Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  Desire, huge and hot, gathered in him, in her, between them, around them.

  Her heart felt like a trapped winged bird in the cage that was her chest.

  Hart finally turned to Sarah. And while he might have been looking at the artist, Francesca knew his real attention never wavered, not even once, from her as she stood there behind him.

  “You have created a beautiful portrait, Sarah. I more than like it. You have captured Francesca exactly as I wished her to be portrayed.”

  Sarah beamed. “I am so glad you like it, Calder.”

  He turned to the portrait again and stared. A huge silence fell.

  Francesca wondered what he was thinking, exactly.

  Finally, slowly, Hart turned. Francesca did not move as he faced her. Their gazes instantly locked.

  He was imagining her nude, she knew it. And he wanted to take her in his arms—she knew that, too.

  Suddenly Sarah said something, something Francesca could not decipher. Hart did not seem to hear her either, as he remained utterly still. Francesca was vaguely aware of Sarah ducking her head and hurrying out. She was vaguely aware of a door closing.

  Hart continued to stare at her.

  She wet her lips and tried to find her voice. It was as if her tongue had been cut out. “You really like it?” she managed to say.

  A faint, faint smile. “Yes. I really like you.”

  The gathering heat threatened to erupt. “Do you—” She stopped.

  “Do I what?” he asked very softly. “Do I want to see you in the flesh just like that? Yes, I do,” he said, and somehow he was standing before her, his strong hands on her small waist, his breath feathering her ear. He was smiling, so much more seductive than any man had any right to be.

  “Do you really think I look like that?” she heard herself ask, desperately wanting him to say yes.

  “Oh yes,” he said softly, and she saw him wet his lower lip. “Oh yes, Francesca, I do.”

  “Calder,” she whispered, a plea.

  His grip tightened. “I don’t feel noble tonight, Francesca. I don’t feel noble at all,” he warned quietly. And he bent and kissed the lapel of her jacket, folded back directly over the center of her breast.

  She cried out, stunned, and not just physically. Did he mean what she thought he did? Was he finally ready to cast all reservation aside and make love to her? Because just then, she wanted nothing more, and her trembling body was the proof.

  He smiled at her, just a little, as his palm cupped the side of her face. “Darling,” he whispered, “you look ready to faint.”

  She was choking on the ache of need inside of her. “I am ready to do far more than faint, Calder,” she said desperately. “Last night wasn’t enough.”

  “No, it wasn’t, was it?” He pulled her closer and brushed his mouth tenderly over hers.

  Francesca gasped with pleasure as their lips brushed. Hart seemed in no hurry and she gripped his shoulders and strained against him, shaking like a leaf. Hart made a sound, beginning to kiss her with some urgency, his own hands tightening on her.

  Suddenly he exploded. He pulled her close, crushing her so she lost the ability to breathe, his mouth opening, taking hers, fusing hungrily with hers, and she felt him shuddering with pent-up desire. And then he yanked off her jacket. Francesca glimpsed his face as he did so and saw the dark lust there and was so stunned it was a moment before she realized that she had never seen this side of him before.

  He wanted her desperately and for the first time, he was not masking his emotions.

  He pulled her close again, kissing her, murmuring her name, and as she opened desperately to accommodate him, as she tried to remain standing, she realized he had already unbuttoned her shirtwaist. She could barely assimilate that fact when it was tossed aside.

  And he looked at her.

  She saw the hunger in his eyes, the hunger, the warning and even some surprise. And she suddenly knew that tonight he would not be denied—that tonight the courtship was over.

  And then she could look no more. His face hardened and he tore open her chemise. Francesca gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple, his teeth tugging and the pleasure rushed through her with deliciously painful force. She clung, moaning, stunned, and he laid her on the floor.

  She began to shake, wet heat pooling dangerously now. “Hurry, Calder, hurry,” she begged, stroking her hands down his hard, powerful back.

  He held her face in his hands. “Do you know what you are asking?” he demanded.

  “Yes.”

  He stared, eyes wide, mouth hard. Then, “I am dangerously close to doing as you ask.” He lowered his head, tugging her into his mouth.

  Francesca wept with pleasure and pain.

  Hart whispered roughly, “You’re too beautiful like this, Francesca. I want to rub myself all over you. Would that be too shocking?”

  She could barely understand him as she whirled through the maelstrom of desire he had created. His hand was between her thighs, exploring the wet heat there, encouraging her to fly harder, faster, farther. And even as immersed in pleasure as she was, she reached for him. He leaped firmly up against her hand, through his trousers, thrilling her. He quickly kissed her. “How quickly you learn,” he murmured.

  She felt a rush of pleasure and she unfastened his trousers. “Tell me what to do.”

  He paused, watching now, carefully, and she helped his massive length spring free of the dark wool. “You do nothing, Francesca, nothing except take the pleasure I am about to give you.”

  Their gazes met; he kissed her again, long and slow.

  And then he moved. She could not smile or even think. He was hot, hard and as smooth as velvet as he brushed between her breasts and over them. The knot of desire in the pit of her being twisted and tightened, oh so precariously. Francesca began to sob as he brushed over each painfully hard nipple and she could no longer stand this, it, him. She cried out, exploding.

  He kissed her frantically as she spasmed uncontrollably into what seemed to be infinity, hearing her own wild cries as if she were someone else, the pleasure simply too much to ever bear. The orgasm seemed to last forever when suddenly she was floating and aware of Calder Hart once again.

  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 jealousy 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.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thursday, April 24, 1902 7:00 p.m.

  “DARLING,” SHE MURMURE
D, 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.