by Brenda Joyce
“I am glad you have seen the same light that I have,” he said softly.
His tone was so sensual that she shivered, tingling from the tips of her toes to the nape of her neck. He smiled at her.
A few minutes later they were walking into the library, a delighted Alfred rushing off to ask the cook to prepare a light meal for them. “Is anyone else home?” Francesca asked. Hart walked past her and brushed her as he did. She trembled, ready to leap into his arms. He turned on two lights, apparently unaware of the contact.
“I have no idea.” He walked over to the bar that was built into one floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “But Rathe and Grace are leaving for Newport Beach on Wednesday, taking Colin and Gregory with them. Nick is going back to San Francisco tomorrow, until the fall semester begins. I believe Rourke intends to mope about the city—and moon over Sarah Channing.” He turned and handed her a scotch.
Francesca smiled happily at him, her nerves stretched taut within her body. “I do hope a romance is brewing for Sarah and Rourke.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down, aware of Hart watching her. She was certain his mind had gone in the same direction as hers, never mind her declaration of friendship. She took a sip of scotch, sighed with pleasure, then unbuttoned and removed her kitten-heeled, black-patent shoes.
He still stood by the bar, a drink in hand. She did not turn around to look at him. Images flashed. She had wound up naked on that sofa several times. She would love to wind up naked on it now.
He had such a powerful effect on her. Surely he felt the same way about her.
“I can feel your thoughts,” he said, having come to stand behind the sofa where she sat.
She arched to look up at him, over her shoulder. “Really? So there is gypsy in your blood?”
His eyes were definitely warmer. “Hardly. But I know you very well, now, don’t I? Better than anyone—even better than Rick.”
“Don’t,” she said, the sexy moment on the verge of vanishing. “But it is true. No one knows me as well as you.”
He sipped his drink thoughtfully. Then he reached past her and set it down on one of the sofa’s end tables. A moment later he laid a hand on each side of her shoulders. “So you now wish for us to be friends. Will that really satisfy you, Francesca?”
He was leaning over her from behind. She sank back into the couch, staring up at him. His face was inches from hers. She tore her gaze from his mouth to his eyes. “We are already great friends—so I hardly need to wish for that.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured.
She looked at his mouth. “Of course it won’t satisfy me.”
His eyes gleamed. “You are so transparent.”
She gave in to the urge to touch him and reached up to caress his jaw. “Then you must know what I am yearning for right now.”
“But we must hold to logic, darling. We must be mere friends,” he murmured. But he turned his face slightly and kissed the center of her palm. “You can only play me if I let you.”
Her entire body was on fire. “Then let me,” she said, and she reached up and caught his face and arched upward, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth.
He did not move, braced above her, his knuckles white as he grasped the sofa, one hand on each side of her. Francesca strained higher, managing to brush his mouth with hers, softly, gently, several times. “Calder, I have missed you,” she whispered. “And I am rather desperate now.”
He was breathing harder. He pulled his head back slightly and their gazes met, his eyes black with desire. “When will you admit that you lied to me in the coach?”
She was taken aback, finding it hard to think clearly. “Not now, Calder.”
“Oh, yes,” he said softly. “Now.”
His mouth curved and he lowered his face, briefly brushing her cheek with his. Then his mouth moved over her exposed throat. She sighed in raw pleasure. Fire fanned within her, dancing through the entire core of her body, tightening her, swelling her. His mouth moved lower, down the column of her neck, and lower still, until he nuzzled her cleavage. “Admit that you baldly lied.”
Francesca moaned, reached up, finding his tie. She tugged on it. “I lied. Come to the sofa and kiss me properly.”
She felt his mouth curve with satisfaction. “Sit up,” he ordered against her ear.
She was dazed with desire and absolutely breathless, but she straightened. His hands went to the back of her dress. Her heart thundered as he undid the buttons, deftly and skillfully. Francesca stood up, her skin tingling, and slowly stepped out of her dress, letting it pool around her feet on the floor. She turned and looked at Hart.
His eyes were black with desire. Her chemise was sheer, her corset ivory. She stepped out of her petticoats. Her drawers matched her corset, coming to midthigh. Garters held up her stockings.
“You are wearing new underwear,” he said calmly.
She turned and walked around the sofa, reaching for his tie. “I am so glad you noticed.”
He caught her wrists, his grasp unyielding. “No.” And for one moment, they stood that way, his dark eyes smoldering. Francesca knew he was not going to allow her to be in control, and she did not care.
“Tell me what you really want—tell me the truth,” he said harshly.
“I want you.”
Hart moved. He wrapped her in his arms and their mouths fused. Kissing her deeply, his hands on her buttocks, he moved her back around the sofa. He pushed her back, coming down on top of her. Francesca gasped with pleasure and need as she came into contact with his huge arousal.
“So we will be friends—and lovers?” he murmured with laughter, ripping apart her chemise. He nuzzled her bare breasts, spreading her thighs. “I have missed you, too.”
“Hurry up,” she demanded as his hand snaked between her thighs. And because it had been so long—a matter of days—the moment he touched her, she started weeping, the explosion immediate.
Francesca gave herself up to the series of climaxes, vaguely aware of his removing her drawers and settling his face against her. His tongue began probing. She wept again.
And when she was back in his arms, recovering from a series of explosive orgasms, she began to think about his need and his pleasure. He caught her hair, which was now loose, with his hand. “Francesca.”
She managed to open her eyes. “Calder,” she breathed, loving him impossibly—so much so that it continued to hurt. She kissed him again and again, now fumbling with his trousers.
“Do you really wish to remain mere friends?” he asked harshly.
She caught his beautiful face in both her hands. “Of course not! I love you.”
He slowly smiled and she had the disturbing notion that she shouldn’t have admitted the truth. But she would worry about her confession later. Francesca reached down and yanked his fly open.
He inhaled harshly as he sprang into her hand. Francesca stroked him and smiled, guided him carefully between her thighs and looked at him. His eyes were tightly closed, his face glazed with passion and strained with self-restraint. Immediately, he looked back at her. “You cannot tempt me.”
“I want to be lovers—real lovers,” she whispered.
“Absolutely not.”
They had had this same argument a thousand times. This time, she meant to win it. She started to move her calf over his back, but he caught her leg and stilled it. “You cannot win this battle,” he said.
“Damn it, Hart! My victory is overdue. No one will ever know!”
“I will know.”
They stared. She was not really surprised. For some odd reason, he thought that they should not consummate their affair until they were actually married. But her frustration hadn’t changed.
“My poor darling.” His mouth curled with amusement. “Do not play the desperate card now. I am the one suffering.”
Before she could respond, he caught the hair at her nape, leashed it and kissed her deeply, his mouth hard and unyielding. Francesca forgot about making
a protest. He knew exactly how to touch her and move against her, and she tightened impossibly. And because she remained aware of his shocking arousal, she sat up, pushed him down and bent over him. When he allowed himself a moan, she felt a moment of triumph.
He was as still as a statue now, except for his heavy breathing. Francesca nuzzled his great length. She slipped her tongue over the tip. Suddenly he pushed her down on her back, reared over her and began rubbing his arousal over her breasts and neck. She gasped with more pleasure. She wanted him to experience the same fireworks she had.
He suddenly turned from her. Francesca pulled him back. Smiling, she bent over him. Hart inhaled—and he cried out.
Sometime later—Francesca did not know how much later, as Hart had been ruthlessly determined to give her more satisfaction than ever before—she floated back to earth. She sighed, draped over his body, as the sofa was too small for them both. They were both fully unclothed now.
Being with Hart was perfect, she thought. The satisfaction was so vast, so consuming, and she felt that she had never been happier. She smiled when he kissed the top of her forehead. Then she turned over to lie atop him, and their gazes met.
He gave her a lazy, sensual, rather arrogant and very satisfied smile.
And then she recalled her confession. She wished she hadn’t made it. Did confessing under sexual duress even count? But surely they were now reconciled—or well on their way to reconciliation? “There is nothing,” she said softly, “like a good, stiff drink.”
“I have so thoroughly corrupted you.” But his smile faded. “Are you hungry?”
“I will have to think about it,” she said. She nipped his jaw.
He sat up, causing her to do so as well, and gave her an unfathomable look. Francesca hoped he would not bring up any unpleasant subjects. “Actually, I am famished,” she said, reaching for her underclothes. She did not want to discuss anything of consequence—she did not want to ruin the rest of the evening.
He took a sip of his scotch, watching her pull the short pants on. Francesca retrieved her petticoats and corset, wondering what he was thinking. She decided to forgo the corset due to the late hour, but she slipped on the torn shift. Hart was usually quiet after lovemaking, but she glanced at him carefully. His gaze was hooded. She smiled at him. “You have ruined my beautiful chemise, Hart.”
He smiled back. “I will buy you another one.”
She picked up her dress, pleased that she had made him smile. “I believe I have heard that line before.”
“Yes, I believe you are right. I owe you several garments.” His mouth firmed as he stood up. She pulled on the dress and gave him her back, holding up the mass of her hair. He quickly did up the buttons. How often had they done this? she wondered. But instead of kissing her nape, as he usually did, Hart simply released her.
Francesca turned to stare. Weren’t they well on their way to reconciliation? What else could their lovemaking mean?
He said, “You are an impossible temptress. But you know that, don’t you?”
Why was his tone so serious? “Do not be absurd. I am an unfashionable bluestocking, but somehow, I have ensnared you anyway.”
He walked away and stepped into his trousers. As he zipped them up, he said, “An impossible temptress—and a very bad liar.”
“Let’s call Alfred,” she said quickly, not wanting to begin the subject she feared he was about to broach.
He caught her arm before she could go to the door. His gaze was frighteningly somber now. “I do not want to lead you on, Francesca.”
She was alarmed. “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
“Your sister obviously encouraged you to attempt to manipulate me, did she not? Let me guess—she advised you not to chase or pursue me in any manner.”
Francesca stared uneasily. “I do not like being less than honest with you,” she finally said.
He touched her face. “I cannot tell you how many women have pursued me, either before or after an affair. But you are not those other women.”
“What are you saying?” She was uneasy. She had the uncanny feeling she would not like whatever was on his mind.
“I am saying that I appreciate your candor, your honesty, your impossibly impetuous and open nature. I appreciate the woman you truly are. I despise your resorting to the kinds of games other women play. You do not have a scheming bone in your body.”
She bit her lip. She hadn’t really liked such a pretense, and not when it was aimed at Hart. “I don’t think crying—and begging you to take me back—was a very effective tactic.”
“But you do want me back.”
Her heart raced. Now what? “Can’t we just return naturally back into our relationship?”
His eyes darkened. “I know that you would not allow my lovemaking if we were mere friends, Francesca. You are a woman of logic—when it comes to investigations. But when it comes to love, you are a woman of passion.”
She hesitated. “What are you trying to say? I trust you, Calder. I trust you with my heart—with my life. And you are right—I would not have leaped into your arms tonight if my feelings were casual.”
He was grim. “I am fond of you. Very fond, in fact, but nothing has changed.”
“What does that mean?” she cried, bewildered. Hart would never use a tepid word like fond when declaring himself. His cruelty Saturday night returned full force to her mind. But she no longer believed him. Of course he loved her, otherwise the past two hours would not have happened. “You are fond of me? What on earth are you trying to say?”
“Yes, I am fond of you,” he said, flushing.
She was overcome with confusion. “We just nearly made love!”
“I should have controlled my desire for you tonight. I let you play me, Francesca, and well.” He picked up his drink and drained it. “I did not care for your declaration of casual indifference, not one bit. But I am glad you have taken off my ring. It belongs in the safe.”
She inhaled, shocked. “Are you telling me that we are not reconciled?”
“We are not reconciled,” he said flatly.
She felt the room still. No, the world stilled. Why would he continue to do this?
“This is my fault entirely,” he said. “Playing games of manipulation with me is never a good idea.”
Hurt began. “This is impossible.”
His face was hard. “I am holding firm to my decision of Saturday night. I can’t—I will not—marry you, Francesca.”
She choked. A long, terrible moment passed, in which she could hardly think. “Have you just used me?”
He started. “I would never use you.”
“I want more than your kisses, Hart. I am not one of your divorcées!”
His eyes flickered. “I am aware of that. But I have just shown my true colors, haven’t I?” He sounded disgusted now.
“Are you telling me you behaved like a cad with me? Because I refuse to believe it.”
“You tried to manipulate me with that silly speech. I don’t like being manipulated, Francesca. Two can play that game.”
She now recalled her confession, made in the heat of the moment. “So you just manipulated me?”
He hesitated. “Sex can be a weapon.”
“Against me?”
“Even against you.”
She trembled. “I do not seem to be thinking clearly after the passion we just shared. In fact, I am confused. If we have not reconciled, then what just happened a moment ago?”
“I wanted you to admit that you spewed nonsense in my carriage—that you are not indifferent to me.”
She stared. Sometimes, she thought Hart incredibly vulnerable—that he hid behind a facade of arrogance, conceit and power. But he did not look vulnerable now. “So you have apparently gotten what you wanted.”
“Yes, I have gotten what I wanted.” He paced away from her.
It was very hard to think clearly, as shock, hurt and confusion mingled. “This is incomprehensible! Ho
w could you make love to me if you did not mean to reconcile?”
“I am a selfish bastard, remember?”
“But you have never treated me the way you have treated other women!” She choked. “I assumed that if we made love, you would come to your senses and realize that we are meant to be together.”
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “That is very romantic.”
She trembled, hugging herself. “My assumptions were wrong.”
“Have you forgotten that I am not a romantic man?”
He had been terribly romantic toward her, but just then, she could not speak.
He wet his lips. “The last thing I ever wish to do is hurt you,” he said. “When I tell you that I care deeply, you may believe my word. Francesca, I care enough to truly want to make your every wish come true! I truly want to give you the world on a silver platter. And as your friend, I hope to do just that. In fact, you might come to think of me as an odd benefactor, a champion of your dreams and desires. But I am not the right man for you. And once this infatuation passes, you will see the fact as clearly as I do.”
“You are the perfect man for me,” she heard herself somehow say.
“No, Rick is perfect for you.”
She closed her eyes in despair. “Please don’t start on Bragg. This is about us.”
“His marriage will soon be over, Francesca, in case you haven’t noticed. He is miserably unhappy.”
She started. “I hope you are wrong. But I am not discussing Rick now!”
“You’re right. This is about us. I told you once and I will tell you again—I am not going to be your downfall.”
She stared at him. “So you are being noble now? You will sacrifice yourself for my sake? Instead of blaming me for jilting you, you have now taken up your old position that I deserve someone better?”
“Precisely. My mind is made up,” he warned.
“We had this same argument three weeks ago!”
“Three weeks ago, I was accused of murder. By association, you were about to be ruined.”
“And you have been proven innocent. So this is about the portrait?”