Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

An image of how she thought his wife looked flashed through her mind. A petite 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 slashing 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 amusement 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 sexual speculation.

  Did he even know what he was doing?

  She shivered.

  He returned, two glasses 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 woman beside 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 used to 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 he directed upon the rest of her sex. "I wish you wouldn't treat me the way you treat other women."

  "My dear, I hardly treat you the way I treat the rest of your gender." He gave her a significant look. "That issue we laid to rest on Saturday, I believe."

  They had. For if he chose to treat her as he did other women, right now, she would be in his bed and not on the terrace sipping whiskey.

  "Actually," he said, appearing a bit surprised and thoughtful, "it is true. I am not cold, and I am in my shirtsleeves," he remarked. As if she did not know. He stood inches from her, and every time he raised his glass, his custom shirt 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 do that you are unique. One could never find a carbon copy of Francesca Cahill should he search the entire world over." He turned his attention to his scotch, as if he found the liquid in his glass fascinating.

  His praise was stunning. Francesca was oddly paralyzed, and then a small thrill began to wash 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 we cannot be friends," he said simply.

  She took a big gulp of scotch, felt her insides now thoroughly warmed, and said breathlessly, "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 spaced, extremely white teeth and one dimple in his right cheek. Still, he did not look boyish when he grinned; he looked more like an archangel sent to tempt the innocent. "Not always, Francesca. And at last, you allow yourself a smile."

  "God, that is a relief!" she quipped, ignoring his comment. "You can be so insufferable at times, 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 shipping and insurance company, an enviable art collection, and several stately homes, through arrogance and close-mindedness." He lifted his glass in a salute. Then he sobered. "So? Are you ready to tell me why you were out here alone, frowning with worry, your expression so sad, when I first stepped 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 the night, 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. She wasn't drunk, simply... relaxed. Perhaps the scotch was the reason she wished to wag her tongue so boldly.

  "Francesca? What kind of internal debate are you waging?" He was amused again. His good humor made his near-black eyes sparkle as he regarded her over the rim of his glass.

  She watched him sip and swallow. She watched a muscle move in his strong throat. "I have the 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 an even 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 not going to discuss Bragg with him, not when they had been having a perfectly fine time, not when 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 even wary.

  She had finished half of her drink. She looked up. "Evan has left Father's company and the house. He intends to break off his engagement to Sarah an
d find new employment and a flat. Mama is heartbroken."

  Hart smiled. "Good for him." He raised his glass 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 needs a 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 has every right to marry or not as he chooses. I do not see your brother as being ready for marriage, Francesca. I also sense he is a romantic, just like you."

  Francesca could not be more surprised. "He is romantic. He is constantly falling in love—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 avoid involvement 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 be quite 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 independent now—no, Calder, you are wrong."

  He shook his head and laughed again. "Do not come crying to me another time, for I will remind you that this time I was right. So what did your father hold over Evan's head? I assume the engagement was a forced one."

  Francesca hesitated, surprised once more at how astute Hart was. She had another odd feeling—that if she asked Hart to help her brother financially, he would. "Evan has incurred a few 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 to describe."

  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 he finally 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 have fallen in so-called love with him."

  She eyed him warily but saw no sign of an imminent tempest. "Why does he always come up 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 was the circumstance 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 a lie.

  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 feeling utterly disloyal to my brother," he said calmly.

  "Disloyal?" she managed. Deny everything, she thought with panic. "The one thing I am is loyal," she snapped. "And trustworthy."

  He sighed, annoyance crossing over his features. "As if I do not know that! You owe him nothing, Francesca. You certainly do not owe him loyalty—or fidelity—in any form. If you enjoy my company, if you have thought about me in sexual ways, you have no reason to feel disloyal or guilty."

  She could not cross her arms, because of the drink she held. She quaffed down as much as she possibly could and began to choke.

  "Oh, Christ," he said, his tone amused. He set his glass down on the terrace slates at his feet, then patted her back gently.

  And even through his jacket, which she wore, his hand was so distinct. She coughed again and, finally, gasped for air. "Hart... I don't think about you ... that way!" Had she ever told a bigger 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 and Connie 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 too hard. "Better?" he asked, still smiling.

  "I do not feel disloyal and I do not feel guilty when I am with you," she managed, her tone husky now. She tried to glare and failed.

  "Did I mention guilt?" He shook his head. "You can try a man's patience, Francesca. I am completely honest with you, but you are terrified of being honest with yourself and thus with me."

  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 refreshing 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 lust. 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 whore."

  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 lust 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 ha
dn'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 glass from the slate at their feet, and drank.

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

  "God 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 the situation and be able to analyze it better than Hart, as he knew all of the players firsthand. She knew he would be ruthless in his assessment of her dilemma, but the time had come to face 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 of her dress. As she fished around her bosom, she felt herself flush. He seemed quite accustomed to women retrieving odds and ends from within their undergarments, for he did not even blink as she pulled the folded note out. She handed the tiny square to him.