Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  She was silent, behind him.

  He removed a pressed shirt, a tie. He turned.

  Her eyes spat fire. “I had forgotten. Nothing has changed. You wake up—and go to work. You come home at some ungodly hour—work some more—and go to bed. Nothing has changed.”

  “That’s right,” he said, pleased with her assessment. “You don’t have to be here, remember? It was your idea, not mine. You can agree to a divorce this very instant—and not be tortured by my schedule.”

  She placed her small fists on her tiny waist. Her bosom heaved, indicating her own distress and temper. “We have an agreement. We have signed contracts. Six months together as man and wife, Rick. I am not leaving you.”

  “Well, that’s certainly refreshing, considering that is what you are best at.” He was suddenly overcome with the pain of the discovery he had made four years ago, that his wife had left him. In that instant, the precise moment, which had once haunted him, returned to assail him full force. He had come home late, as usual, and found his house empty of all her things, a single note left behind—the tattered remnant of their love and their marriage. The letter, four years ago, had read:

  Dear Rick,

  I have decided to take a holiday in France. I meant to discuss it with you, but every time I tried to talk to you, you were either going out the door, involved in work, or falling in exhaustion into bed. I simply cannot live like this anymore. As we never see one another anyway, what difference does it make if I take an extended holiday? Maybe we both need this time apart. I certainly do.

  By the time you receive this letter, I suspect I shall have been at sea for some five or six hours. I shall stay at the Excelsior Hotel in Paris for the next month, and I will inform you of my whereabouts after.

  Your loving wife,

  Leigh Anne

  He hadn’t thought about that exact moment in many years and was stunned to recall every single line of her sordid letter.

  “That was an ugly thing to say,” she said with surprising dignity, a wounded look in her eyes.

  “I believe it was the truth,” he snapped, on the brink of losing his self-control.

  “You are such a coward!” she cried. “I, at least, can admit my part in the failure of our marriage. But I have not heard you say, not even once, that you were even partly to blame. I married a man, not a lawyer. And what I wound up with was even less than that!”

  “I shared every single dream I had while we were courting,” he snarled, feeling very vicious now. “I never hid the fact that I wished to reform society. You married me knowing I was a hardworking man.”

  “I married you thinking you were going to take a normal job with normal hours! I married you thinking we would have a decent life—not one of poverty! I never dreamed I would be married to a ghost! As a lawyer, you must know you misrepresented yourself.”

  “You know,” he began unbuttoning his nightshirt, furious, “other women do not leave their husbands. Marriage is until death. It became inconvenient for you and you left. You didn’t even think to work through a difficult time.”

  “You don’t know what I thought—or what I think. You never have, Rick.” Tears filled her lovely eyes and her full lips quivered.

  “I don’t care what you think anymore, Leigh Anne. And I certainly don’t mind our little agreement.” He smiled coldly at her and stepped out of the shirt. Her gaze instantly moved over his chest to his manhood. He ignored her and stepped into his long underwear. “I find our arrangement rather convenient. Obviously.”

  It was a moment before she spoke. “Yes. That is obvious. You will always want me. You always have. That will never change.”

  “In bed—yes, I rather think I will always want you. And why not?” He began buttoning up his dress shirt. “No one is better in bed, Leigh Anne, but I think you know that.”

  “I enjoy sex and I am not ashamed to admit it. I enjoy it more with you than with anyone else, especially now,” she said, not even blinking. He could tell by her dilated pupils that she would not protest if he dragged her into his bed now.

  And because he was tempted to do so, he hated himself and lashed out yet again at her. “Someone taught you well.”

  “You taught me well, you fool!” she cried, trembling.

  He stared, refusing to believe her, never mind the swarm of erotic memories. “You know, I have no trouble bedding you every night, but in six months I am getting my divorce. Nothing will change my mind.”

  “Right now, I hate you,” she panted.

  “Then leave.” He stared.

  “Oh no. I am staying. I am staying, Rick, and no matter how cruel you think to be, how sordid, ugly, and mean, there is nothing you can do to change my mind.”

  He stared.

  She stared back. “Because I think I love you,” she said.

  Instantly he flung out his arm and knocked an expensive crystal vase and two books from the bureau to the floor.

  She flinched.

  “Liar,” he said.

  Francesca stood in the huge entry hall of Hart’s home, wringing her hands and telling herself over and over again that she did not have to make any decision now, especially not one that involved her entire future. Her internal protestations fell on her own deaf ears. It was as if the tiny seed of possibility had somehow taken root and become an unmovable and fully grown oak tree. It was as if she had become some kind of puppet on a string, the puppeteer the Devil himself—Hart.

  She shivered. If she really married him, could their friendship survive the trials and tribulations of marriage? She now realized how dear to her he had become. She never wanted to jeopardize their friendship.

  He came striding into the front hall, clad in a tuxedo, the most handsome man she had ever seen—and would ever see. He was going out, she thought, dismayed. And jealousy overcame her. Which beauty would he be escorting on his arm? Would he bring her back here to his home, or would they go to hers or to some discreet hotel room?

  “Francesca!” he cried, smiling broadly.

  Instantly she found herself smiling back. He was so obviously thrilled to see her, and her heart turned over, hard. “Hello, Calder.”

  He grasped both her hands, studied her face, and murmured, “Oh ho. You are as nervous as a hare. I am instantly suspicious, when you appear on my doorstep in such a state of anxiety. What’s wrong?”

  She wet her lips, tugging her hands free of his. “Nothing. Not really. Well, I have been thinking. But I can see that you are on your way out.”

  He stared. “I shall be late.” He took her arm and looped it in his, held it firmly against his side, and walked her into the same small salon they had been in the other day. Shutting both doors, he faced her. “You are usually the most coherent woman I know.”

  She tried to smile, failed, and began trembling. “I have been thinking quite a bit.”

  He smiled briefly in amusement. “Darling, no one thinks more than you. I doubt you ever give that clever brain of yours a rest. I am almost afraid to ask what the subject of your brooding is.”

  “You.”

  Now he folded both arms across his broad chest. His smile was gone. “Ah, I see.”

  She was also hugging herself. “I have been considering your proposal, Hart.”

  He dropped his arms, staring. He had become still.

  She couldn’t smile. Her lips felt stiff, like brittle toffee. “It has become tempting,” she whispered hoarsely.

  He didn’t move and he didn’t speak.

  She wished he would say something. “I . . .” It was hard to speak. She saw herself standing in a church aisle in her wedding gown. She saw Hart at the aisle’s end, in his tuxedo, smiling, waiting for her, a minister before him. What was she doing?

  “Good,” he said tersely.

  Her gaze flew to his. Their gazes locked. She couldn’t look away, she couldn’t breathe, and briefly, she could not speak.

  He stared. “Are you telling me that you have come to your senses? That you accept
my suit?”

  She nodded breathlessly.

  His set face did not change. Not for a long, breathless moment. And then he began to smile, slowly, a smile that covered his face and reached his eyes. But it wasn’t broad. Speculation remained. “I am not going to ask why. I am afraid to know what mental gyrations have brought you to this point in time.” But his gaze was filled with a single question now: Why?

  She wet her lips. “I mean, we hardly have any interests in common and—”

  He approached her in a stride, pressed his fingertip to her mouth, silencing her. “Stop. Do not speak and do not move.”

  She blinked, but he turned and left the room.

  Her heart was overpowering her now with its speed. Oh, dear God, she had done it! She laid her hand upon her breast but could not calm it. Oh, God. She felt as if she were on a runaway locomotive, and even though the choice was hers, she simply did not understand herself. Yet she could not get off the train. Instinct told her to leap and run. For it would crash, she was certain—but she was glued aboard it, for better or for worse.

  Suddenly Hart returned, smiling slightly, devilishly. He did not bother to close the doors, pausing before her. “You know, darling, I never did propose.”

  “What?” She was taken aback until she saw a tiny velvet box in his hand. Was that what she thought it was? Impossible! “What’s that?” she cried.

  He laughed, the sound warm and rich, engulfing her. He put the small jeweler’s box down on the side table next to them and clasped both of her hands, bringing them to his mouth. His kiss stirred her completely. “Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened and met his. And the train picked up speed, dangerously, impossibly, its destination unknown. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper, trembling now with fear and what felt suspiciously like joy.

  He smiled, releasing her hands. A moment later he was holding the little box up for her to see, and it was now open. A magnificent pear-shaped diamond engagement ring was there, flanked by three more diamonds on each end.

  She stared, wide-eyed. “What’s that?”

  “Silly woman,” he said affectionately, slipping the ring onto her fourth finger.

  Her heart stopped. She had a single moment of paralyzing fear, in which Rick Bragg’s handsome face assailed her mind, his gaze wounded and accusing. It was instantly followed by his wife’s lovely image, and then the unwelcome moment was gone.

  She stared at the gorgeous ring—and then up at the gorgeous man looking so intently at her. “Calder, it’s beautiful. I don’t understand. When did you purchase this?”

  “The morning after I realized you were the one,” he said.

  She stared into his nearly black eyes. Now the navy blue flecks there were highly visible. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. How brashly confident you were!”

  He laughed. “I never give up when I am on a quest, Francesca,” he said, the laughter dying abruptly. He lifted both of her hands again and kissed them. “I will speak to your parents immediately.”

  “But you are on your way out,” she managed, made breathless once more by the feel of his firm lips on her skin.

  “My plans for the evening have changed,” he murmured, giving her a suddenly intent and very direct and meaningful look.

  Her loins filled. She did not move.

  He smiled slowly, knowingly. “You may think that we have little in common, but there is something we do have in common, Francesca,” he said.

  “Yes,” she murmured weakly.

  He slowly pulled her close. “Does six months meet with your satisfaction?” he asked seductively, taking the lobe of her ear between his teeth and tugging on it gently.

  She gasped. And an image of him straining over her, with a very tactile sensation of him filling her, hot and huge and wet, overcame her. Her knees gave way.

  He laughed softly and slowly drew his tongue around the inner curves of her ear. “Shall we plan a wedding for six months from now?” he asked huskily.

  He was holding her upright. She could not think. She clung to his broad shoulders. “Hart,” she gasped.

  “Calder, darling, it’s Calder.”

  Of course she knew his name. She closed her eyes, turning her face toward his, awaiting his kiss. But no kiss came. Instead, he nuzzled her throat very gently. She felt his tongue slide over a bruise. She gasped. And somehow her hand slid down, over his rock-hard chest, to grip the waistband of his trousers.

  “I hate what he did to you,” he suddenly said, against her neck.

  “I know,” she managed, thinking about what might happen if she dared to move her hand even an inch lower. She was fully aware of what was there. “I’m fine, now,” she said.

  He kissed her throat, the underside of her jaw, its edge.

  She slipped her hand into his trousers and touched the huge, throbbing, bulbous tip of him.

  Hart inhaled hard.

  “Oh,” Francesca whispered, her eyes flying open. She had to explore. “Oh,” she said again.

  He suddenly lifted her into his arms, used one foot to kick the door closed, and carried her to the sofa. “I can see this will be a very difficult engagement,” he said, and in spite of his thick tone, he was laughing.

  Six months. He wanted a six-month engagement. Francesca found herself on her back on the sofa, with Hart looming over her. Six months? She might be able to wait six minutes. “Six minutes,” she countered, her face feeling as if it were on fire.

  His eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  She fought for clear and coherent thought. “I mean, six days—er, weeks. Why don’t we have a six-week engagement?” Her mind sped as he began to laugh. “I mean, two weeks?”

  “Darling, is it that bad?” He stroked his hand over her breasts. Her nipples leaped to attention and her body became rigid. “No one has a two- or even six-week engagement. Your mother would shoot me should I suggest it.”

  He was rubbing his third finger over one nipple very slowly now, as if he didn’t even know what he was doing—which she doubted. She somehow swallowed. “Mama loves you. You may do whatever you wish and she will still adore you.”

  Now his thumb continued the torture. He continued to smile at her. “Even a wedding six months from now will raise many eyebrows. People will assume I have gotten you pregnant, darling.” He suddenly bent, and through the layers of silk and wool, he plucked her nipple with his teeth.

  She slipped her hands into his hair and held him there. “Don’t stop,” she begged, meaning it. “Whatever you do, Calder, don’t stop.”

  He lifted his head and looked her in the eye and said, “Then it is settled. Six months. That takes us to mid-August. The perfect time for a wedding.”

  She grabbed his hand and replaced it on her breast. “Fine,” she gasped.

  He grinned at her.

  “Do you enjoy tormenting me?” she cried.

  “It is all a part of lovemaking,” he whispered.

  “Really?” She feigned innocence, touching his strong neck and, for one moment, stroking him there.

  He stilled, watchful and waiting now.

  She felt a sudden vast power. She slid her hand lower, beneath his tuxedo coat but over his shirt, using the tips of her fingers only. She stroked down his chest, his flat, hard belly, and she paused.

  He didn’t move. He only watched her face.

  She smiled a little, excitement making her faint, and she dared to go lower, until, over his trousers, she traced the outline of his arousal, again and again.

  “Somehow, I thought you might be an adept student, Francesca,” he murmured.

  “You can teach me anything,” she whispered, meaning it.

  His jaw flexed. His temples throbbed. His eyes had turned coal gray. “And I will,” he said. He moved over her then, coming down on top of her, taking her into his embrace, their mouths finally, frantically, fusing.

  And when, a long time later, Hart broke away from her, getting
up and pacing away in an attempt to compose himself, Francesca smiled. Slowly, her hair rioting down her back, her lips deliciously swollen, her body vibrantly alive, she sat up.

  Hart stood facing the empty fireplace, his back to her, his broad shoulders stiff with unrequited and raging desire. He had removed his tuxedo jacket some time ago, and when he finally faced her, his dress shirt perilously wrinkled and unbuttoned to his waist, the hard slabs of his chest completely revealed, he looked more than disheveled. He appeared every inch the notorious womanizer, at once disreputable and oh-so-dangerous to any woman’s foolish heart. He did not smile. He looked at her the way no man had ever looked at her before, bar none.

  Francesca shivered.

  She was marrying Calder Hart. For better or for worse, in six months’ time.

  Francesca realized that she was smiling.

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  THE CHASE

  AVAILABLE IN JULY 2003

  FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS

  AS THE STORY OPENS, Claire Hayden is giving a magnificent party for her husband, but things aren’t going well between them. Her marriage is on shaky ground, her husband is mysteriously distracted, and their finances are in trouble. And Claire suspects these problems may go even deeper . . .

  The first guests were just arriving, and everything was as it should be. The decorations were fabulous—a combination of peach-hued rose petals strewn everywhere, even on the furniture, and hundreds of natural-colored candles in various shapes and sizes and clusters on every conceivable surface, all burning softly and giving her entire house a warm, ethereal glow. The bar had been set up in the closest corner of the living area to the entryway, and it looked perfect with flower petals strewn over the table, amongst the bottles and glasses, and over the floor. A waiter in a tuxedo stood at the door with a tray of champagne flutes, and another waiter stood beside him to take wraps, just in case any of the ladies had worn them. The deejay had set up in the back of the living room, and soulful jazz was softly filling the house.

  Claire began greeting guests. Her home quickly filled with some of San Francisco’s most renowned and wealthy residents; there was also a scattering of Los Angeles media moguls and New York businessmen, mostly high finance types. Claire knew almost everybody, either through David’s business or because of the charities she worked so hard for. Her real friends she could count on one hand; still, she socialized frequently, and she genuinely liked many of the people she constantly dealt with.