesca? Why are you squirming in your seat?” Hart asked.

  She jerked to face him and found it exceedingly difficult not to look away from his nearly black eyes. She must remain mum. She was well aware that she had a penchant to wag her tongue too freely—this must not be one of those times.

  “I’m hardly squirming,” she said, remaining uncomfortable. She wondered if it would always be this way, now that she knew exactly how he looked beneath the elegant clothes he wore. No, it was far worse than that! She knew exactly how he looked when aroused with desire, and she knew exactly how he preferred to make love.

  “I can’t even begin to imagine why you are staring at me with such an expression,” he murmured, amused. “I feel certain you have gotten yourself into some trouble. Do you have something you wish to tell me?”

  She almost jumped off her seat. “No!” she cried.

  His eyes widened. “Well, that certainly lays my suspicion to rest,” he said drolly. Now his gaze became thoughtful. “Tell me about your day.”

  “My day?” she breathed, as if she did not understand the meaning of his words.

  He was as relaxed as she was tense; he leaned back against the plush carriage seat, perplexed and amused all at once. “I know a look of sheer guilt when I see one,” he said. “There is guilt written all over your face.”

  “You are imagining it. The day has been a trying one,” she said tersely, rapidly. She told him then about Thomas Neville appearing at headquarters, and about the murder of poor Miss Holmes.

  Hart was no longer amused. “First Grace Conway, and now her neighbor. Once again, you are investigating a series of murders. I do not like this,” he said grimly.

  “I hardly like it myself,” Francesca said, relieved to be on familiar ground. “It gets worse.”

  “How can it possibly get worse?” he asked, one brow lifting.

  “Miss Holmes left a journal. She was madly in love with Evan,” Francesca said grimly.

  Hart stared for a moment. “Well, this does not look good for Evan, now does it? Does he know the missing Miss Neville?”

  “No, thank God,” Francesca said earnestly.

  “Who are your suspects? You seem quite averse to Thomas Neville.”

  “He’s odd, but as it turns out, Miss Neville was having an affair with the owner of an art gallery,” Francesca told him eagerly, glad to share her investigative work with him. “Thomas claims his sister was ending the affair, and as it also turns out, her lover, who denies the breakup, is married, with children.”

  “Aah,” Hart murmured. “And the plot thickens. So the lover has become your prime suspect.”

  “It is certainly looking that way. If he was jilted on Sunday evening, I would guess that he murdered Grace Conway by accident—she found him destroying Melinda’s studio. Miss Holmes was the next target, because she knew about the murder, having seen something from her rocking chair.”

  “And how does Sarah Channing fit in?” Hart asked.

  “I have no idea,” Francesca returned glumly. “That is where my theory falls apart.”

  Hart smiled at her. “I have no do
ubt you will solve the case. Who is this gallery owner? Perhaps I know him.”

  “His name is Bertrand Hoeltz. You know, he does seem genuinely distraught over Melinda Neville’s disappearance. Do you know him, Calder?”

  “Yes, I do. He is a poor connoisseur of art,” Hart said. He was reflective now. “I have been to his gallery several times, but I have never liked the work he has, and I ceased going some time ago. I think I know the woman who has disappeared. I saw him with a woman once at another exhibition. They were clearly paramours.”

  “Were they in love? What was she like?” Francesca said, straightening.

  “She was small and dark, very intense, I suspect, and rather exotic in her appearance. She is what the Europeans refer to as jolie laide—‘pretty ugly.’ That is, in spite of her severity and intensity, there was something interesting and compelling and sexual about her. I think Hoeltz was in love. I think Miss Neville was rather self-contained and self-involved.” He added dryly, “Most artists are egocentric, my dear.”

  Very excited now, Francesca gripped his arm. The moment she did so, images of rock-hard muscles everywhere assailed her mind and she released him. “When was this, Calder?”

  “Francesca”—he was gentle, his eyes smiling—“it was many months ago.” But again he was studying her, and she saw that he was perplexed by her behavior.

  “Oh.”

  “Have I done something to enervate you?”

  She blinked, stiffening. “Of course not!”

  “That is good. Because I have the distinct feeling that you might leap from the carriage at the next crossroads.”

  “We are going to supper,” she managed.

  “Are you certain there isn’t something you wish to tell me?”

  Francesca bit her lip, smiled at him, and wished that the thought of confession did not feel so appealing. She wet her lips. “Could Hoeltz be a killer? A strangler, in fact?”

  Hart shook his head, amused now. “I would not know how to answer that. I hardly know the man. But given the right motivation, aren’t we all capable of murder?”