Chapter 11
“He’s not here yet,” Francesca cried breathlessly. As she had run from the cab to Sarah’s front door, she had not seen his six-in-hand.
“No, he’s not. It’s not quite six, Francesca,” Sarah said with a smile.
Francesca laid her purse and gloves on a small table in the huge entry hall, then began to wring her hands. “What if he doesn’t like it?”
Sarah took her arm. “Then that only means the theme is too suggestive for a respectable wife.” Her eyes danced with laughter as she spoke.
“I am hardly respectable now, and I doubt that will improve when I am married,” Francesca said. Her pulse raced with worry and anxiety. “Maybe I should hide.”
“Hide?” Sarah clearly had not a clue as to what she meant.
“I know this is vastly immature, but I could hide in your studio to see his reaction and—”
“That is immature,” Sarah said, laughing. “Francesca, if he doesn’t like it, that doesn’t mean he isn’t smitten with you. He obviously finds you beautiful. Maybe, though, you should wait here in the hall while I show him the portrait.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Francesca whispered when the doorbell rang. Instantly her anxiety heightened. She turned nervously as the Channings’ doorman let Calder Hart in.
He handed off a walking stick as he entered, hatless as usual, dressed in black, never looking at the doorman once. His gaze was on both women. “I wondered if you would be here,” he said to Francesca, smiling.
She was so nervous she could not respond.
He took Sarah’s hand and he seemed amused. “Good evening. You look rather pleased with yourself, indeed,” he said, before glancing at Francesca, rather curious now.
“I am very pleased with the portrait, Calder. I only hope you like it as much as I do,” Sarah said eagerly.
“I have little doubt,” he remarked, but he was already standing before Francesca, his gaze mild on hers. “Have you had a difficult day, darling?”
She nodded, then shook her head. “I mean, it has been a very good day, we have a small lead, Kate Sullivan swears that the Slasher is a tall gentleman and Francis O’Leary’s fiancé might fit the bill,” she cried, aware that she was nearly babbling.
He tucked her arm in his rather firmly. “I actually understood all of that,” he said with good humor. “What’s wrong? Why are you ready to jump out of your skin?”
She met his gaze and found it had become dark and intent. She shook her head again, breathlessly.
“Has something else happened?” he asked rather sharply. “Was there another attack? Have you been stalked, threatened, assaulted?”
“No, nothing else significant happened, really,” she said, refusing to admit her insecurities to him now.
Then she thought about Brendan Farr. She shivered.
“Actually, we learned Farr ordered Inspector Newman to incompletely file a report on the case. We caught the omissions, but Farr doesn’t know we are on to his game—whatever it might be.
Newman will now report directly to Bragg if he is asked to compromise the investigation again.
” She smiled a little at him. Discussing the case felt like firm footing, indeed.
“So you and Rick are already up to your shirtsleeves in this case,” he mused.
“Yes,” she said, and added eagerly, “There’s one more detail, a possible clue. In my interview with Francis, she told me she has been dreaming that the Slasher called her a faithless bitch. She says it is so real, she can’t help but wonder if he did speak to her that way.”
He was silent for a moment. “Does Kate Sullivan have any similar recollections?”
“No,” Francesca admitted. “But remark this. Francis’s husband abandoned her two years ago and she is engaged now to Sam Wilson. He is a well-off clockmaker, and he has not a clue as to the fact that she remains married.”
He studied her for a moment. “Perhaps he has found out the truth about his fiancée. That would be motive to assault her—and other women like her.”
“I don’t think so. The police have been trying to locate Thomas O’Leary but it will be a miracle if they actually do so. He may have gone out West. Bragg thinks he could be dead. Not a soul has heard from him in all this time.”
“What do you plan for tomorrow?” he asked after a brief pause.
“I wish to speak with Father Culhane, as I am running out of clues to pursue. I can ask him what he knows about David Hanrahan.” She sighed, feeling a bit grim. “If Kate is right, and the Slasher is a gentleman, it is not David Hanrahan.”
“He could never pass for a gentleman,” Hart agreed. “But you are suspicious of Wilson?”
“He is a gentleman, firmly middle class, and as much as I hope he is not our killer, I simply cannot rule him out.”
Hart studied her and finally he smiled, tipping up her chin. “I think you will solve this case in record time,” he said softly.
His praise was merely implied, but still, she was thrilled. But she tried to hide her pleasure. “I hope so! We must prevent another attack this coming Monday,” she said as briskly as possible. But she was terribly aware of him as he removed his hand, and of the portrait Sarah was about to unveil.
“Let me know how I can help,” he said, and then he gestured at Sarah, who stood not far from them, wide-eyed and listening raptly to their every word. “I think our hostess awaits. I am sorry,” he apologized to her. “Francesca’s investigations become addictive in no short time.”
“So I can see,” Sarah said, both dark eyebrows raised. Then she beamed. “Do follow me, please!”
Francesca dismissed all thoughts of the case.
She stole a glance at Hart, who was darkly devastating, as always.
There had been so many beautiful women in his life, in his bed…
Did she really expect him to admire her portrait?
For her, it was a highly significant moment.
Posing had taken courage and commitment.
Perhaps, for him it would just be another pretty nude.
“Shall we?” Hart murmured, guiding her forward.
She dared to meet his dark, probing gaze. “Of course,” she said, reminding herself that if she could face killers alone, she could surely withstand some slight criticism from the man she loved.
Her heart lurched as they followed Sarah down the hall. It was becoming harder and harder to deny the feelings growing inside her, she thought. In his arms there was always passion and so much of it, but at times like these, it truly felt like love.
All the lights were on in Sarah’s studio.
Like the Cahill home and the most modern of the city’s residences, the Chandlers had electric lighting, a telephone and hot and cold running water.
Sarah paused to let them precede her inside, and then she went to the covered easel in the middle of the room and stood beside it, no longer smiling.
Francesca bit her lip and slipped free of Hart’s grasp.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Please,” he said to Sarah.
Sarah seemed pale. She pulled the cloth from the easel, revealing the nude.
Francesca did not look at her portrait—not yet. She stared at Hart and saw his eyes widen.
He focused on the canvas, very intent, and she watched his gaze slip over her likeness, in the exact way he had so often looked at her.
Her pulse quickened.
Hart didn’t move. His gaze returned to the face in the portrait—her face—and moved slowly from feature to feature.
His regard slid down her throat and moved even more slowly over the swollen profile of her breast. Then his eyes were drawn down the length of her back, the swell of her buttocks and finally, he gazed at the rest of the portrait and the red dress.
Francesca hugged herself, a roaring in her ears. Her cheeks were warm.
The room was hugely, heavily silent. Hart seemed to have no inclination to speak. It no longer mattered. He was looking at the portrait, but he was as acutely aware of Francesca as she was of him.
Desire, huge and hot, gathered in him, in her, between them, around them.
Her heart felt like a trapped winged bird in the cage that was her chest.
Hart finally turned to Sarah. And while he might have been looking at the artist, Francesca knew his real attention never wavered, not even once, from her as she stood there behind him.
“You have created a beautiful portrait, Sarah. I more than like it. You have captured Francesca exactly as I wished her to be portrayed.”
Sarah beamed. “I am so glad you like it, Calder.”
He turned to the portrait again and stared. A huge silence fell.
Francesca wondered what he was thinking, exactly.
Finally, slowly, Hart turned. Francesca did not move as he faced her. Their gazes instantly locked.
He was imagining her nude, she knew it. And he wanted to take her in his arms—she knew that, too.
Suddenly Sarah said something, something Francesca could not decipher. Hart did not seem to hear her either, as he remained utterly still. Francesca was vaguely aware of Sarah ducking her head and hurrying out. She was vaguely aware of a door closing.
Hart continued to stare at her.
She wet her lips and tried to find her voice. It was as if her tongue had been cut out. “You really like it?” she managed to say.
A faint, faint smile. “Yes. I really like you.”
The gathering heat threatened to erupt. “Do you—” She stopped.
“Do I what?” he asked very softly. “Do I want to see you in the flesh just like that? Yes, I do,” he said, and somehow he was standing before her, his strong hands on her small waist, his breath feathering her ear. He was smiling, so much more seductive than any man had any right to be.
“Do you really think I look like that?” she heard herself ask, desperately wanting him to say yes.
“Oh yes,” he said softly, and she saw him wet his lower lip. “Oh yes, Francesca, I do.”
“Calder,” she whispered, a plea.
His grip tightened. “I don’t feel noble tonight, Francesca. I don’t feel noble at all,” he warned quietly. And he bent and kissed the lapel of her jacket, folded back directly over the center of her breast.