Chapter 12 #2
She clapped her hand to her mouth to still a sob.
She hated herself for her self-pity, but she was no martyr and no heroine.
Francesca Cahill was brave and courageous.
She would somehow navigate life as a cripple if this had been her fate.
Leigh Anne knew she should have never come back. God, he deserved Francesca, he did.
The front door slammed.
Her tears stopped. She froze in alarm and strained to hear, and in sinking dismay she recognized his voice in the entry just downstairs. Quickly she exhaled, wiping the tears away with the sheet and then closing her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
Some minutes passed and he did not start up the stairs. Relief began. If only she could really fall asleep before he came up! But sleep eluded her now, when she spent so much time in a chair or in her bed, when all she wanted to do was sleep, sleep, sleep. And then she heard him.
She stiffened, reminded herself to breathe, and listened to his every footstep.
The stairs were old, like the house, and each plank creaked.
The footfall changed on the landing, where a thin runner was in the hall.
She heard him pause in the doorway of their room, where Mr. McFee had left the door ajar.
She tried to breathe naturally, no easy task when her body was rigid with fear.
He approached the bed.
She prayed he would think she was asleep.
She felt him hesitate and then lean closer.
His hand drifted over her shoulder and she shivered, tensing even more.
As he moved some hair from her face and adjusted the covers, she bemoaned the fact that his most innocent touch remained a sexual invitation.
It had always been that way for her with him.
“Leigh Anne?” he whispered, and she knew that he knew she was awake.
She hesitated, wanting him to believe he was mistaken, that she was asleep, wanting him to leave.
“Do you need anything?” he asked softly, clearly not fooled by her pretense. And he touched her again, this time on the side of her cheek.
Her jaw ground down. She wanted to scream at him not to touch her. “I’m fine,” she managed to say.
He hesitated, still leaning over her, not moving.
She became very alarmed and her eyes flew open and she met his intense, unwavering golden stare. “What are you doing?”
His temples throbbed visibly. “It’s been a long day. I am getting ready for bed.”
He never slept this early! She wanted to be alone! If only the house was larger, if only she had her own room, her own bed! “It’s nine o’clock,” she heard herself say, and she sounded terrified.
He just stared at her.
“Don’t do this,” she begged.
He hesitated for one more moment, then went around to his side of the bed, still completely dressed, even in his shoes, and he got in to lie down.
“What are you doing?!” she cried.
He moved close and pulled her into his arms. “Just let me hold you,” he said.
She tried to say no. She tried to protest. But she couldn’t speak; she wept instead.
It was so late and so dark—if only Bridget were safe!
Gwen left the omnibus and began walking as fast as she could.
Her supervisor had made her stay late with two other workers to fill a large order for a major department store, an order that was overdue.
There had been no choice; he had ignored her protestations, her fears.
Hans Schmidt simply did not care that a cold-blooded killer was on the loose and that her daughter was home alone.
The night was black and still, starless and cool.
A whispering breeze caressed her cheek, chilling her to the bone.
Gwen could not breathe, choking on her fear for her daughter.
There was very little traffic on the street as she paused on the sidewalk at the corner, waiting for a lone carriage to pass.
She saw no one. It didn’t matter. A killer stalked the young women of the city and Margaret Cooper was proof of that. Even now, he could be in her flat, attacking Bridget…
But maybe David was there. She knew that he hated her now, with all of his heart.
His demand that they reconcile was vicious, for he only wanted her back so he could spend the rest of his life flinging the fact of her single love affair in her face, every chance that he got.
That, and to poison Bridget against her own mother.
But she didn’t think he hated his daughter, his flesh and blood.
Still, she could not be sure. He was a weak, mean, cowardly man.
God knew he wouldn’t help Bridget if she was in danger, but his presence might be enough to forestall the Slasher.
The carriage, pulled by a single bay, passed. A pebble flew out from its wheels and skittered her way. Casting one more glance behind her, she rushed across the cobbled street, thinking about how late it was, how dark. She was ready to weep.
Damn David. He had always been good for nothing and while she could not wish that she’d never met him—he was Bridget’s father—she could wish that she’d never married him and had born her child alone.
She reminded herself that the Slasher struck on Mondays, and today was Thursday.
He also assaulted women, not children. But Bridget looked fifteen, not eleven, and she was so terribly beautiful.
Men older than Gwen turned to ogle her all the time.
And last month that awful man, Timothy Murphy, had abducted her to add her to his ring of beautiful child prostitutes. God, hadn’t they suffered enough?
Gwen knew she only had two more blocks to go but it felt like two miles. She tried to continue to run, but she was exhausted and her legs were failing her now. She faltered, panting terribly and holding on to a street lamp for support. And then she felt the eyes, boring into her…
And she felt him there behind her…
As she realized he was there, he seized her arm.
Incapable of screaming, filled with terror, somehow knowing the Slasher had found her this time, Gwen whirled.
Slowly, he smiled.
“This is very wicked,” Francesca said with a sigh.
She smiled at Calder as she sat on a sofa in one of the many salons in his home, her jacket unbuttoned, her kidskin shoes on the floor, her feet tucked up beneath her.
She took another sip of the very old scotch and positively sighed. “Sooo wicked.”
He sat in a facing chair, watching her with a smile, making no effort to taste his own drink. “I’m very glad you appreciate a finely blended and very old scotch whiskey.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “Accepting your invitation to dine with you here, alone, could be even more wicked.” How she hoped so.
His smile widened and he stretched out his long legs. “Our supper will be ready at any moment.”
“Are you avoiding me?”
He chuckled. “Most definitely, darling. My full house is empty tonight. Rathe and Grace are out to supper. My cousin, D’Archand, is out on the prowl, I think, and Lucy went home last week. Other than the staff, we are very much alone.”
The crisis they had just weathered felt very far distant, but the interlude of being in his arms did not. Francesca smiled at him, thinking about how nice it would be to be in his arms right now, enjoying a few kisses before their meal. She set her glass down.
“I should like to meet your second possible suspect, Francis O’Leary’s fiancé.”
Francesca had just stood up; she started. “You would?”
He sipped his scotch and eyed her over its rim. “I am a very good judge of character,” he murmured.
She stared, debating his motives, hands on her hips. “You wish to distract me,” she declared.
“I do.” He grinned.
She approached, feeling very seductive, indeed. “Alfred will knock. No one is home. A kiss between fiancés is hardly unusual.”
“A kiss,” he said, smiling as he watched her very carefully now.
She came up to his side, her heart racing with excitement, enjoying being the predator, oh yes. She stood behind his chair. “A simple, little, tiny kiss,” she breathed, leaning over him. Her bosom flattened against his upper back.
He turned his head to meet her gaze and he seemed somewhat amused. But his eyes held a familiar gleam and she knew he was hardly immune to this new game. “Do you really think to seduce me?”
She grinned. “Yes. And if that is a challenge, I accept,” she said, delighted to be goaded.
“A challenge,” he repeated, shaking his head. “It is not a challenge, Francesca.”
“A warning, then…darling?” She laid her hands on his shoulders, caressing the strong muscles there. And his body tensed.
“A warning you will not heed,” he murmured, his head tilting back.
She stroked the hair at his nape. “You know how I hate being told what to do.” She bent lower and whispered, her mouth on his ear, “Let’s wager, then. Can you resist me—or not?”
He shifted and met her gaze. His smile was lazy, but it did not reach his eyes. “And what do you wish to wager, darling?”
Their gazes locked. His eyes smoked and she thought with surprise and a rush of delight that he was as aroused and enthralled as she was.
Somehow, he never did act very jaded around her.
She leaned over him, brushing her mouth against his, his cheek now pressed solidly into her breast. Desire stabbed through her with unyielding, consuming force.
She paused, briefly stunned at how playful passion could so quickly change into something so powerful, and she said, her tone odd and husky, “I want a few more hours in your bed, exactly like the last time.”
He looked at her, unsmiling, and she knew he was remembering every moment of that wild interlude.
He reached for her and pulled her down and their mouths fused.
The door slammed open. “I heard Francesca was—” Rourke stopped.