Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (21 page)

But he smiled at her, a vast affection in his eyes. “I suppose
I shall have to get used to you adopting stray souls,” he said, his smile achingly tender.

Her heart stopped. “She isn’t quite mad after all, Calder,” she began. “I mean, that talk of monsters—”

“Hush.” He touched her mouth with his finger. “I am not asking you to change, darling.”

She did not move. She simply couldn’t.

Their gazes locked.

She simply could not bear it. She breathed, her lips parting beneath his fingertip, and his smile faded and she felt the exact moment that his affection changed. Although he wasn’t touching her, except with one fingertip, she felt a new tension begin to radiate from him, as warm as smoke. He leaned slowly toward her, his expression becoming strained. His eyes changed color, smoking. Francesca gazed at his mouth, inches from her own. He dropped his hand.

Oh, God. Finally, he was going to kiss her
.

His expression changed, tightening. And Francesca saw the battle he was waging with himself as clearly as if she were standing upon an actual battlefield. Her heart lurched—he was going to walk away from her, again! And she took action.

She leaned forward purposefully, so very frightened now, brushing her mouth against his.

Finally
. Finally she could taste and feel his lips.

He did not move.

Francesca breathed, and she had begun to brush her lips over his, repeatedly, softly, when he broke.

Hart moved. Suddenly, hard, taking over the kiss, controlling it.

Francesca sank against the wall, her heart racing impossibly, frighteningly, her sex expanding immediately, completely. His lips were firm, at once very demanding yet oddly coaxing, too, feather-light, then changing, becoming insistent, urgent. Her hands found his chest, beneath his jacket, and through the fine cotton of his shirt she felt rock-hard muscles beneath her palms, and his thickly drumming heartbeat. It was racing with alarming speed.

She needed this man now. And clearly, he needed her, too
.

Her hands closed over his powerful shoulders and she was shocked by the power contained there. For one brief moment, he tested the pressure of her lips, not yet invasive—yet she knew there would be more. For one instant, the tip of his tongue slid slowly, deliberately teasingly along her lips—provocative and inflammatory. Francesca heard herself moan.

He seized the moment, thrusting deep. She felt him against the back of her throat. She tasted more scotch, and man. She tasted Calder Hart.

Francesca saw galaxies filled with light, shimmering around her, and she gripped his muscular neck, hanging on tight. Hart was going to take her there. . . .

He pulled away.

She gasped but could not speak—protest. Francesca collapsed against the wall, her heart exploding in her chest, her body shuddering on the brink of climax. She wanted to scream and shout and demand he continue. But she couldn’t speak; she couldn’t move.

He stared harshly at her face. He knew. And his eyes were smoky gray with his own smoldering lust. She had never received such a look from him before; in fact, she had never been the recipient of such an intense look before—not ever. And she knew, she simply knew, that when he strained over her, inside her, he would be looking at her this way—with purpose and resolve, all of it sexual, a warrior claiming his victory on the battlefield that would be their bed.

His hands fisted on the wall, over each of her shoulders, and he locked her there. “I am not breaking my resolution,” he ground out. But his body shifted, and one touch was enough. His arousal brushed against her belly. Instantly their gazes clashed. As instantly, he shifted back, away.

“Not fair,” she gasped. “
Not fair
.” Briefly she thought she felt every inch of him. Throbbing heat, slick power . . .

“Life is never fair,” he returned harshly.

Francesca screwed her eyes shut against tears of need.

He cursed viciously. “I am
not
corrupting you; I am
not
treating you the way that Rick has. This will
not
happen again.” His eyes blazed with anger.

“No!” The word was out before she could control it. He moved away—she grabbed his lapels. She wasn’t sure what she meant to do—drag him behind closed doors, rip off his clothes, or plead with him to ravish her in precisely the same way. He cut her off.

“I may be many things, Francesca, but the one thing I am is a man of my word. If I give it.” He was even more furious now than before. She knew he was enraged with himself. “God damn it! We’re not even engaged!”

“But you want me,” she said pathetically.

His laughter was harsh. “And I shall have you—properly . . . or not at all.”

She let him go. She felt tears rising and she could not stop them from falling. Because she knew he meant his every word—and she knew he would remain immovable. “But I can’t marry you,” she whispered, slumping against the wall.

He did not immediately reply, and she opened her eyes to find him staring. She shivered, aroused so quickly again. It took only a single look.

His mouth hardened into a line that might have been a mirthless smile. “My poor darling,” he whispered roughly. “Believe me, I know exactly how you are feeling.”

She shook her head, her cheeks tear-streaked and wet. “Hardly,” she choked. “Because you can go to Daisy, and I have nowhere to go!”

He stared. And his expression softened—his lips started to turn upward; a twinkle appeared in his eyes.

“Don’t laugh!” she shouted, striking at his chest.

He caught her fist and kissed it. “Is this a tantrum, darling? Is this what I shall have to look forward to?” His tone was teasing.

“I am not a spoiled child who has temper tantrums!” she cried.

“Hush.” He pulled her close, against his solid, sexy chest, and kissed the top of her head. Unfortunately, his member remained rock-hard, without a doubt as to
his
feelings. “My entire family will hear you shouting to have sex with me.”

She landed a useless blow on his chest, as one could not land a punch when pressed against one’s adversary, and then she gave up. Why move? Her cheek solidly planted somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. She could hear its powerful yet ragged beat. She could feel his breath on her hair, and she loved having his arms around her. Almost as much as she loved him pressing and throbbing deeply against her belly. Francesca squeezed her eyes shut. Orgiastic images danced in her head, Hart naked and powerful; herself, naked and submissive.

“If I didn’t know better,” she whispered, “I would think that you are slowly but surely seducing me to your will.”

Silence was his reply.

It suddenly struck her like a bolt of dazzling lightning that this was the case. That this was his plan. To torture her with what might be until she yielded to him. And oh, the plan was a good one! She jerked out of his grasp.

He wasn’t smiling now. Not really. He was watching her very, very carefully, as if they were opposed to each other and he was waiting to see where and how she would now strike.

“Is that what you intend? To make me insane with wanting your lovemaking . . . until I give you what you want—marriage?” she asked furiously.

A long pause ensued. He replied very slowly, “You kissed me, Francesca.”

“No! You have been teasing me mercilessly for days!”

Very carefully he said, “You make it sound reprehensible. As if marriage is the ultimate fall from grace.”

“In your own way, you are pursuing me the way you have the others!” she cried. “Ruthlessly . . . seductively . . . selfishly! The only difference is that your goal with them was to bed them once or twice, and with me, it is to enslave me as your wife!”

He stiffened.

She saw the dangerous look on his face and in his eyes and knew she had gone too far.

“Enslave? I have no wish to enslave you, my dear.”

“I didn’t quite mean that,” she retracted as quickly as possible.

“You meant it. You are a woman of passion and you always speak what is in your heart. Francesca, good night.” He wheeled away.

“And you are always running away from our fights!” she shouted after him. If she’d had a dinner plate in her hand, she would have thrown it at his head—and not missed.

He whirled back. “Because you provoke me beyond all reason and I do not trust myself,” he ground out, striding toward her now.

Fear assailed her—she shrank back from him, against the wall.

But he didn’t stop until he was pressing her against it. “I am tempted to do as you wish—to make love to you until you can’t even walk! And do you know what?” he demanded unpleasantly, furiously.

She was afraid. She was afraid of his next words, for she sensed a cruel blow.

And she was right. “I have not a single doubt that if I seduced you tonight, you would be begging me tomorrow to be my wife.”

She gasped.

“And that would make my life a lot easier now, wouldn’t it? But I happen to be taking the high road. The difficult road. Only you refuse to see it or believe it.” He turned and walked out. “Think what you want. You always do,” he said, not looking over his shoulder.

She didn’t respond. There was no response she could make.

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY 20, 1902—10:00 P.M.

She heard an odd nose, almost a gasp, from the adjacent bedroom.

Catherine Holmes strained to hear, suddenly wide awake. But now silence filled her small, dark bedroom.

It didn’t matter. She was terrified.

Because she had lied to the lady investigator and the police
. She spent half of her waking moments in that rocking chair, looking wistfully out the window onto the street. Watching her neighbors and friends, watching strangers and thieves. How often had her mother chastised her for yearning for the outside world? Too late, she knew her mother was right. For she had seen what she should not see, what she must not see, she had seen a man, and she had seen his face.

For one split second, when he had torn the odd transparent mask from his face.

On Monday night, at seven o’clock.

Catherine Holmes sat up, trembling. She reminded herself that the door to the apartment was bolted from inside. The windows were locked. No one could get in. She strained to see through the shadows filling up her small bedroom. She kept her door open, in case her mother called out to her in the middle of the night, but she could not even see the threshold.

But he had looked back and he had seen her, sitting with her nose pressed to the window glass
. She didn’t simply know it. Their gazes had met, locked.

“Mother?” Catherine tried nervously. She reached for the small domed candle at her bedside. She fumbled for matches, lifted the dome. She could not light the candle. “Mother?” she called out, loudly now.

There was no answer.

She struck the match a third time, but her trembling hands refused to allow her to light the candle.
There had been dark comprehension in his eyes
.

Catherine heard a creaking, a familiar sound, from the oak floorboards in the parlor. She tensed. This time, she did not call for her mother.

No one was in the apartment. It was a mouse
.

She slipped from the bed, wearing only a cotton nightgown, her long auburn hair in a single braid. Now she regretted not telling Miss Cahill and the commissioner what she had seen—and who it was.

Because she had recognized him instantly
.

Just as he had recognized her
.

And there was only one explanation for the mask he had been wearing as he came out of the building. He was Grace Conway’s killer. It was too shocking for words.

She had asked herself time and again,
But why? What possible reason could there have been
? For she knew he was not mad. Or was he?

Her mouth was dry. Catherine paused to take a sip of water from the chipped mug that she kept beside her narrow bed. In doing so, she turned away from her bedroom doorway.

His hands went around her throat. “Screaming is useless,” he said.

She gasped, as he was choking her, and she knew, in that instant, that he intended to strangle her as he had Miss Conway. “No,” she choked.

His hand clamped over her mouth, he pushed her against the wall, somehow, with one hand, keeping an unbearable pressure on her throat. She couldn’t breathe. He was choking her to death. And then she stiffened, a harsh sound escaping her, as he shoved his male hardness up against her buttocks. He started rubbing himself slowly there.

She was terrified now of rape. Rape, then death . . . Dear God, she would rather die first!

“Is it good?” he said thickly, shoving against her harder, faster now. “You like it, don’t you, whore? You’re all whores.”

Silently, as she could not breathe, much less speak, she begged him for pity, for mercy, for life.

He began to tell her what he would like to do to her—except that she wasn’t worth it. But blackness was descending like a curtain over her mind, and she could not make
out his every word. She begged God now for her life.

Silk whispered around her throat.

For one instant, she thought her prayers had been answered.

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY 20, 1902—10:00 P.M.

F
RANCESCA WAS TIRED
. I
T
had been a long, even difficult day. Hart had loaned her a carriage and driver with which to whisk her and Ellie home, and Francesca had actually considered going directly to the Cahill mansion. She had quickly negated the idea. It was late, but she had been at Bragg’s when it was later, and he still didn’t know about her interview with Bertrand Hoeltz and that Melinda Neville was his lover. Bragg lived at Number Eleven Madison Square, just a stone’s throw from Madison Park. Francesca had just asked Ellie to wait for her, telling her that she would not be very long, but the woman had fallen asleep on the seat beside her, wrapped up in a heavy cloak borrowed from Grace Bragg.

Francesca smiled a little, pleased that she could do a good deed and help someone in difficulty, and she climbed down from the carriage. The man sitting in the driver’s box was awaiting her orders, and she said, “I suspect I shall be about twenty minutes.”