Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  Daisy took her hand. “Come. Come into the salon. I am so pleased you have called,” she said in her soft, breathy voice. The tone suited her fragile appearance.

  A bit uncomfortable, Francesca followed her into an elegant salon, the walls a soft creamy gold, the furniture muted in tones of green, blue, and gold. Beautiful Persian rugs were underfoot, and three crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. The room, like the house, was understated elegance. Both women settled into adjacent chairs.

  Daisy was wearing a sky blue dress several shades lighter than her eyes. She held Francesca’s hand warmly. “Are you on another case?” she asked eagerly. “I read all about the Cross Killer two weeks ago. My, Francesca! You have become indispensable to Rick Bragg.” She was admiring.

  “Yes, actually, we are working on another case, one that is rather complicated.” But Francesca hadn’t come to discuss the investigation. She wanted to get far more personal. “How is Rose?”

  Daisy started. Rose was her best friend and her lover. Upon first realizing this, Francesca had been shocked. But in time, she had come to accept the fact that the two women loved each other. Francesca also liked Rose, who was tempestuous, dark, and sultry. “I haven’t seen her in a week. You know Hart is very difficult when it comes to Rose.”

  Francesca could not help it. Hart was the topic she wished to broach. “He knows how strongly you feel about Rose. I am sure he is jealous.”

  “Jealous? Hart?” Daisy was surprised, and then she smiled in amusement. “Francesca, Hart doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body. He is possessive, maddeningly so, but never jealous.”

  Francesca nodded, feeling grim. Here was news indeed, and it did not surprise her. He wasn’t jealous, because he refused to allow himself to love, but he was possessive, which was far worse. Clearly he considered Daisy very much in the way he considered the other items he collected, a possession, personal property.

  “Do not misunderstand,” Daisy said quickly. “I adore Calder. I have never met a more thoughtful or generous man. I am happy with our arrangement. But he and Rose are at such odds, and it puts me in the middle, between them. They cannot stand one another. I just do not know what to do.”

  Francesca could not help herself. Some time ago, when she had been working on the Randall Murder, Hart had been a suspect. His alibi had been that he had been in bed with both Rose and Daisy at the time of Randall’s murder. Francesca knew that he had enjoyed the favors of both women simultaneously more than once, before he had made Daisy his mistress. “He used to be fond of Rose,” she commented.

  Daisy said gently, “In those days, he did not know either one of us. It was strictly passion, Francesca.”

  She flushed. Who would be foolish enough to marry a man who had slept with two women at the same time?

  “Are you all right?” Daisy asked, startling her. She peered closely at Francesca. “You seem . . . distracted. No, disturbed.”

  “I am a bit overwhelmed right now,” Francesca said. She hesitated. “Bragg’s wife returned to town and they have reconciled, while my brother was terribly beaten up in a bar.”

  Daisy gasped. “I am so sorry about your brother! And as for the commissioner, I had no idea he even had a wife! I know how you feel about him.”

  Francesca managed a smile. “We remain friends,” she said firmly. And after all of the investigative work that they had shared that day, it now seemed possible to turn their relationship into a genuine friendship. That gladdened Francesca.

  “He should have told you,” Daisy flared. “And that is why I love Rose and in general do not like most men.” She softened. “Calder is an extreme exception.”

  Francesca had to defend Bragg. “His wife abandoned him four years ago, Daisy. She took off to Europe, where she had many lovers. They hadn’t even spoken in four years, much less seen one another. Her return was a surprise to us all.”

  “You still love him,” Daisy said.

  “I care deeply and I always will,” Francesca agreed. She realized that her anger of the previous evening had dissipated. She simply could not remain angry with Bragg. And the sorrow—and sense of loss—had also lessened.

  Suddenly Daisy glanced past Francesca. “Calder is here!” she cried in surprise and delight.

  Francesca whirled in her chair to look out the window. There was no mistaking the huge gleaming barouche now parked in the street. She leaped to her feet. “He mustn’t see me! He mustn’t know I was here!”

  Daisy gaped at her. “But . . . why?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you—and there is no time!” Francesca felt panicked.

  Daisy stood, walking past Francesca and opening the door to a smaller salon. “I will bring your coat. Stay in here. When he comes into the salon, you can go out that door over there and through the front hall. There is a door on the far end which opens onto the gardens in the back.”

  “Thank you!” Francesca cried, rushing into the adjacent room and firmly closing the door. Her heart was thundering in her chest. She felt as if she were a crook caught with his hand in the safe. Hart would know she had been prying into his life if he caught her now. He would be very amused—and he would never let her forget it.

  Daisy returned from the front hall, handing Francesca her coat and gloves. She smiled. “Do come again,” she whispered.

  Francesca nodded as Daisy backed out, quietly closing the door behind her. And before she could take a deep, reassuring breath, she heard Daisy cry out in the front hall, “Calder! It is so good to see you!”

  Francesca straightened. It almost sounded as if Daisy were anxious and as if she hadn’t seen her lover in some time.

  But that couldn’t be right. Francesca knew of Hart’s sexual appetite. He would visit his mistress frequently. He would visit Daisy every night.

  He replied, his drawl too low for her to make out the words. Francesca became more rigid. His tone was not the oh-so-sexy murmur that he so often used with her. It was rather barren of sensuality, in fact. How odd.

  “Would you care for a scotch? Are you hungry? Or how about a hot bath?” Daisy’s voice was very distinct now, and clearly she and Hart had walked into the salon Francesca had just vacated. This was her opportunity to leave.

  Francesca did not move. Her heart beat hard.

  “I am fine,” Hart said matter-of-factly, his tone amazingly straightforward and not at all seductive, not in the least.

  “Is everything all right?” Daisy asked with obvious worry.

  Francesca knew she must not snoop. She walked over to the door that led to the salon and pressed her ear against it. She simply had to know more about his relationship with this woman. She could not help herself.

  Hart sighed. “We must talk.”

  There was silence. Francesca could feel Daisy’s alarm. She herself was more than surprised herself. What was going on?

  “Have I done something to offend you?” Daisy then asked. “Or have you tired of me already? I haven’t seen you in days, Calder.” She did not whine. Her tone was soft, uncertain, but not shrewlike.

  “My sweet Daisy,” Hart said, but quietly. “You haven’t offended me, but I have been rather preoccupied these past few days. There is something I do need to discuss with you.”

  “Are you ending our relationship?” she asked, her tone tremulous. “I shan’t cry. I am very fond of you, but if that is what—”

  “No. I am hardly ending our relationship,” Hart said flatly.

  Francesca could not deny the extent of her disappointment. But then, Hart was showing his true colors. He was pursuing her but keeping Daisy, and it was no surprise.

  “Shall we sit down?” he now asked gently.

  “I am afraid to sit down,” Daisy said. And then, “Calder, I have missed you!”

  “Please, let us sit.” After a pause, during which Francesca imagined them sitting down together on the couch, he said, “I have decided to marry.”

  Daisy gasped. So did Francesca.

  “Wha
t was that?” Hart asked sharply.

  Francesca covered her mouth with her hand.

  “I . . . I . . . Calder! This is simply stunning!” Daisy cried.

  Francesca realized she had forgotten to breathe. Hart had come to discuss his marriage with her? With Daisy, his mistress? She was stunned.

  “I know.” His laughter was self-deprecating. “I am extremely fond of Miss Cahill, and she is the one I eventually hope to wed.”

  There was a stunned silence from Daisy now.

  And not just from Daisy, but from Francesca as well. Calder had come to apprise his mistress of his intentions toward Francesca. In a way, it was so noble. But it did not make any sense, oh no.

  “It may be some time before I gain a commitment from Miss Cahill, but when that time comes, I am afraid I will be ending our affair.”

  Francesca choked off another gasp and reeled as Daisy said, shocked, “I see.”

  Francesca leaned helplessly upon the door. Calder would jettison his mistress when they were wed? Did that mean he intended to be faithful? Was it even remotely possible?

  “When she accepts your suit, you will become faithful,” Daisy said rather dully.

  “I see no point in marrying should I wish to carry on with other women,” Hart said. “However, it may be some time before we are affianced.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I rather think she might be more amenable to your suit than you think,” Daisy said, sounding tearful.

  “Please, do not cry. I am not good with tears. I dislike women who weep and carry on.” He was firm.

  Francesca realized her own eyes were flooding now. Hart intended to be faithful to her. It was simply too stunning to comprehend.

  “Daisy,” he said sharply, a command.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “Excuse me for one moment.”

  Francesca heard her walk out of the salon. She was trembling now. If she accepted Hart’s suit, he would leave his mistress and give up his penchant for other women. Oh, my God.

  Could this really be happening?

  Daisy returned to the room. “Forgive me, Calder. It was a rather shocking moment for me.”

  “I understand.” Francesca heard relief in his tone.

  “Do you have to go?”

  “I should, yes.”

  Daisy did not reply.

  And the silence lengthened.

  And when several more moments passed, Francesca became unnerved. The silence could only mean one thing. Or was she leaping to conclusions? Could Hart possibly be making love to Daisy after all he had just declared? She reached for the doorknob, trembling, and hesitated. She should not spy, and she did not dare get caught. But she had to know what they were doing.

  Francesca turned the doorknob as gently as she could, cracked the door, and peered through.

  Calder stood not far from where Francesca stood. Daisy had her arms around him and she was on her tiptoes, nibbling on his lips. For one moment, as his eyes were open, Francesca thought that he had seen her.

  But his eyes drifted closed.

  Francesca thanked God she hadn’t been caught, was about to back quickly out, and then changed her mind. Daisy was trying to seduce him; that much was clear. Calder was hardly being responsive or encouraging. Yet he hadn’t tossed her aside, either. Francesca knew that she should go, but she would be forever tortured if she didn’t stay to see whether Daisy succeeded in seducing Hart or not.

  She watched Daisy slip her hands beneath Hart’s white shirt, and incredulous, she saw Daisy begin to sensually shift her hips back and forth, clearly rubbing herself over his loins. Francesca couldn’t move or breathe; Hart’s eyes opened, but he was smiling now and Francesca did not worry that he might notice her. He was becoming too involved.

  Daisy reached down between them and Francesca bit her lip hard, because it was obvious that Daisy was grasping his manhood through his trousers. Stunned, she heard Daisy say, “I think you need me for a few minutes, Calder. Please, it is my pleasure. Sit down.”

  Francesca wanted him to tell her “No.”

  But another part of her wanted him to say “Yes.”

  Hart’s jaw flexed. “You are the ultimate temptress, Daisy,” he said softly. “And God, I have been celibate for several days.”

  “You are a man who needs a woman on a daily basis, Calder. And you are hardly married yet. Do you think to remain celibate from this day forward?” Daisy asked simply.

  Francesca already knew that answer.

  “Absolutely not,” he said, and then his teeth flashed. “What are you wearing under that dress?” he asked.

  Daisy smiled seductively. “Nothing.”

  “Take it off.”

  Francesca’s heart leaped. She watched Hart help remove Daisy’s dress, so adept that it slithered down her naked, flawless body and to the floor within seconds. She was mesmerized. Hart clasped his mistress’s soft pale buttocks and sat down in a chair, pulling her down on top of him.

  Francesca felt the fire in her own loins. She held on to the doorknob so she could remain standing up. This was, most definitely, the time to leave. But God, she could not move or breathe, and Francesca knew golden opportunity when she saw it.

  Daisy laughed huskily and began licking his lips, his face.

  Francesca’s heart lurched; her nipples tightened; her sex swelled. And she watched Daisy toy with the seam of his lips. Francesca had just tasted him yesterday. She recalled very vividly how he tasted, how he felt, and even how he smelled. And now Hart’s head had fallen back as he gave in to pure carnal pleasure, his long strong throat suddenly vulnerable and exposed, his eyes fluttering closed.

  Daisy kissed his throat.

  The jealousy came then. Francesca had the insane urge to run into the room, pull Daisy off Hart by her pretty platinum hair, settle herself on his lap, claim his lips with her own, and ingest all of him that she could.

  Daisy unbuttoned his shirt.

  Francesca’s knees buckled as swathe after swathe of rock-hard chest and torso was revealed. His arms were sculpted like the statue David. His chest was two hard slabs of muscle. His nipples were copper-colored and very erect. Daisy latched onto one, suckling it vigorously.

  Desire made her feel faint. And Hart finally groaned.

  The sound was raw and so sexual, Francesca knew it was a sound she would never, ever forget. . . . Daisy was kissing him in the center of his chest. Francesca gasped, realizing her intention. She moved lower and lower, working her way down the center of his belly with her lips. Francesca gripped the door. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Daisy unbuckled his belt, sliding off his lap to do so, on her knees, between his thighs. Francesca stared as Daisy freed Hart’s manhood.

  Daisy flicked her tongue over it.

  Hart groaned again. His large hands clasped her head, as if to hold her down.

  Daisy began laving his shaft, up and down, all around.

  Then she sucked the huge head into her mouth and, a moment later, half of his length.

  Francesca cried out weakly. She couldn’t breathe. And she could taste him as if he were in her mouth and her throat. Somehow, she knew he would be salty yet sweet. She could feel him throbbing against the walls of her cheeks, the back of her throat. Her lips stretched taut. She wanted to suck him down even more deeply. Somehow, she could find ecstasy in doing so. She simply knew it.

  Hart gasped.

  Francesca blinked, clinging to the door, which was somehow more wide open now, and saw Hart on his feet, unsmiling and intense. He removed his shirt, staring down at Daisy, who now sat on the floor at his feet, her lips slick and swollen, her small breasts heaving. He removed his shoes, his socks, his trousers and drawers. Francesca bit her fist so she would not moan and attract his attention.

  He was gorgeous. Man and sex.

  He extended a hand, lifting Daisy to her feet. Then he swept her up and laid her on the couch. Francesca knew that if she were Daisy, she would be begging him desperately to hurry and enter her.
r />   Hart lowered himself over her.

  Francesca could not—would not—move. Hurry, she thought wildly, hurry, Calder, hurry . . .

  And Hart laughed, low. It was the most sexual sound Francesca had ever heard, and then, to her shock, her amazement, her dismay, he slowly began rubbing the bulbous head of his penis over Daisy’s sex. He was slick and wet. So was she. Daisy began to pant and whimper, to writhe.

  Hart’s rhythm increased. The tendons in his biceps and arms bulged, as did the straining muscles in his shoulders, his back, his buttocks.

  “Hurry,” Daisy whispered.

  Or was it Francesca?

  He thrust slowly, maddeningly, deep into her.

  Francesca cried out.

  It took a long moment to recover. Her body had exploded in sheer shameless ecstasy, her heart beat so hard it felt dangerous and life-threatening, and she had bitten her wrist to keep quiet. Sanity returned. Dear God, what had she done? And how could she have let happen what had happened just now?

  Francesca squeezed her eyes tightly closed, disbelieving now. Dismay consumed her savagely now, and then came the equally burning, odious guilt. When suddenly she froze, recalling that the door behind her had been left wide open.

  Dread overcame her.

  She sat up slowly with dread, certain she would see Hart standing in the doorway, staring down at her.

  She almost fainted with relief. The doorway was empty.

  And then she heard the soft, rhythmic sound coming from the other room.

  She quickly leaped to her feet and ran to the doorway. Hart and Daisy remained wildly embraced. Daisy was whimpering uncontrollably—she appeared about to climax. Hart, however, appeared intent and absolutely in control. He looked capable of making love to his mistress for several hours.

  Francesca shut the door, grabbed her coat, and ran out of the house.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1902—5:30 P.M.

  “YOU MUST HELP ME dress,” Francesca shouted. “Hart will be here at any moment!” She ran past her gaping mother and sister and landed on the wide, sweeping stairs, still running.

  Julia and Connie had been chatting over sherry. Now both women leaped to their feet and hurried into the hall. “Francesca?” Julia asked. “Whatever is wrong?”