Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (27 page)

There was a knock on the door. Connie opened it and
received the dress from Bette. “I will help Francesca dress.” When Bette was gone, the two sisters faced each other. “You do want to spend the evening on the town with Hart, don’t you?” Connie said with a knowing smile.

Francesca sighed and gave it up. “His company is very enjoyable. There is only one problem.”

“That is?”

“How do I look him in the eye . . . ever again?”

Francesca felt uncharacteristically glamorous. The turquoise gown had small cap sleeves, a low-cut silk bodice, and a layered chiffon skirt in two shades, turquoise and silver. When Francesca had studied herself critically in the mirror, her every movement had caused her gown to shimmer, as if iridescent. Connie had dabbed a hint of rouge on her cheeks, then found a darker lip rouge in her handbag and insisted Francesca use that, too. Connie had taken off her small diamond cross necklace, and the glittering cross was now nestled just above Francesca’s cleavage. Bette and Connie had worked like mad to tong Francesca’s hair, sweeping it loosely up and carefully setting it with Mr. Randolph’s Spray Elixir. Then, to Francesca’s dismay, Connie had poked and prodded at the mass of hair, pulling pieces free here and there, so that tendrils caressed her cheeks and neck. In the end, the effect was disturbingly sensual.

Long white gloves completed the ensemble, and as Francesca did not have any bracelets that Connie liked or admired, her orders for the evening were for Francesca to keep her gloves on at all costs.

“You have never been more beautiful,” Connie whispered. “Your eyes are sparkling with excitement, Fran.” She kissed her cheek as they paused on the ground floor.

“They are not sparkling—they are glittering . . . with fear,” Francesca said tartly, breathlessly. She could hear Hart’s low murmur and Julia’s answering tone. How happy her mother sounded.

“Silly woman,” Connie chided, sounding as happy. She
poked Fran in the back and she started forward. The moment she could see into the salon where Hart and both of her parents sat, she saw him.

He appeared extremely relaxed, almost lolling upon one chair, dangerously dark and handsome in his tuxedo, and smiling at something her mother was saying. Francesca shoved every single illicit memory out of her head. For the rest of the evening she intended to have amnesia.

Hart saw her and leaped to his feet.

Francesca faltered and their eyes met.

For one moment, as he looked at her, something smug covered his features, and she thought, terrified,
He knows
. He had seen her in that first moment when Daisy had begun her seduction, and he had known she was present the entire time he made love to his mistress.

He was smiling now, but his gaze was merely warm and admiring. “Francesca, good evening.”

Francesca couldn’t move. Was she mistaken? Because now there was nothing on his face or in his eyes to suggest anything but the affection he felt for her and the esteem he held her in.

Francesca knew she was paranoid. She had every reason to be, and had she not been so, she would be certifiable. Now, gazing at him, she simply did not know what to think.

He chuckled, coming forward. “Why are you so pale?” he asked, his tone so low, it was doubtful that anyone could overhear him. “You look as if you are being led to the guillotine.” He lifted her hand and kissed the air above it.

She inhaled. Images of him in all his glory, doing indescribable things to Daisy, filled her mind. Her body tightened with yearning and heat.
If she married him, he would do those things to her
. Aghast, Francesca turned that thought off. How would she make it through the evening? Francesca forced herself to respond. “Connie has dressed me up. I feel like a pretty doll. I do not feel like myself.” The lie was a terrible one. She rather liked having become an elegant and sensuous creature of the night.

His smile broadened. His gaze was impossibly warm. “You are as beautiful in navy blue; however, I prefer the temptress who is afraid to look me in the eye tonight.”

She jerked and met his gaze—his eyes were filled with laughter.
He did know! Didn’t he
?

“I am almost afraid to ask why you are looking at me with such trepidation,” he said, his smile fading. “Is something amiss?”

“I am very late,” she said in a rush. “I have kept you waiting for half an hour.”

His good humor returned. “But you are late, no doubt, because you flew in the door, having forgotten the time, involved in your case. Other women are tardy as a ploy.” He didn’t seem to mind that he had been kept waiting, not at all. Then, dropping his voice, he murmured, “Some things
are
worth waiting for.”

Francesca was mesmerized by his stare. Did he refer to his having waited for her—or to her waiting for the moment when they made love? Was this an innocent comment, or was there an innuendo that referred to her spying upon him and Daisy that afternoon?

He turned to Connie, who stood behind her, and greeted her pleasantly. Francesca did breathe when he finally turned away. She glanced back at her sister and mouthed,
Does he know
?

Connie shook her head warningly, then placed her finger over her lips, clearly indicating that Francesca must not speak a single word on the illicit subject.

Both Julia and Andrew were on their feet. Julia looked like a cat that had lapped up all of the cream, while Andrew appeared grim and displeased. But then, Francesca knew he did not like Hart because of his womanizing ways and his frequently careless manners. “Do have a wonderful evening,” Julia said, kissing Hart’s cheek.

“We shall do our best,” Hart returned. “Andrew.” He extended his hand firmly.

Andrew took it reluctantly, without an answering smile. “And what time will you have my daughter home?”

“Before midnight,” Hart suggested, looking unperturbed. But then, he was infamous for not caring what people thought and said about him. Clearly he couldn’t care less that Andrew Cahill openly disliked either his courtship of his daughter or him or both.

Andrew nodded and then hugged Francesca. His eyes softening, he said, “Enjoy your evening, my dear.”

Francesca nodded and hugged him. She hesitated, then whispered in his ear, “He’s not as bad as you think, Papa.”

Andrew grunted, refusing to give in.

Francesca settled on the velvet squabs, making certain to keep a safe distance from Hart. He seemed to know exactly what she was about, because he eyed her with amusement but did not comment, instead instructing Raoul to drive them downtown to Cooper Square. Francesca tried not to think, but it was impossible. Images of Hart and Daisy flooded her mind. And that, of course, made her distinctly uncomfortable, causing the carriage to feel small, closed, and airless. She wondered if a confession would alleviate her distress and her guilt.

“Francesca? Why are you squirming in your seat?” Hart asked.

She jerked to face him and found it exceedingly difficult not to look away from his nearly black eyes. She must remain mum. She was well aware that she had a penchant to wag her tongue too freely—this must
not
be one of those times.

“I’m hardly squirming,” she said, remaining uncomfortable. She wondered if it would always be this way, now that she knew exactly how he looked beneath the elegant clothes he wore. No, it was far worse than that! She knew exactly how he looked when aroused with desire, and she knew exactly how he preferred to make love.

“I can’t even begin to imagine why you are staring at me with such an expression,” he murmured, amused. “I feel
certain you have gotten yourself into some trouble. Do you have something you wish to tell me?”

She almost jumped off her seat. “No!” she cried.

His eyes widened. “Well, that certainly lays my suspicion to rest,” he said drolly. Now his gaze became thoughtful. “Tell me about your day.”

“My day?” she breathed, as if she did not understand the meaning of his words.

He was as relaxed as she was tense; he leaned back against the plush carriage seat, perplexed and amused all at once. “I know a look of sheer guilt when I see one,” he said. “There is guilt written all over your face.”

“You are imagining it. The day has been a trying one,” she said tersely, rapidly. She told him then about Thomas Neville appearing at headquarters, and about the murder of poor Miss Holmes.

Hart was no longer amused. “First Grace Conway, and now her neighbor. Once again, you are investigating a series of murders. I do not like this,” he said grimly.

“I hardly like it myself,” Francesca said, relieved to be on familiar ground. “It gets worse.”

“How can it possibly get worse?” he asked, one brow lifting.

“Miss Holmes left a journal. She was madly in love with Evan,” Francesca said grimly.

Hart stared for a moment. “Well, this does not look good for Evan, now does it? Does he know the missing Miss Neville?”

“No, thank God,” Francesca said earnestly.

“Who are your suspects? You seem quite averse to Thomas Neville.”

“He’s odd, but as it turns out, Miss Neville was having an affair with the owner of an art gallery,” Francesca told him eagerly, glad to share her investigative work with him. “Thomas claims his sister was ending the affair, and as it also turns out, her lover, who denies the breakup, is married, with children.”

“Aah,” Hart murmured. “And the plot thickens. So the lover has become your prime suspect.”

“It is certainly looking that way. If he was jilted on Sunday evening, I would guess that he murdered Grace Conway by accident—she found him destroying Melinda’s studio. Miss Holmes was the next target, because she knew about the murder, having seen something from her rocking chair.”

“And how does Sarah Channing fit in?” Hart asked.

“I have no idea,” Francesca returned glumly. “That is where my theory falls apart.”

Hart smiled at her. “I have no doubt you will solve the case. Who is this gallery owner? Perhaps I know him.”

“His name is Bertrand Hoeltz. You know, he does seem genuinely distraught over Melinda Neville’s disappearance. Do you know him, Calder?”

“Yes, I do. He is a poor connoisseur of art,” Hart said. He was reflective now. “I have been to his gallery several times, but I have never liked the work he has, and I ceased going some time ago. I think I know the woman who has disappeared. I saw him with a woman once at another exhibition. They were clearly paramours.”

“Were they in love? What was she like?” Francesca said, straightening.

“She was small and dark, very intense, I suspect, and rather exotic in her appearance. She is what the Europeans refer to as
jolie laide
—‘pretty ugly.’ That is, in spite of her severity and intensity, there was something interesting and compelling and sexual about her. I think Hoeltz was in love. I think Miss Neville was rather self-contained and self-involved.” He added dryly, “Most artists are egocentric, my dear.”

Very excited now, Francesca gripped his arm. The moment she did so, images of rock-hard muscles everywhere assailed her mind and she released him. “When was this, Calder?”

“Francesca”—he was gentle, his eyes smiling—“it was many months ago.” But again he was studying her, and she saw that he was perplexed by her behavior.

“Oh.”

“Have I done something to enervate you?”

She blinked, stiffening. “Of course not!”

“That is good. Because I have the distinct feeling that you might leap from the carriage at the next crossroads.”

“We are going to supper,” she managed.

“Are you certain there isn’t something you wish to tell me?”

Francesca bit her lip, smiled at him, and wished that the thought of confession did not feel so appealing. She wet her lips. “Could Hoeltz be a killer? A strangler, in fact?”

Hart shook his head, amused now. “I would not know how to answer that. I hardly know the man. But given the right motivation, aren’t we all capable of murder?”

She stared and he did not look away. Only a week ago, Hart had been prepared to murder the man blackmailing his foster sister, Lucy Savage. Of course, it had not come to that, thank God, and Francesca remained angry every time she thought of Lucy begging him for his help, begging him, and not another one of her brothers, to do her dirty work. “I don’t know.”

He smiled warmly at her. “You are so distracted tonight! I would give a small fortune to know what is really on your mind. Perhaps after supper you will relent and tell me?”

“There is nothing to tell,” she said, recalling Daisy on her knees, her tongue all over his manhood. Her heart lurched, and the sensation went right through her.

“You are the worst liar,” he said, but his humor remained high, happy. Then, sobering, “I took care of LeFarge today, Francesca. He has the fifty thousand dollars, and he knows beyond any doubt that if he ever assaults your brother again, he has myself to contend with.” Hart’s eyes were dark. “He knows I am not averse to striking back beyond the bounds set by the law.”

Francesca shivered. “Thank you, Calder,” she said.

Rourke had apparently picked Sarah up earlier, and when Francesca and Calder walked into the gallery, they were already
there. Perhaps fifty people were present, and the mix was obvious—half of those attending were in evening gowns and tuxedos; the other half were clearly struggling artists in simple sack jackets and ill-fitting trousers, in dark and ready-made suits.

Francesca saw Sarah instantly. She and Rourke had their backs to the door and were clearly studying a huge landscape painting. Sarah was so very visible because of her fuchsia satin gown. As Francesca espied her, she saw Rourke gaze down at her, apparently listening to her every word.

“There they are,” Hart said. “Let’s find our host and join them.”

Francesca did not move. Even from a distance, Rourke so looked like Bragg. A small amount of guilt stirred within her, as if it were disloyal and wrong to be enjoying Calder Hart’s company. Then she sighed. But her and Bragg’s lives had now taken separate paths, diverging for the most part. Still, there were moments, like now, when the pain of failed hopes and dreams and the sense of loss so suddenly and acutely returned.