Deadly - Deadly Desire Part 7

"Can ... what?" She straightened. "My husband is out of the country, Commissioner. He is in London and will not return for another month."

"Thank you," Bragg said.

Jane Van Arke glanced between Francesca and Bragg again, seeming bewildered. "You're welcome."

"I think that is all for now," Bragg said. He thanked her again for her time.

She walked them to the door. "There is one thing I don't understand," she said.

"What is that?"

"Why the two of you are here, asking me the same questions as that other gentleman?"

Francesca halted so quickly that Bragg smashed into her back. They both turned to face their hostess. "What gentleman?" she asked.

"Chief Farr."

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 -JUST AFTER NOON.

Francesca entered the house and heard her mother shouting. She froze. Julia never shouted. She did not have to. Her will was iron and far too strong for anyone toresist her. But she was shouting. Francesca had just heard her. She turned to look at Francis, the newdoorman, who was pale and pretending to be deaf and a statue. "Francis? What is goingon?" He came to life. "Your parents, Miss Cahill. They have forgotten to shut the door." She looked in the direction he indicated and realized they were in the salon at the oppositeend of the hall. She knew instantly what they were arguing about. And that was anotherthing-her parents rarely argued. Either Julia allowed Andrew to have his way, or he allowed her to do so. They had to be arguing about Evan. Gingerly, Francesca approached the open doors and, pausing on the threshold, saw herfather standing with his arms akimbo, his back to a window. Julia confronted him. "This isyour entire fault, Andrew," she said harshly, not shouting now. "You have done this. You havechased him out of the house-our house-my house! And I will not allow it!" And then shehad shouted again. "He cannot break off his engagement and leave the company and simply get away with it. Itis utter disrespect!" Andrew returned harshly, but keeping his voice lowered. "We agreed onthe engagement, Julia. You have been happy that our wayward son will finally have tobecome a man!" And his voice had verged upon a shout. "I should not have agreed. I told you she was wrong for him. But oh, no, you did insist, and Istupidly let you have your way! I will not let Evan move out! He is my son-our son-howcould you do this? How?" Francesca gaped, as her mother seemed on the verge of tears. She never cried. In fact, Francesca had grown up a.s.suming her mother did not have tear ducts. "He did not give me a choice!" Andrew cried. "He marched into my office and began to threaten me. He threatened me, Julia! I know that you pretend he can do no wrong, but Evan is dissolute. Dissolute! He is the most irresponsible young man I have ever seen! Irresponsible and dissolute!" "Don't you dare call him dissolute! And if he threatened you-" She stopped. "I am sure he did not mean it!" She was shouting now. "You have always disliked him!" Julia was furious. "You adore Francesca-she can catch a killer with a fry pan, and nothing comes of it! Oh, no, she makes the newspapers, and you are proud of her! And Connie, well, you are vastly fond of her-but then, she never does anything wrong, thank goodness. But Evan, why, as a child, Evan's grades were not high enough, his friends were not good enough, he could not throw a football far enough, and now he does not work hard or long enough.... My son is always failing!" "That is because he is usually wrong. That is because he has no ambition. Good G.o.d, how can you be defending him now? Evan has two interests, period. Two vices! Cheap women and gaming. His standards of behavior are less than acceptable," Andrew finally shouted back. "And they always have been less than acceptable to me." Francesca actually clapped her hands over her ears. "Stop! The two of you, please, stop!" Neither one heard her. Julia pointed her finger at him. "I warn you, Andrew, if he leaves this house, then I shall, too." "Mama!" Francesca gasped, rus.h.i.+ng forward. Andrew turned white with shock. And without another word, he turned his back on his wife. A window faced him. But the draperies were drawn. Francesca grasped Julia's hands and saw the tears in her mother's eyes. "Mama, come outside. Let's talk," she said, at the same time wanting to rush over to her father and hug him and rea.s.sure him that all would be well. Julia nodded, casting an angry and tearful glance at Andrew's rigid back, and the moment they were in the hall, she collapsed on a tufted settee, set against one wall. "How could he do this? How could Andrew let Evan walk out?" She covered her face with her hands and her small shoulders shook. And for one moment, Francesca was simply frozen, stunned to see her mother so distraught, in such emotional pain. Then she wrapped her arm around her and held her close. The two women were exactly the same size, with Julia being but a few pounds heavier. "Mama," Francesca said urgently, taking her hands. Julia looked up. "Evan threatened Father. It's true. And of course that wasn't right. But he was desperate to get out of his engagement, and can we truly blame him? When Father would not back down, Evan made good on his threats." "I do not blame Evan for any of this," Julia said heavily. "But don't blame Papa, either! He only wants Evan to cease gambling and begin a family." "I know what your father wants," Julia said. "Your father wants Evan to be exactly like him, a one-woman man, a family man, a success, and a reformer." Francesca stared. "Evan is not like your father, Francesca. He is far more ..." she hesitated, then said, "ebullient than your father ever was. He is young. He is only twenty-four going on twenty-five. This is my fault, too! I should have never agreed to this match." She closed her eyes tightly. "Do not blame yourself for anything! After all, it is Evan's fault, too, for incurring those terrible debts. But let us look at the bright side," Francesca tried. Julia opened her eyes. "There is no bright side." "Yes, there is. I mean, what has happened is truly terrible, but it is certainly for the best that he and Sarah do not wed, even if it had to happen this way." "I cannot lose him," Julia said, and Francesca knew she meant her son and not Andrew. "Mama, you will not lose Evan! He loves you so! He even told me that he would never allow this argument to affect your relations.h.i.+p."

"He simply cannot move out, Francesca," Julia said, her eyes wide with fear.

"I tried to talk him out of it. He will not change his mind. I have never seen him so resolute,"

she said, and did not add "or so angry."

"But what if he never returns?" Julia asked.

Their gazes locked. "Of course he will come back. But for now, he feels he must make a stand. In a way, I am proud of him. Aren't you? He has never gone up against Father before."

"Proud of him? You are proud of him? How can you be proud of him when he has walked out on his familial obligations?" Julia gasped. "He has walked out on us!"

Francesca would not back down. "I am proud of him. Mama? Please, don't fight with Papa over this. He is hurt, too."

Julia seemed to be recovering her near iron composure. "I have just set a terrible example, Francesca. One never argues with one's spouse as I have done. There are other ways to achieve one's objectives."

Francesca blinked.

"One always gains more with honey than with vinegar." Julia appeared grimly worried now.

"Of course," Francesca said.

Julia gave her a look. "Of course, after twenty-four years, it is only human to make a mistake."

Francesca nodded. "And what about Papa?"

"He must go to Evan and tell him that we will end the engagement, but Evan shall agree to find another, suitable, bride."

Francesca stared. "He will never back down. Papa is a benevolent man, but beneath those whiskery cheeks is a will of steel."

"If he wishes for peace in this household, why, that is what he shall do," Julia said firmly, standing.

"He is never going to change his mind," Francesca said with dread.

Suddenly Andrew came out of the salon. He did not look at them as he approached and then pa.s.sed them. He said, "Francis, my coat, hat, and walking stick."

Julia stood. Her tone was now calm. "Where are you going, Andrew? We have a conversation to finish."

For the first time that Francesca could ever recall, her father did not answer her mother. He stood before the front door, his back to them, patiently waiting for all that he had asked for-as if he had not heard them.

"Papa," Francesca whispered.

"Andrew! Where are you going?" Her tone became strident.

His shoulders tensed. He did not turn. "Out," he said.

Francis handed him his coat and hat and then, after he had donned his coat, his silver-headed cane.

"That is hardly an answer," Julia said, her eyes wide. "I apologize for how I have argued with you but not for what I have said. I must insist that we finish our conversation."

He turned. "There is no such thing as having a conversation with you, Julia, when the children are involved." He turned and walked out of the house.

Francesca was stunned. Had a two-by-four fallen from the sky and smashed down on her head she could not be more stunned. How could this be happening?

Julia whirled to her. "My home is falling apart!"

She fought for composure. "Mama, nothing is falling apart."

"My home, my family, my life is falling apart!" she cried. "Did you see that? He walked out on me! He has never treated me in such a manner."

"He's coming home. He'll be back. And then you can calmly come to terms," Francesca tried valiantly. But she did not think they would come to terms on this particular subject. And then

what? Julia stared at her as if she had grown two heads. She began to shake. "Oh, dear G.o.d. Andrew has walked out on me. Evan has left home. Connie is in her rooms, refusing to come out. And you!" Julia leveled accusing eyes on her. "You fancy yourself in love with the commissioner, who is married. That I have had enough of, Miss Francesca Louise Cahill!" Francesca dared not speak. "Oh, I do know you! Once you have convinced yourself of something, there is no arguing with you! It is like taking a bone from a terrier! Well, I do have news for you! Just because you have decided he is 'the one,' that does not mean it is true! He is not 'the one,' obviously, as he has a wife, my dear. So I expect your nonsense to cease!" Now was not the time to argue. "Mama, I know all about Bragg's wife." Tears filled her eyes. Clearly she had not heard. "Oh, G.o.d. I so love Andrew. What have I done?" Francesca tugged her hand. "Go after him. Now!" Julia seemed about to do so, and then she stiffened. "I cannot," she said. Bartolla entered the hotel lobby, unable to contain the soft thrill of antic.i.p.ation that washed over her in warm, almost s.e.xual waves. She glanced around and saw the restaurant where she was expected. Smiling, she crossed the parquet floors, which were covered with Persian rugs. She was aware of heads turning her way as she pa.s.sed. She knew she left a wake of interested men craning their necks to get a better look at her. She had dressed with extreme care for her engagement. The royal blue suit exposed her trim waist, her womanly hips, and a larger expanse of bosom than was usual for day. She had found a new lip rouge at the Lord & Taylor store. Instead of the usual crimson, it was a darker, berry-colored stain. It did amazing things to her fair complexion, and it made her green eyes sparkle. But then, she had carefully applied kohl to the rims, and she had used it on the tips of her lashes as well. A pale blue fox stole completed her look. She knew she looked elegant, sensual, and wealthy, but not in that order. In fact, she had to look twice at a young six-foot-tall bellman who ogled her as she pa.s.sed. He was a superb male specimen, all muscle, blond and blue-eyed, his features strong and pleasant. She sent him a soft smile. G.o.d, it had been too long! She wished Evan Cahill were not engaged to her little cousin. But even if he were not, she could not lead him into her bed anyway-the stakes were simply too high. She felt faint now, thinking about him. They hadn't even kissed. And then there was all that Cahill money. She was still smiling as she stepped into the dining room. She was purposefully late, a half an hour late, as she wished to be the one to make the entrance. But her party was not present. Dismayed and then annoyed, Bartolla was led to a small table set for two, where she took a seat, ordered a tea, and then tried to appear indifferent to the fact that her grand entrance had been denied. To amuse herself as she waited, she allowed several gentlemen to make eye contact with her, in spite of the fact that they were with their wives or sweethearts. One gentleman went so far as to drop his card by her feet as he walked by on his way to the men's cloakroom. Bartolla picked it up and tucked it into her bodice for use on a rainy afternoon. She straightened. Every male head in the restaurant turned. Bartolla looked at Leigh Anne Bragg and sighed. Nothing had changed. The tiny woman remained impossibly beautiful-perhaps because she was as small as a child yet as curved as a woman. Or was it the flawless face with the huge green eyes that always seemed to look slightly bewildered and perfectly innocent? Added to those a.s.sets was a perfect rosebud mouth, which was perpetually swollen, and Bartolla knew exactly what men thought of when they looked at those lips. She sighed again. In spite of the fact that she was the tall one, the red-haired one, the statuesque one, Leigh Anne always turned more heads when they were together. Bartolla had decided it was her air of innocence that was the most enticing of all her charms. Leigh Anne Bragg saw her from across the room and waved airily, smiling. Bartolla smiled back and stood. She knew there was nothing innocent about Leigh Anne Bragg, but that only made her an extremely interesting woman. And the fact that Leigh Anne was so clever that she never confided anything about herself only made their friends.h.i.+p more challenging. Bartolla could never be certain what the other woman was really thinking or feeling, even though they had spent entire afternoons together last summer in the south of France, even though they had briefly run in the same circles in Venice and Florence. Every man in the room turned to watch as the two extremely beautiful women hugged. "You are more beautiful than ever!" Leigh Anne exclaimed as she took her seat. She wore a dark green suit that matched her eyes, trimmed with mink, which Bartolla suspected had cost her a small fortune, as the material was clearly Chinese silk and extremely expensive. Had Bartolla been wearing the same suit, she would have worn it with every emerald she owned. Leigh Anne wore a single diamond pendant on a black ribbon, which nestled in the hollow of her throat. Her long jet-black hair, which was thick and straight, fell unfas.h.i.+onably to her shoulder blades, like a cape. She had not one st.i.tch of makeup on. She did not need any. Her lashes were thick and black, her cheeks tinged with pink, her lips ruby red. If Bartolla were less secure, she might hate and envy the other woman. But Bartolla had never been jealous of another woman. She was simply not jealous by nature. She saw that Leigh Anne wore her small engagement ring, the diamond being perhaps a carat and a half. She also wore her wedding band. "Thank you. Widowhood suits me, I am afraid," Bartolla laughed. They both laughed. "And you have not aged a day. You are as lovely as ever," Bartolla said, smiling. Leigh Anne's face fell. She leaned anxiously forward. Bartolla felt rather certain that she had not one anxious bone in her entire body. "Do you think so? I have been so distressed, Bartolla, so terribly distressed, ever since I heard the news." Her eyes were wide and innocent and fearful all at once. Tears seemed to moisten them. How delicious this is, Bartolla thought. It was going to be such an interesting winter. "Yes, I am so sorry." "They say he is dying," Leigh Anne managed. "My father is dying, and my mother is beside herself, as is my sister." She cast her eyes down at the table. "If he dies, I shall be responsible for everyone." Bartolla hadn't even known there was a sister, and she hadn't realized they were going to discuss Leigh Anne's father. "I am so sorry," she repeated, instantly bored. And then she had a thought. "I am sure your husband will feel some responsibility toward your family, dear." Leigh Anne smiled brightly. "I do not know what I shall do," she said, looking on the verge of tears. Clearly she had no interest in biting the hook Bartolla had cast. But then she said, "And now there is this woman." Bartolla straightened, trying to look surprised, inwardly amused. Oh, yes. It would be such an interesting winter, not that she had anything against Francesca Cahill. In fact, she truly liked her, as she was a very independent woman, just like Bartolla. And just like Leigh Anne. "What woman?" She blinked. "Why, Cecelia Thornton was the first one to tell me about her-and then you sent me that letter!" Leigh Anne took her hand. "Bartolla, thank you so. For being such a dear friend and for having that letter hand-delivered, or it might have been weeks before I learned of her." "What else could I do?" Bartolla murmured. Leigh Anne straightened now, placing both hands, apparently, on her lap. Her demeanor was demure. She murmured, glancing up from under her long lashes, "Now. You must tell me everything there is to know about this Francesca Cahill."

Chapter Eleven.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 - 7:00 P.M.

Francesca was rigid with tension, which could not possibly be a result of nerves, as their supper guests arrived. Julia was greeting Rathe and Grace Bragg as they stepped into the hall, but Francesca stood at its far end, on the threshold of the salon where they would sip a c.o.c.ktail before their meal. She had refused to dress with care for her mother's miserable effort at matchmaking; then, at the last moment, when it was far too late to tong her hair, she had had her maid, Bette, help her tear off an old and boring dove gray gown, replacing it with her new turquoise one, which she had worn the night before to the Plaza. She had managed to loosen her chignon and pull a few wisps of hair out so they feathered her face and neck. She had even dabbed rouge lightly on her lips. She knew d.a.m.n well what she was doing. She wanted Hart to think her beautiful, as foolish as that desire might be. Julia and Grace were embracing, but not warmly, and their exchange was both cautious and polite. Francesca could imagine why, for what common bond would a wealthy socialite share with a crusading suffragette? Rathe was saying that Hart and Rourke would be there at any moment, as Hart had gone to pick up Lucy at the Plaza and Rourke was checking up on Sarah Channing. Her father had just come downstairs and he paused beside her. "You are so beautiful tonight, Francesca," he said, but he wasn't smiling. His eyes were sad. Instantly, Francesca recalled the terrible argument she had witnessed that afternoon. She took his arm and kissed his cheek. "Please make up with Mama. Please." He said, "This is not your affair, Francesca," quietly, but still, his words were a shock. And he was wrong. "Papa! It is my affair! You are my parents-and Evan is my brother!" He patted her shoulder, smiled firmly, and left her standing there. "Rathe! It is so good to see you!" Rathe strode forward and the two men clasped hands, smiling now, their expressions as warm and friendly as their wives' had been cautious and wary. Suddenly Lucy stepped into the house, devastatingly beautiful in a Persian lamb coat that had been dyed burgundy to match her dress. Hart was behind her. As she and Julia clasped hands and exchanged greetings, Hart's gaze found Francesca instantly. She felt more tension overcome her and she forgot to breathe. His gaze found her, slid over her, and then he was smiling at Julia and murmuring a polite and charming greeting. Oddly, Francesca felt her cheeks warming. She quickly turned and stepped into the salon, needing to compose herself. What was Julia thinking? Why couldn't she leave well enough alone? Why were reputable young women expected to marry and bear and raise children? How could she convince her mother to leave her alone! Francesca crossed the opulent room, which was a smaller version of the grand salon, and she pushed open the terrace doors. It had remained frigidly cold all day, but she was somewhat numb inside of herself to begin with now, as she had decided not to think too much in order to get through the evening. So what difference would it make if she became numb on the outside as well? She felt a bit like a poor player in an even poorer stage drama. But far worse was the fact that, even with her emotions carefully on hold, she had a feeling of real dread, which she just could not deny. She simply knew that the evening was going to be a terrible fiasco. She tried not to think about it. She walked to the edge of the slate-floored terrace and stared up at a sliver of moon. A million stars danced in the sky overhead-it was far too cold to snow. Which was fine- they'd had a record year for snowfall, anyway, and the winter had just begun. She closed her eyes, s.h.i.+vering. Bragg was probably in his library at No. 11 Madison Square, alone, a gla.s.s of brandy at his elbow, immersed in police paperwork. Thinking about him now caused a hurtful pang in her heart. The girls were probably finis.h.i.+ng up dinner in the kitchen, the table and floor a mess, unless Mrs. Flowers, the new nanny, had somehow taught Dot that throwing food was not a form of play. And was Katie still sulking? Had she begun to eat like a normal child? Peter would be at the sink, playing housemaid as well as cook. She smiled at that particular image, picturing him in an ap.r.o.n. How her heart wished that she were there. The scene was such a domestic one. But she was not his wife, and now, it did not appear that she would ever be his wife. An image of how she thought his wife looked flashed through her mind. A pet.i.te image of dark-haired perfection. She hugged herself harder. Any day now, Leigh Anne might appear in her... their ... his ... life. "Are you insane?" Hart breathed against her neck. His breath had been warm and soft. Francesca jumped, turning to face him, as he settled his black dinner jacket upon her bare shoulders, not even asking her if she wished for it or not. Briefly his large hands lingered as their gazes locked. And for one moment, as she looked into his eyes, she could not speak. She pulled away. "I do hope not." She could not smile. She was dwarfed by his jacket, and it made her realize how big he was and how small she was in comparison. The satin lining was like silk upon her skin and remained warm from his body. Worse, his jacket smelled distinctly male. A touch of spice, a touch of wood, and some fine Scotch or Irish whiskey. And something else, she decided, her heart hammering. It was easy to decide what that something was, given Hart's inclination to spend any and all extra time in a paramour's bed. His eyes were moving over her features slowly, as if mesmerizing each and every one. "It is no more than ten degrees out tonight, Francesca. Why are you brooding outside?" "I'm not really brooding," she said, a complete lie. He tilted up her chin. "A book, remember? To me you are an open book, and I know you are out here testing the limits of your ability to perform mental gymnastics. Why not relax and enjoy the evening?" She almost smiled, then caught herself. "Perhaps I don't wish to relax." His black gaze was steady. "Do you wish for me to make an excuse and leave?" he asked quietly. "No!" She hadn't even thought about it, and the vehemence of her reply surprised them both. He grinned. "I am flattered." "Don't be. But I do have a request." His slas.h.i.+ng brows lifted. "Go inside and pour a double scotch. We'll share." That would be the best way to survive this night, she decided. "Oh, ho," he said with another grin. "This shall be an interesting evening." He gave her a long and lazy look and strolled back into the salon. Francesca felt frozen. And not from the cold. There had been amus.e.m.e.nt in his regard, and warmth-so much warmth-and something else. It was extremely hard to define what that something else was; after all, they were only friends and would never be anything more. How could a mere look from Calder Hart be so provocative? He had a way of looking at her that hinted at s.e.xual speculation. Did he even know what he was doing? She s.h.i.+vered. He returned, two gla.s.ses in hand. "This will warm you up," he said. She was happily diverted and truly amazed. "How did you manage this? Did my mother see?" she asked, pleased. This would certainly improve the evening.

"She did, although she pretended not to," Hart said, clearly amused. "You can do no wrong in her eyes," Francesca said, disbelieving, and then she took a sip."Yummy," she sighed. "I see I have thoroughly corrupted you. I am pleased," he laughed, also sipping his drink. "Aren't you cold?" she asked, after taking a second drink, enjoying the scotch thoroughly. "How can I be cold when I am under a sky filled with stars with such a beautiful womanbeside me?" he asked with a quiet smile, one of contentment. She felt her smile vanish. His did, too. Then he sighed. "I am sorry, Francesca, but that kind of flattery, which I am usedto giving to women without even a thought, simply formed itself." "It was rather superficial." She hated being the recipient of the kind of thoughtless charm hedirected upon the rest of her s.e.x. "I wish you wouldn't treat me the way you treat otherwomen." "My dear, I hardly treat you the way I treat the rest of your gender." He gave her a significantlook. "That issue we laid to rest on Sat.u.r.day, I believe." They had. For if he chose to treat her as he did other women, right now, she would be in hisbed and not on the terrace sipping whiskey. "Actually," he said, appearing a bit surprised and thoughtful, "it is true. I am not cold, and Iam in my s.h.i.+rtsleeves," he remarked. As if she did not know. He stood inches from her, andevery time he raised his gla.s.s, his custom s.h.i.+rt rippled over his chest, arms, and shoulders.She glanced at his chest and shoulders again. "The sky is extraordinary tonight, and frankly,so are you. And I do mean my every word, Francesca." She backed up. "Hart." "Do not be a ninny. We are friends, good friends now, I hope, and you know as well as I dothat you are unique. One could never find a carbon copy of Francesca Cahill should hesearch the entire world over." He turned his attention to his scotch, as if he found the liquid inhis gla.s.s fascinating. His praise was stunning. Francesca was oddly paralyzed, and then a small thrill began towash over her, which she was reluctant to feel but helpless to stop. "Does my praise bother you, Francesca?" he asked softly. "Yes, no... yes." For a moment he looked at her and did not speak. "If I cannot be honest with you, then wecannot be friends," he said simply. She took a big gulp of scotch, felt her insides now thoroughly warmed, and saidbreathlessly, "You are right." "I am usually right." She eyed him. They were on safer ground now. "Not always?" It was hard not to smile a little,so she did. He grinned. He had perfectly s.p.a.ced, extremely white teeth and one dimple in his rightcheek. Still, he did not look boyish when he grinned; he looked more like an archangel sentto tempt the innocent. "Not always, Francesca. And at last, you allow yourself a smile." "G.o.d, that is a relief!" she quipped, ignoring his comment. "You can be so insufferable attimes, one might conclude that you are of the mind that you are always in the right." "Not I. One does not lift one up by his bootstraps, attaining a s.h.i.+pping and insurancecompany, an enviable art collection, and several stately homes, through arrogance andclose-mindedness." He lifted his gla.s.s in a salute. Then he sobered. "So? Are you ready totell me why you were out here alone, frowning with worry, your expression so sad, when I firststepped outside?" She inhaled, all of her problems tumbling through her mind. How much should she tell him?Should she tell him anything at all? She realized that she so wanted to confide in him. Standing beside him now, alone in thenight, she almost basked in his strength and power. He was strong, smart, and opinionated,she would always respect his advice, and, oddly, she felt that her secrets would be safe with him. How odd. But she had attained a warm and fuzzy glow, now, that was exceedingly pleasant. Shewasn't drunk, simply... relaxed. Perhaps the scotch was the reason she wished to wag hertongue so boldly. "Francesca? What kind of internal debate are you waging?" He was amused again. Hisgood humor made his near-black eyes sparkle as he regarded her over the rim of his gla.s.s. She watched him sip and swallow. She watched a muscle move in his strong throat. "I havethe oddest urge to tell you all. But of course, I dare not make you my confidant," she said. "But why ever not? Hasn't it occurred to you that I might make a valuable confidant and aneven more valuable ally?" He had said as much once before. She stared. "I only want to help. But the truth is, I don't think I even have to ask. If you are distressed,there can only be one cause." His humor instantly began to fade. She stiffened, tore her regard from his-no easy task- and sipped her drink. She was notgoing to discuss Bragg with him, not when they had been having a perfectly fine time, notwhen such a discussion would only cause him to lose his temper and her to become upset. "So now what has he done?" Hart asked, an edge to his tone, his glance dark and evenwary. She had finished half of her drink. She looked up. "Evan has left Father's company and thehouse. He intends to break off his engagement to Sarah and find new employment and aflat. Mama is heartbroken." Hart smiled. "Good for him." He raised his gla.s.s in a mock salute to her brother. "You approve?" "I do. And I would say his stab at independent thinking and behavior is long overdue.Besides, he and Sarah do not suit." Francesca agreed with him completely, and she was surprised. "You do not think he needsa woman like Sarah to temper his ways?" "I think he is a grown man who must learn through his own experience. And I think he hasevery right to marry or not as he chooses. I do not see your brother as being ready formarriage, Francesca. I also sense he is a romantic, just like you." Francesca could not be more surprised. "He is romantic. He is constantly falling inlove-with the Grace Conways and Bartolla Beneventes of the world." Hart laughed and shook his head. "Give him a bit of advice. He might think to avoidinvolvement with Bartolla, as she will only hurt him in the end." Francesca nodded grimly. Then, "If anything happens with the countess, I am sure it will bequite casual." "Why? She is a widow, and your brother is a catch." "You think she wishes to marry my brother? But why? She is wealthy and independentnow-no, Calder, you are wrong." He shook his head and laughed again. "Do not come crying to me another time, for I willremind you that this time I was right. So what did your father hold over Evan's head? Ia.s.sume the engagement was a forced one." Francesca hesitated, surprised once more at how astute Hart was. She had another oddfeeling-that if she asked Hart to help her brother financially, he would. "Evan has incurred afew debts." One brow rose. "A few?" She hesitated again. He patted her shoulder. "I understand. So what is the real reason you are troubled tonight?"His gaze held hers. She looked away instantly. "Mama and Papa are righting," she replied. "It is too terrible todescribe." He appeared exasperated. "All married couples fight, Francesca. No one lives happily ever after." "They don't fight. Ever. And they truly love each other, Calder." Hart eyed her, the pause a long and tense one now. Tension crept into his voice when hefinally spoke. "I know you are brooding about Rick. Who else could cause you such grief?" "He does not cause me grief," she said, meeting his gaze reluctantly. "No? How odd. I see it differently; I see you as nothing but distraught ever since you havefallen in so-called love with him." She eyed him warily but saw no sign of an imminent tempest. "Why does he always comeup when we are trying to have a conversation?" she asked. "Because he is causing you pain and I don't like it," he said flatly. She turned away. In a way, he was right. But it wasn't Bragg causing her heartache; it wasthe circ.u.mstance in which they found themselves. She jumped nervously when Hart touched her shoulder, turning to face him. "Nervous?" She pulled away. "I am not nervous. It is just that this evening is extremely trying." "Yes, it is trying," he agreed. That was not an answer that she had expected. "What does that mean?" she demanded,her heart beating a bit too wildly for comfort. "I think you know, as we have discussed this matter the other day." She stared. He touched her cheek with a fingertip. "I'd like nothing more than to take you in my arms,Francesca, and I know you'd like nothing more, too." "That's not true!" she cried instantly, and then fell still, horrified because her words were alie. For, in a way, she would die to experience one devastating kiss. His grim smile was a knowing one. They stared at each other. "And now you are feelingutterly disloyal to my brother," he said calmly. "Disloyal?" she managed. Deny everything, she thought with panic. "The one thing I am isloyal," she snapped. "And trustworthy." He sighed, annoyance crossing over his features. "As if I do not know that! You owe himnothing, Francesca. You certainly do not owe him loyalty-or fidelity-in any form. If youenjoy my company, if you have thought about me in s.e.xual ways, you have no reason to feeldisloyal or guilty." She could not cross her arms, because of the drink she held. She quaffed down as much a.s.she possibly could and began to choke. "Oh, Christ," he said, his tone amused. He set his gla.s.s down on the terrace slates at hisfeet, then patted her back gently. And even through his jacket, which she wore, his hand was so distinct. She coughed againand, finally, gasped for air. "Hart... I don't think about you ... that way!" Had she ever told abigger lie? How many times had she thought about him in bed with both Daisy and Rose?Not to mention his making love to Bartolla? She had even begun to think about him andConnie once! "You know, Francesca, you are adorable when you lie to yourself, but if you think to lie to me,you are out of your league," he said with a soft smile. He thumped her once again, a bit toohard. "Better?" he asked, still smiling. "I do not feel disloyal and I do not feel guilty when I am with you," she managed, her tonehusky now. She tried to glare and failed. "Did I mention guilt?" He shook his head. "You can try a man's patience, Francesca. I amcompletely honest with you, but you are terrified of being honest with yourself and thus withme." She handed him her scotch and crossed her arms tightly. "Do you want honesty?" He stared and a terse pause ensued. "It would be a refres.h.i.+ng change," he remarked dryly. She had a dozen questions; she would only ask two. "Lucy said Leigh Anne broke his heart."

Hart rolled his eyes in annoyance. "And to think I had deluded myself in thinking you might remain on the topic of us."

"He told me it was only l.u.s.t. Did she break his heart, Calder? Was he in love with her?"

Francesca cried, grabbing his sleeve.

"Christ. This is so boring." He placed her drink alongside of his, on the ground by their feet.

He gave her a cool look and Francesca knew there would be no mercy now. "Dear, Bragg was head over heels for his little wife. He was smitten at first sight, but then, she is extremely lovely, and she led him around by his nose from the moment that they met. His infatuation was laughable indeed. It took him a very long time to realize that the woman he so loved was disloyal, self-serving, and selfish-not to mention a bit of a wh.o.r.e."

Francesca stared, feeling ill. "Are you trying to hurt me?" she finally whispered.

"No, I am not. I am telling you what half of the world knows. Within weeks he announced that he intended to marry her, and no one, not I, not Rathe, not Rourke, could persuade or reason with him. Everyone begged him to wait. But he refused to heed anyone, and I think it is obvious why he was so eager to tie the knot."

Francesca hugged herself. "You are cruel."

"Are you going to become ill? If so, I would like some warning."

She shook her head, turning away from him. Bragg had been in love, and his l.u.s.t had led him to marry a woman he hardly knew within months of their meeting. He had wanted her that badly.

Francesca couldn't help drawing a comparison-with her he was the epitome of self-control.

Hart sighed in exasperation.

"Go away," she heard herself say, and there were tears in her voice.

His hands closed over her shoulders. She tensed but did not jerk away; he pulled her backward, and she felt his chest against her back, just for an instant. He turned her gently around and she found herself loosely in his arms. "Stop this, Francesca. What difference does it make if Rick loved another woman four years ago?" His tone was surprisingly soft, gentle, and kind. He pushed some wisps of hair out of her face. "Why are you on the verge of tears? That was four years ago. He was as young, hot-blooded, and naive then as you are now," he continued softly. "He may have been twenty-four, but he was a boy, and now he is a man," he soothed. His fingers brushed her cheek.

She trembled. He hadn't released her. She was acutely aware of his hands, his chest, his face, so close to hers. Mostly, she was aware of his steady gaze. She tried to think clearly, to answer the question, but it was hard, given the proximity between them. "I don't know. I've never loved anyone before. But he has. And ... he still does." There, she had said it.

He was staring, surprised. "He despises her, Francesca. And honestly, he does love you."

He hesitated, grim. Their gazes remained locked. "I think I am jealous of my brother, in this one instance." He released her, retrieved one gla.s.s from the slate at their feet, and drank.

What did that mean? She gripped his arm. "What does that mean?" she whispered, stunned.

"G.o.d knows. Here's to you." He finished the drink, looking put out and put upon.

She stared. No, it was impossible, she finally decided. He did not mean that he wished she loved him the way she loved Bragg. It was simply absurd.

"Shall we go inside? I think I am finally cold." His gaze had certainly cooled and she could not see what he was thinking now.

"No."

He started. "I beg your pardon?"

Francesca hugged herself. They had come this far.... "I am in trouble, Hart."

He started. "What kind of trouble?" His tone remained calm, controlled.

"I'm not sure. But maybe you can tell me." She hesitated, her heart pounding now, with terrible force. Once she made him her confidant, there was no turning back. "Can I trust you?

Not to say anything, not to interfere? Merely to advise?" "I told you the other day that you can trust me, Francesca. But what is it you want from me?And why aren't you going to my brother instead?" "I want your advice and your opinion," she said breathlessly. No one would understand thesituation and be able to a.n.a.lyze it better than Hart, as he knew all of the players firsthand.She knew he would be ruthless in his a.s.sessment of her dilemma, but the time had come toface the worst reality that there was. "Fire away," he said, but tersely, and he was not smiling. She nodded and not removing her gaze from his, she slid her hand into the low bodice ofher dress. As she fished around her bosom, she felt herself flush. He seemed quiteaccustomed to women retrieving odds and ends from within their undergarments, for he didnot even blink as she pulled the folded note out. She handed the tiny square to him. He gave her an odd look and began unfolding the page. He gave her another look, turnedtoward the light spilling from the house, and read it. "Well, well," he said, facing her. "SoLeigh Anne has heard the news and wishes to meet you." There was a huge relief in having shared her secret with him, and she faced him, tremblingwith antic.i.p.ation. "What do you think of this?" "I think you had better stay away from her; that is what I think. What does Rick have to sayabout this?" She simply looked at him. "Oh, ho. This is a situation indeed." And he dared to smile, with real mirth. "You haven't toldhim?" She shook her head. "I meant to, but-" "You meant to?" He was disbelieving, and now he had the audacity to laugh. "His wifeknows the two of you are on the verge of an affair-or are having one." He gave her a quicklook, and it was a question. Francesca didn't move. "She is on her way to New York, she ison her way here, and you Haven't told him?" He laughed again, harder. "This is not funny!" Francesca shouted. "Oh, but it is. I am so sorry!" he cried with mirth. She punched his arm. He stopped laughing. "I am sorry. I suppose, caught up as you are in this sordid little lovetriangle, you cannot see the irony of the situation. Do you intend to tell my poor brother thathis wife is on her way to town, or do you wish for him to be shocked into a heart attack whenhe sees her on his doorstep? I mean, they have been separated for four years." "You think I should tell him," she breathed, never looking away from his dark and handsomeface. He ceased smiling. "You know you should tell him," he said flatly. She grasped his hands. "I am afraid, Calder. I am so afraid." His hands closed over hers. He seemed to pull her closer. "Yes, I can understand why youwould be afraid." He never minced words. He never told her what she wished to hear. Francesca felt tearsrising. She was so afraid to ask, but she had no choice now. "Does he still love her?" Hart hesitated. Francesca vaguely realized he clasped her hands against the solid wall ofhis chest. "Calder!" she cried, terrified. He sighed. "He despises her, Francesca, but isn't hatred on the same coin as love? Isn't itmerely the flip side? And don't they have unfinished business to conclude? And isn't shelegally his wife?" "You are not rea.s.suring me," she whispered. "You are making it worse." "I will never lie to you, Francesca," he said firmly. "Not ever." Oddly, she was frightened now, but his words washed over her like a soothing wave. And he sensed the change in her, as he softened and his tone was gentle when he spoke."Poor Francesca. Your little fairy tale is going to blow up, isn't it? In a few days, when she comes to town, you will have to face a truly horrid reality." "Yes, I think so," she whispered. He pulled her into his embrace, and for one instant she felt every inch of his tall, strong bodyand his heart beat steadily, powerfully, against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She felt his cheek on the top ofher head. She felt his hand caress the baby-soft hair at her nape. Then he released her,completely. "Do you really want my advice? Other than the advice I have already given you,which is to forget my brother completely and spare yourself any further grief?" She nodded fearfully, but confusion seemed to reign. Hart's hard chest, his beating heart,his hands ... Bragg's golden eyes, the warmth there, his perfectly beautiful little wife. "Stay away from Leigh Anne. Tell Rick promptly about this note, and then avoid her at allcosts," Hart said. "Why?" She was mesmerized by him now, by his stare, his intensity, his words. "Why? She is clever, Francesca, and, unlike you, has not one moral fiber to her being. Shewill swallow you whole, then spit you out in tiny, useless, mangled pieces that no one willever recognize. You cannot fight her and win. You simply cannot." "This is not a battle," she managed, riveted by him. "A battle?" His brows lifted. "Darling, this is not a battle. Unless you come to your sensesand forget this absurd notion that you love my brother, this is war." It had become impossible now, with Hart there, inches away from her, reeking s.e.xuality, toreally feel the depth of her own emotions, but she knew where her true feelings lay and shesaid, "I do love him." He sighed with exasperation and looked up at the stars and said, "Jesus does not helpfools." "What does she want from me, Calder? And why does she intend to confront me?"Francesca asked simply. He took her arm and pulled her close, but not into his embrace. "Whoever said she wishesto confront you? Listen carefully, Francesca, and I will tell you about women like Mrs. RickBragg." "I don't care about other women, only about her." He ignored that. "She might not love Rick, but she will never allow another woman,especially someone like you- someone fine and good-to steal his heart away, much lessto steal him away. It is cla.s.sic. She didn't want him-but you cannot have him. Not tomention the fact that her ego is huge and she is vain. She will not be humiliated by havingher husband love another woman. And then there are her bills. She has most of what shewants, I believe. So now, if you insist upon clinging to my brother, you will have a huge war towage, for undoubtedly she will accept the gauntlet. And, Francesca, you are too ethical toever win such a war." Francesca wet her lips. Mechanically she asked, "What should I do?" "What do you really want, Francesca? What do you really want with my brother?" She backed up, staring at him, unable to look away. "If you truly want my advice, I suggest you be brutally honest now," he said flatly. She hesitated, suddenly confused. What did she want? Truly? Panic a.s.sailed her-she knew what she wanted! It was Hart's charismatic presence, thatwas interfering now with her mind. She shook off the cobwebs of bewilderment. "I want tomarry him, have his children, support him in his run for the Senate, grow old with him, andreform the world together with him," she said. His jaw flexed. "No white picket fence?" "You asked, Calder. That is what I want." She hugged herself. "He will not divorce her, and she is in good health. Is that still what you want?" he asked in ano-nonsense tone. She almost told him that Bragg had considered divorcing Leigh Anne, but as they had nowruled that possibility out, there was no point. "Yes," she said, in a way feeling a bit like astudent reciting expected answers.

He folded his arms across his chest. His biceps swelled as he did so. "You know, men havebeen getting rid of unwanted wives for centuries," he remarked casually. "They ... what?" she gasped in shock. "I do believe Henry the Eighth beheaded a couple of his wives, did he not? And then therewas that earl, Leicester, I believe, whose wife had a convenient accident on the stairs? Shedid die from the fall. And there is always poison-" She grabbed his rock-hard arm. "Enough! Are you trying to be funny?" "I am simply telling you that there is historical precedent for getting rid of an unwantedspouse." "Are you suggesting that I... that I..." She simply could not continue. He stared. She suddenly realized what he was doing. He was pointing out that unless she became amurderess, her dreams were entirely hopeless. "No, Francesca, I am not suggesting that you commit murder," he said softly. Tears filled her eyes. He cupped her cheek. "I'm sorry," he said, a rough whisper. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth and strength of his hand, turning her face more fullyinto his palm. Instantly his palm vanished. Her gaze flew open and they stared at each other. She bit her lip, tried to breathe normally, failed. Perhaps making him a confidant had been aterrible mistake. But then, she had known the evening would come to this, hadn't she? "Let's join the others. By now their tongues are wagging." She did not move. "What is it?" She was so confused, she realized. "You really haven't been helpful." "That's because you are more stubborn than a hundred mules, and you simply do not listen,"he said. She was annoyed. And annoyance was a relief. "Calder. What would you do, if you wereme?" "I am not you." "That was not helpful, either." He shrugged. She hesitated. "What is it that you wish to ask me? Why are you suddenly tongue-tied?" Tension filled her, He had raised the subject of murder to teach her a lesson, but his lessonhad raised a single, important question-one that was horrifying, one she sensed theanswer to. "Would you ever.... commit murder?" He had been avoiding her eyes; now he looked up instantly and their gazes locked. "Yes, Iwould." She knew it. "If someone I loved was in danger, I would commit murder in order to protect that person,"he said. "I think we had better go inside," he added, nodding toward the French doors, "asyour mother is looking for us." Francesca whirled and saw Julia standing ten feet away in the doorway of the salon,outside. She was incredulous. Her mother was close enough to have heard Hart's words, yetthere was no disapproval on her features. In fact, she was smiling at them. "Do comeinside," she said cheerfully. "We are going in to dine." She turned and left. A touch on Francesca's arm made her flinch. Breathless, she looked at Hart, who hadgripped her elbow. "Shall we?" Her mind jumped with lightning speed. She balked, refusing to go in. "You do not believe inlove," she said. "Did I say love?" His smile was lazy, easy-he had recovered his natural arrogance. "It wasan unfortunate slip of the tongue."

They went inside.

Chapter Twelve.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 - 7:00 P.M.

Even though he did not love Sarah Channing, he felt guilty as he was admitted into the Channing home. Visiting Sarah in order to see how she was faring was a pretext for seeing the countess; he was that badly smitten. They had come to understand each other so well, and when he had mentioned he would stop by in the early evening in order to visit his fiancee, Bartolla had smiled at him, understanding-or so he thought. Now, as his coat was taken, the Channing butler said, "Miss Channing has remained in her rooms all day, sir, but I shall send her your card. Shall I inform Mrs. Channing that you are here?" "That is not necessary. I would hate to interrupt her Sunday evening," Evan said. He was filled with impatience, and it was hard to remain impa.s.sive of expression. He felt like pacing about like a restless caged lion. Had Bartolla understood? Was she present in the house? Would he have a chance to see her, even if it was but for a moment? And if only Sarah did not stand between them! Of course, Evan had not changed his mind about ending the engagement, and he felt certain his frustration would soon be at an end. However, he would wait until Sarah was feeling better before he 'sat down with her to give her the blow. He did not dread the encounter entirely. Francesca had said Sarah had no wish to marry, and as astonis.h.i.+ng as that was, he knew his sister well, and she fervently believed her words. So Sarah would undoubtedly be pleased to be let off the hook. Perhaps, he mused, she had a yearning for someone else. But he doubted it. Sarah was just not terribly interested in men. Her life was her painting, it seemed. He found it a bit odd. Of course, if Francesca were somehow wrong, the encounter might become terrible indeed. But Evan could not think about that. He owed too much money to the wrong kinds of people, and planning how to elude and evade them was what preoccupied most of his waking hours. That and his father. Evan stood abruptly, his fists clenching, his entire body coursing with anger. Why had it taken him all of these years to finally tell the old man to shove it? One could only be pushed so far, he mused. He had been pushed about by his father his entire life, yet he had always swallowed his anger and he had always been respectful and obedient. He had always done what he had been told to do, yet Andrew had never shown one sign of encouragement, never uttered one word of praise. If he stayed at the office until ten in the evening, his father's response was to ask if he had finished a report. And if he hadn't, while no more was said, the disapproval was there, in his father's eyes. There was always disapproval in Andrew Cahill's eyes. And when he did, finally, score a touchdown, in his senior year at Columbia, there had simply been no praise. Brad Lewis had scored eight TDs for the season, and that was what Andrew had been talking about at supper that night. He could not win. Not ever. And the reason was an astoundingly simple one. Because he was not like his father and he never would be. He had not been born dirt poor on a farm; he had not worked his fingers to the bone saving every possible penny, while slowly but surely rising to a position of self-made success. It wasn't even fair to be judged by the chart that was Andrew's life, because he had been born in a canopied bed in a Lake Michigan manor. He almost hated Andrew Cahill now. Perhaps, in fact, he did. And the depth of this emotion frightened him. He had never felt anything like it before. But it was his anger-and hatred-that had enabled him to stand up to the old man and finally, after all of these years, tell him off. And of course, the old man had let him walk out and go. Because he didn't care enough to beg him to stay. It was too painful to contemplate-the love Andrew had for Connie and Francesca, the disgust he had for his own son. Trembling, Evan faced a window, but blindly. It was hard to see now. But he had done the right thing. He cared as much about his father as his father cared about him. He was not going to be his whipping boy any longer, oh no. Thank G.o.d he would never have to spend another minute in that office, poring over slaughterhouse accounts! Thank G.o.d he was not going to have to wed and bed Sarah Channing. From this moment on, he would live his life as he chose, not as his father wished. Of course, he might not live for very much longer if he did not raise at least $50,000, fast. Fear pierced through him, arrow-straight. A real father would come to his son's rescue, he thought bitterly. And he realized that he had never had a real father and now he did not have any father at all. "Evan?" Bartolla murmured from the threshold of the salon. He turned at the sound of her voice and, shockingly, desire seared him with sudden, shattering force. Of course he wanted her. He had from the first moment they had met. It did not matter, either, that he was experienced enough to know that the countess was a tease, just as he was experienced enough to know that she would astound him in bed and he would not be the first or the last of her lovers. It had been a long time since he had wanted a woman as much as he wanted her; and now, immobilized by anger and grief and arousal, he thought about taking her a dozen different ways. They hadn't even kissed, for crissakes. Bartolla smiled at him, a seductive, intent smile that reached her lovely green eyes, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. She was clearly dressed for an evening affair in a daring sapphire blue gown; Evan had never seen her demure or ladylike in appearance-her dresses were always figure-hugging and revealing, with an exotic, seductive flair. She had the most amazing body: long legs, full hips, full b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "This is such a surprise," she said in a conversational tone. "You must be here to see Sarah. A few moments ago she was sleeping," she added. "A pity," he returned evenly. Actually, his tone was rough with need, and he tried to clear it. "I had so hoped she was doing better." He walked toward Bartolla and abruptly closed the door behind her-surprising them both. "Evan?" Bartolla asked, her eyes wide. He hesitated for one moment, warring with himself. Then he seized her shoulders and claimed her mouth. For one instant, she was rigid with surprise, and then she melted against him, her arms going around him, her mouth opening wide and hot for him. He had met her weeks ago, and this moment was long overdue-he moved her against the wall, anch.o.r.ed her head with his hand in her nape, where he grasped a handful of curls, and he used his thigh to spread both of hers. Their tongues mated, the way their bodies were trying to. He tore his mouth from hers to kiss the soft underside of her throat, muttering, "I need you desperately." She gripped his head, urging his face lower. "I want you desperately, too." He moved his mouth back and forth over the edge of her bodice, using his tongue there, while she rode his thigh. "Oh, G.o.d, Evan," she gasped, and he was also experienced enough to know that she was now as fully aroused as he was, and he thought he could quickly bring her to a climax, if only he dared. He pushed down her dress and a large, erect nipple was bared. She froze. He knew she was thinking about Sarah and Mrs. Channing. "You are the loveliest woman I have ever seen," he whispered, and then he drew her nipple into his mouth. She held his head hard, whimpering in soft, low, s.e.xy tones. He tugged her nipple with his teeth and she cried out; instantly he gentled. His hands movedover her b.u.t.tocks, which were soft and round and perfectly plump. He grasped them,separating them. "Oh, dear G.o.d," she whispered, tonguing his ear. "Oh, please!" she cried, licking it. He straightened and their eyes met and he took her hand and pressed it over the elongatedridge of his arousal. Her eyes heated even more, and she smiled, not looking away. For one moment he considered doing something absolutely inappropriate, considering hisaffianced status and the time and place where they stood, and an image of her bending overhim, sucking him into her mouth, sucking long and hard, as they stood there in the salon,paralyzed him. She ran her nails up and down that ridge, still smiling a soft, s.e.xy smile. He kissed her, hard. Then he tore his mouth from hers and walked to the opposite end of theroom, panting and seriously close to losing all control. He stared out of a window that facedthe back gardens, blanketed now in snow. He supposed but was not sure that the HudsonRiver would be visible in the light of day. If Bartolla was moving, he could not hear a thing. He felt her eyes on his back. Still highly aroused, he raked his hair with one hand, sighed, and turned. He had been right;she remained with her back against the wall, staring. But she looked exactly as she hadwhen she had first walked in-she must have repaired her hair, and her bodice was back inplace. No, she did not look exactly as she had when she had walked in-she looked like a womanwho had been making love. "I am sorry," he began roughly, meaning it. "No. You don't have to apologize, not to me." Her smile was brief but anxious. "We're bothadults, and rather experienced ones at that. We both know that this has been brewing fromthe moment we met." "Yes, it has." He smiled a little, liking her even more for being so straightforward. "I didn't callhere tonight to ravage you." "I know." She approached him swiftly then and laid her forefinger on his mouth. "Ssh. It's allright. I am feeling what you are feeling." She hesitated. "Perhaps more." He stared, trying to comprehend her, his heart accelerating. "More? What do you mean?" She shook her head with a sad little smile. "This can never happen again, Evan. You knowthat." He seized her hands. A little voice in his head began to warn him not to speak, but heignored it. "Can you keep a confidence, Bartolla?" he asked softly. "You know that I can," she returned, her gaze unwavering upon him. Because she was breathless, it was difficult not to keep glancing down at her spectacularbosom. He forced himself to concentrate on her face, amazingly aroused again. "I amending it with Sarah. As soon as she is well enough, I shall tell her." Bartolla's eyes widened; clearly she was stunned. "But your parents? Mrs. Channing? Imean, I know this was arranged for certain reasons." "My father does not control me anymore," Evan said flatly. "I have taken a stand, and nothingshall change my mind now." She stared. Her full bosom moved even more strenuously against the flimsy material of hergown. Her nipples were clearly erect. "Oh dear," she managed finally. He swallowed hard, sweating now. "I know Sarah is your cousin," he began, suddenlywondering if, in spite of Bartolla's pa.s.sionate nature, she might not condemn him for hisactions, "but I cannot marry a woman I do not care at all for. I may marry one day, but it willbe for love." "No, that is not it," she breathed, gripping his hands as tightly as he held hers. "The two ofyou are a terrible mismatch, and Sarah doesn't even want to marry-not ever. She only wants to paint. I just did not expect you to break it off; somehow, I thought Francesca might persuade your father to do so-eventually."

Evan was relieved. "I will tell Sarah as soon as she is well," he murmured.

She nodded, her gaze unwavering on his face.

He told himself that if he kissed her again he would quickly take her on the floor. "I am very wound up tonight," he said flatly, releasing her hands and turning away.

"I know," she murmured.

He whirled and their gazes locked.

A flush covered her cheeks and heat filled her eyes.

And he thought, One more kiss, I am a man, not a boy. ... He seized her and she cried out, but he cut off her cry, tearing at her mouth with his. Her teeth cut his lips; he penetrated her fully with his tongue, thinking about getting down on his knees and using his tongue against her s.e.x, between her legs. Their tongues entwined, their mouths fused. He clasped her b.u.t.tocks and lifted her up two inches, until she was against his loins. Fire blazed in his mind, only fire.

And he knew that he simply could not wait-he would have to take her now.

She tore away. "Someone's coming!" she cried in a stage whisper.

He was so aroused it was a moment before he understood, but by then it was too late-a knock sounded.