She did not move.
A very faint smile etched his hard mouth as he finally emerged out of the shadows. “You like my new nude,” he murmured.
Her heart beat hard. “I think so.”
Now he did smile, and his eyes gleamed, holding hers. “I’m glad. I am rather fond of her, myself.”
Francesca glanced at the young woman holding the dove. Now she noticed that one tendril of curling hair was entangled with a very erect nipple. “She is too young for you. Besides, she must be a pacifist,” she said as tartly as possible, no easy feat when one could not breathe properly. “Which you are not.”
His white teeth flashed. “She is probably fourteen or fifteen. And that is rather young, even for me. And that is not a dove which she is holding … so carefully. It is a pigeon,” he said softly. “And why do you say I am not a pacifist? Only a fool enjoys war.”
“But frequently the symbolism is the same,” Francesca breathed, not looking at the nude but at him. She didn’t exactly want to talk about the fact that the nude was cupping a pigeon against her loins. “So you are a pacifist, Hart?”
“Until prompted to be otherwise.” He smiled at her. “I do not think the message this sculptor intends has anything to do with pacifism.”
In spite of her unease, she felt a flash of excitement. “Why else use symbolism associated with peace?”
He grinned. “The young lady we are so admiring is holding the pigeon in a certain manner—not for the classic strategic reason. This sculpture was only recently completed. Today artists are not afraid to reveal anatomy, Francesca.”
“I am missing your point.”
“Take a good look at Lady Brianna,” he murmured.
Francesca supposed that was the model’s name, and she did.
“No, look at her hands,” he suggested far too smoothly. Amusement was in his tone.
Her heart seemed to stop. “She’s stroking the bird,” she whispered.
Very softly, he said, “At least.”
And she thought, Feathers. How erotic they would be … .
Her heart lurched, far too intensely for comfort. She jerked her gaze back to Hart and found him standing stockstill, staring. His eyes were narrowed and filled with speculation now.
It was hard to breathe, much less think clearly. “I have changed my tune. The sculpture is about erotica, not pacifism.”
“I have not been fair,” he said, his smile odd now. “I do know this artist’s work and background. And yes, it is about erotica, and most galleries refuse to show Monsieur Dubei, considering his work far too scandalous and shocking for public purview. Do you find it too scandalous? Should I hide the lovely Brianna in my master suite?”
She inhaled, fighting for her every breath. “You have children in the house, but …”
“But?” He stared intensely.
“But”—she wet her lips—“she is beautiful. It would be a shame to hide her in a back room.” Francesca somehow shrugged.
He smiled widely at her. “You are a bohemian at heart, Francesca. And clearly I agree with you completely. As for the children, the twins and Roberto do not understand.”
She couldn’t help agreeing with him.
“So? What brings you to my humble home? Let me guess. You are enamored of my stepsister.” His gaze was hooded now.
“I have come to see you,” she said hoarsely. She tried to clear her throat and succeeded.
His black brows slashed upward. “Really? I am touched.” His fingers brushed over the vicinity where his heart lay.
“It is business, Hart,” she said, her brisk and purposeful self once again. But she knew better, she truly did, than to expect to encounter Hart without any turbulence. He loved throwing others off balance.
“And now I am crestfallen,” he murmured. “But I do hope you mean anything but sleuthing?”
She shook her head at him, not in response to his last question, but to his pretense at being broken-hearted. Yet annoyance escaped her now. Did he always have to use that tone of voice with her? Did he enjoy provoking her somehow?
“Shall I have Alfred send in refreshments, Calder?”
Francesca almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of Grace’s voice behind them. She had forgotten that they were not alone—and she had forgotten it entirely. She felt her cheeks flame as she turned.
Grace wasn’t smiling, and she wasn’t frowning, either. Her gaze was extremely thoughtful and not necessarily happy.
Lucy was also staring, wide-eyed. She had a twin by each hand, with Chrissy trying to go in one direction and Jack in another, both of them arguing not quite coherently with each other—and clearly Lucy was impervious to the tug-of-war. Roberto was merely waiting patiently with his mother, although he seemed to be trying to give Jack a small toy soldier.
Francesca met Lucy’s eyes and was overcome with guilt. Which brother do you love? That question remained absurd, but Francesca was not wishing she had never heard it.
“Francesca? Are you hungry?” Hart’s black eyes held hers. “Do you have an appetite?”
“No,” she said flatly, thinking about the sculpture and the pigeon. She knew she flushed slightly again.
He laughed, his glance a knowing one. Then he shook his head. “We shall be in my study.” He gestured for her to precede him inside. “After you, Francesca.”
She managed an odd smile at Grace and Lucy. Then she hurried down the hall as if to escape him, which was absurd. She felt him following at a slower, more leisurely pace. But then, had she ever seen Hart in a hurry? He was one of the most unflappable men she knew.
And the moment she stepped inside his study—a room three times the size of that of the “average” rich man—she faced him, far too nervously for comfort. He had hardly closed the door when she said, “How could you, Calder?”
He was amused, and he strolled toward her slowly. “How could I what?”
“How could you talk about that woman like that, in front of them?”
He laughed. “It is not a woman. We were discussing a work of art and, if anything, one artist’s perception of a moment of pleasure.” He shrugged. “Miss me?” he asked in a tender drawl.
“Not in a million years!”
He chuckled again, more softly. “Come here, Francesca.”
Purposefully doing the opposite, Francesca walked over to a window, but failed to see what was outside. She had to clear her head. She had come to him for a reason, but he always turned every encounter into a battle zone with sexual overtones, no matter the time or place.
Suddenly his hand was on her shoulder. She leaped away.
He eyed her. “Why are you so nervous?”
“I am hardly nervous,” she lied.
He was amused and it was obvious. “I suppose I should apologize. But I am not really sorry. That mind of yours is so inquisitive, and no subject should be taboo. I cannot help myself. I was very curious as to what you were thinking.”
“I am thinking that you are impossible. Why, Calder? Why ask me in front of Grace and Lucy? Why not debate the subject—and merit—of that piece of art at another, more appropriate time?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I do not care if Grace and Lucy see you as you really are.”
She froze. Then heatedly, “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, unsmiling, “that I know you wish to impress them with being ever so proper—after all, she is Rick’s mother, and God forbid she should not like you when you are so in love with her son.” He calmly folded his arms over his chest. He had large, muscular arms and a broad chest, which was not noticeable when he wore a suit. His physique was noticeable now. “But you are not a proper little moron. You are an independent woman with a dizzyingly clever mind. Sometimes I think of you as a sponge, Francesca.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “What does that mean?”
“It means you have a thirst for knowledge that is infinite. But most important, your mind is an open one.”
&
nbsp; She was mollified. Warily she said, “I am here to discuss a case.” But speaking about Bragg reminded her of Lucy’s angry declaration. Had his heart been broken by his wife?
“Oh, wait. Did I say love?” His brows lifted. “I meant lust. You are still lusting after my half brother, aren’t you? Or have the two of you consummated your tragic, starcrossed affair?”
She closed her eyes and fought consciously to control herself. “We have been over this before. What Bragg and I do is none of your business. And as I shall never convince you that love exists, why should I bother yet again to defend myself? Do you want to help me solve a case or not?” she snapped.
“If you are on a case, then I might turn you over my knee myself,” he said flatly. “As if you were twelve, not twenty.”
“What the hell does that mean?” The tension had become unbearable. Her neck felt like it would soon snap.
“Is that, or is it not, a bandage on your hand?” he demanded.
“Have we not been over this before? I am a grown woman and—” She stopped.
He smiled at her, because they had been over this before, and he had been thoroughly insulting. “You are not quite grown up,” he said softly.
“Because I am twenty? Or because I have yet to sleep with a man?”
His jaw hardened. “The latter.”
She felt like making a comment about how that would change with Bragg, soon, but she decided that was not a good idea. For the expression in Hart’s eyes was dangerous. “This is not a dangerous case,” she finally said. “I do appreciate your concern, but you need not worry.”
“I can’t believe this—you! A few days ago you faced an insane killer, and now you are on another case?” His expression was thunderous. He turned abruptly and strode over to a sideboard. His movements were abrupt and hard, and she sensed that he was very angry with her now.
“You cannot control me, Hart.” But clearly he was concerned for her welfare, and that was somehow thrilling.
He poured two glasses of whiskey, straight up, not replying or even looking at her.
“I am not drinking whiskey,” she warned. As he moved, she could almost visualize the muscles and tendons in his back.
“Really? Then I shall go it alone.” He turned, handing her a drink.
She refused to accept it.
He set it back on the sideboard and sipped. He made a sound of pleasure, all the while watching her over the rim of his glass.
She rolled her eyes, truly annoyed, wondering if the whiskey was better than the one he had given her on Wednesday, when she was in pain from her burned hand. It had been her first time ever drinking anything other than wine, sherry, or champagne, and she had truly enjoyed it.
“I brought this back with me from Ireland last year,” he remarked calmly. “It is Irish whiskey, which is very different from scotch.” His eyes were wide and as innocent as a baby’s.
She tore her gaze from those fathomless black orbs, stared at her untouched glass, and looked grimly back at him. “Lucy wants to meet Daisy. Do you have a problem with that?” Daisy was his very beautiful mistress.
“Not at all. But I suggest you give Daisy some notice.”
She had failed to provoke him. “Perhaps Grace might like to come along as well?”
He shrugged. “She is a feminist. She would like her, I think.”
Francesca huffed. “How can I annoy you?”
“Easily, in fact. But if you fail to comprehend how, then I shall not be the one to enlighten you,” he said. He sat in a chair and crossed his strong legs. On other men the gesture might be effeminate, but not on Hart. “Does my dear brother know you are on a case?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“So you apparently control him,” he remarked calmly, clearly enjoying his whiskey.
“I control no one!” She marched over to him, grabbed the glass he had set down on a table for her, marched back to a chair, and sat. She took a sip—ignoring his knowing smirk. She sat up straight. “Ooh,” she said. She sipped again. Fire burned its way down her throat and right to her belly, and then to her loins. “This is good.”
He laughed. “A woman after my own heart,” he said.
And then the tears came to her eyes, blinding her. “Oh,” she gasped, choking.
He was up and across the seating area as she coughed, sitting down beside her, his hand on her shoulder, as if to steady her. And suddenly it was on her nape, and it was a very large, very firm, and very warm hand. The tears remained, but Francesca stiffened. The fire had changed. She wanted to look at him, but she was afraid to move.
His hand had also become still, for he had felt it, too. That ugly beast that had arisen between them the night of the ball. Or had it always been there, lying in wait for them all along?
Slowly Hart dropped his hand and stood up. Then he looked down at her.
She looked up and did not look away. If only, she thought, with despair and a rush of something else, he were not so tall. If only he were not so dark, so wealthy, so smug and smart, so damn powerful, so interesting, and so sure of himself!
“Tell me about the case,” he said, slamming down his entire drink in a gulp.
She had a brief moment to ogle him without his remarking it. She reminded herself that all women were attracted to him and, thus far, every instance of attraction was fatal. Besides, sexual attraction was not love. She damn well knew the difference. Didn’t she?
“The case,” he prompted, looking annoyed.
“Someone broke into Sarah Channing’s studio and proceeded to cause what wreckage they could. Canvases were overturned, paint spilled everywhere. One canvas was slashed to ribbons, and the vandal began to write in red paint on the wall.” She finally met his eyes.
“Is Sarah all right?” he asked.
She softened. He was not the heartless cad he wished the entire world to think him. “She is so upset. She cannot paint. In fact, she asked me to speak with you about that damnable portrait you commissioned.” Now she did scowl.
And he did smile. “I am sure it will be lovely. I only wish you were posing nude.”
She almost dropped her glass. Whiskey sloshed all over her hand. “Never! Are you mad?”
“No, I am an art collector, remember? Francesca, I have seen hundreds of women unclothed, and I have hundreds of nudes in my collection. The request is hardly an unusual one. If you were unclothed, your portrait would be a magnificent one.”
She stood, sloshed more whiskey, then sat. She could only stare.
And she imagined herself nude in a portrait hanging on his wall.
Instantly she shoved the image far away. She didn’t want to hang on his wall, dressed or undressed, not in any way, period!
“Francesca, it is only my wish. I would hardly ask you to consider it,” he said very softly.
His silky tone washed over her in warm waves. “Good. Because I would refuse.”
“But”—he did smile—“I am sure that one day I could entice you to pose for such a portrait.”
“Never.”
He merely smiled at her and sipped his whiskey, watching her carefully now.
This was the perfect moment to ask him why. Why did he even want her portrait? Instead, she said firmly, “Will there be a problem if there is some delay in Sarah delivering the portrait? Her studio is a shambles, and currently the police will not allow it to be restored.”
He sighed. “One can never rush an artist, Francesca, and good things are worth the wait. In this instance, though, I am impatient.”
“You are the most patient man I have ever met.”
He merely smiled at her.
Suddenly the comprehension was searing—he was the most patient of men, but he was impatient, now. She knew she must not analyze this. “Sarah wants to know who did this, and why.”
He paced and stared out of the window. From his library he had views of Fifth Avenue and the park. Then he turned. “If you are asking me if I know who might have done this, the ans
wer is no.”
“Have you heard of any other artist suffering a similar attack?”
His gaze locked with hers as he finally sat down. “No. And if there had been such an attack, I would have heard about it.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiled and relaxed slightly. “Yes, Francesca, I am sure. A day does not go by that I do not visit an art gallery or museum. I know curators, gallery owners, other collectors and quite a few artists. Vandalism like this would be a heated topic in our small and privileged world of art. It might not make the news, but it would be the topic of conversation amongst our clique.”
She nodded. “I do not know whether I am relieved or not that there has been no other instance of vandalism. Hart?”
His gaze moved back to hers. And briefly it settled on her mouth.
She tried to ignore the thought that came instantly to mind. “The canvas which was destroyed was a portrait of Bartolla.”
He looked at her and then he laughed. “This is not about Sarah Channing then.”
“That’s what Lucy thinks.”
“Lucy is clever,” he agreed.
“So you also despise Bartolla?” She was now very curious, as she knew they had been lovers.
He seemed taken aback. “Why would I despise her?”
She hesitated. “Perhaps because you were lovers and it did not end well?”
He seemed amused. “We spent two nights together—and the entire day in between. Does that satisfy your obvious curiosity, Francesca, or do you wish for a few unsavory details?”
She stiffened, trying not to imagine the two of them in bed together—for two nights and an entire day. It was an easy feat. “I hardly need details,” she muttered.
“I would be happy to supply them,” he said, laughing. “Bartolla is as bitchy in bed as out. And there you have it. It was over before it even began. Bartolla Benevente is not my type of woman.”
Francesca knew she flushed, and she was also surprised. “She isn’t? But she is so extremely beautiful.”
He stared her down. “Is she?”
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