Бренда Джойс – Deadly Illusions (страница 6)

Her head throbbed and her new, white kidskin shoes were too tight. Like Gwen O’Neil—and perhaps Margaret Cooper—her feet were sore. She knew there would be some huge cost to pay, but she’d already decided to sneak up to her room, avoiding the party altogether. Besides, how would she explain that she was late? Her parents frowned upon her sleuthing, as she was only twenty years old and still a part of their household. Of course, she had no doubt she could be thirty and mar ried with children and Julia would still despair over her reputation should she continue investigative work. Many times she had half promised Julia that her days as a sleuth were over. But the half truths were merely that. As much as she disliked lying to her mother, she had found her calling in life. She was an excellent investigator, and she had the record to prove it.

Attending supper was out of the question. Francesca smiled at the doorman and began to cross the long receiving room. The press had dubbed the Cahill home the “Marble Mansion” upon its completion some eight years ago. Her father, raised on a farm in Illinois, had become a butcher and eventually expanded into the country’s largest meatpacking business. Francesca had been born in Chicago, but the family had moved to New York City when she was a child. The press had had a field day with her home—and even as a six-year-old, she had read the dailies. At the time, Andrew and Julia Cahill had outdone the Astors and the Melons. Almost the entire room she now sought to cross was marble—the black-and-white floors, the pale Corinthian columns, the carved panels on the walls.

The mahogany dining-room doors were open. Francesca touched her hair, trying to tuck some loose blond tendrils behind her ears. By now, the bit of rouge she had started wearing on her cheeks and lips had long since vanished, the hem of her skirts was dirty and she was quite an untidy mess. She hoped no one would note her passing.

As Francesca started past the open double doors, she stole one sidelong peek into the room, where twenty-two guests sat at the linen-clad table. The table sat ten on each long side, one at both heads, hence twenty-two guests, unless a place re mained vacant for her. Then Julia’s entourage would number twenty-one. She glimpsed a room filled with fine crystal and gilded china, the ladies in evening gowns, the men in tuxedos, and she grimaced, ducking and increasing her pace.

But there was no escaping Julia. “Francesca!” Julia Van Wyck Cahill cried. Her tone was stern and it halted her daughter in her tracks.

Her cheeks warmed with guilt. Francesca felt like a thief caught with her hand in someone else’s safe, not for the first time. Well, there was no escaping now. Slowly, she returned to the threshold of the room, attempting a pleasant smile for the large audience.

All conversation stopped. Mild stares were turned her way.

Julia stood. There was no mistaking the resemblance between Francesca and her mother. Julia was blond, blue-eyed and still of a fine figure. She had been a reigning beauty in her day. As always, she was resplendently dressed in a blue evening gown of silk and lace with three-quarter sleeves, with sapphires at her ears and neck to match. She seemed rigidly displeased, but Francesca did not notice. Instead, in shock, her gaze whipped past her mother to the dark man sitting so indolently at the table in its center.

There was no vacant place, because Calder Hart had taken it.

But he was supposed to be in Chicago, wasn’t he?

Her heart slammed and raced. Calder was home. “You’re back,” she whispered, stunned, and their gazes locked.

He slowly got to his feet, a very slight smile on his dark face, and he bowed.

Francesca had missed him and there was no denying it. Maybe her attraction to Hart was purely physical, but she dearly hoped not. And if it was, then she was not the first to be so foolishly smitten.

Francesca had always assumed she would one day marry a man like her father, someone respectable, admirable, honorable, a reformer and an activist—someone like Rick Bragg. Instead, she was engaged to the city’s wealthiest businessman and most notorious womanizer. She still remained uncertain as to how this had happened, and so quickly. One moment she was friends with the enigmatic and oh-so-charismatic Hart and he was under suspicion for murder. The next, they were secretly engaged—until he had taken matters in his own hands, tired of her procrastination, making a public announcement. How had she fallen in love with Calder Hart? And was it even love?

Whenever she was with Hart, she felt as if she had boarded a locomotive that had lost all its brakes and was speeding downhill on an endless track. But as frightening as it was, she would not jump off, oh no.

She had made up her mind.

Francesca could hardly breathe as Julia said, “Are you going to join us, Francesca? You are a bit late, of course, but I am sure the traffic must have been terrible. And as you can see, your fiancé called. Of course, I invited Calder to stay and dine with us.”

Francesca had the utmost difficulty tearing her gaze from Hart. But there was an odd note in Julia’s tone, anxiety, per haps, or tension. And then she gave up, simply staring at the man who had somehow, inexplicably, offered marriage, mum bling, “I had better go upstairs and change.”

Calder stepped away from the dining table. With some alarm, he said, “Francesca, are you about to faint?”

Francesca had no clue as to what he was speaking about. Before she could react he was at her side, his arm around her waist as if holding her up. “I’m afraid my fiancée needs some air,” he said firmly, and before either Andrew or Julia could speak, he was propelling her from the room.

Hart was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was clad in a dark suit. The pitch-black wool might have been dour on another man, but on him it only heightened a sense of danger and made him more alluring. Hart’s gaze moved over her face and Francesca knew she blushed, her heart continuing to race wildly. His dark eyes—midnight blue flecked with gold—slipped down her jacket and skirts.

She began to smile, leaning against him. They crossed the hall and entered a salon, Hart’s strong arm an anchor about her waist. He stopped just inside the salon, one with a dozen opulent seating areas. Smiling back at her, he pushed the door closed with his foot.

She choked down her rising laughter. “That was painfully transparent.”

He took her in both arms. “I have been away for two very long weeks, Francesca,” he murmured, “and we both know I don’t care what the present company says or thinks.”

She knew she should protest as his hands slipped to her shoulders. Not because she did not want his kisses, but because her father was very opposed to Hart and was testing him in every way to see if he was worthy of her. Julia, on the other hand, wanted the match and openly gloated about it. She grasped his shoulders, too. “I think you missed me, Hart.” She felt certain that he had and she grinned, never mind the heat slamming through her body.

“How clever a deduction,” he said. “And it’s Calder, darling—or am I making you nervous?” A dimple winked in his cheek. He was making her nervous, damn him for knowing! They had only shared a few hours of intimacy together, and she had forgotten how devastating it was being in his arms, his hard, strong body pressed up against hers. Clearly he was aroused, and she decided to ignore the question. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

“Bold wench,” he said, and she heard laughter in his tone. “You did not answer me, darling. Why am I making you nervous?” And he stared intently into her eyes, no longer smiling at all.

She stared back, her breath suspended. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “These past few weeks have felt so odd. I have been drifting about in a fog. It’s almost as if it has all been a dream. I expect to wake up and find you a figment of my imagination!”

Surprise was there in his eyes, which were turning the color of ash. But his grip tightened on her. “I’m flattered, Francesca, but I am not a dream. In fact, some women find me a nightmare.”

She wet her lips, well aware of all the broken hearts he had left in his wake. “I don’t,” she began. “Calder—”

He cut her off, pulling her close and covering her mouth with his.

Francesca lost all coherent thought. He knew how to kiss a woman, as he had seduced so many, but this time he wasn’t interested in seduction. As his mouth instantly opened hers, as he penetrated deeply with his tongue, she sensed his need to possess. She melted as he kissed her again and again, somehow standing, her legs useless, desire pooling between her thighs, a flood. Hart had come to hold her face in his hands as he continued to kiss her as deeply as he could. Somehow, she managed to realize that he had really missed her. His desire felt explosive. She was beyond thrilled.

She tore her mouth from his. It was hard to speak as she clung to him. “Why don’t you take me home tonight,” she finally gasped.