Deadly - Deadly Illusions Part 5

Thursday, April 24, 1902.

3:00 p.m.

Julia had dressed with care for her appointment with Calder Hart. Not only had she donned a dark red suit and some modest diamonds, her ruby-red velvet hat trimmed in black, she had sent Hart a note well before the breakfast hour, requesting the interview. Being proper was in her nature, and with so much at stake she had no intention of jettisoning protocol. His offices were at No. 1 Bridge Street, directly across from the wharves. The five-story, square building was handsome and stately, as she had expected, the bricks worn but washed clean, the design clearly Georgian, for most of this part of the city had been built in the eighteenth century. She suspected that he occupied the top floor and with it, had a fine view of the city's harbor and the famous monument given by the French, the Statue of Liberty. Julia entered the lobby, which boasted gleaming wood floors, magnificent Persian rugs, huge crystal chandeliers and several seating areas. A clerk sat at a fine wood desk across the room not far from a sweeping staircase. Julia crossed the expanse, approaching him. The gentleman stood, extending his hand. "Mrs. Cahill, I presume?" He smiled at her. "Mr. Hart is expecting you." "I am a bit early," Julia said, glancing now at the artwork on the walls. Hart's pa.s.sion was art and his collection was infamous, as he possessed some shocking works that he dared display in public. She had heard he had a terribly provocative life-size nude sculpture in his entry hall, but she had not yet been to his home and could not confirm the rumor. She had also heard that he had a frankly atheistic oil painting hanging there as well, but she was certain Hart was not an atheist-or she prayed he was not, as Francesca would be so intrigued by that quirk. She hoped the rumor was ill founded, as well. The art in his lobby was, for the most part, very tasteful. There were several huge landscapes, one Romanesque war scene and some fine portraits. The periods clearly varied. Julia only recognized art that dated from the early nineteenth century, but she was pleased nevertheless that there were no scandalous nudes and no sacrilegious displays. "Mr. Hart instructed me to bring you upstairs the moment you arrived," the clerk said. "I'm afraid we have no elevator," he apologized as they took to the stairs. "I appreciate a good walk," Julia said, meaning it. She had found some years ago that the more she walked and the less she sat about, the easier it was to maintain her youthful figure. She had trouble sympathizing with those peers of hers who had gone to fat and never ceased moaning about the fact, while sitting on their rumps all day. She so hoped she was doing the right thing. Andrew remained uncommitted to the engagement. His belief that the facts of Hart's past spoke for themselves and he was simply not suitable for their daughter had actually caused Julia more than a single sleepless night. A part of her truly wished not to meddle, but to sit back pa.s.sively was against her very nature. As she had a.s.sumed, his private offices were on the uppermost floor with breathtaking views of the harbor, the Statue of Liberty and the ocean. And as he came forward, clad in a dark suit and tie, smiling, she took in his elegance and the elegant surroundings and she felt herself melt for the hundredth time. She could not be wrong about him and this match, she thought, smiling back at him. "Julia, good day," Hart clasped her hand firmly, looking very pleased to see her. His smile was wide and his eyes sparkled. He was an undeniably seductive man. "Good day, Calder, thank you for making the time to see me," she said, taking the seat he offered her but refusing any refreshments. Hart seemed curious as to the purpose of her visit, but he was in no haste as he walked behind his large desk, the top inlaid with dark leather, the borders gilded, and sat down in a handsome carved chair that was clearly Spanish. "And what brings you so far downtown? I do hope you had other errands to run and did not come so far out of your way just to speak with me." He leaned back in the chair, relaxed but not indolent, seemingly confident but not arrogant. "Actually, you are the sole cause of my journey downtown to the waterfront," she said.

"I would have called on you tonight, Julia. You had only to ask." She had known he would, of course, as he was a gentleman, but she'd had no wish to beinterrupted by either Francesca or Andrew. "I prefer a moment of privacy." "I confess, I am intrigued." He smiled, a slight dimple appearing in his right cheek. Julia became somber, but she did not have to decide where to begin, as she had rehea.r.s.edthis speech for some time. "I have come to discuss Francesca." "Of course," he said, clearly not surprised. Julia sighed. "I love my daughter so, as you know. I am terribly proud of her, too, of howclever and purposeful she is. You know, when she was a little girl, just a child of six or seven,she would stand on the street outside of our home, with the nanny, of course, and hand outcookies to every impoverished man, woman and child who pa.s.sed by. When she was a bitolder, the cookies became pamphlets. I'll never forget when she first became involved inpolitics and reform and started standing on the street, soliciting votes for the cause ofreform." Hart smiled. "Let me guess, she was ten?" "Eleven. She used to hide under Andrew's desk when the Citizens' Union had meetings atour home, listening to every word, every debate. Soon Andrew let her sit quietly in thecorner, when she became too big to sit under the desk." Hart chuckled. "That sounds like Francesca." Julia also smiled. "There was never any doubt that she would be an activist like Andrew,really. She campaigned heavily with the goo-goos for Mayor Low's election, just as shecampaigned heavily against Van Wyck four years ago." His eyebrow lifted. "I a.s.sume there is no relation?" Julia was aghast. "Dear Lord, no! My mother's family has nothing to do with that scurrilousgang of hooks and crooks. We share not one drop of blood!" Hart smiled. Julia leaned forward. "Reform has always been the dearest cause to Francesca's heart,Calder." "And?" She sighed. "Until she started with this investigative nonsense." He was somber now, as well. For a moment he did not speak. "I am aware that you do notapprove of her sleuthing." "How can I approve? What mother wishes for their daughter to engage with thugs androwdies? Francesca has been abducted and held against her will, she has had a knife putto her throat, she has been shot at! Dear G.o.d! I am amazed I am not already gray." He smiled. "I intend to keep her safe, Julia, you may count on that." "How? Do you intend to put your foot down and end this nonsensical investigative inclinationof hers?" His eyes darkened. "If you are asking me if I intend to marry Francesca and put her on aleash, the answer is no." Julia started. "So you do approve of her sleuthing?" "Not exactly." He stared thoughtfully. "I approve of her pa.s.sion and dedication. In fact, I doubtI have ever met anyone, man or woman, more pa.s.sionate in nature, and that I admirebeyond words. I intend to support her in any cause she feels pa.s.sionate enough to pursue.Indeed, I look forward to doing so," he said with a smile, and Julia wondered at his privatethoughts. This was not going the way she had expected. Every man she knew set rules for his wife."Then steer her back to her one true pa.s.sion-the cause of government reform. It is far lesslife-threatening than chasing down murderers, Calder." He seemed amused. "I would certainly sleep easier if she gave up her sleuthing. But I will notask her to do so and I won't manipulate her in any way, either. I'm sorry. I realize mosthusbands would-and do-dictate to their wives. I'm afraid I am not that kind of man. Maybeit is because I never had any intention of ever marrying. I've never paid any attention to the conventions attached to the matrimonial state, except to wonder at the absurdity of most of them." He shrugged. "I am marrying an independent woman." He smiled. "The notion pleases me to no end." "And if you wind up with a dead wife? Will that please you, as well?" Julia cried in frustration. "Of course not!" Hart leaned across the desk, his expression grim. "Fortunately, as reckless as Francesca is, she is also clever enough to avoid the worst engagements. In any case, I intend to protect her to the best of my ability. And if that means I or Raoul, my bodyguard, accompanies her on her nefarious missions, then so be it. But I won't cage her, Julia. And, as I told your husband, that is why we suit." She knew a brick wall when confronted with it. Still, even bricks could come tumbling down, given the right push. "And what about Rick Bragg?" Hart's expression never changed. He sat back and asked mildly, "What about him?" "A few months ago my daughter decided that she was in love with him. She still runs about the city with him. She told me they are working together trying to find this terrible Slasher. You don't mind?" Julia watched him very carefully. If he did mind, it was impossible to tell. "I trust Francesca," he said. Julia felt despair. "My daughter only means well, and I know you know that. But she is impulsive, recklessly so. I really don't think it helps the cause of your engagement and your marriage for her to spend so much time in the company of a man she so admires. And she does admire Rick Bragg. Surely on that score you must agree with me." He stood. "I won't pretend to enjoy the fact that she works so closely with my half brother, but I would rather she confront the unsavory elements of her sleuthing with him at her side than alone. For he will also do anything to keep her safe. Surely you realize that?" Julia got to her feet. "Calder, you know how much I want this marriage. It frightens me, Francesca working with Rick Bragg! I don't like it. And never mind that his wife is back in his home, she is also terribly crippled, and how long will that last? Why can't you humor me? It is hardly leas.h.i.+ng Francesca to ask her to behave with some decorum. It is not proper for her to sleuth with Bragg without a chaperon." She was firm. "At least send Raoul with them." "Unfortunately, he is the police commissioner and he has vast resources at his disposal-resources she needs." "No. This isn't about resources! This is about keeping company with another man." Julia stared, trembling and hoping she had not pushed Hart too far. Hart stared back, the silence long, his face impa.s.sive. "So, in your opinion, knowing your daughter as you do, she sleuths with Bragg merely to spend time with him?" "Not exactly," Julia said, somewhat shaken. Would Hart never reveal his hand? "I know my daughter. I know how stubborn she is. I know that once she gives her heart away, she can never take it completely back. Rick Bragg is the first man she ever looked at in a romantic way. It may have been a brief liaison, but nothing will ever change the fact that he was her first love." Julia took up her gloves and purse. She had exaggerated deliberately but hoped Hart would not realize it. "I would recommend that you think about what I have said." He walked her to the door. "I appreciate your concern, Julia." He smiled at her, apparently unshaken. "Please, do not worry yourself. Francesca's safety is my first and absolute priority. I will keep her safe but I won't disallow her anything. It's not my place to do so." She could have argued that every husband had every right to disallow a wife anything he chose. "And Bragg?" Julia asked tersely. "Francesca is marrying me," he said softly. "She chose me, not him." She smiled grimly at him. "Then I suppose it is fortunate that Leigh Anne did not die in that carriage accident." Hart's expression did not waver. If he understood her meaning, he gave no sign. "It would have been a terrible tragedy," he said. "Thank you, Calder, for your time," she said, but there was no happiness in her heart. Worried to no end, knowing she had failed, she left.

Hart closed the door and turned. His jaw began to flex and his temples visibly throbbed; his eyes had turned black. His heart pounded as hard as if he'd just had a mad dash around the block. Then he realized his gums actually ached and he tried to soften the jaw muscles in his face. But it was not to be done.

He cursed.

As if he did not know that he was Francesca's second choice.

As if he loved the fact that she spent hours every day-and sometimes at night-in the company of his perfect, oh so respectable brother, the man she had loved first.

He stared unseeingly at the breathtaking view outside his office windows.

He wanted to trust Francesca. But Julia was more than right-she had given a piece of herself to Rick and he doubted she would ever take it back. Worse, she was as reckless and impulsive as she was pa.s.sionate, and who knew better than he how easily l.u.s.t could be kindled? Except that for Francesca and Rick it was not l.u.s.t, it was love.

He cursed again and a portrait loomed in his mind's eye, a beautifully painted wedding portrait of him and Francesca in their bridal finery, smiling and happy. As he stared closer, into the background of the portrait, into the background of their lives, he saw his brother on a dark, smoky street, on the run, chasing a fugitive. The focus changed, widening and he saw now that Rick was not alone. There was a woman running at his side, a woman chasing the fugitive, and that woman was Francesca.

He wanted to trust Francesca, but he did not know if he could.

He didn't trust his brother, and why should he? They hated one another.

But mostly, it was their love that he did not trust.

Francesca paused before the door of a clockmaker's shop, briefly confused. FrancisO'Leary had given the police the home and business addresses of her fiance, Sam Wilson.She glanced at her notepad and saw that this was the correct number. Apparently Wilsonworked in a clock shop. Was he an apprentice to a clockmaker, then? It was a rare craft thatrequired more than rudimentary training. Francesca realized it was far more likely that hewas a sweeper. She stepped inside, the doorbell tinkling. A man in his mid to late thirties with heavy grayingsideburns sat behind the counter, making marks upon a finance ledger. He wore no jacket,but his waistcoat was burgundy brocade, a bit out of fas.h.i.+on, and he had a fine gold watch inthe pocket there. He looked up as she entered. Francesca smiled. "Are you the proprietor of this establishment, sir?" she asked. The gentleman stood, closing the ledger. "Yes, I am. We can fix the finest clocks, miss, andthe most unusual ones, too, I might add." He smiled, his somewhat weary face brightening,his gaze taking in the fact that she carried no packages and hence no clock. "We also havesome fine clocks for sale, and some Swiss watches." Francesca had already noted a dazzling display of intriguing clocks in all different sizes andwith vastly different hands and faces. "I'm afraid I have no clock or watch to repair and I amnot really in need of a new clock or watch," she said ruefully. "I am a sleuth, sir, and I amlooking for your employee, Sam Wilson. I am afraid I must ask him a few questions, if you donot mind." The clockmaker started. "I am Samuel Wilson," he said. Francesca quickly recovered from her surprise. Wilson had to be fifteen years older thanFrancis and he was rather plain in his appearance. "You are the fiance of Francis O'Leary?" "Yes." Extreme concern covered his features. "Has something happened to Francis?" hecried, his dark eyes wide. "No! She is fine. I spoke with her yesterday at the Lord and Taylor store." Francesca smiledrea.s.suringly. But she wondered how Sam would react if he ever found out the truth about hisfiancee-that legally, she remained married. Wilson sat down, clearly relieved. He had become pale. "I'm sorry I gave you such a fright," Francesca said. Now she carefully looked Sam Wilson over. He was on the tall side, but shy of six feet. He clearly wore a suit-she saw the jacket hanging on a wall peg and it matched his trousers. It was not gray but a brown tweed, and not of the best quality. She looked at his hands. He wore no ring, but his hands were the hands of a craftsman or an artist. He had almost delicate hands and long, capable fingers. He clearly did not have the blemished hands of an ordinary worker. When she said goodbye and shook his hand, she would determine if he had any calluses. She doubted it. "Is something wrong?" Wilson asked. "I must ask you some questions about that terrible a.s.sault on Francis," she said. "I already spoke with the police. You said you are a sleuth?" He was less distressed now and mildly disbelieving. Francesca handed him a business card. "I am working with the police on this matter," she said firmly. "How long have you known Francis?" "We met in March." He began rubbing his chin. Was he distressed, she wondered. "How did you both meet?" He smiled then. "On the street. It was raining and we were running to get inside from the cold. We crashed into one another in the doorway of a small grocery store. She was so pretty... I apologized profusely and somehow we wound up sipping coffee in a small restaurant bar." Francesca glanced at the shop again. A handsome rug covered the floor and two upholstered chairs, appearing new, faced one another in front of a wall mirror. He had dozens of fine clocks for sale. A man like Sam Wilson was a step up in the world for Francis. "She is very pretty," she agreed. "I heard you are now engaged." He nodded, but he remained pale. "I never meant to marry again. I have a grown son and a granddaughter. My wife died a few years ago of a colonic cancer. But when Francis was attacked, I realized I could not lose her. I realized how much I love her." He began to tremble, clearly distraught. "Did you see her the day of the attack?" "I walked her home," he said, hushed. "It was two weeks ago, Monday, April 7. I left her at the front door of that awful building where she lives." Suddenly his voice rose. "The sooner we are married the better. The sooner she moves in here, with me, the safer she will be! I own the entire building," he added proudly. "The two floors above are for living and there's a garden out back. We have roses in the spring." "So you left her on the street? You did not walk her up to her flat?" Francesca asked, beginning to take notes. He blushed. "I didn't want to be that bold. I was trying to be a gentleman. I know Francis truly appreciates my respect." "Did you see anyone on the street? Do you remember seeing anyone lurking about?" "No." "Think hard, please, Mr. Wilson. What kind of day was it?" "It was a cool, windy day. She was cold and her coat wasn't warm enough. The sky was gray, but not the kind of gray that means rain. I wish now I had taken her upstairs!" he cried pa.s.sionately. She reached for his hand. As she had thought, it was smooth and uncallused. "You could not have known what would happen. Were there any pa.s.sersby?" "Yes, a pair of shop-girls, giggling over some gossip. They were fair and I noticed them." He looked away as if guilty of a crime. "What were they wearing?" Francesca asked, hoping to spark his memory. Still, it was interesting he had noticed the shop-girls. "Gray skirts, I think-no, blue, a grayish blue." He suddenly smiled at her. "One had on a tweed coat. She had red hair, I think." Margaret Cooper had had red hair. "And you saw no one else on the street?" He suddenly straightened, very somber. "Wait a moment, Miss Cahill." He blinked, then blinked hard, again and again. "I think...we b.u.mped into someone. We were laughing after the shop-girls had pa.s.sed-I asked her to supper and we b.u.mped into someone-no, a man b.u.mped into us-some tall gent-and he begged our pardon. He was English-no, Irish...I'm not sure, but he wasn't American." He suddenly shrugged. "I'm afraid that's all I can remember, two shop-girls and some gent in a bowler hat."

Francesca was chilled. Was Sam Wilson a master manipulator and clever liar? Had he just fabricated the story he had told her? Or was he a capable clockmaker in love with a pretty shop-girl almost half his age? Had Sam Wilson a.s.saulted Francis and Kate and then killed Margaret Cooper, or had he just described the Slasher-a gent with an accent in a bowler hat?

Or was neither the case?

"Mr. Wilson? Where did you go after you left Francis?"

He blinked. "Why, I hailed a cab and went home, of course."

She studied him but he was wide of eye. "I'm afraid I do have to ask you where you were on the evening of Monday, April 14," she said.

He started. Then he cried, "What is this about, Miss Cahill? You think I am the Slasher?"

"I said no such thing," she returned calmly, surprised by his outburst. And now, tears filled his eyes.

"I don't recall where I was that night! Why should I? Most evenings I am here, in my repair shop, working on my clocks. Sometimes I have supper at my son's home. But I haven't dined there in some time-not in a good month, I think."

He was flushed and Francesca could not help but think that the Slasher would make sure he has a solid alibi. Wouldn't he?

Suddenly a clock began to strike and then another one chimed and a cuckoo sounded and another clock rang and another and the shop was resonating with a hundred clocks marking the evening hour.

It was 5:00 p.m.

Hart was going to be at Sarah's at six for the unveiling of her portrait.

Francesca straightened. "I am late!" she cried. She smiled at Sam Wilson but all she could think of now was her fiance. "Thank you so much for your time."

He watched her flee in astonishment.

Chapter 11.

Thursday, April 24, 1902.

5:55 p.m.

"He's not here yet," Francesca cried breathlessly. As she had run from the cab to Sarah's front door, she had not seen his six-in-hand.

"No, he's not. It's not quite six, Francesca," Sarah said with a smile.

Francesca laid her purse and gloves on a small table in the huge entry hall, then began to wring her hands. "What if he doesn't like it?"

Sarah took her arm. "Then that only means the theme is too suggestive for a respectable wife." Her eyes danced with laughter as she spoke.

"I am hardly respectable now, and I doubt that will improve when I am married," Francesca said. Her pulse raced with worry and anxiety. "Maybe I should hide."

"Hide?" Sarah clearly had not a clue as to what she meant.

"I know this is vastly immature, but I could hide in your studio to see his reaction and-"

"That is immature," Sarah said, laughing. "Francesca, if he doesn't like it, that doesn't mean he isn't smitten with you. He obviously finds you beautiful. Maybe, though, you should wait here in the hall while I show him the portrait."

"Maybe you're right," Francesca whispered when the doorbell rang. Instantly her anxiety heightened. She turned nervously as the Channings' doorman let Calder Hart in.

He handed off a walking stick as he entered, hatless as usual, dressed in black, never

looking at the doorman once. His gaze was on both women. "I wondered if you would be here," he said to Francesca, smiling. She was so nervous she could not respond. He took Sarah's hand and he seemed amused. "Good evening. You look rather pleased with yourself, indeed," he said, before glancing at Francesca, rather curious now. "I am very pleased with the portrait, Calder. I only hope you like it as much as I do," Sarah said eagerly. "I have little doubt," he remarked, but he was already standing before Francesca, his gaze mild on hers. "Have you had a difficult day, darling?" She nodded, then shook her head. "I mean, it has been a very good day, we have a small lead, Kate Sullivan swears that the Slasher is a tall gentleman and Francis O'Leary's fiance might fit the bill," she cried, aware that she was nearly babbling. He tucked her arm in his rather firmly. "I actually understood all of that," he said with good humor. "What's wrong? Why are you ready to jump out of your skin?" She met his gaze and found it had become dark and intent. She shook her head again, breathlessly. "Has something else happened?" he asked rather sharply. "Was there another attack? Have you been stalked, threatened, a.s.saulted?" "No, nothing else significant happened, really," she said, refusing to admit her insecurities to him now. Then she thought about Brendan Farr. She s.h.i.+vered. "Actually, we learned Fair ordered Inspector Newman to incompletely file a report on the case. We caught the omissions, but Farr doesn't know we are on to his game-whatever it might be. Newman will now report directly to Bragg if he is asked to compromise the investigation again." She smiled a little at him. Discussing the case felt like firm footing, indeed. "So you and Rick are already up to your s.h.i.+rtsleeves in this case," he mused. "Yes," she said, and added eagerly, "There's one more detail, a possible clue. In my interview with Francis, she told me she has been dreaming that the Slasher called her a faithless b.i.t.c.h. She says it is so real, she can't help but wonder if he did speak to her that way." He was silent for a moment. "Does Kate Sullivan have any similar recollections?" "No," Francesca admitted. "But remark this. Francis's husband abandoned her two years ago and she is engaged now to Sam Wilson. He is a well-off clockmaker, and he has not a clue as to the fact that she remains married." He studied her for a moment. "Perhaps he has found out the truth about his fiancee. That would be motive to a.s.sault her- and other women like her." "I don't think so. The police have been trying to locate Thomas O'Leary but it will be a miracle if they actually do so. He may have gone out West. Bragg thinks he could be dead. Not a soul has heard from him in all this time." "What do you plan for tomorrow?" he asked after a brief pause. "I wish to speak with Father Culhane, as I am running out of clues to pursue. I can ask him what he knows about David Hanrahan." She sighed, feeling a bit grim. "If Kate is right, and the Slasher is a gentleman, it is not David Hanrahan." "He could never pa.s.s for a gentleman," Hart agreed. "But you are suspicious of Wilson?" "He is a gentleman, firmly middle cla.s.s, and as much as I hope he is not our killer, I simply cannot rule him out." Hart studied her and finally he smiled, tipping up her chin. "I think you will solve this case in record time," he said softly. His praise was merely implied, but still, she was thrilled. But she tried to hide her pleasure. "I hope so! We must prevent another attack this coming Monday," she said as briskly as possible. But she was terribly aware of him as he removed his hand, and of the portrait Sarah was about to unveil. "Let me know how I can help," he said, and then he gestured at Sarah, who stood not far from them, wide-eyed and listening raptly to their every word. "I think our hostess awaits. I am sorry," he apologized to her. "Francesca's investigations become addictive in no short time."

"So I can see," Sarah said, both dark eyebrows raised. Then she beamed. "Do follow me, please!"

Francesca dismissed all thoughts of the case. She stole a glance at Hart, who was darkly devastating, as always. There had been so many beautiful women in his life, in his bed... Did she really expect him to admire her portrait? For her, it was a highly significant moment.

Posing had taken courage and commitment. Perhaps, for him it would just be another pretty nude.

"Shall we?" Hart murmured, guiding her forward.

She dared to meet his dark, probing gaze. "Of course," she said, reminding herself that if she could face killers alone, she could surely withstand some slight criticism from the man she loved.

Her heart lurched as they followed Sarah down the hall. It was becoming harder and harder to deny the feelings growing inside her, she thought. In his arms there was always pa.s.sion and so much of it, but at times like these, it truly felt like love.

All the lights were on in Sarah's studio. Like the Cahill home and the most modern of the city's residences, the Chandlers had electric lighting, a telephone and hot and cold running water. Sarah paused to let them precede her inside, and then she went to the covered easel in the middle of the room and stood beside it, no longer smiling.

Francesca bit her lip and slipped free of Hart's grasp.

He didn't seem to notice. "Please," he said to Sarah.

Sarah seemed pale. She pulled the cloth from the easel, revealing the nude.

Francesca did not look at her portrait-not yet. She stared at Hart and saw his eyes widen.

He focused on the canvas, very intent, and she watched his gaze slip over her likeness, in the exact way he had so often looked at her.

Her pulse quickened.

Hart didn't move. His gaze returned to the face in the portrait-her face-and moved slowly from feature to feature. His regard slid down her throat and moved even more slowly over the swollen profile of her breast. Then his eyes were drawn down the length of her back, the swell of her b.u.t.tocks and finally, he gazed at the rest of the portrait and the red dress.

Francesca hugged herself, a roaring in her ears. Her cheeks were warm.

The room was hugely, heavily silent. Hart seemed to have no inclination to speak. It no longer mattered. He was looking at the portrait, but he was as acutely aware of Francesca as she was of him.

Desire, huge and hot, gathered in him, in her, between them, around them.

Her heart felt like a trapped winged bird in the cage that was her chest.

Hart finally turned to Sarah. And while he might have been looking at the artist, Francesca knew his real attention never wavered, not even once, from her as she stood there behind him.

"You have created a beautiful portrait, Sarah. I more than like it. You have captured Francesca exactly as I wished her to be portrayed."

Sarah beamed. "I am so glad you like it, Calder."

He turned to the portrait again and stared. A huge silence fell.

Francesca wondered what he was thinking, exactly.

Finally, slowly, Hart turned. Francesca did not move as he faced her. Their gazes instantly locked.

He was imagining her nude, she knew it. And he wanted to take her in his arms-she knew that, too.

Suddenly Sarah said something, something Francesca could not decipher. Hart did not seem to hear her either, as he remained utterly still. Francesca was vaguely aware of Sarah ducking her head and hurrying out. She was vaguely aware of a door closing.

Hart continued to stare at her.

She wet her lips and tried to find her voice. It was as if her tongue had been cut out. "Youreally like it?" she managed to say. A faint, faint smile. "Yes. I really like you." The gathering heat threatened to erupt. "Do you-" She stopped. "Do I what?" he asked very softly. "Do I want to see you in the flesh just like that? Yes, I do,"he said, and somehow he was standing before her, his strong hands on her small waist, hisbreath feathering her ear. He was smiling, so much more seductive than any man had anyright to be. "Do you really think I look like that?" she heard herself ask, desperately wanting him to sayyes. "Oh yes," he said softly, and she saw him wet his lower lip. "Oh yes, Francesca, I do." "Calder," she whispered, a plea. His grip tightened. "I don't feel n.o.ble tonight, Francesca. I don't feel n.o.ble at all," he warnedquietly. And he bent and kissed the lapel of her jacket, folded back directly over the center ofher breast. She cried out, stunned, and not just physically. Did he mean what she thought he did? Washe finally ready to cast all reservation aside and make love to her? Because just then, shewanted nothing more, and her trembling body was the proof. He smiled at her, just a little, as his palm cupped the side of her face. "Darling," hewhispered, "you look ready to faint." She was choking on the ache of need inside of her. "I am ready to do far more than faint,Calder," she said desperately. "Last night wasn't enough." "No, it wasn't, was it?" He pulled her closer and brushed his mouth tenderly over hers. Francesca gasped with pleasure as their lips brushed. Hart seemed in no hurry and shegripped his shoulders and strained against him, shaking like a leaf. Hart made a sound,beginning to kiss her with some urgency, his own hands tightening on her. Suddenly he exploded. He pulled her close, crus.h.i.+ng her so she lost the ability to breathe,his mouth opening, taking hers, fusing hungrily with hers, and she felt him shuddering withpent-up desire. And then he yanked off her jacket. Francesca glimpsed his face as he didso and saw the dark l.u.s.t there and was so stunned it was a moment before she realized thatshe had never seen this side of him before. He wanted her desperately and for the first time, he was not masking his emotions. He pulled her close again, kissing her, murmuring her name, and as she openeddesperately to accommodate him, as she tried to remain standing, she realized he hadalready unb.u.t.toned her s.h.i.+rtwaist. She could barely a.s.similate that fact when it was tossedaside. And he looked at her. She saw the hunger in his eyes, the hunger, the warning and even some surprise. And shesuddenly knew that tonight he would not be denied-that tonight the courts.h.i.+p was over. And then she could look no more. His face hardened and he tore open her chemise.Francesca gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple, his teeth tugging and the pleasurerushed through her with deliciously painful force. She clung, moaning, stunned, and he laidher on the floor. She began to shake, wet heat pooling dangerously now. "Hurry, Calder, hurry," she begged,stroking her hands down his hard, powerful back. He held her face in his hands. "Do you know what you are asking?" he demanded. "Yes." He stared, eyes wide, mouth hard. Then, "I am dangerously close to doing as you ask." Helowered his head, tugging her into his mouth. Francesca wept with pleasure and pain. Hart whispered roughly, "You're too beautiful like this, Francesca. I want to rub myself allover you. Would that be too shocking?" She could barely understand him as she whirled through the maelstrom of desire he had created. His hand was between her thighs, exploring the wet heat there, encouraging her to fly harder, faster, farther. And even as immersed in pleasure as she was, she reached for him. He leaped firmly up against her hand, through his trousers, thrilling her. He quickly kissed her. "How quickly you learn," he murmured.

She felt a rush of pleasure and she unfastened his trousers. "Tell me what to do."

He paused, watching now, carefully, and she helped his ma.s.sive length spring free of the dark wool. "You do nothing, Francesca, nothing except take the pleasure I am about to give you."

Their gazes met; he kissed her again, long and slow.

And then he moved. She could not smile or even think. He was hot, hard and as smooth as velvet as he brushed between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and over them. The knot of desire in the pit of her being twisted and tightened, oh so precariously. Francesca began to sob as he brushed over each painfully hard nipple and she could no longer stand this, it, him. She cried out, exploding.

He kissed her frantically as she spasmed uncontrollably into what seemed to be infinity, hearing her own wild cries as if she were someone else, the pleasure simply too much to ever bear. The o.r.g.a.s.m seemed to last forever when suddenly she was floating and aware of Calder Hart once again.

She started, for he was lying on top of her now and her skirts were gone-her bare legs were wrapped around his wool-clad ones, his manhood pressed insistently against her naked thigh and his fingers brushed the wet, swollen mound of her s.e.x, caress after caress.

His mouth was pressed against her throat and she became aware now of his kisses there, hot and urgent, each and every one of them.

Her s.e.x tightened deliciously, beginning to heat and throb; dazed, she realized he had only to move very slightly and he would thrust deeply into her and sweep her away into another climax very, very quickly. She held him hard, gasping. Were they going to make love?

She gripped his shoulders, to hold him at bay. And Francesca did not know what to think. All she could see was herself as a bride and Calder as the groom, standing in the master bedroom of his house on their wedding night.

But this wasn't their wedding night and the floor of Sarah's studio was hard and cold beneath her bare shoulders, her back and legs.

Hart embraced her so tightly that she could not breathe. His manhood felt like a knife but he did not tear into her. He merely held her, his entire body trembling, and she knew he had come to his senses, too.

She held him as tightly, eyes closed, breathless and afraid and relieved.

He suddenly moved off of her, away from her. She did not move. Tears suddenly came and she squeezed her eyes tightly closed to prevent them from falling. She was a woman, not some child, and she must not cry. Besides, there was no reason to cry-no reason at all.

As she sat up, reluctantly now, she realized how she must look. She fumbled with her skirts, keeping her eyes downcast; he stilled her hand.

"Look at me," he said quietly.

If she did, he would see her tears. Francesca tried to compose herself. She was a capable, clever, professional woman and she had wanted Calder Hart's lovemaking. She still wanted his lovemaking. But not like this on the dirty floor.

"Francesca, please do not turn away from me now." There was an odd note in his tone.

She swallowed and looked up, trying to pull her torn chemise together.

Silence filled the room.

He stared at her grimly. Then he reached out and wiped the tear from her cheek with his forefinger. "Why are you crying?" he asked.