Deadly Caress

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Deadly Caress Page 14

by Brenda Joyce


  "He's a blackguard. I heard it said. He ain't kind, Miz Cahill."

  Francesca paused. "He has been kind to us," she remonstrated.

  Joel looked her in the eye. "Only because you're a real pretty lady."

  She decided not to argue the point. She had been to Calder's office one time before, and she and Joel set up the stairs. They were both breathless by the time they reached the fifth floor.

  They entered a grand salon, where a crystal chandelier the size of a small buggy hung from the high ceiling, which was grandly embossed in gold. A large rug in shades of beige, green, and coral covered the floor; the walls were moss green, the furniture elegant and grand. The room could easily host a small ball. A Chippendale desk was at the room's far end. A young clerk stood and approached them.

  Francesca gripped her reticule very tightly. It was too late to back out now—or was it? "Is Mr. Hart in?"

  The clerk was disapproving. "Yes. I am afraid I do not have you scheduled to meet with him, Miss, er ... Miss ... ?"

  "I am a personal friend," Francesca said, and the moment the words were out, she felt her cheeks heat. She knew what the young clerk assumed. He thought she was a marriage-mad young debutante hoping to ensnare Calder or, worse, a lovesick one. "Please do ask him if he has a moment to see me. Francesca Cahill," she added nervously.

  The man intended to smile and grimaced instead. "He is in a very important meeting," he warned. "Please, do take a seat."

  Francesca tried to do so but found it impossible to sit, and she jumped to her feet, instead removing her gloves and hanging her coat on a coatrack. Joel lounged on a settee with gilded hooves for feet, draping his wool jacket carelessly on one arm there. "Joel? After you say hello to Calder, do you mind if I have a private word with him?"

  Joel blinked. "Do I mind?" He blinked at her in confusion. "Oh! That's a lady's way of saying I should sit out here! I'll stay here, Miz Cahill," he said, chuckling. "I don't mind."

  She patted his head absently.

  "Miss Cahill?" The clerk came running forward, looking stricken, as if he had just done something criminal and had been found out. "Mr. Hart will see you immediately. I am sorry I made you wait," he added quickly.

  "Thank you." Francesca followed the clerk from the salon and down a short hall. She passed an open doorway and saw a huge conference table with perhaps two dozen chairs, the wood dark cherry, the chairs black leather, all of it bringing to mind the sound of muted whispers and the scent of Cuban cigars. Two cherrywood doors were open at the end of the corridor. A huge office faced Francesca, at its farthest end Hart's large leather-inlaid desk. He wasn't seated behind it—he was standing in the center of the room, clearly waiting for her, as always, clad in black trousers that belonged to a black suit. But he was in his white shirt and silver vest. When he saw her, he smiled.

  Warmth blazed its way through her, from her head to her toes.

  Today he looked like a dangerously handsome gambler, a professional one.

  But perhaps that was what he really was.

  "You have made my day, Francesca," he murmured, the smile in his nearly black eyes now.

  "I do hope you have had a better day than that," she said tartly. It was hot in his office, but the fire in the hearth beneath the marble mantel was quite tame.

  He took both of her hands in his. "It has been rather boring and quite fair," he said. He dimpled, lifted one hand, and kissed it.

  Francesca inhaled and drew her hand away, acutely aware of his lips having brushed her skin. How would he react when she asked him for a loan? She would never, ever use the fact that he wished to marry her as a trump card, but she felt shameless, because it was a trump card whether she played it or not. If only their friendship hadn't changed!

  Hart grinned at Joel. "Hey there, Kennedy. Are you taking good care of Miss Cahill?"

  Joel nodded very seriously. "I do my best, Mr. Hart."

  "Good. The way I see it, you are her bodyguard now, Kennedy. It is your duty to keep her safe and sound. And you have done quite a good job, I think, up to now."

  "Yes, sir," Joel said, flushing with pleasure.

  "I am present, you know," Francesca said, remaining as tense as ever. "I am an intelligent grown woman who has solved four rather difficult and dangerous cases."

  "Do not pat yourself too hard on the back, as everyone in this room knows the danger you have been in. Oh— except for Mr. Edwards. Mike, Miss Cahill is never to be kept waiting. I will see her anytime that she calls."

  Francesca had realized that the clerk remained in the doorway. She turned and saw him nod deferentially, his cheeks red. "Yes, sir."

  "That is all. Why don't you take young Kennedy here and give him a tour of the premises?" Hart asked. "A U.S. warship has recently berthed in the harbor. Point her out to him."

  "Certainly, sir. Would you and Miss Cahill like any refreshments?" Edwards asked.

  Hart turned his warm gaze upon Francesca. She shook her head. "No, thank you."

  "That will be all," Hart said.

  Edwards backed out after Joel and closed both doors behind him.

  "Alone at last," Hart said, his tone teasing.

  But he had stepped closer to her, and from her perspective, he was always a tower of male strength and virility, and she jumped away, gripping her reticule so tightly that her fingers ached.

  His eyes widened. "My dear, you are as nervous as a doe about to be gunned down. I am hardly a hunter with you in my sights. And you did call on me," he added, amused.

  "But you are a hunter, even where I am concerned," she said tersely.

  His smile faded. "Francesca, if I were preying upon you as I have other women, you'd be on that sofa right now."

  She blinked, her gaze flying to the sofa against the wall— a thick plush leather couch large enough for a man and woman to make love upon. For one moment she stared, fascinated and wondering if he had made love to a woman there. But of course he had. He was, after all, the city's most notorious womanizer.

  But who had been the love interest?

  "Francesca?"

  She looked at him. It wasn't her business. It would never be her business. "Who was it?"

  "I beg your pardon?" he started.

  She wet her lips. They felt numb. "Who did you make love to over there?" Graphic images seemed to be assaulting her. Calder Hart was in them all, the woman faceless.

  His gaze narrowed. It was a moment before he answered, "I do not allow paramours in my place of business. Not ever."

  She stared. "That's hardly believable," she finally said. But she did believe him, oddly, and she was pleased—and relieved.

  "Francesca, you shall be the first lover I make love to in this room."

  This was not why she had come. "I beg to differ. We both know I will never be your lover and—"

  He sighed, cutting her off. He took her arm, pulled her close. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and for one moment she was stunned, thinking he meant to embrace her and claim her mouth. But he did neither; he gripped her arm, and somehow, they were impossibly close to each other. "You are so impossibly stubborn! I wasn't speaking literally. But after we are married, I feel rather certain we will christen my office in such an irreverent manner." He gave her a cocky grin. "The idea seems to appeal to you."

  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 abou
t 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 divorcee, 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 coining 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 you 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 s
he 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."

 

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