Deadly - Deadly Desire Part 2

"You seem so unhappy." Bartolla patted her arm. "Didn't I tell you that you are far too naiveto manage a married man?" She gave her a knowing look. "Now I really must go." "May we continue this conversation at another time?" Francesca asked after a pause. "Notabout his wife. About the possibility that perhaps this was an enemy of-" "It was not. Now, if you do not mind?" Francesca nodded. "If you change your mind-" "You shall be the first to know." "You are very quiet," Lucy remarked as they paused outside the Channing house a bit later. Francesca did not smile. "I feel bad for Sarah." And that was entirely true, but she was alsodisturbed by the conversations she had had with Bartolla. And she was worried, too,because when Bragg had left they had not resolved their dispute over Hart's absurdcommission. She hoped he would have recovered his usually good humor by the time shesaw him that night. "So do I. She is terribly nice, and her art is beautiful." Lucy had peeked in on the studiobefore they had left. "My bet is that someone hates that countess and this is not a blowagainst Sarah." Francesca was grim. "I do happen to like Bartolla, Lucy, but I am inclined to agree with you.She has undoubtedly made a few enemies along the way, and perhaps one of them hasnow lashed out at her." They started down the block. "I will question her at length, as soon a.s.she gives me another chance." Lucy shrugged and said, "I'll wager that the enemy in question is a woman." Francesca sighed. Then she said, "Why are the two of you in a compet.i.tion?" "A compet.i.tion? Why would I ever compete with her?" Lucy asked with a shake of her head."There is no compet.i.tion! True, she is rather attractive and intelligent, but look at her! She isa widow-she must have married that old man at sixteen! Now she is here to find anotherhusband. A rich one. You may trust me on that." Francesca's eyes widened. "That is rather unfair, don't you think? I mean, you do not evenknow her! And if anything, perhaps you might feel sorry for her, having had to marry an olderman." "And do you know her? Really?" Lucy asked pointedly. "I know her a bit. And by the way, she is wealthy, and my understanding is that she wishes toremain independent. She is not husband-hunting." "Be careful, Francesca. For I understand the two of you have just met." "We are friends." "Really? You are a bit too beautiful to be her friend. And you are a Cahill," Lucy saidpointedly. "I hope you are wrong. For in some ways, Bartolla and I are alike." "You are not alike, except that you both prefer to do as you wish and not as society wishes.Again, be careful. I would not trust her if I were you." Francesca felt shaken. They started walking again, only to pause at the curb. Lucy said, "Ihad better return to Hart's, where my mother is watching the twins and Roberto. I shallchange the supper reservation. Do you think we should also invite your parents?" "Please don't!" Francesca said in a rush. "They have plans tonight, anyway." Lucy smiled. "So where do we go from here in the investigation?" Francesca hesitated. "Evan is out right now, so I will speak to him later. I need to snooparound the art world, I think." "Well, you can always start with Calder." Lucy grinned, both brows lifted. Francesca folded her arms. "He is the obvious choice. I also promised Sarah that I wouldtell him there will be a delay in delivery of the portrait." "You mean your portrait," Lucy said, laughter in her tone. Francesca ignored that. "But I do hate to disturb him when his house is full." "He may not even be home." Lucy leaned close. "Who is his mistress now?" Francesca lowered her voice. "She is actually very nice, and beautiful in an unearthly way. I believe her background is genteel, but she will not speak of it. Do you want to meet her? Iam sure she would love it if we called upon her." "How about on Monday? I really do have to get back to the twins," Lucy said. "Monday will be fine," Francesca said, as she preferred attempting to see Calder andcontinuing the investigation, as there were still plenty of hours left before supper. Lucy had espied a cab, and she waved at it. "Are you coming, then?" Francesca hesitated. She could not deny that the thought of seeing Hart made hersomewhat uneasy. But Hart could be a fount of useful information. He was her connection tothe art world, quite obviously. She could not avoid him now. "Of course." She forced asmile. Lucy eyed her. "My, you do look as if you are walking to the guillotine." Francesca did not know what to say, so she said nothing. But the truth was that somehoweven approaching Hart for important information made her feel as if she were betrayingBragg. Suddenly the Channing carriage came up beside them, pausing in the drive before enteringthe street. Bartolla waved at them. Francesca smiled at her, although Lucy did not. Bartolla unlatched and pushed open her window. "Need a lift?" she asked. She was wearingthe mink stole and an elaborate and beautiful navy blue hat, one with ostrich feathers. Shewas frankly breathtaking. "Yes," Francesca said with a smile, but at the same time Lucy frowned and said, "No." Bartolla smiled at them both. "Have a good afternoon!" she cried. The carriage pulled away.The cab had also driven past them, and the only other conveyance in sight was a trolley. Itwas, of course, going downtown. They looked at each other. "So which lover is she off to meet?" Lucy asked archly. "She is window-shopping with my brother, and he is not her lover." Lucy stared. "Is he handsome?" "Yes-and engaged." "Oh ho! Evan Cahill is handsome and rich.... are you insane? How can you even like her!"Lucy cried. Francesca had stiffened. "Evan is a gentleman. He would never betray Sarah." She did notmention that he hated being engaged, that he did not like Sarah, and that he kept amistress, a beautiful stage actress, and that he had always preferred stunning andflamboyant women. "Oh, please! The writing is on the wall. How can you be blind?" Lucy faced her, her eyesflashing. "Let me tell you something, Francesca. She has eyed Rick behind your back- andnot in a polite way. Fortunately, he could not care less about a woman like that, or she'dseduce him away from you, quicker than you could say 'snake.' " Francesca stared at her new friend and again thought about the fact that Bartolla was afriend of Leigh Anne. Then she recalled far too vividly the wide-eyed and somewhat pleasedlook on Bartolla's face when she had found Francesca and Bragg in the throes of pa.s.sionon the couch at the Channing ball. She was suddenly ill at heart-and nervously afraid. "What is it?" Lucy asked quickly. Francesca hesitated. "She happens to be Leigh Anne's friend." Lucy cried out, "I should have known!" "What does that mean?" "It means it takes a b.i.t.c.h to be friends with one," Lucy said, and she was red-faced withanger now. Francesca stared at Lucy, wide-eyed. But why should she be surprised by such a reactionfrom Bragg's sister? She touched her arm. "I take it you don't like Leigh Anne?" "That's an understatement. I hate her," Lucy hissed. "After all she did to Rick, I hope shedies-now. Apache style!" Francesca had a feeling that Lucy had not exaggerated her feelings, not in the least. "What did she do?" she whispered, her lips feeling numb.

"What did she do?" Lucy was incredulous-aghast. "Do you have to even ask? She broke my brother's heart," she said.

Chapter Five.

SAt.u.r.dAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 - 4:00 P.M.

Hart's mansion, No. 973 Fifth Avenue, was about ten blocks farther uptown than the Cahill residence. The five-story stone mansion was the only house on the block, as the area was sporadically developed and Hart's property apparently was the entire block. Behind the house were sweeping lawns, tennis courts, a stable, and a guest "cottage." (The cottage had five bedrooms.) Unsurprisingly, a huge bronze statue of a stag graced the mansion's roof. As soon as Francesca entered Hart's huge mansion, a house that was so vast it was almost impossible to imagine a bachelor residing there alone, there was pandemonium.

The twins came rushing into the huge front hall, which was large enough to host a small ball.

They were screeching at their mother, who went wild in turn. Francesca smiled as Lucy knelt to hug both twins at once, asking them a dozen questions all in one breath. Her smile was strained.

Leigh Anne had broken Bragg's heart? That was not possible. He had never been in love with her-he had said so himself.

Roberto had followed the twins into the hall, and he paused beside a life-size statue of a reclining woman, an extremely beautiful nude girl with large b.r.e.a.s.t.s who was holding a dove in her cupped hands and in doing so strategically shielding her loins. As Grace entered the hall on Roberto's heels, Francesca started, because she had been at Hart's home several times and this sculpture was a new one. Not surprisingly, its eroticism was shocking, but it was undeniably beautiful. It stood opposite another sculpture that she had seen before. A pair of women, also life-size and nude, were running in great fear.

Francesca quickly glanced around at the rest of the art in the hall, but nothing had changed-the domed ceiling above was a fresco that seemed to be depicting h.e.l.l, as the men, women, and children being whisked upward were screaming and afraid. Another painting, this one a large oil on the wall, depicted a man on his back, about to be trod upon by his steed. It was t.i.tled The Conversion of St. Paul and it was as disturbing as it was powerful.

"How are you, carol" Lucy was asking, hugging her ten-year-old son.

He protested but bit back a smile and did not pull away. "Shoz sent a telegram. He wants you to send one back to him immediately," Roberto said seriously.

Lucy's eyes brightened. "What did it say?"

"He misses us," Roberto said simply.

"Did you have a pleasant day?" Grace asked her daughter, having followed Roberto into the hall.

"It was perfect." Lucy grinned. "And we are having guests for dinner-Mrs. Channing and her daughter, Sarah, and her fiance, Evan, who is Francesca's brother, and Francesca."

Grace smiled and looked at Francesca. "h.e.l.lo."

Francesca felt flushed. "Mrs. Bragg, I do hope it won't be an imposition," she began.

"Not at all." Grace glanced back over her shoulder.

Francesca stiffened. She suddenly realized that Hart stood at the far end of the hall, as still as any one of his statues. He was staring at them. Or was he staring at her?

She was aware of a new tension and she watched him start slowly forward. He wasn't wearing his jacket. His silver vest was open, his tie undone, his shirt collar unb.u.t.toned, revealing a small swath of dark skin and midnight-black hair. He was actually quite disheveled, but disheveled wasn't the right word to describe him. She did not know the right

word or words to describe him. There was always something languid and patient about hisposture, his movements. There was always something sensual and even dangerous aboutthe way he stood, watching her so carefully. Yet there was also the hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in hiseyes, as if he were in a dangerous game that he very much enjoyed. Hart would always be apredator, she thought. It was his basic nature. She did not move. A very faint smile etched his hard mouth as he finally emerged out of the shadows. "You likemy new nude," he murmured. Her heart beat hard. "I think so." Now he did smile, and his eyes gleamed, holding hers. "I'm glad. I am rather fond of her,myself." Francesca glanced at the young woman holding the dove. Now she noticed that one tendrilof curling hair was entangled with a very erect nipple. "She is too young for you. Besides,she must be a pacifist," she said as tartly as possible, no easy feat when one could notbreathe properly. "Which you are not." His white teeth flashed. "She is probably fourteen or fifteen. And that is rather young, evenfor me. And that is not a dove which she is holding ... so carefully. It is a pigeon," he saidsoftly. "And why do you say I am not a pacifist? Only a fool enjoys war." "But frequently the symbolism is the same," Francesca breathed, not looking at the nude butat him. She didn't exactly want to talk about the fact that the nude was cupping a pigeonagainst her loins. "So you are a pacifist, Hart?" "Until prompted to be otherwise." He smiled at her. "I do not think the message this sculptorintends has anything to do with pacifism." In spite of her unease, she felt a flash of excitement. "Why else use symbolism a.s.sociatedwith peace?" He grinned. "The young lady we are so admiring is holding the pigeon in a certainmanner-not for the cla.s.sic strategic reason. This sculpture was only recently completed.Today artists are not afraid to reveal anatomy, Francesca." "I am missing your point." "Take a good look at Lady Brianna," he murmured. Francesca supposed that was the model's name, and she did. "No, look at her hands," he suggested far too smoothly. Amus.e.m.e.nt was in his tone. Her heart seemed to stop. "She's stroking the bird," she whispered. Very softly, he said, "At least." And she thought, Feathers. How erotic they would be.... Her heart lurched, far too intensely for comfort. She jerked her gaze back to Hart and foundhim standing stock-still, staring. His eyes were narrowed and filled with speculation now. It was hard to breathe, much less think clearly. "I have changed my tune. The sculpture isabout erotica, not pacifism." "I have not been fair," he said, his smile odd now. "I do know this artist's work andbackground. And yes, it is about erotica, and most galleries refuse to show Monsieur Dubei,considering his work far too scandalous and shocking for public purview. Do you find it tooscandalous? Should I hide the lovely Brianna in my master suite?" She inhaled, fighting for her every breath. "You have children in the house, but..." "But?" He stared intensely. "But"-she wet her lips-"she is beautiful. It would be a shame to hide her in a back room."Francesca somehow shrugged. He smiled widely at her. "You are a bohemian at heart, Francesca. And clearly I agree withyou completely. As for the children, the twins and Roberto do not understand." She couldn't help agreeing with him. "So? What brings you to my humble home? Let me guess. You are enamored of mystepsister." His gaze was hooded now. "I have come to see you," she said hoa.r.s.ely. She tried to clear her throat and succeeded.

His black brows slashed upward. "Really? I am touched."

His fingers brushed over the vicinity where his heart lay.

"It is business, Hart," she said, her brisk and purposeful self once again. But she knew better, she truly did, than to expect to encounter Hart without any turbulence. He loved throwing others off balance.

"And now I am crestfallen," he murmured. "But I do hope you mean anything but sleuthing?"

She shook her head at him, not in response to his last question, but to his pretense at being broken-hearted. Yet annoyance escaped her now. Did he always have to use that tone of voice with her? Did he enjoy provoking her somehow?

"Shall I have Alfred send in refreshments, Calder?"

Francesca almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of Grace's voice behind them. She had forgotten that they were not alone-and she had forgotten it entirely. She felt her cheeks flame as she turned.

Grace wasn't smiling, and she wasn't frowning, either. Her gaze was extremely thoughtful and not necessarily happy.

Lucy was also staring, wide-eyed. She had a twin by each hand, with Chrissy trying to go in one direction and Jack in another, both of them arguing not quite coherently with each other-and clearly Lucy was impervious to the tug-of-war. Roberto was merely waiting patiently with his mother, although he seemed to be trying to give Jack a small toy soldier Francesca met Lucy's eyes and was overcome with guilt. Which brother do you love? That question remained absurd, but Francesca was not wishing she had never heard it.

"Francesca? Are you hungry?" Hart's black eyes held hers. "Do you have an appet.i.te?"

"No," she said flatly, thinking about the sculpture and the pigeon. She knew she flushed slightly again.

He laughed, his glance a knowing one. Then he shook his head. "We shall be in my study."

He gestured for her to precede him inside. "After you, Francesca."

She managed an odd smile at Grace and Lucy. Then she hurried down the hall as if to escape him, which was absurd. She felt him following at a slower, more leisurely pace. But then, had she ever seen Hart in a hurry? He was one of the most unflappable men she knew.

And the moment she stepped inside his study-a room three times the size of that of the "average" rich man-she faced him, far too nervously for comfort. He had hardly closed the door when she said, "How could you, Calder?"

He was amused, and he strolled toward her slowly. "How could I what?"

"How could you talk about that woman like that, in front of them?"

He laughed. "It is not a woman. We were discussing a work of art and, if anything, one artist's perception of a moment of pleasure." He shrugged. "Miss me?" he asked in a tender drawl.

"Not in a million years!"

He chuckled again, more softly. "Come here, Francesca."

Purposefully doing the opposite, Francesca walked over to a window, but failed to see what was outside. She had to clear her head. She had come to him for a reason, but he always turned every encounter into a battle zone with s.e.xual overtones, no matter the time or place.

Suddenly his hand was on her shoulder. She leaped away.

He eyed her. "Why are you so nervous?"

"I am hardly nervous," she lied.

He was amused and it was obvious. "I suppose I should apologize. But I am not really sorry.

That mind of yours is so inquisitive, and no subject should be taboo. I cannot help myself. I was very curious as to what you were thinking."

"I am thinking that you are impossible. Why, Calder? Why ask me in front of Grace and Lucy? Why not debate the subject-and merit-of that piece of art at another, more appropriate time?"

He shrugged. "I suppose I do not care if Grace and Lucy see you as you really are."

She froze. Then heatedly, "What does that mean?" "It means," he said, unsmiling, "that I know you wish to impress them with being ever so proper-after all, she is Rick's mother, and G.o.d forbid she should not like you when you are so in love with her son." He calmly folded his arms over his chest. He had large, muscular arms and a broad chest, which was not noticeable when he wore a suit. His physique was noticeable now. "But you are not a proper little moron. You are an independent woman with a dizzyingly clever mind. Sometimes I think of you as a sponge, Francesca." She folded her arms over her chest. "What does that mean?" "It means you have a thirst for knowledge that is infinite. But most important, your mind is an open one." She was mollified. Warily she said, "I am here to discuss a case." But speaking about Bragg reminded her of Lucy's angry declaration. Had his heart been broken by his wife? "Oh, wait. Did I say love?" His brows lifted. "I meant l.u.s.t. You are still l.u.s.ting after my half brother, aren't you? Or have the two of you consummated your tragic, star-crossed affair?" She closed her eyes and fought consciously to control herself. "We have been over this before. What Bragg and I do is none of your business. And as I shall never convince you that love exists, why should I bother yet again to defend myself? Do you want to help me solve a case or not?" she snapped. "If you are on a case, then I might turn you over my knee myself," he said flatly. "As if you were twelve, not twenty." "What the h.e.l.l does that mean?" The tension had become unbearable. Her neck felt like it would soon snap. "Is that, or is it not, a bandage on your hand?" he demanded. "Have we not been over this before? I am a grown woman and-" She stopped. He smiled at her, because they had been over this before, and he had been thoroughly insulting. "You are not quite grown up," he said softly. "Because I am twenty? Or because I have yet to sleep with a man?" His jaw hardened. "The latter." She felt like making a comment about how that would change with Bragg, soon, but she decided that was not a good idea. For the expression in Hart's eyes was dangerous. "This is not a dangerous case," she finally said. "I do appreciate your concern, but you need not worry." "I can't believe this-you! A few days ago you faced an insane killer, and now you are on another case?" His expression was thunderous. He turned abruptly and strode over to a sideboard. His movements were abrupt and hard, and she sensed that he was very angry with her now. "You cannot control me, Hart." But clearly he was concerned for her welfare, and that was somehow thrilling. He poured two gla.s.ses of whiskey, straight up, not replying or even looking at her. "I am not drinking whiskey," she warned. As he moved, she could almost visualize the muscles and tendons in his back. "Really? Then I shall go it alone." He turned, handing her a drink. She refused to accept it. He set it back on the sideboard and sipped. He made a sound of pleasure, all the while watching her over the rim of his gla.s.s. She rolled her eyes, truly annoyed, wondering if the whiskey was better than the one he had given her on Wednesday, when she was in pain from her burned hand. It had been her first time ever drinking anything other than wine, sherry, or champagne, and she had truly enjoyed it. "I brought this back with me from Ireland last year," he remarked calmly. "It is Irish whiskey, which is very different from scotch." His eyes were wide and as innocent as a baby's. She tore her gaze from those fathomless black orbs, stared at her untouched gla.s.s, and looked grimly back at him. "Lucy wants to meet Daisy. Do you have a problem with that?"

Daisy was his very beautiful mistress.

"Not at all. But I suggest you give Daisy some notice."

She had failed to provoke him. "Perhaps Grace might like to come along as well?"

He shrugged. "She is a feminist. She would like her, I think."

Francesca huffed. "How can I annoy you?"

"Easily, in fact. But if you fail to comprehend how, then I shall not be the one to enlighten you," he said. He sat in a chair and crossed his strong legs. On other men the gesture might be effeminate, but not on Hart. "Does my dear brother know you are on a case?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"So you apparently control him," he remarked calmly, clearly enjoying his whiskey.

"I control no one!" She marched over to him, grabbed the gla.s.s he had set down on a table for her, marched back to a chair, and sat. She took a sip-ignoring his knowing smirk. She sat up straight. "Ooh," she said. She sipped again. Fire burned its way down her throat and right to her belly, and then to her loins. "This is good."

He laughed. "A woman after my own heart," he said.

And then the tears came to her eyes, blinding her. "Oh," she gasped, choking.

He was up and across the seating area as she coughed, sitting down beside her, his hand on her shoulder, as if to steady her. And suddenly it was on her nape, and it was a very large, very firm, and very warm hand. The tears remained, but Francesca stiffened. The fire had changed. She wanted to look at him, but she was afraid to move.

His hand had also become still, for he had felt it, too. That ugly beast that had arisen between them the night of the ball. Or had it always been there, lying in wait for them all along?

Slowly Hart dropped his hand and stood up. Then he looked down at her.

She looked up and did not look away. If only, she thought, with despair and a rush of something else, he were not so tall. If only he were not so dark, so wealthy, so smug and smart, so d.a.m.n powerful, so interesting, and so sure of himself!

"Tell me about the case," he said, slamming down his entire drink in a gulp.

She had a brief moment to ogle him without his remarking it. She reminded herself that all women were attracted to him and, thus far, every instance of attraction was fatal. Besides, s.e.xual attraction was not love. She d.a.m.n well knew the difference. Didn't she?

"The case," he prompted, looking annoyed.

"Someone broke into Sarah Channing's studio and proceeded to cause what wreckage they could. Canvases were overturned, paint spilled everywhere. One canvas was slashed to ribbons, and the vandal began to write in red paint on the wall." She finally met his eyes.

"Is Sarah all right?" he asked.

She softened. He was not the heartless cad he wished the entire world to think him. "She is so upset. She cannot paint. In fact, she asked me to speak with you about that d.a.m.nable portrait you commissioned." Now she did scowl.

And he did smile. "I am sure it will be lovely. I only wish you were posing nude."

She almost dropped her gla.s.s. Whiskey sloshed all over her hand. "Never! Are you mad?"

"No, I am an art collector, remember? Francesca, I have seen hundreds of women unclothed, and I have hundreds of nudes in my collection. The request is hardly an unusual one. If you were unclothed, your portrait would be a magnificent one."

She stood, sloshed more whiskey, then sat. She could only stare.

And she imagined herself nude in a portrait hanging on his wall.

Instantly she shoved the image far away. She didn't want to hang on his wall, dressed or undressed, not in any way, period!

"Francesca, it is only my wish. I would hardly ask you to consider it," he said very softly.

His silky tone washed over her in warm waves. "Good. Because I would refuse."

"But"-he did smile-"I am sure that one day I could entice you to pose for such a portrait."

"Never."

He merely smiled at her and sipped his whiskey, watching her carefully now.

This was the perfect moment to ask him why. Why did he even want her portrait? Instead,she said firmly, "Will there be a problem if there is some delay in Sarah delivering theportrait? Her studio is a shambles, and currently the police will not allow it to be restored." He sighed. "One can never rush an artist, Francesca, and good things are worth the wait. Inthis instance, though, I am impatient." "You are the most patient man I have ever met." He merely smiled at her. Suddenly the comprehension was searing-he was the most patient of men, but he wasimpatient, now. She knew she must not a.n.a.lyze this. "Sarah wants to know who did this, andwhy." He paced and stared out of the window. From his library he had views of Fifth Avenue andthe park. Then he turned. "If you are asking me if I know who might have done this, theanswer is no." "Have you heard of any other artist suffering a similar attack?" His gaze locked with hers as he finally sat down. "No. And if there had been such an attack, Iwould have heard about it." "Are you sure?" He smiled and relaxed slightly. "Yes, Francesca, I am sure. A day does not go by that I donot visit an art gallery or museum. I know curators, gallery owners, other collectors and quitea few artists. Vandalism like this would be a heated topic in our small and privileged worldof art. It might not make the news, but it would be the topic of conversation amongst ourclique." She nodded. "I do not know whether I am relieved or not that there has been no otherinstance of vandalism. Hart?" His gaze moved back to hers. And briefly it settled on her mouth. She tried to ignore the thought that came instantly to mind. "The canvas which wasdestroyed was a portrait of Bartolla." He looked at her and then he laughed. "This is not about Sarah Channing then." "That's what Lucy thinks." "Lucy is clever," he agreed. "So you also despise Bartolla?" She was now very curious, as she knew they had beenlovers. He seemed taken aback. "Why would I despise her?" She hesitated. "Perhaps because you were lovers and it did not end well?" He seemed amused. "We spent two nights together-and the entire day in between. Doesthat satisfy your obvious curiosity, Francesca, or do you wish for a few unsavory details?" She stiffened, trying not to imagine the two of them in bed together-for two nights and anentire day. It was an easy feat. "I hardly need details," she muttered. "I would be happy to supply them," he said, laughing. "Bartolla is as b.i.t.c.hy in bed as out.And there you have it. It was over before it even began. Bartolla Benevente is not my type ofwoman." Francesca knew she flushed, and she was also surprised. "She isn't? But she is soextremely beautiful." He stared her down. "Is she?"

She grew uneasy. "Oh, come, Hart. She is stunning."

"So are other women, more so, in fact. Take my stepsister, Lucy, or Daisy." He smiled fondly as he said his mistress's name. "And what about your sister?" He eyed her now.

Francesca wondered if he had excluded her on purpose and decided that he had. But she would not complain, oh no.

"They are all extremely beautiful women. And they are all interesting women, as well."

"Yes, they are," he said, his gaze unwavering.

She gave up. "And do I fit somewhere in this scheme of beauty?" He laughed, with relish. "You are so easy to play! I told you the other day that you are verybeautiful, far more so than any other woman. How quickly you forget," he said warmly. Her heart would not keep still. That wasn't what he had said, oh no. He had said she wasmore beautiful than her sister-which was absurd-and that her beauty came from within, orsomething like that. Now had he said that she was more beautiful than any other woman?Had she misheard? Or was he again referring to her spirit or her mind? Francesca reminded herself that he liked her. She reminded herself of the way he hadundressed her with his eyes at the ball. Then she reminded herself that she should not carewhether he thought her beautiful on the outside or not. But she did care. "What is wrong, Francesca?" Hart asked softly. She shook her head, not looking at him now. She hated it when he whispered that way. "Ihave so much on my mind. That is all. I should go." "Let me guess again. You are torturing yourself with unrequited l.u.s.t for my brother? Orperhaps now guilt has come into play." She leaped to her feet. There was guilt, but how could he know? "You are very easy to read, my dear," he said as softly. "You are as simple to read as anopen book-with large, oversize print." She could not tear her gaze from his. This was not a safe subject, oh no. "No self-defense?" "I do not know what you are rambling on and on about," she said, a huge lie. "But do youhave any idea who might wish to strike at Bartolla in such an odd way?" "Not a single one," he said with narrowed eyes. "Be evasive, then. Change the subject." "Hart, do you wish to help or not?" "Frankly, Francesca, I do not give a d.a.m.n what happens to Bartolla. In fact, there are veryfew people I am concerned about. But I am concerned about your involvement in anothercase. Leave this one alone. Bartolla can manage her own enemies, my dear." He stood."Care for another whiskey?" Francesca sighed, sinking back down on the couch. "I promised Sarah I would find out whodid this and why. I do not break my promises, Hart." He did not comment. She looked up and caught him staring down at her. It crossed her mind that it would be apleasurable afternoon indeed to sit in Hart's study with him, sipping Irish whiskey andfencing over indelicate subjects. He immediately turned away from her and to the sideboard.She said lightly, "Are you trying to get me drunk? I am coming to supper, you know." He seemed surprised, for his shoulders stiffened. "I did not know. How did-let me guess.Dear Lucy invited you." She nodded and thought about Bragg, with a twinge of worry and another twinge ofunwelcome guilt. "Will you be present?" "Yes, I will. Does that please you-or disturb you?" His gaze was probing as he faced her. "I'm not certain." He stared for a long moment. Then, very softly, he said, "At least, this once, you are finallybeing honest-with both me and yourself." "What does that mean?" she cried, disturbed. "I think you know." He moved away. She leaped up and grabbed his arm from behind. "I don't have a clue." He turned so quickly that she crashed against his chest. "Only because you refuse to have aclue," he said, his hands somehow closing on her arms as he steadied her. For one moment, a moment of pure panic, she stared at his full, chiseled mouth, at the cleftin his chin, at the damp olive-colored skin and black hair in the vee of his shirt. His chestwas extremely hard and solid against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She yanked away from him. "I have togo," she managed, but before she could turn-and her intention was to run-he took her wrist, detaining her. Their gazes locked. "I think it is time that we were brutally honest with each other," he said harshly. She tried to back away, but his grip was uncompromising. She did not want to hear this, ohno. For with Hart she never knew what would come next. "Let's not," she gasped. "I am sick of the hypocrisy here," he said warningly. "I... I do not understand!" "No? I think you do! You go on and on about my brother-whom you have told yourself thatyou love, as he is a man of virtue and a perfectly respectable choice, except for the fact thathe is unhappily married. But you come here, to me, staring at me as if I am a freakshow-but we both know that that is not it, now is it, Francesca?" She cried out, "Let me go!" "I have had it! You want Rick as your husband, but I am the man you want in your bed. Admit.i.t," he ground out. "No, that's not it!" she cried, terrified of what might happen next. "Afraid, Francesca? Afraid of the real woman inside of yourself?" he purred. "I am afraid of you!" she snapped. "I don't think so. It is not me you are afraid of. I think you are afraid of the truth; I think you areafraid of yourself." He finally released her. He was panting, and the artery in his neck waspulsing. She backed away. "You're mad. Vain. Conceited. Arrogant!" "Do I not get the chance to finish?" Both eyebrows slashed upward, and somehow helooked as innocent as a lamb. "No, you do not-for I am leaving." She whirled-and his next words stopped her in hertracks. "You are drawn to me, my dear, the way a woman is drawn to a man." She trembled. "Please stop," she said desperately. He stalked around her so that he was facing her. "And it frightens you. I frighten you. Whatyou feel frightens you. Real l.u.s.t frightens you!" "I am in love with Bragg." The most controlled rage she had ever seen crossed his face, but only for a half a second,and then it was gone. "I think you are a storyteller, Francesca, an impossibly adeptstoryteller." "Leave me alone," she pleaded. "No, I will not leave this alone. You came to me, my dear. I did not seek you out." He was right-again. "Let's just leave this be, Hart. We are friends, remember?" His gaze moved over her features, one by one. To his credit, it never slipped lower. "Yes.We are friends. But there is more, and it is sheer hypocrisy not to admit it." She shook her head. She would die before admitting that to him. "What's wrong, Francesca? Are you afraid that the story you have told yourself will blow up inyour face?" She gasped, because his meaning was far cruder than his words or his tone. He tilted up her chin. When she tried to move, he caught her face in one hand. "You havetold yourself that you have found your knight in shining armor, my brother Rick. Isn't that thetruth? You met him and he fit the bill, so you have told yourself a wonderful story and,stubborn brat that you are, you have been clinging to it ever since. After all, what could bemore appropriate than for Francesca Cahill, reformer extraordinaire, to fall in love with myreform-minded Republican brother? But wait! Being as this is a love story, there has to bean unhappy middle and, lo and behold, the perfect hero isn't quite so perfect after all. For heis married. Oh, wait! It isn't that bad, after all, for as it turns out he is a man of virtue, and hereally loves you, while he despises his wife! And did I forget to mention that she is vile andevil? So the story can limp along, and true love might survive after all! Does this sound at allfamiliar, Francesca?"

"I almost hate you," she whispered. And she felt a tear sliding down her cheek. He froze, having just seen the tear. For one moment he hesitated; then he said coldly, "Andin your fairy tale there is no room for real l.u.s.t, now is there? There is no room for me." "No. There is not," she managed harshly. He released her. "You are drawn to me, but you refuse to admit it, because it doesn't fit yourworldview to want a man like myself. Wanting my brother works, doesn't it? Wanting me issimply appalling." "No," she tried, beginning to understand. "No, Calder-" "So cling to your d.a.m.n fairy tale! But there will not be a happy ending, Francesca! Even ifyou become his lover, there will only be ruin, guilt, and shame. And you may trust me onthat!" He was shouting. He seemed to realize it, and he seemed surprised and upset. Hegave her a pained and disgusted look and turned away. She watched him pour two whiskeys with a hand that shook. She felt paralyzed. "You're wrong," she finally said. "I do love Bragg. I really do. Even youhave said we are perfect for each other," she managed to his back. He did not turn. "Yes, you are. And I am sorry for the both of you, that you cannot marry, havechildren, and ride your white steeds off into the sunset together." He turned and gave her atoast. "I am sorry I will not be at your wedding, the first one to toast the police commissionerand his new, second wife." Francesca hugged herself. More tears came to her eyes. The expression on his face-and in his eyes-was extremely hard to decipher. But it wasmore than pained and more than angry and it was not simple disgust. "Now you shall cry?"He was incredulous. "No." She took a deep and fortifying breath. "The truth is often brutal and hurtful," he said, watching her. "You do not know the truth." He set his gla.s.s down and walked over to her. Somehow, she stood her ground. "I am yourfriend, Francesca, and never forget it." "Then, wish me well." "I already do. I've told you this before; I do not wish to see you hurt." "I'm not going to get hurt." His entire expression tightened. "You are a mule." She made a sound. It was choked. He took her good hand in his. "Listen closely. I will only discuss this once." She found herself nodding. "I have never given my friendship to anyone," he said, his gaze upon her face. "You are thefirst." She stared, and she began to shake. "I don't understand." He leaned close. "Do I need to repeat myself?" "No." She wet her lips, her heart thundering in her breast. What did this mean? She was tooovercome to understand it now. "But what about Lucy? Her brothers-" "It's not friendship. I am the foster brother, and that is different." She stared, trying to comprehend him. It was simply impossible, he was far too complicatedto ever understand, she thought. "And now I will tell you why I am angry. I am angry because my brother will only bring youruin-oh yes, I see the writing on the wall. And I must stand by and watch it all unfold,knowing how the story will end, and as I have already told you, the ending will not be a happyone." "No, Hart. You are wrong! If you care about me, truly, then-" "I do! Let me finish. I am angry because you are breathless in my presence and we bothknow why, but you will not admit it." She froze. "Please don't." "Because it ruins the story you have been telling yourself. Am I correct, Francesca?" His grip tightened. "Am I?" She could not nod. She did not dare. "But mostly, I am angry because you do not value what I have given you, for if you did, youwould trust me and you would not flit about me like some nervous ninny." She didn't know what to think, say, or do. "What?" His face darkened and he leaned even closer to her. And when he spoke, his words wereso low and soft she had to strain to hear. "I told you once that I never touch, or pursue,innocent virgins like yourself. I meant my every word. I'll never touch you, Francesca. I mightwant to, I do want to; in fact, I want to take you to my bed very much. But I do not dabble withinnocence, as I am not a marrying man. And I am a man who can control himself." Hehesitated, then said, "Your friendship is more important to me than s.e.x. Is that clear? ShouldI be clearer?" Stunned, she shook her head no. "And that is the end of this subject. Stare as you will. Pretend my brother is the only man foryou-the only man whom you l.u.s.t for-but do not do so around me." He slammed down hisgla.s.s. To her amazement, it did not break. "Because, my dear, I am sick of it, him, the two ofyou!" She wanted to tell him that she was sorry. But she was at a huge loss for words. "And do not play the horrified virgin around me. I will never compromise you! He might-but Iwill not!" With that, his arm lashed out and the empty gla.s.s went flying across the room. As itshattered against a small table not far from where she stood, he strode past her, headingout of the room. She could hardly believe what had just happened. She was reeling; she could not thinkclearly, much less coherently. And why was he so angry? Hadn't they just resolvedeverything? And why did she wish to bury her head in a pillow and cry? Somehow, she wasrunning after him. "Calder, wait!" He did not stop. "Good day, Francesca." She ran faster. "Please, wait! You are so angry.... I treasure our friendship, too!" He halted and faced her. She almost slammed into him again. "Do you? Somehow, I do notthink so. I think you treasure your little fairy tale. You may see yourself out." He bowed hishead and disappeared around the corner of the hall. She collapsed against the wall. She felt as if a hurricane had just pa.s.sed by, one she hadbarely survived. No, she felt as if it had pa.s.sed by but had not yet left. As if she remained inthe storm's eye and, somehow, the worst was about to come. A polite cough sounded behind her. Horror overcame her. Francesca turned. "I'll escort you out," Rathe Bragg said kindly. Francesca wanted to die.