Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (39 page)

“It’s Francesca,” she whispered.

Dawn started, smiled, and glided away.

Francesca was alone. She inhaled, turned, and came face-to-face with Solange Marceaux. She almost gasped.

“Is something wrong?” Solange asked.

“No.” Francesca smiled.

“I see you have your first admirer,” she said.

“Yes, Philip Seymour. He is looking forward to the day when he can afford me,” Francesca said quickly. Hart was
now with two women, both of whom were acting far too seductive. He was being far too pleasant to them in return. Was he enjoying himself? She realized she was staring and forced her gaze back to Solange.

“No. I meant Dawn,” Solange said calmly.

Francesca started as her gaze locked with the other woman’s. She did not miss a thing! What else had she seen?

Solange smiled and it did not reach her eyes. “You did not tell me you also worked in Paris.”

Francesca froze and tried to think. Had Solange seen Hart’s reaction to her? Had he said something to cover it up? He was so clever—no one could outwit him. “I also worked in Hong Kong for two months,” Francesca said softly.

And perhaps, just perhaps, Solange was surprised. “Mr. Hart has his plans for the evening. However, he wishes to renew your acquaintance briefly first. He is your first customer, my dear. Unfortunately, he only paid for an hour.” Then she smiled. “Fortunately, he paid triple what I was asking. You must be very good in bed.”

Francesca smiled grimly. Hart had detached both women from his arms and was walking toward her and Solange. She knew him well. His stride was very purposeful. Inwardly she quaked.

Solange seemed to lift a brow as she shifted so she could watch their “reunion.”

“My darling Emerald,” he murmured, his lashes hooding his eyes. “How wonderful to find you here.”

She tried not to wince. “Calder. It has been a long time.”

“Such a long time.” Both slashing black brows lifted and he finally looked up—directly at her. “I wish I had known you were here. I would have reserved my entire evening for you . . . darling.”

His face was perfectly composed; however, his eyes were not; they glittered, hot and dangerously black. “Another time?” she managed, her pulse racing wildly. He was terribly angry with her.

“Oh, absolutely.” He smiled without warmth and took
her arm possessively in his. In fact, she knew she would not be able to free herself unless he wished it. He nodded at Solange. “Thank you, Madame Marceaux. And hors d’oeuvres from Emerald and the entrée I previously requested—this is quite a feast, beyond my wildest expectations.”

Solange smiled at him.
“Bon appétit,”
she said, drifting off.

His fingers dug into Francesca’s arms and he was propelling her up the stairs, so forcefully her feet barely touched the ground.

“You’re hurting me,” she warned breathlessly.

“Good,” he ground out. “Which room is yours—
Emerald?”

Francesca nodded down the hall. At the door she indicated, he pushed it open, never releasing her. Francesca had the unhappy feeling that he wanted to kick it down.

Once inside, he released her, closing and locking the door. Francesca ran to the far side of the room, the big bed between them, operating on pure instinct. He turned. “What the hell are you doing?” he ground out in a low tone.

“You know what I am doing!” she cried.

His gaze slammed over her. “You are naked in that dress!”

“Not really. The chiffon below is nude and—”

“Like hell!” He exploded and before she knew it, he was in front of her, gripping her shoulders. “Do you wish to be raped?” he demanded.

“Calder . . . ” she tried.

“No! I mean it! How do you think to survive an evening here? The next man to take you up here won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and he won’t jerk himself off to keep you innocent!”

She inhaled hard. “What do you care?” she whispered.

He froze. “What?”

She began to shake, with a different fear—with the sickness haunting her all day. “Obviously you don’t care.”

He stared at her as if she were insane. “Francesca, I want you out of this place, now.”

“I don’t understand.” She was now furious herself. She struggled to break free of his grasp and failed. “Let me go!”

“No.”

“You have no more rights!”

“Like hell I don’t.” He was dangerous now.

“Men who throw away their fiancées like a discarded half-eaten piece of chocolate have no rights!” She glared. To her dismay, she felt tears forming in her eyes.

His grip softened.
“What?”

“You heard me.” She glared again. Being upset now—being heartbroken—was the last thing she wished to be.

He released her but touched her face. “You’re not a piece of candy, Francesca.”

“You spent the night with me—well, a few hours or so of it—and have decided you are finished with me!” she accused.

He straightened, eyes wide. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes.” She trembled.

“My clever, ingenious, eccentric little sleuth,” he whispered, pulling her close and tilting up her chin. He kissed her deeply, opening her mouth, his tongue sliding over hers.

Everything that had happened in the past few hours swept through her mind with stunning force—Dawn’s wish to seduce her, the Spanish prince’s three-day orgy, kittens’ tongues. Francesca moved closer, moaning, her body exploding with fire. Hart’s hands, on her lower back, tightened. His arousal had formed between them, long and hard, infinitely enticing, electric. He broke the kiss, whispering, “This is not the time or the place.”

“You’re supposed to be making love to me,” she whispered back. “Just do it, Hart.”

His gaze held hers. “For a sleuth, you have missed many clues, darling, when it comes to me and you.”

“What?” She trembled.

He reached up to touch her lips, her cheek, and her hair.
“I wanted to give you a chance to decide what it is that
you
really wish to do, as we both know I am not the man you love.” He stared.

His words were like ice-cold water, and the raging fever died. She backed up a step. It was hard to comprehend his meaning. “Calder?” She became incredulous. “You don’t want to break off our engagement?”

“You heard me,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Of course I don’t.”

She began to smile as a thrill rippled within her. Then she composed herself. “Well,” she said briskly, “now that that misunderstanding has been laid to rest, we must visit Rachael and rescue the other girls.”

“I am visiting Rachael, and the police will rescue the girls. You are getting out of here and do not think, for one moment, that you are off the hook.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Very well.”

“I am very angry with you, Francesca.”

“I know.” She smiled sweetly again. “Rachael is just down the hall and I think we should both visit her. Solange thinks we are preoccupied. She won’t think to look for me for another hour.”

“No. Go downstairs and if she or anyone asks, I wanted quick pleasure, that is all. Mingle until Solange is in her apartments. Then hurry out, Francesca, and I do mean hurry.”

Francesca so wanted to see Rachael and find out how she was. She sighed, thinking ahead. “All right. I’ll notify the police. Is Bragg still at the hospital?”

Hart nodded, his gaze changing.

Francesca did not know what that meant. “I guess I will have to get Chief Farr,” she said, hating the very notion.

“We don’t want a raid here,” Hart said firmly.

She gave him a look, annoyed. “Which might warn the brothel where the children are. I am no fool, Calder, and this is
my
case. The brothel where the children are needs to be raided first so we can rescue the girls.”

He took her wrist and reeled her in and kissed her nose.
“We are on the same side, darling,” he said, softening. Then his eyes hardened. “Now get going.”

She nodded, aware of some fear rising. She hesitated, gave him a look, and went to her purse. She withdrew her small pistol.

Hart groaned. “Just where the hell are you hiding that?”

The question was a good one. Francesca knew her dress hugged every inch of her body and she was at a loss.

“Try your garter,” he said.

She glanced at him.

Hart gave her half of an encouraging nod.

Francesca lifted her skirt, aware of him watching as her leg was exposed. She tucked the pistol in her garter on the inside of her thigh. “It won’t stay,” she said.

He strode over and knelt, adjusting the garter.

She stilled instantly, his hands precariously high on her thigh.

He lowered the garter and the pistol, positioning both above her knee, then retied the garter so tightly, Francesca wondered if her blood could possibly circulate. Then he glanced up. “Hopefully that won’t be for too long.”

Their gazes held. It was a moment before she could speak. “Hopefully my leg won’t fall off.”

He rose gracefully to his feet and she dropped the gown. The gun felt cold and bulky against her inner knee, but it didn’t seem visible. Then she looked at him.

“You should go,” he said grimly.

She nodded.

He walked her to the door. “Francesca, be careful.”

She smiled at him, far more bravely than she felt. “It’s a piece of cake.”

He grimaced.

She slipped into the hallway.

Two lush women and one older man were walking past her, arm in arm, sipping champagne and smelling of an odd smoke. Francesca smiled at everyone and went to the stairs. The piano tune had changed. It was more lively, more festive,
and no longer at all classical. The conversation level had changed, too. It was loud and raucous.

Her heart felt as if it were wedged in her upper chest somewhere. She started down the stairs.

As the reception hall came into view, she saw several men and women, including Philip Seymour, but no sign of Solange. Hart had told her to mingle until the coast was clear. She stepped into the hall, glancing into the dining room, and she saw several gentlemen dining there with several servants. Still no sign of the madam.

She turned and glanced into the salon, which was now quite filled with clients and the ladies of the house. Francesca met Dawn’s gaze instantly. The woman gave her an urgent look. If Francesca understood, she was signaling to her. Francesca turned and glanced toward Solange’s apartment. The door was solidly closed.

Her heart leaped with hope. She turned back to Dawn, wide-eyed, silently asking her if Solange Marceaux was closeted in her suite.

Dawn nodded urgently at her and seemed to say,
Go
.

Francesca turned quickly. The doorman was preoccupied with arriving clientele; she hurried past Solange’s closed door and down the empty hall. Dear God, could it be any easier?

A small feeling of dread formed.

Ahead was a closed door, painted blue. This was too easy, in fact.

She reached the door, testing it. It was locked.

She realized it was locked from the inside, and as she unlocked the small lever, she reminded herself not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Francesca was greeted by a sky filled with stars and a half-moon. She stepped swiftly outside, closing the door behind her, filled with relief.

She had made it. She had escaped.

And from behind, Solange Marceaux said, “Seize her.”

M
ONDAY
, M
ARCH
31, 1902—9:00
P.M
.

T
HE CHILD WHO WAS
waiting for him had silver-blond hair and silvery gray eyes. She had been dressed up in a gown more appropriate for a schoolgirl of eight or nine, all white cotton and frilly lace. Hart closed the door behind him and smiled at her. She stared at him through a drug-induced stupor. His stomach turned as if he had actually been poisoned, as if he were actually ill.

His reputation was not a groundless one. He had discovered the pleasures of the female body at thirteen and had been sexually active ever since. But in fact, at that age, his first few lovers had been several years older than himself. In his mid-adolescence, he had devoted a great deal of his time to hedonism, most of it sexual. But he was not a pedophile, thank God. Still, in the course of experiencing some of life’s more illicit and sordid pleasures, he had, from time to time, met gentlemen known for their pedophilia. It was also a fact of life that children were abducted
and sold into slavery all of the time, and not just for sex. But his own dark and lusty world had never before so openly collided with that other even darker world, and having now stepped so frankly into it, he was furious. Determination made him ruthless. He looked forward to exposing the men and women behind this latest effort at child prostitution; oh yes, he did. He would enjoy bringing each and every one single-handedly to his and her knees. Unlike his sainted half brother, he would prefer to lock them up and throw away the keys. However, as he was not a policeman, he would not have that opportunity. But a whisper in the right and most honorable ear would have the same effect.

Grim, he paused to glance around. There was a mirror on the wall. Was it a mirror or a window to a viewing room? He walked directly to it and took it down. He was prepared to be angry and call in the management, but it was just what it appeared to be, a mirror. They were alone.

He faced the bed where Rachael sat and put his finger to his lips. “Ssh,” he breathed.

Rachael simply stared.

He walked slowly to her, but she did not flinch or appear afraid. He paused before her, kneeling. “Rachael? Is your name Rachael Wirkler?” he asked in a low voice, afraid they might be eavesdropped upon from the hall or the door that clearly opened to an adjoining room.

He finally got a reaction from her. She blinked, starting with surprise.

“I am not a customer. I am going to take you home,” he whispered.

Rachael bit her lip, no longer appearing quite so inebriated, a light of comprehension in her eyes.

“My name is Calder Hart,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “Can you tell me where your friends are being kept? Emily, Bonnie, and Deborah?” he asked.