Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (45 page)

Suddenly Hart returned, smiling slightly, devilishly. He did not bother to close the doors, pausing before her. “You know, darling, I never did propose.”

“What?” She was taken aback until she saw a tiny velvet box in his hand.
Was that what she thought it was? Impossible
! “What’s that?” she cried.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, engulfing her. He put the small jeweler’s box down on the side table next to them and clasped both of her hands, bringing them to his mouth. His kiss stirred her completely. “Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” he asked.

Her eyes widened and met his.
And the train picked up speed, dangerously, impossibly, its destination unknown
. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper, trembling now with fear and what felt suspiciously like joy.

He smiled, releasing her hands. A moment later he was holding the little box up for her to see, and it was now open. A magnificent pear-shaped diamond engagement ring was there, flanked by three more diamonds on each end.

She stared, wide-eyed. “What’s that?”

“Silly woman,” he said affectionately, slipping the ring onto her fourth finger.

Her heart stopped. She had a single moment of paralyzing fear, in which Rick Bragg’s handsome face assailed her mind, his gaze wounded and accusing. It was instantly followed by his wife’s lovely image, and then the unwelcome moment was gone.

She stared at the gorgeous ring—and then up at the gorgeous man looking so intently at her. “Calder, it’s beautiful. I don’t understand. When did you purchase this?”

“The morning after I realized you were the one,” he said.

She stared into his nearly black eyes. Now the navy blue flecks there were highly visible. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. How brashly confident you were!”

He laughed. “I never give up when I am on a quest, Francesca,” he said, the laughter dying abruptly. He lifted
both of her hands again and kissed them. “I will speak to your parents immediately.”

“But you are on your way out,” she managed, made breathless once more by the feel of his firm lips on her skin.

“My plans for the evening have changed,” he murmured, giving her a suddenly intent and very direct and meaningful look.

Her loins filled. She did not move.

He smiled slowly, knowingly. “You may think that we have little in common, but there is something we do have in common, Francesca,” he said.

“Yes,” she murmured weakly.

He slowly pulled her close. “Does six months meet with your satisfaction?” he asked seductively, taking the lobe of her ear between his teeth and tugging on it gently.

She gasped. And an image of him straining over her, with a very tactile sensation of him filling her, hot and huge and wet, overcame her. Her knees gave way.

He laughed softly and slowly drew his tongue around the inner curves of her ear. “Shall we plan a wedding for six months from now?” he asked huskily.

He was holding her upright. She could not think. She clung to his broad shoulders. “Hart,” she gasped.

“Calder, darling, it’s Calder.”

Of course she knew his name. She closed her eyes, turning her face toward his, awaiting his kiss. But no kiss came. Instead, he nuzzled her throat very gently. She felt his tongue slide over a bruise. She gasped. And somehow her hand slid down, over his rock-hard chest, to grip the waistband of his trousers.

“I hate what he did to you,” he suddenly said, against her neck.

“I know,” she managed, thinking about what might happen if she dared to move her hand even an inch lower. She was fully aware of what was there. “I’m fine, now,” she said.

He kissed her throat, the underside of her jaw, its edge.

She slipped her hand into his trousers and touched the huge, throbbing, bulbous tip of him.

Hart inhaled hard.

“Oh,” Francesca whispered, her eyes flying open. She had to explore. “Oh,” she said again.

He suddenly lifted her into his arms, used one foot to kick the door closed, and carried her to the sofa. “I can see this will be a very difficult engagement,” he said, and in spite of his thick tone, he was laughing.

Six months. He wanted a six-month engagement. Francesca found herself on her back on the sofa, with Hart looming over her. Six months? She might be able to wait six minutes. “Six minutes,” she countered, her face feeling as if it were on fire.

His eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

She fought for clear and coherent thought. “I mean, six days—er, weeks. Why don’t we have a six-week engagement?” Her mind sped as he began to laugh. “I mean, two weeks?”

“Darling, is it that bad?” He stroked his hand over her breasts. Her nipples leaped to attention and her body became rigid. “No one has a two- or even six-week engagement. Your mother would shoot me should I suggest it.”

He was rubbing his third finger over one nipple very slowly now, as if he didn’t even know what he was doing—which she doubted. She somehow swallowed. “Mama loves you. You may do whatever you wish and she will still adore you.”

Now his thumb continued the torture. He continued to smile at her. “Even a wedding six months from now will raise many eyebrows. People will assume I have gotten you pregnant, darling.” He suddenly bent, and through the layers of silk and wool, he plucked her nipple with his teeth.

She slipped her hands into his hair and held him there. “Don’t stop,” she begged, meaning it. “Whatever you do, Calder, don’t stop.”

He lifted his head and looked her in the eye and said,
“Then it is settled. Six months. That takes us to mid-August. The perfect time for a wedding.”

She grabbed his hand and replaced it on her breast. “Fine,” she gasped.

He grinned at her.

“Do you enjoy tormenting me?” she cried.

“It is all a part of lovemaking,” he whispered.

“Really?” She feigned innocence, touching his strong neck and, for one moment, stroking him there.

He stilled, watchful and waiting now.

She felt a sudden vast power. She slid her hand lower, beneath his tuxedo coat but over his shirt, using the tips of her fingers only. She stroked down his chest, his flat, hard belly, and she paused.

He didn’t move. He only watched her face.

She smiled a little, excitement making her faint, and she dared to go lower, until, over his trousers, she traced the outline of his arousal, again and again.

“Somehow, I thought you might be an adept student, Francesca,” he murmured.

“You can teach me anything,” she whispered, meaning it.

His jaw flexed. His temples throbbed. His eyes had turned coal gray. “And I will,” he said. He moved over her then, coming down on top of her, taking her into his embrace, their mouths finally, frantically, fusing.

And when, a long time later, Hart broke away from her, getting up and pacing away in an attempt to compose himself, Francesca smiled. Slowly, her hair rioting down her back, her lips deliciously swollen, her body vibrantly alive, she sat up.

Hart stood facing the empty fireplace, his back to her, his broad shoulders stiff with unrequited and raging desire. He had removed his tuxedo jacket some time ago, and when he finally faced her, his dress shirt perilously wrinkled and unbuttoned to his waist, the hard slabs of his chest completely revealed, he looked more than disheveled. He appeared every inch the notorious womanizer, at once
disreputable and oh-so-dangerous to any woman’s foolish heart. He did not smile. He looked at her the way no man had ever looked at her before, bar none.

Francesca shivered.

She was marrying Calder Hart. For better or for worse, in six months’ time.

Francesca realized that she was smiling.

READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

THE CHASE

AVAILABLE IN JULY 2003
FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS

A
S THE STORY OPENS
, Claire Hayden is giving a magnificent party for her husband, but things aren’t going well between them. Her marriage is on shaky ground, her husband is mysteriously distracted, and their finances are in trouble. And Claire suspects these problems may go even deeper
. . .

The first guests were just arriving, and everything was as it should be. The decorations were fabulous—a combination of peach-hued rose petals strewn everywhere, even on the furniture, and hundreds of natural-colored candles in various shapes and sizes and clusters on every conceivable surface, all burning softly and giving her entire house a warm, ethereal glow. The bar had been set up in the closest corner of the living area to the entryway, and it looked perfect with flower petals strewn over the table, amongst the bottles and glasses, and over the floor. A waiter in a tuxedo stood at the door with a tray of champagne flutes, and another waiter stood beside him to take wraps, just in case any of the ladies
had worn them. The deejay had set up in the back of the living room, and soulful jazz was softly filling the house.

Claire began greeting guests. Her home quickly filled with some of San Francisco’s most renowned and wealthy residents; there was also a scattering of Los Angeles media moguls and New York businessmen, mostly high finance types. Claire knew almost everybody, either through David’s business or because of the charities she worked so hard for. Her real friends she could count on one hand; still, she socialized frequently, and she genuinely liked many of the people she constantly dealt with.

Claire saw her father as he entered the house. A mental image of the Courbet hanging on her bedroom wall flashed through her mind.

Jean-Leon Ducasse was a tall man with a thick head of white hair. He was a Frenchman who had fought in the Resistance during the Second World War, and although he had immigrated to the States in 1948, he did not, to this day, consider himself an American. Everything about him was very European and Old World. He smiled as he came to Claire and kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful,” he said. He had no accent. His nose was large and hooked, but he remained a handsome man, young-looking for his age, his hair iron-gray. No one would guess that he was in his late seventies; he looked sixty, if a day. It never ceased to amaze Claire that so many women still found him attractive. Tonight he was alone. His current girlfriend was an attractive, wealthy widow in her late fifties.

Claire hoped that her worries were not reflected in her eyes. She smiled brightly. “You look great, too, Dad. Where is Elaine?”

“She’s in Paris. Shopping, I believe. I was invited to join her, but I did not want to miss David’s birthday party.” He smiled at her.

Claire thought he was being sardonic. She was almost certain he would not care if he had missed David’s birthday. But it was always hard to tell exactly what her father was thinking, or what he meant. Jean-Leon had raised Claire
alone; Claire’s mother had died when Claire was ten, a victim of breast cancer. He had been preoccupied with teaching and later, after his retirement, with his gallery. And even when he was not teaching at Berkeley, he was either traveling around the world in the pursuit of another masterpiece or new talent, or lecturing at foreign institutions. Claire had been raised by a succession of nannies. They could have been close after her mother had died, but they were not. As a child Claire had never sat on his lap or been told stories at bedtime. “Well, I’m glad you could be here, Dad,” she said, still distracted. What kind of trouble could David be in? Surely it wasn’t serious.

She prayed it wasn’t something illegal.

Jean-Leon was glancing around, taking in her every guest and the decorations. “You have done a very nice job, Claire. As always.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Claire said softly.

An elderly couple came up to Claire, smiling widely. The woman, Elizabeth Duke, was tall and thin and quite regal in appearance, clad in a red Armani jersey dress, while her husband, who was in his early eighties and about her height, was somewhat stooped. William Duke embraced her first, followed by his wife. “Claire, the decorations are fabulous,” Elizabeth cried, smiling. “And that dress suits you to a tee, dear.” She wore a large Cartier necklace, set with diamonds. Somehow, she carried the ostentatious piece well.

They were an English couple, with homes in Montecito, Sun Valley, New York and Southampton, as well as San Francisco. Claire had known the Dukes her entire life, or so it seemed. They were avid art collectors, and close friends of her father. Elizabeth had adored Claire’s mother.

“Where is that handsome husband of yours?” William Duke asked jovially. He was retired, but the company he and Elizabeth had built from scratch in the fifties and sixties was a private one, with financial holdings and properties all over the world. He was fond of David, and at one time had hoped to have him join his firm. The deal hadn’t worked out, but Claire had never known why.

“He’ll be down in a minute,” Claire said, hiding her concern. Where was he? What was taking so long? She already had a headache. She fervently hoped that David would have changed his mood by the time he came downstairs—and that he would not drink too much that night. I’m in trouble, Claire. “He’s running a bit late.” She flashed what felt like a brittle smile.

Elizabeth Duke stared. “Is anything wrong, Claire?”

Claire tensed, aware of her father and William regarding her. “It’s been a long day,” she said, giving what was quickly becoming the party line, but she took Elizabeth’s hand and they slipped away.

“I do know that,” Elizabeth said kindly. “But don’t worry, you know how to plan an event, Claire, as everyone who is anyone knows. I can already see that this evening will be a huge success.” She smiled and leaned close. Whispering, she said, “William and I thought long and hard about what to give David for his birthday. We decided that the two of you have been working far too hard. So we are offering you the house in East Hampton for a month over the summer, Claire.”

It was a magnificent, fully staffed home with a swimming pool and tennis court on Georgica Pond. Claire grasped Elizabeth’s hands, about to thank her. But she never got the two simple words out. Somehow, she knew that she and David were not going to spend a month together in the Dukes’ Hampton home. Neither one of them would want to. It would be a month of bickering and arguments. Their marriage was over.