Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (14 page)

“You.”

She recoiled.

He stared, the anger fading until only frustration was left in his eyes. “Why are you doing this? So you can continue on with Hart with little or no guilt?”

She was relieved to be attacked and she bristled. “This
isn’t about Calder, damn it. This is about you—and it is about a woman I can’t help but like no matter how hard I try not to. And that’s the real problem. I feel you are being terribly unfair with her, when you are more than fair with every stranger on the street.”

His eyes blazed. “That is enough! I refuse to allow you to butt into the state of my marriage.”

She cried out.

He realized what he had said and reached for her, but she jerked away. “Don’t!” she cried.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

She stared, shaken to the core, and said, “But you did. You more than meant it, and not for the first time. However, you are right.” She inhaled harshly, trembling. “I have been concerned with your private life, and it is not my affair. Because you are married and we are merely friends.”

“Francesca.”

She turned her back on him and got into his motorcar.

Sarah Channing lived with her mother, a wealthy widow, on the city’s West Side, commonly referred to as the Dakotas, because that part of town was so far away from the rest of the city and was both so bleak and desolate. The rather Gothic mansion, recently built, was huge, and the only building evident for several blocks. All the surrounding lots were vacant or had rough lean-to structures upon them where homeless squatters lived. Francesca always felt that she was entering a foreign country when going to the West Side.

The Channing doorman swiftly answered Francesca’s knock and she found herself standing in a dark entry hall that was a tower with high ceilings and gleaming oak floors. Some animal heads adorned the walls, as Sarah’s father, Richard Wyeth Channing, had been keen on hunting and had assembled a collection of animal trophies from all of his various hunting trips in Africa, India, Russia, and Europe. As she waited for Sarah, she tried to forget about
Bragg, and her thoughts quickly turned to Hart. By now, or very shortly, he would be facing her father in the interview that would ultimately decide her fate.

Her heart lurched, but before she could analyze why, Sarah appeared at the far end of a hall, a tiny figure in a huge and drab gray dress that was splotched with old dried paint in various colors. Sarah was beaming, and it lit up her tiny face. Francesca knew most people thought Sarah plain, with her mousy brown hair, dark eyes, and unremarkable figure, but Francesca was finding her prettier and prettier the more she got to know her. And now, with Sarah filled with excitement, her long, curly hair coming down about her face, in spite of the ugly dress, she was truly beautiful. In fact, no spirit seemed freer.

“Francesca!” Sarah broke into a run and the two women embraced. “Hart sent me a note telling me that you returned. I have been so worried about you!”

Francesca noted some ocher and rust tones of paint on Sarah’s face. “I am fine. But how are you?”

“I am wonderful,” she said, with a grin. “You do know that Evan broke it off about two weeks ago?”

Francesca saw that Sarah was simply thrilled. “I heard the moment I came home.”

“Please, don’t be angry with me that I am so happy. But I don’t want to ever marry and you know it. Besides, we both know Evan is smitten with Bartolla.”

Francesca had to hug her. “I know it was a terrible mismatch. Has he been with Bartolla as often as she led me to believe earlier when I saw her at a luncheon?”

“They have become lovers, it’s obvious. I think she is with him every night.” Sarah smiled happily. “Perhaps another engagement is in the air?”

Francesca thought that might well be the case, too. “How is your mother taking the news?” she asked.

“Not well! Try telling Mother that we were the worst possible match! She took to her rooms for an entire week, weeping and sulking in turns. Now, if the Cahill name comes up, she leaves the room. She refuses to listen to me
when I explain that I am married already—to my art. And Bartolla and I agreed not to let her know that Evan is courting her.”

Sarah was in many ways a kindred spirit, and Francesca laughed as Sarah took her hand and hurried her down the hall. Her studio was in the back of the house on the ground floor. “That would be like my telling Mama that I am a professional investigator with no time for a husband.”

“Yes, it would.” Sarah lifted Francesca’s hand and beamed at her ring. “How wonderful! I saw this coming a mile away!”

“You did?” Francesca paused before the open door of Sarah’s studio, which was artificially lit now due to the late time of day. Sarah favored portraits of women and children, and her walls were lined with her work, some in progress, the others finished. She had several standing easels, and two had canvases upon them. Francesca thought Sarah’s work brilliant. She had clearly been influenced by the impressionists, but her work remained classic.

“Oh, Francesca, when a man insists upon your portrait, the writing is clear upon the wall.”

Francesca was delighted, even if she didn’t want to be. “Hart only insisted on my portrait to annoy me because we were fighting at the time.”

Sarah gave her a look of disbelief. “Please. So why did you leave the city? Did you really have an ailing friend?”

“I needed to think,” Francesca said.

“I thought so.” Sarah squeezed her hand. “But you are back now and I am so glad, and not just because of the portrait.”

“I am actually glad to be back, as well,” Francesca said, and now she meant it. It was good to be back; and thank God she was back, otherwise she would not be on this new investigation, with so many children’s fates upon the line. “I am also glad to see that you have fully recovered from the last investigation,” she said, referring to Sarah having been a killer’s target.

Sarah’s eyes widened. “I am fully recovered. Thank God
that terrible time in my life is over. In fact, I hardly ever think about it!” Her tone was a bit high now.

And something in her eyes alarmed Francesca—she felt certain that Sarah wasn’t quite over the trauma of almost being murdered. Francesca took her arm. “Is Rourke still in town?” she asked, referring to Rourke Bragg, Rick’s younger brother. He was a medical student in Philadelphia, but he had been helpful in the last investigation.

“Rourke left a month ago. I haven’t heard from him,” Sarah said briskly, looking away as if avoiding Francesca’s gaze.

Francesca stared. Rourke resembled his brother and father almost exactly. He was terribly handsome, with dark brows and golden eyes, hair a dark tawny shade that was almost brown, and dimples that never quit when he was smiling. Sometimes he looked so much like Bragg he could be his twin, which he was not, as they were half brothers. He had been gentle and kind with Sarah during the last investigation and had, in fact, saved the day when she had been brutally attacked in this very house. Francesca had felt certain she had seen some attraction to Sarah on Rourke’s part. “I am sure you will hear from him the next time he is in town,” she said.

Sarah shrugged with indifference. “And why would I? He isn’t a doctor yet, and he is not my physician.”

“Is he not your friend?”

Sarah faced her, flushing. “I hardly know what he is, Francesca. Why did you even bring him up? To upset me? We have work to do! Do you have time to pose now?”

Francesca hesitated, stunned by Sarah’s almost angry and very strong reaction to a simple conversation about Rourke Bragg. “I’m not trying to upset you, Sarah,” she said softly.

“I know you’re not,” Sarah said, still flushed. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s him. I know I was very ill and he spent the night nursing me through that fever, I know he saved me from a brutal attack, but I did thank him, and that is that. I don’t like him, Francesca, and let’s just leave it at
that. Do you have some time to pose for a sketch?” She smiled firmly, clearly closing the door on the subject of Rourke.

Francesca knew a fire was smoldering, as she had just seen the smoke, and she smiled, letting Sarah think as she chose. Posing required disrobing, and to both disrobe and re-dress would take a good forty minutes or so. However, it was the end of the day and tomorrow promised to be as eventful as that day had been. “You know, I think I can . . . ” She stopped. She had wandered farther into the studio but now glimpsed one of the canvases on an easel. It was clearly an unfinished portrait of Calder Hart.

And looking at his likeness was like looking at him—it took her breath away and she felt his presence envelop her, as if he had actually joined them in the room.

Sarah came to stand behind her. “I could not help myself. He is my mentor, and it simply seemed right. I have been so inspired, it’s almost done. Do you like it? I had so much trouble with his expression, with his eyes. He is so smug and confident, but there is a vulnerability within that I have found almost impossible to capture. It’s not quite right yet, is it?”

Francesca hugged herself. Was she falling in love with the man? And was Sarah infatuated, too? The portrait had captured the Hart whom society knew and so often rejected. The Hart who could walk into a room and upset everyone present while laughing about it. The Hart who cared not one whit for society and its rules. Sarah had caught Hart’s renegade spirit perfectly, his confidence, his attitude of “I don’t give a damn,” his aura of power and wealth. But she had missed the vulnerability that was an essential part of him. Francesca knew few ever glimpsed or were even aware of that fragile side, but she was not surprised that Sarah had seen it and understood it so well. “No, it’s not right. It’s almost right, though. Has he seen this?”

“Oh, no! I am terribly afraid to show it to him. I doubt I ever will!” she cried nervously.

Francesca clasped her shoulder. “It is spectacular, Sarah.
And I do think you should show it to him when you are ready. You have captured his magnetism, his sardonic side, and his power perfectly.”

“But he has a soft gentle side, a frightened side, that is missing. I will give it to him as a gift one day.” Sarah smiled, but nervously, as if afraid her gift would be rejected or scorned. Then she said, “Did Hart speak to you at all about the portrait?” Suddenly she flushed. “Oh, Francesca, I apologize. I am so excited to finally have you here sitting for me that I have not even congratulated you on your engagement. I am so happy for you!”

“Thank you.”

“I think it is a wonderful match.” Sarah looked closely at her now. “Don’t you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Sarah, I hardly know what I am doing when I am around Hart. I still have strong feelings for Bragg. And Bragg and I are alike—in every way. Hart and I are so different. Still . . . I seem to be on a speeding train, one I cannot leap off.” She smiled grimly.

Sarah took her hand. “Bragg is with his wife. I’m not sure I understand their relationship, but it appears a volatile and passionate one. I do not mean to hurt you by saying that, Francesca. It’s just that while I know how close you and Bragg are, I don’t think you are the one.”

“I know that, too,” Francesca said grimly. “A month ago your words would have hurt. Now, they do not. I am merely frightened since this thing with Hart is gaining so much momentum. It is like traveling at top speed when what one really wants is to apply the carriage brakes.”

“I think Hart adores you, and frankly, the fact that he wants to marry you instead of seduce you says it all, doesn’t it?” She smiled. “Now, did he speak at all with you about the portrait?”

Francesca patted her back. “I am more than happy to pose nude.”

Sarah cried out in pleasure. “I haven’t done a nude since art class in Paris. I am beyond excited. Francesca, this will
be so beautiful, and I promise you, we will conceal everything that needs to be concealed.”

Francesca grinned and crossed one thigh over the other, held her arm over her breasts, and said, “Shall I dangle a scarf or a mink stole?”

Sarah laughed as well. “That would be obvious, don’t you think? You can disrobe behind the screen. You can use that dressing gown.”

Francesca did as she was told, aware of her excitement taking on a sensual edge. She was posing nude for Hart. Now was not the time to feel desire stirring, but she did. As she stripped down to her corset and drawers, she said, “Should I take my hair down? And Sarah, I am not modest, so do not worry about that!”

Sarah laughed. “I didn’t think you would be modest, my dear. And no, I don’t think so. In fact, I have thought about it and I think your hair should remain up. I’d also like to see you in a choker. Perhaps pearls and diamonds. My mother has one which we could borrow when the time is right.”

“Whatever you think,” Francesca said, slipping the silk jacquard kimono on. It caressed her naked flesh, sending tingles up and down her legs, her spine. She stepped out from behind the screen.

“Every painting tells a story, Francesca, and in this story, you have come home from a ball and are waiting for your new husband,” Sarah said, ushering her to an emerald-green damask daybed, with pillows piled about its head.

Francesca felt her body tighten even more. “And who is telling this particular story, Sarah, you or Hart?”

“I am, as I am the painter,” Sarah said with a grin. “Don’t disrobe yet. Try to find a comfortable position, first. I think on your side, facing me, with your thighs crossed as you did earlier while standing.”

Francesca slid onto the sofa, leaned into the pillows, and posed herself to the best of her ability. By crossing her thighs and crossing her upper arm over her breasts, she felt
that the right amount of concealment had been attained. But Sarah frowned.

She shook her head. “That pose is beyond classic—it’s common. We must do better. Francesca, sit up, with your back partly toward me.”

Francesca obeyed, glancing curiously over her shoulder at Sarah.

Sarah grinned. “Turn a bit more to the right. I would like to see a profile of your breast. Yes, that’s right. Now place one leg completely over the side of the bed. Oh, I like this! Can you curl your right leg up under you? Will that be too uncomfortable?”