Deadly Illusions (17 page)

She started, for he was lying on top of her now and her skirts were gone—her bare legs were wrapped around his wool-clad ones, his manhood pressed insistently against her naked thigh and his fingers brushed the wet, swollen mound of her sex, caress after caress. His mouth was pressed against her throat and she became aware now of his kisses there, hot and urgent, each and every one of them.

Her sex tightened deliciously, beginning to heat and throb; dazed, she realized he had only to move very slightly and he would thrust deeply into her and sweep her away into another climax very, very quickly. She held him hard, gasping. Were they going to make love?

She gripped his shoulders, to hold him at bay. And Francesca did not know what to think. All she could see was herself as a bride and Calder as the groom, standing in the master bedroom of his house on their wedding night.

But this wasn't their wedding night and the floor of Sarah's studio was hard and cold beneath her bare shoulders, her back and legs.

Hart embraced her so tightly that she could not breathe. His manhood felt like a knife but he did not tear into her. He merely held her, his entire body trembling, and she knew he had come to his senses, too.

She held him as tightly, eyes closed, breathless and afraid and relieved.

He suddenly moved off of her, away from her. She did not move. Tears suddenly came and she squeezed her eyes tightly closed to prevent them from falling. She was a woman, not some child, and she must not cry. Besides, there was no reason to cry—no reason at all.

As she sat up, reluctantly now, she realized how she must
look. She fumbled with her skirts, keeping her eyes downcast; he stilled her hand.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

If she did, he would see her tears. Francesca tried to compose herself. She was a capable, clever, professional woman and she had wanted Calder Hart's lovemaking. She still wanted his lovemaking. But not like this on the dirty floor.

“Francesca, please do not turn away from me now.” There was an odd note in his tone.

She swallowed and looked up, trying to pull her torn chemise together.

Silence filled the room.

He stared at her grimly. Then he reached out and wiped the tear from her cheek with his forefinger. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

“I'm not.”

His look was skeptical; she gave up. “I don't know. I've so longed for this—for what almost happened—and then I became afraid.”

He cupped her cheek, his eyes dark. “That's understandable, I think. I was very rough and very demanding. I am sorry. And no apology will do. But now you know the truth. The beast is far stronger than that other man. He doesn't exist. It was a sham, Francesca, a total sham.”

“No!” she cried.

Hart straightened and began to pace. “There is no excuse for my behavior,” he said tersely. “We can both pretend that I am noble, but in the end, the truth will out.”

She covered her breasts with her shirt. “You are noble! You have been nothing but noble with me!”

He made a disparaging sound. “I promised you a wedding night, Francesca, but tonight I actually changed my mind.” His eyes darkened with more anger. “Tonight I wanted to take you on the floor.”

She became uneasy knowing he had a point to make and
afraid of what it might be. “We both lost control, Calder, not for the first time,” she added, trying to smile and soften his mood.

“I am always in control,” he said, staring down at her. “The fact is, you deserve someone far better than myself. Tonight I almost took you for all the wrong reasons. I could have hurt you in more ways than one.”

She did not like the look in his eyes or the expression on his face. Her heart raced with sickening force. She slowly said, “But you didn't hurt me. And you didn't break the promise you made, either. And that is what counts.”

He stared for a long moment. “Will you ever admit that I am not half the man my brother is?”

She cried out. “You are a good man, Calder Hart! A very good man! Please, don't bring Rick between us!”

“I can't decide if you really believe that or you are merely determined to pretend to believe what you wish to believe.”

She strode to him, forgetting how barely clad she was. “I won't let you do this. Yes, we lost some control, and yes, we almost slept together, but we didn't. Not because you are trying to be noble, but because you
are
noble, Calder.”

He softened and his gaze slipped. “Your chemise is slipping—but I don't mind.”

She realized she had ceased covering herself. Pulling the garment closed and blushing, she returned his smile, praying they had finished a subject she had no wish to continue.

He turned away, raking his fingers through his short hair. She was surprised to see his hand trembling. “You had better get dressed before someone catches us in this very compromising position.”

She slipped on the shirtwaist and buttoned it with clumsy fingers. “I fear that posing for that portrait has already ruined me.”

He glanced at her, his gaze skipping to her cleavage as she did up the remaining buttons. “Your portrait remains our secret,
Francesca. As much as I would love to display it to the world as a work of art, I never will.”

Something sexual stirred within her. “Then I should certainly be the scandal in this city.”

He turned and gazed oddly at her. “Yes.”

Her unease escalated. His tone had lightened but his mood remained the harbinger of some terrible, deadly storm. Hart was the most complicated man she had ever met and she felt certain she would never fully understand him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked in dismay.

He said grimly, “Your mother called today.”

She stiffened in alarm. “I see,” she said. “Julia is at the bottom of this!”

“She worries about your welfare, as she should.”

“Because of you?” she gasped.

“No, because of your sleuthing. I did my best to reassure her,” he added, his gaze holding hers.

“Thank you,” she said warily.

“Of course, I did point out that you work closely with the police, and that guarantees quite a bit of protection.”

She wished he had not returned to the topic of Rick Bragg. “Working with the police does insure some amount of protection,” she agreed very carefully.

He faced her, hands on his slim hips. “Julia thinks it inappropriate for you to continue to work with my brother.”

She smiled and it felt like a grimace. “So now we get to the heart of the matter.”

“An interesting choice of words.” His smile was brittle. “I would have said the
bottom
of the matter.”

She bristled. “Calder, don't. I am marrying you, not Rick.”

He stared at her.

She stared back. Then slowly, “And what do you think?”

He turned away. “You already know what I think.”

She knew he wanted to marry her—although she still didn't quite comprehend why—and she knew he hated the fact that
she had once been in love with his half brother. She knew he chose to view himself as selfish and self-serving. She sighed. “I am not referring to what you think about our relationship or yourself. Do you agree with my mother?”

“I actually prefer you to chase hooks and crooks and the worst sort of felons with Rick than by yourself.”

Relief filled her; she smiled. “Thank you.”

He faced her sternly. “From this moment on, I am giving you Raoul as your driver. He will go everywhere with you, Francesca.”

She tensed. “He will be my driver or my chaperon? Or perhaps he will be a spy?” Her tone had turned to acid.

He said far too smoothly, “He will actually be your bodyguard, darling. And this is not negotiable. I promised your mother I would protect you, and if I cannot roam the streets with you, then you shall have Raoul.”

She paused, well aware of how convenient it would be to have her own driver. “Do you trust me?”

“I want to. I do. It's…I just wish you were less impulsive, and less caring.” He hesitated and added, very firmly, “I do trust you. I would trust you with my life.” And he met her gaze.

There was something in his eyes so direct and so profound that she was thrilled, for in a way, he was trusting her with his life by marrying her and forsaking all others. She went to him and wrapped her arms around him. “I trust you, too, Calder, with far more than my life.” She smiled warmly at him but did not explain that she was handing him her heart and trusting him not ever to break it.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

She merely said, “You are going to be a wonderful husband.”

“And you are deluded if you think that,” he said, but he smiled.

“A little jealousy can be endearing.”

He gave her a disbelieving look as they both knew his jeal
ousy was not minimal when it was aroused. “It's nonsensical to wait an entire year to wed. We are both more than ready. I will speak with Andrew this weekend.”

She gaped. Then, delighted, she cried, “Yes! Moving up the wedding would be wonderful! When, Calder? When would you really like to have the nuptials?”

He pulled her closer. “Your enthusiasm is so adorable,” he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose.

She shivered with warmth and pleasure. “Tell Papa we want a June wedding.”

He laughed. “June sounds fine, Francesca.”

Then she worried. “But he is so determined to test your resolve and character for an entire year. Have you ever lost a negotiation?” she asked.

“Not in years,” he assured her.

Thursday, April 24, 1902 7:00 p.m.

“D
ARLING,” SHE MURMURED,
her palm on his chest, her thigh crossed over his. “That was so wonderful.” Bartolla Benevente kissed his shoulder.

He was drifting in the pleasant aftermath of their wild lovemaking, not quite awake and not quite asleep. Evan didn't really hear her and he really didn't want to. The woman in his arms was exquisite, soft and silken and warm, her breasts full, surprising him, her legs somehow too long. He succumbed and drifted deeper and when he realized that her hair was the most amazing shade of strawberry and terribly curly, his heart lurched with excitement.
Maggie.
He wasn't quite sure why she was in his bed but he wasn't about to question it, oh no. He ran his hand over her smooth silken skin again and again, turning to take her more fully in his arms. He was completely aroused and when Maggie kissed him on the flat, hard plane of his chest, he finally made a protest.

He moved over her, claiming her mouth, tasting her for what had to be the first time, tasting, inhaling her… She was so lovely, so sweet, so pure…like the sunshine, or an angel….

“Again?” she whispered with some surprise.

He could not speak and his answer was to slide deeply into her, shaking with excitement. And as he moved, as the desire instantly crested, he was jolted awake. She was moaning in pleasure, but so was he; he smiled, murmuring her name, opening his eyes, his hand in her wild, unruly hair.

He stiffened in absolute surprise as Bartolla climaxed before his very eyes and for a terrible moment, he could only stare, utterly dismayed.

Jesus.

He had been dreaming that he was making love to Maggie Kennedy.

Stunned—and aware of an impossible disappointment—he started to pull away from his lover. She clasped his arms. “Darling, what are you doing? What's wrong?”

He smiled at her, and it felt ghastly. “Sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes and finishing what he had mistakenly begun. And when he began to climax, the Irishwoman appeared in his mind, smiling at him, and no matter how hard he thrust or how hard he tried, she would not leave him alone.

He flung himself onto his back, panting wildly while Bartolla laughed, sitting up. “You are such a man, darling,” she whispered.

He threw one arm over his eyes, beyond shaken. He did not want to think about some pretty seamstress while he was making love to his mistress!

“Evan? Are you all right?”

He got up from the bed in one fluid movement, indifferent to his nudity. He gave her a brief smile and crossed the bed room of his hotel suite. In the salon he poured himself a drink. His hand trembled.

And then he was angry. This was utter nonsense! Imagining another woman in his bed meant nothing at all—he had done so a hundred times, for God's sake. And Maggie Kennedy was not his type of lady, oh no. She was too sweet, even meek, for God's sake, and too damn good anyway for a rake like him.

“May I join you?” Bartolla asked.

He turned, quickly hiding his frown. Bartolla smiled in appreciation at his lean, hard body. She had slipped into her peignoir. A few weeks ago, shortly after their affair had com
menced, she had begun leaving her possessions in his suite. He hadn't minded then but now, suddenly, it irritated him.

He took a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and opened it. Champagne was her choice of drink.

She accepted the flute when he handed it to her. “Shall I get you a robe? Not that I mind, but if a maid walked in, she might never recover from such a view.”

“Thank you,” he said, absolutely indifferent to her suggestion. When she had left the salon he walked over to the window and gazed down at Fifth Avenue, where traffic remained heavy. The city's upper crust was out on the town, on their way to this fête or that, to a supper party, a ball, a charity or the theater. The urge to walk down the block to a private club he knew suddenly overcame him. He tensed.

It wasn't the first time. Every evening the urge came, and every evening he began to sweat, thinking about entering a game, any game, poker, craps, he didn't care what it was. God, there was simply nothing that came close to the rush of excitement of being at the tables, the stakes so high now, being life or death.

He tossed down his scotch.

Maggie's image came to mind, sweet and smiling. Then she looked him right in the eye and shook her head no.

Bartolla returned, smiling, handing him his robe, navy blue velvet with his initials embroidered in black and gold on the chest pocket. He slipped it on, belting it. “What are our plans for this evening?” he asked. He wasn't going to walk down the block. If he was very lucky, one day the urge would lessen, and if there was a god, it would even disappear.

“We have theater tickets, but I'm afraid the curtain goes up in an hour. I doubt I can be ready in time.”

He finally faced the fact, as he stared out of the window, that he would rather be alone that evening than be with his mistress. But he didn't trust himself to be alone. Not one single bit.

“Darling.” She took his empty glass and refilled it, handing it back to him. “I must speak with you about something.”

Her tone was oddly serious. He glanced at her and saw that she wasn't smiling and some alarm began. Was she going to leave him? He truly liked her and definitely appreciated her skill in bed. There had been a time when Evan had thought himself in love with the countess. Now he realized he was not in love with her at all.

“It's all right,” he heard himself say, and he realized he wouldn't be dismayed at all if their affair ended. In fact, maybe it was time for it to end.

Maggie smiled at him.

He was so surprised, that he felt himself gape. Why was she haunting him now? Why?

“Are you unwell?” Bartolla asked, guiding him to a chair.

“I'm fine,” he said, very grim now. “I hope you're not thinking of leaving me.” He had changed his mind. “I'm enjoying being with you immensely.”

Maggie's eyes turned reproachful.

“You think I want to leave you?” she cried, clearly stunned. “Evan, darling, I am in love with you!”

There was no denying his dismay.

“Darling, I do hope you will be pleased.”

He just looked at her, thinking about the club and the tables there, able to hear the roulette, the die, the laughter and conversation, able to feel the excitement. All the while, he kept thinking about Maggie Kennedy, too. “What are you talking about?”

She clasped his hand. “I'm pregnant, darling. I'm pregnant with our child. Isn't that wonderful?”

 

E
VEN THOUGH IT WAS
only nine o'clock, Leigh Anne lay in bed, the lights out. But she wasn't even trying to sleep. The events of that day replayed in her mind while she listened to the sounds on the street.

She had taken a walk with the girls around Madison Square. Or rather, her male nurse had wheeled her chair while the girls had strolled alongside her, with Mrs. Flowers and Peter in tow. The girls had been so happy, Katie regaling Leigh Anne with stories of her day at school and her new best friend, Dot constantly interrupting with her attempts at communication. Leigh Anne fought the tears and the depression without success.

She bit on her hand to choke down a sob. She would never stroll in any park with the girls again.

How had she taken her health—her legs—her life for granted?

She wondered, not for the first time, if she was being punished for walking out on her husband four years ago, but she had never really believed then that she
was
walking out. She had been certain he would follow her and bring her directly home and then change his life to suit her needs. How naive, selfish and stupid she had been!

But, apparently, he
had
followed her. More tears came. Apparently he had come to Europe and then never identified himself, returning home alone. If only she had known he was there, nothing would have stopped her from finding him and returning with him.

But she hadn't known and she had waited and waited, and after a year and a half she had allowed herself to be seduced. She had been desperate for affection but the affair had been bitterly sweet. It hadn't eased the heartbreak and the comprehension that had then begun—her marriage might really be over.

At some point she had heard that he'd taken a mistress, a beautiful woman a bit older than he, a widow and intellectual, a suffragette like his mother. She had been terribly hurt but had pretended to herself that it didn't matter. There had been days when she still expected to see him enter a room, arriving to bring her home.

But he never came, not after that first time, and finally she had returned home to nurse her ailing father, trying to ignore
the fact that only miles of railroad track now separated them and not an entire ocean. But when Bartolla had written her informing her that Rick was falling in love with another woman, she had rushed to New York City on the next departing train.

And he had despised her from the moment he had set his eyes on her.

Now he said he wanted to take care of her. She looked up at the ceiling and laughed while she wept.
Never.

She wiped her eyes. Did he really think to attend political functions with his wife in a wheeled chair? Did he think to wheel her about himself, or would her nurse be in attendance? And did he think she could hostess their parties when she could not even go to the toilet by herself? The tears fell. And what about making love? The one thing she remained certain of was her husband's amazing virility. Would he be celibate now? She laughed rudely at the ceiling. Or was she to look the other way as he took a mistress? Pain stabbed her heart. He certainly wasn't going to touch her now!

She clapped her hand to her mouth to still a sob. She hated herself for her self-pity, but she was no martyr and no heroine. Francesca Cahill was brave and courageous. She would somehow navigate life as a cripple if this had been her fate. Leigh Anne knew she should have never come back. God, he deserved Francesca, he did.

The front door slammed.

Her tears stopped. She froze in alarm and strained to hear, and in sinking dismay she recognized his voice in the entry just downstairs. Quickly she exhaled, wiping the tears away with the sheet and then closing her eyes, pretending to be asleep.

Some minutes passed and he did not start up the stairs. Relief began. If only she could really fall asleep before he came up! But sleep eluded her now, when she spent so much time in a chair or in her bed, when all she wanted to do was sleep, sleep, sleep. And then she heard him.

She stiffened, reminded herself to breathe, and listened to
his every footstep. The stairs were old, like the house, and each plank creaked. The footfall changed on the landing, where a thin runner was in the hall. She heard him pause in the doorway of their room, where Mr. McFee had left the door ajar.

She tried to breathe naturally, no easy task when her body was rigid with fear.

He approached the bed.

She prayed he would think she was asleep.

She felt him hesitate and then lean closer. His hand drifted over her shoulder and she shivered, tensing even more. As he moved some hair from her face and adjusted the covers, she bemoaned the fact that his most innocent touch remained a sexual invitation. It had always been that way for her with him.

“Leigh Anne?” he whispered, and she knew that he knew she was awake.

She hesitated, wanting him to believe he was mistaken, that she was asleep, wanting him to leave.

“Do you need anything?” he asked softly, clearly not fooled by her pretense. And he touched her again, this time on the side of her cheek.

Her jaw ground down. She wanted to scream at him not to touch her. “I'm fine,” she managed to say.

He hesitated, still leaning over her, not moving.

She became very alarmed and her eyes flew open and she met his intense, unwavering golden stare. “What are you doing?”

His temples throbbed visibly. “It's been a long day. I am getting ready for bed.”

He never slept this early! She wanted to be alone! If only the house was larger, if only she had her own room, her own bed! “It's nine o'clock,” she heard herself say, and she sounded terrified.

He just stared at her.

“Don't do this,” she begged.

He hesitated for one more moment, then went around to his
side of the bed, still completely dressed, even in his shoes, and he got in to lie down.

“What are you doing?!” she cried.

He moved close and pulled her into his arms. “Just let me hold you,” he said.

She tried to say no. She tried to protest. But she couldn't speak; she wept instead.

 

I
T WAS SO LATE
and so dark—if only Bridget were safe!

Gwen left the omnibus and began walking as fast as she could. Her supervisor had made her stay late with two other workers to fill a large order for a major department store, an order that was overdue. There had been no choice; he had ignored her protestations, her fears. Hans Schmidt simply did not care that a cold-blooded killer was on the loose and that her daughter was home alone.

The night was black and still, starless and cool. A whispering breeze caressed her cheek, chilling her to the bone. Gwen could not breathe, choking on her fear for her daughter. There was very little traffic on the street as she paused on the sidewalk at the corner, waiting for a lone carriage to pass.

She saw no one. It didn't matter. A killer stalked the young women of the city and Margaret Cooper was proof of that. Even now, he could be in her flat, attacking Bridget…

But maybe David was there. She knew that he hated her now, with all of his heart. His demand that they reconcile was vicious, for he only wanted her back so he could spend the rest of his life flinging the fact of her single love affair in her face, every chance that he got. That, and to poison Bridget against her own mother. But she didn't think he hated his daughter, his flesh and blood. Still, she could not be sure. He was a weak, mean, cowardly man.