by Brenda Joyce
His words somehow hurt. They signaled the end of romance and the beginning of a new road that they must somehow travel. She was very, very grateful that they had not consummated their love before Leigh Anne's arrival in the city—and his control had been far greater than her own. "It was my fault," she said truthfully. "I threw myself at you."
He did not rebut. "It is over with, and not too much harm was done," he said, glancing sidelong at her, as if he regretted the encounter, too.
And how could she not? She shifted uncomfortably. She felt guilty for that interlude, as well as ashamed. Calder Hart instantly intruded upon her thoughts again, his impossibly dark and handsome face mocking her, them. There will not be any happy endings, my dear. You may trust me on that.
Francesca certainly believed him now. But he had warned her for some time that the love she felt for his brother would soon blow up in her face. She had refused to heed his warnings.
It is Bragg you want for a husband, but it is me that you want in your bed.
She felt her cheeks' heat flame. She wished, desperately, that she could forget Hart's damnable words. And this was certainly not the time to recall that particularly arrogant statement.
"The last thing I wish for you to do is become martyr over my cause," Bragg said firmly, cutting into her dismal thoughts.
Francesca managed to jerk herself solidly back to the present. "I am hardly a martyr, Bragg." She rubbed her temples.
"Are you all right?" he asked quickly.
"I'm fine," she lied.
Francesca let him open her car door for her and assist her to her feet. They started slowly up the walk. At the door, he paused, finally taking her gloved hands in his. Her heart tightened.
"Francesca, my personal future is now hard to predict. I've said this before—I would never ask you to wait for me. And I've said this before as well—stay away from Hart. He will break your heart if you do not."
Francesca stiffened impossibly, tugging free. "We are only friends," she said. "As I have said before, his friendship is very important to me, no matter how insufferable he can be."
"He is pursuing you," Bragg said, his eyes suddenly flashing. "It is so terribly obvious! And I know he would love nothing more than to steal you away from me."
"You are so wrong. That is the one thing he would never do, not out of malice or envy or lust," Francesca said. She knew Hart would never take his rivalry with Bragg so far. He would never use her to get at Bragg. Nor did she add, I am not yours, so how can he steal me away?
Bragg stared. "Anyone but Hart, Francesca. Should you come to me and tell me that you were in love with Mr. Wiley, I would give you my blessing."
"Would you?" she asked doubtfully, as he referred to a suitor foisted upon her once by her mother.
"Yes, I would. It would hurt terribly, but I would do my best to want what is right for you, as you have done in thinking that you should support my marriage in order to further my career."
She stared at him and he stared back. Finally she said, "I had better go in."
It was as if he hadn't heard her. "Anyone, Francesca, anyone but my selfish, no-good, disreputable brother."
She nodded brusquely and said good night.
CHAPTER THREE
Wednesday, February 19, 1902—half past 7:00 a.m.
"Miss Cahill! This is a delightful surprise." Alfred beamed at her.
Francesca stood bundled up in her fur-lined cashmere coat, her hands in a muff, trembling. Her shivers had little to do with the cold. She had not been able to sleep at all last night, and not simply because of the predicament her brother might find himself in. She had worried about Evan's connection to Grace Conway's death and the vandalism of Sarah Channing's studio, but she had also been haunted by Calder Hart. His shocking marriage proposal kept replaying itself in her mind as she tossed and turned restlessly for hours on end. She had spent most of the night dreading the encounter now about to take place. Hart was opinionated and difficult. She intended to firmly let him down. She prayed, however, that the conversation she must now have with him would not become a confrontation, and hoped he would see the folly of his thinking and they would both wind up chuckling over the entire affair.
But nothing ever went the way one hoped with Calder Hart.
She managed to smile at his butler, Alfred, a slim, short bald man with merry yet respectful eyes. Here, at least, she had an ally. Most of what she knew about Hart's private life—like the fact that he at times dismissed the entire staff and would wander alone around his mansion, staring at his paintings and sculptures—she had gleaned from Alfred. What she liked the most about the Englishman, however, was not the fact that he had violated Hart's trust by revealing that kind of information to her, but the fact that he seemed genuinely fond and caring of his rather eccentric and often difficult employer. "Good morning," she began, rather grimly.
"Do come in; I can see you are freezing," Alfred said, ushering her swiftly inside and closing the door behind him. Hart's mansion—which was several times the size of her own home—was ten blocks uptown and also on Fifth Avenue. His property seemed to take up an entire block, as nothing else was built upon it other than his five-bedroom guest cottage, tennis courts and stables, and a very attractive gazebo. But then, he was very flamboyant with his wealth. Francesca knew it had to do with the fact that he had grown up on the Lower East Side with his half brother in extremely impoverished conditions, until their mother, Lily, had died. Now he flaunted his wealth, not caring what society thought. Calder Hart's father had not bothered to come to take in his own bastard son when Lily had died, but Rathe and Grace Bragg had come at Lily's dying request to take in both boys. How dramatically their lives had changed when the Braggs had arrived and the boys had moved from the run-down tenement in a crime-ridden neighborhood of the Bowery to the Georgian mansions of Washington, D.C., where Rathe had been in Grover Cleveland's administration. But Hart, being Hart, had run away six years later at the age of sixteen, apparently to look for his biological father. Francesca knew that had not gone well. He had then gone to Princeton for one year, only to drop out. Now he was the owner of several shipping companies and one insurance firm, not to mention one of the world's foremost collections of art. And he had achieved his wealth and success without any help from his foster family.
Francesca suspected most of Hart's current behavior— his lack of respect for societal norms and mores, his outspokenness, his womanizing—was molded by his troubled childhood.
Francesca followed Alfred through the huge entry hall, where artworks hung on the walls and sculptures lined them. She thought about the irony of the fact that every mother of a young lady Julia knew wished to ensnare Hart for her daughter, just as Julia did. He was the most eligible bachelor in the city, never mind his notoriety, his outspokenness, and the parade of lovers he was always on the town with. How green with envy those other mothers would now be. While Francesca had never been the target of his advances—he had always been the perfect gentleman around her, never mind his reputation—somehow this notion that he must marry her was far worse than a mere attempt at seduction. She was desperately afraid—and she was as afraid to comprehend why.
He was the most dangerously attractive man she had ever met. He was wealthy, powerful, fascinating. But any woman who dared to love him would wind up in shreds.
"Mr. Hart should be downstairs in a moment, Miss Ca-hill," Alfred said cheerfully, breaking into her desperate thoughts. Francesca knew her smile was a frozen one. In fact, she was beginning to perspire—which was the epitome of unladylike behavior. He led the way past an erotic sculpture of a beautiful young woman holding a pigeon. "He has been up since five, working in the library. Will you be staying for breakfast?"
Francesca was realizing that she was perspiring, a very unladylike action, as Alfred spoke. Breakfast? Who could eat at a time like this? She felt as if she had just been tossed by the Romans into the Colosseum where an underfed and savage lion did wait. She wished the encount
er with Hart were over.
At that moment, Alfred paused beside the two wide open doors to the breakfast room and Francesca crashed into his back. "Oh! I am so sorry!" she cried, righting herself. Then her gaze veered past Alfred, and with dismay she saw an extremely familiar face at Hart's long and gleaming oak breakfast table. For one moment, as the man slowly rose to his feet—he had been sipping coffee—she thought with real dismay that it was Bragg.
And it was a Bragg, but not the police commissioner. It was his younger brother, Rourke, a medical student from Philadelphia.
"I shall tell Mr. Hart that you are here," Alfred said pleasantly.
As she wished to speak with Hart privately, this wouldn't work, oh no. Francesca felt a surge of sheer panic. She liked Rourke, but he was too astute and he had already seen too much. He sauntered toward her now as Alfred left before she could utter a protest. "Good morning," he said amiably, with a genuine smile. He looked almost exactly like his brother, except that his hair was browner than gold and his strong face was a bit squarer, his chin cleft.
"Hello, Rourke." She fidgeted nervously.
"Are you all right?" He eyed her closely, clad in a dark brown suit. "And it is awfully early for a social call, isn't it?"
She lifted her chin. "I have an urgent matter to discuss with your brother," she stated firmly.
"Do you ever rest, Francesca? You were nearly killed on your previous case. I would think you would sleep in this morning," Rourke said mildly.
"Your family makes it terribly difficult to lead a normal life," Francesca said tartly.
Rourke laughed. "I happen to agree with you. Come, do sit down. Coffee?"
But Francesca did not move. "No, thank you." Rapidly she shifted mental gears. "How is Sarah, Rourke?"
Rourke paused in the act of filling a porcelain coffee cup from the sideboard. "I had intended to call upon her a bit later in the morning," he said.
Rourke was in his third year in medical school in Philadelphia. He had come to town, joining his parents and sister and a few cousins, a few days ago. Sarah had been suffering greatly since the attack upon her studio, and Rourke had seen her through a fainting spell that had turned into a serious fever. That, however, was past. "I must call upon her, too. Will it be all right? Can I ask her a few questions?"
Rourke did not reply.
But Francesca had already become rigid. She didn't have to turn around to know that Calder Hart stood somewhere behind her. Her heart began a series of amazing somersaults.
He said, "This is a wonderful surprise," in that impossibly seductive murmur he so often adopted around her.
She slowly turned.
He leaned against one of the open doors, devastatingly dark and dangerously handsome. A slight pleased smile was on his face, but sheer speculation was reflected in his nearly black eyes. He was wearing only a crisp white shirt with his black trousers. While his shirtsleeves were down and sapphire cuff links winked from them, the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a deep hollow between his collarbones and some dark, interesting skin.
He was the same height as his half brother, Rick Bragg. But Hart was far more solidly built. Francesca had been in his arms several times, platonically, of course. He had the musculature of a weight lifter or a boxer.
"Yet oddly, I am not really surprised to see you this morning, Francesca," he said in the same bedroom murmur.
It instantly brought to mind images of him looming over her in a big brass bed. "Good morning," she chirped like a foolish and silly bird.
He flashed a grin at her. Then, not taking his gaze from her, not even for an instant, he said, "Good morning, Rourke," to his foster brother.
Rourke murmured a greeting but faced Francesca. "Can it not wait?" he asked. "Sarah needs a few more days to rest. I prefer her not to become agitated."
It was so hard to look away from Hart's mesmerizing stare. Her heart was skipping uncontrollably, and her knees were betraying her, too, for they had become terribly weak. She somehow turned to Rourke. "There has been a murder," she managed. "I must speak with Sarah as soon as possible."
Rourke stiffened. "A murder? But how does this affect Miss Channing?" he demanded, eyes wide.
Hart spoke before she could answer. "No, the real question is, Francesca, how does this affect you?" he said grimly, gripping her elbow and turning her back around.
His touch made her breathless. But she had finally admitted to herself the other day that she was as fatally attracted to him as all women were—he had merely to enter a room to leave her undone. Now he was no longer in the same good humor as a moment ago. "I am sorry, Calder, but I did not dial up another murder for my own entertainment."
He stared into her eyes. Then, "Might I assume you wish a private conversation with me?"
She nodded, eagerly and in relief.
But Rourke gripped her hand now. "Francesca, how does the murder involve Sarah?"
She met his gaze and saw his concern. "A woman was murdered in an artist's studio, Rourke. And the killer destroyed her studio very much as he did Sarah's."
Rourke paled. "Is Sarah in danger?"
Francesca touched him. "I don't know. Last night, Bragg sent two roundsmen to the Channing home, as a precaution."
Rourke nodded grimly.
Hart purred, but not quite pleasantly, "After you, Francesca."
She darted a glance at him as she hurried past his tall, strong body and saw the heat smoldering in his eyes. But whether he was angry now because she had so quickly become involved in another case, or because he was astute enough to know that last night she had been with his half brother, she did not know. "The library?" she asked in the hall.
Instead of answering her, he crossed the front hall, pushed open the door to a huge salon the size of a poor man's entire flat, and waited for her to precede him in. Francesca did so, trying not to panic. She must stay calm or she would never succeed in letting Hart down. If only they were still discussing the case. There she was on firm ground, and he was a link to the inner sanctums of the city's art world. But she had not come to discuss the investigation with him, and there was no more avoiding what had to be done.
He closed one teak door behind them. "Is Sarah Channing in danger?"
She faced him, keeping twenty feet between them now. And she softened—he wasn't heartless, which she already knew, and moments like this proved it. Concern was reflected by his dark, intent eyes. "We really don't know."
His arms were folded over his broad chest. His biceps bulged against the soft but expensive white cotton of his shirt. "We."
"I meant that I hardly know, as the investigation has just begun! Hart, this is not why I have come."
"I know why you have come, my dear," he said flatly. "I have been expecting you, but not quite this early."
"You have?"
He launched himself off the door, approaching. His strides were long but coiled. Francesca stood her ground, no easy task. "So you and Rick are off on another investigation," he said softly—dangerously.
She nodded. "You know this is what I do."
"I know that. It is one of the many attributes you possess which make you so unique. How often do you wish to put yourself in danger—to face death?" He was openly angry now, as her life seemed to be constantly in danger these days. "What the hell is wrong with my brother?" he exclaimed. "His wife has returned and he still gallivants about with you!"
She stiffened. "He is my friend—just as you are. And nothing more!" she said hotly.
That halted him in his tracks. "Do not patronize me."
She bit her lip. "There is no other recourse, now."
"So that is your most recent conclusion?" His gaze was searching.
She had the sudden urge to cry. But she must not. "How could there be any other conclusion?" she whispered forlornly.
"Poor Francesca," he suddenly murmured, and before she knew it, he had taken another stride and was cupping her face in his two large hands. She stilled,
but not on the inside. Inside, her heart beat madly, her breath escaped, her knees buckled, and her loins filled. Their gazes locked.
His eyes weren't really black. They were the darkest shade of brown imaginable, with navy blue flecks. "In a way, I am so sorry for you."
His kindness would make the tears fall. "Please, do not be kind now, Hart. Be anything but! Mock me!"
He smiled a little and his hands seemed to tighten on her face. Francesca felt her heart lurch with excitement, and she looked at his mouth, so close to her own. They had never kissed. Not even once. The most notorious womanizer in the city had chosen to treat her with the utmost respect. Now, finally, after all this time, he was going to kiss her!
Francesca could not wait.
Her body shifted toward him of its own volition. Her thighs touched his. Her breasts, encased in too many layers of clothing to count, brushed the cotton of his shirt. Her nipples pebbled and hurt. It became impossible to breathe, anticipation consuming her.
He stroked her cheek and released her. Then he walked oh-so-casually away, as if he had not felt the beast that had risen up yet again between them.
She could only stare, stunned. He had said he intended to marry her. What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he kissed her?
He turned, sitting on the thickly rolled arm of a gold velvet sofa, looking impossibly relaxed. But he wasn't wearing a jacket, and his posture caused the fabric of his trousers to strain across his hips, and Francesca saw that he was aroused. Her heart thundered in response.
But why should she be surprised? He had said he wanted her. He had told her so to her face.
But he was so calm, so cool, so controlled. If he were Bragg, right now she would be in his arms and on that sofa.
