by Brenda Joyce
Francesca stared. Rourke resembled his brother and father almost exactly. He was terribly handsome, with dark brows and golden eyes, hair a dark tawny shade that was almost brown, and dimples that never quit when he was smiling. Sometimes he looked so much like Bragg he could be his twin, which he was not, as they were half brothers. He had been gentle and kind with Sarah during the last investigation and had, in fact, saved the day when she had been brutally attacked in this very house. Francesca had felt certain she had seen some attraction to Sarah on Rourke's part. "I am sure you will hear from him the next time he is in town," she said.
Sarah shrugged with indifference. "And why would I? He isn't a doctor yet, and he is not my physician."
"Is he not your friend?"
Sarah faced her, flushing. "I hardly know what he is, Francesca. Why did you even bring him up? To upset me? We have work to do! Do you have time to pose now?"
Francesca hesitated, stunned by Sarah's almost angry and very strong reaction to a simple conversation about Rourke Bragg. "I'm not trying to upset you, Sarah," she said softly.
"I know you're not," Sarah said, still flushed. "I'm sorry. It's not you, it's him. I know I was very ill and he spent the night nursing me through that fever, I know he saved me from a brutal attack, but I did thank him, and that is that. I don't like him, Francesca, and let's just leave it at that. Do you have some time to pose for a sketch?" She smiled firmly, clearly closing the door on the subject of Rourke.
Francesca knew a fire was smoldering, as she had just seen the smoke, and she smiled, letting Sarah think as she chose. Posing required disrobing, and to both disrobe and re-dress would take a good forty minutes or so. However, it was the end of the day and tomorrow promised to be as eventful as that day had been. "You know, I think I can ..." She stopped. She had wandered farther into the studio but now glimpsed one of the canvases on an easel. It was clearly an unfinished portrait of Calder Hart.
And looking at his likeness was like looking at him—it took her breath away and she felt his presence envelop her, as if he had actually joined them in the room.
Sarah came to stand behind her. "I could not help myself. He is my mentor, and it simply seemed right. I have been so inspired, it's almost done. Do you like it? I had so much trouble with his expression, with his eyes. He is so smug and confident, but there is a vulnerability within that I have found almost impossible to capture. It's not quite right yet, is it?"
Francesca hugged herself. Was she falling in love with the man? And was Sarah infatuated, too? The portrait had captured the Hart whom society knew and so often rejected. The Hart who could walk into a room and upset everyone present while laughing about it. The Hart who cared not one whit for society and its rules. Sarah had caught Hart's renegade spirit perfectly, his confidence, his attitude of "I don't give a damn," his aura of power and wealth. But she had missed the vulnerability that was an essential part of him. Francesca knew few ever glimpsed or were even aware of that fragile side, but she was not surprised that Sarah had seen it and understood it so well. "No, it's not right. It's almost right, though. Has he seen this?"
"Oh, no! I am terribly afraid to show it to him. I doubt I ever will!" she cried nervously.
Francesca clasped her shoulder. "It is spectacular, Sarah. And I do think you should show it to him when you are ready. You have captured his magnetism, his sardonic side, and his power perfectly."
"But he has a soft gentle side, a frightened side, that is missing. I will give it to him as a gift one day." Sarah smiled, but nervously, as if afraid her gift would be rejected or scorned. Then she said, "Did Hart speak to you at all about the portrait?" Suddenly she flushed. "Oh, Francesca, I apologize. I am so excited to finally have you here sitting for me that I have not even congratulated you on your engagement. I am so happy for you!"
"Thank you."
"I think it is a wonderful match." Sarah looked closely at her now. "Don't you?"
She didn't hesitate. "Sarah, I hardly know what I am doing when I am around Hart. I still have strong feelings for Bragg. And Bragg and I are alike—in every way. Hart and I are so different. Still... I seem to be on a speeding train, one I cannot leap off." She smiled grimly.
Sarah took her hand. "Bragg is with his wife. I'm not sure I understand their relationship, but it appears a volatile and passionate one. I do not mean to hurt you by saying that, Francesca. It's just that while I know how close you and Bragg are, I don't think you are the one."
"I know that, too," Francesca said grimly. "A month ago your words would have hurt. Now, they do not. I am merely frightened since this thing with Hart is gaining so much momentum. It is like traveling at top speed when what one really wants is to apply the carriage brakes."
"I think Hart adores you, and frankly, the fact that he wants to marry you instead of seduce you says it all, doesn't it?" She smiled. "Now, did he speak at all with you about the portrait?"
Francesca parted her back. "I am more than happy to pose nude."
Sarah cried out in pleasure. "I haven't done a nude since art class in Paris. I am beyond excited. Francesca, this will be so beautiful, and I promise you, we will conceal everything that needs to be concealed."
Francesca grinned and crossed one thigh over the other, held her arm over her breasts, and said, "Shall I dangle a scarf or a mink stole?"
Sarah laughed as well. "That would be obvious, don't you think? You can disrobe behind the screen. You can use that dressing gown."
Francesca did as she was told, aware of her excitement taking on a sensual edge. She was posing nude for Hart. Now was not the time to feel desire stirring, but she did. As she stripped down to her corset and drawers, she said, "Should I take my hair down? And Sarah, I am not modest, so do not worry about that!"
Sarah laughed. "I didn't think you would be modest, my dear. And no, I don't think so. In fact, I have thought about it and I think your hair should remain up. I'd also like to see you in a choker. Perhaps pearls and diamonds. My mother has one which we could borrow when the time is right."
"Whatever you think," Francesca said, slipping the silk jacquard kimono on. It caressed her naked flesh, sending tingles up and down her legs, her spine. She stepped out from behind the screen.
"Every painting tells a story, Francesca, and in this story, you have come home from a ball and are waiting for your new husband," Sarah said, ushering her to an emerald-green damask daybed, with pillows piled about its head.
Francesca felt her body tighten even more. "And who is telling this particular story, Sarah, you or Hart?"
"I am, as I am the painter," Sarah said with a grin. "Don't disrobe yet. Try to find a comfortable position, first. I think on your side, facing me, with your thighs crossed as you did earlier while standing."
Francesca slid onto the sofa, leaned into the pillows, and posed herself to the best of her ability. By crossing her thighs and crossing her upper arm over her breasts, she felt that the right amount of concealment had been attained. But Sarah frowned.
She shook her head. "That pose is beyond classic—it's common. We must do better. Francesca, sit up, with your back partly toward me."
Francesca obeyed, glancing curiously over her shoulder at Sarah.
Sarah grinned. "Turn a bit more to the right. I would like to see a profile of your breast. Yes, that's right. Now place one leg completely over the side of the bed. Oh, I like this! Can you curl your right leg up under you? Will that be too uncomfortable?"
"I don't know," Francesca said, amused by Sarah's excitement, but then, her own excitement remained high. This was, in fact and surprisingly, the perfect ending to a very interesting day. And she could not wait to present Hart with the portrait when it was done.
"That may be it. Don't move—let me help you off with that robe!" Sarah cried. She rushed forward and the robe was removed while Sarah kept chiding Francesca to "Freeze, don't even blink, there!"
Francesca had little idea of what the pose would really look like in a portrait, as
it was mostly of her back and backside, with her glancing at Sarah from over her shoulder. "Is this really all right?"
"It's spectacular—a bit more daring than what I imagined, but you have such a lovely body, and Hart will adore this portrait, so if you do not mind, I'd like to try it. If you object, we can start over tomorrow," Sarah said, all the while sketching rapidly.
Francesca smiled at her. She was already becoming uncomfortable in the position she was instructed to remain in.
"Can you pretend you are looking at Hart instead of at me?" Sarah asked, her strokes upon the canvas long and bold.
Francesca blinked. "Of course. Sarah, don't you start on paper?"
"Yes, but all the preliminary sketches I did were of you reclining on your side, and that is simply too boring. Worse, I do not know when I will get you back! I think it best to skip that stage. Think about Hart, Francesca. Pretend he has just walked into the room."
Francesca started, an image of Hart appearing behind Sarah coming to mind. Her heart skipped and her body tightened. Why hadn't they made plans for the evening? Hadn't he promised her a private celebration, just the two of them, with champagne? She knew where such a celebration would lead, and she smiled.
"Thank you," Sarah breathed.
An hour later Sarah told her she could get up. Francesca slipped on the robe and did so, asking, "Can I see?"
"Only if you promise not to shout at me. We can modify the pose," Sarah said, breathless and flushed.
Francesca was very curious now. She hurried over to the easel and gasped.
She sat on the bed, her back to the viewer, but partially turned. Her shoulders were square and elegant, her back and waist long, her buttocks lush and full and completely revealed. One long leg was also fully revealed, and so was her left breast. Sarah hadn't hidden anything, and her nipple was erect and peeking out from her forearm.
But what really caught Francesca's attention was her expression. She was staring at the viewer with such a frankly provocative expression. Her eyes were smoldering and sensual—a stunning contrast to the upswept hair and pearl choker.
"I am going to paint that red gown in a heap on the floor by your foot," Sarah breathed. "Do you like it? It's daring and sensual, but Francesca, you are stunning and I love it!"
"I like it," Francesca whispered, staring at herself. "Am I so voluptuous? And did I really look like that? My eyes, I mean?"
Sarah bit her lip. "For a while, and whatever you were thinking, it was perfect."
Francesca knew what she had been thinking. She had been thinking about celebrating alone with Hart—she had been thinking about being in his arms and, eventually, in his bed. "Hart will never be able to show this painting to anyone," she mused breathlessly.
"Never is a long time, and Mrs. Huntington has a Courbet she hides in her closet," Sarah said. "Many collectors have certain works that general society is simply not ready for."
Francesca nodded, aware of her cheeks being quite hot. "Well, I think it unusual and I do not object."
Sarah took her hand. "Francesca, the beauty of a painting is, one can always change it. Shall we go forward then, this way? Down the road, if you object, I can easily move your arm to hide your breast, and add a pillow to hide your buttocks. But I do feel this pose is the right one."
Francesca smiled at her. "You are the artist," she said.
"I cannot wait to finish this and show Hart," Sarah breathed.
Silently Francesca agreed.
Night had settled over the city as Francesca left the Channings' in the Channing coach, having promised Sarah to return the next day around the same time to continue work on the portrait. Although it had been a very long day, Francesca was too exhilarated to feel any fatigue. She had hated the idea of a portrait initially, and now she was very pleased. Of course, she felt certain that the sensual and beautiful woman in the sketch was a romanticized version of herself. She knew, in reality, she hardly looked like that sketch! But if Sarah wished to portray her that way, she did not mind.
The drive across town, through Central Park, was a quick one, and during that time Francesca tried to imagine how the interview had gone with Calder and her father. By now, it had surely been concluded, so when she saw Hart's lavish and elegant six-in-hand parked in front of her house, she was astonished. She thanked the Channings' driver and started toward the house, wondering if it was a good or bad sign that the meeting had gone on for so long.
Francesca was about to take the first step up the wide stone steps leading to the front door when someone spoke to her from behind. "Miss Cahill?"
Her first thought was that it was that sneaky news reporter Arthur Kurland, who would do anything for a scoop. He had accosted her at her front door before. She halted and turned. But she saw no one standing by the hedges lining the drive, and beyond that it was too dark to see anything. Had the sound of someone speaking her name been a figment of her imagination? "Hello?" she tried.
There was no immediate answer. She became a bit uneasy and very curious, straining to see. The house was fully illuminated within from behind, but there were no lights on the grounds until the avenue, where there were two gas lamps at the gated entrance to their property. She thought she saw a movement behind the hedges, by several large elm trees. "Kurland? Is that you?" She opened her clutch and slid the small derringer into her palm.
"Yes."
She blinked. "Come out, then. I don't bite."
"I need a private word," he said.
This was more than strange, it was simply intriguing, and Francesca left the first stone step, putting the tiny gun away. She started toward the hedge and elms where he was hiding. What could be going on? Kurland was dangerous, but only in that he seemed to know the extent of her relationship with Bragg and, if he wished, he could cause a scandal and hurt Bragg's career, both present and future. Francesca's mind raced with possibilities now as she stepped across the graveled drive. Perhaps this time Kurland could prove to be a useful ally in her latest cause. Her case was newsworthy. He could write a feature about it and flush information her way. He might know something himself. Newsmen often had information about life on the street.
She liked the idea of his writing about the missing children very much. Could he make tomorrow's morning papers? "Kurland, why are you lurking about in my bushes?" she asked, stepping over to the hedges.
He seized her suddenly, without warning, pulling her behind the bushes, pressing something sharp and cold to her throat. It was a knife.
"Because I ain't Kurland," he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friday, March 28, 1902—6:00 P.M.
Oddly, he was somewhat nervous, and that did not make any sense.
But then, this was a new game, one he'd never played before. The stakes were Francesca Cahill.
Hart smiled grimly to himself as he removed his coat. If he did not know better, he would almost think himself to be infatuated or in love. But he knew without a doubt that love was for hypocrites and romantic fools; he knew it was an illusion meant to sweep away the tawdry urges of lust. And he hadn't been infatuated with a woman since he was a boy of sixteen.
He removed his black coat, handing it to the Cahills' butler, thanking him with a nod. He calmly reminded himself that as high as the stakes were, he was prepared for battle and would undoubtedly win. In fact, he had spent an hour or two last night making notes in preparation for the war of wits and wills to come. He frequently engaged in such battles in the course of conducting his many and various business affairs—he owned the city's largest shipping company, an equally large insurance company, and a fledgling transportation company, not to mention major shares in several railroads and utilities. But he was never nervous, not in the least, when confronting an adversary or even an enemy; in fact, he relished each and every battle. He usually won.
In fact, he could not recall the last time he had lost.
Still, he also had to consider that very possibility. He analyzed every business dealing in
such a manner, and so he would analyze this. If Andrew remained against this marriage, he could marry Francesca anyway, as he was certainly wealthy enough and powerful enough to defy her father and do so. Or he could stand back—as he knew in his own heart that he wasn't good enough for her. He could stand back and lose her sooner or later to another man.
A real gentleman would take the latter course. But he wasn't a gentleman and he would never be one and his choice should Cahill refuse him was outstandingly clear. In fact, there was no choice. Francesca had entered his life very much like a brutal thunderstorm—his life had been black before the storm, but now, in the storm's wake, there was rebirth: new blades of grass, the budding of dandelions, the shimmer of a rainbow, the smile of the sun. Every day was a new one.
He told himself he was turning into a romantic fool, but one fact had become inescapable in the past month when she had been gone—he needed her. He preferred the green of springtime to the black despair of winter, and that had also become terribly clear. Francesca was a breath of fresh air.
Hart refused to reflect anymore. Julia was hurrying toward him, smiling. She grasped his hands tightly, but he felt certain that she wished to throw herself into his arms. He was amused. The emotion was a welcome one. "It is so good to see you, Calder," she said.
"And I am more than pleased to be here," he returned smoothly and actually meaning it.
"Andrew is in the study," Julia said as they went down the hall. "I cannot tell you how surprised I was last night when you announced your intentions toward Francesca."
He felt like murmuring that her surprise had undoubtedly equaled his own surprise when he had first realized he had no recourse but to marry her. "I made my intentions clear to Francesca quite some time ago."
That stopped Julia in her tracks. "Really?" Her blue eyes were wide with complete surprise.
"Yes." He smiled at her. "She did not wish me to approach her father. She wanted to consider my proposal first."