Chapter 8 #2
“Like hell you do!” Hart exploded. He was furious. “It was a private matter, goddamn it, a very private matter!”
“What the hell does that mean?” Rourke demanded.
Hart shook his head, the anger gone, his expression ravaged. Clearly, he could not speak.
Rourke was concerned, vastly so. “Calder. I am your brother in every way but biologically. I want to help. I have never seen you like this. Are you sure you are not grief-stricken over Miss Jones’s death?”
“No.” He looked Rourke in the eyes.
“But you are grieving—I can see that—as if someone you cared for has died.”
Hart stared. “My child died,” he said. He suddenly seemed to choke up. He added harshly, “Daisy was carrying my child.”
Rourke was shocked. It was a moment before he could speak. “Are you certain?”
Hart stood, tension rippling through his body.
“I spoke with her physician just before I left on this trip. She appeared to be in her third or fourth month. Our affair was in February, before I was with Francesca. You can do the math. Even before she became my mistress, even when I saw her on a casual basis, Daisy always insisted I use protection—which is my habit, anyway. She was always so careful! I was always so careful! But one night in February, shortly after she moved in, the condom ruptured.” Abruptly he sat down again, rubbing his temples.
“Could someone else be the father?” Rourke had to ask.
Hart looked up, briefly incredulous. “I never share. When Daisy became my mistress, our arrangement was exclusive. I have no reason to believe that she would deceive me in such a way. And what are the odds that she took another lover and that his means of protection also failed?”
“I am so sorry,” Rourke finally said, meaning it.
“God, this was a terrible act of fate,” Hart cried.
Hart’s words were surprising because Rourke knew he did not believe in destiny. “It was an accident, Calder, an accident. It happens all the time.”
Hart looked up. “I didn’t want the child.”
Rourke didn’t know what to say. Hart needed comfort, yet he wasn’t sure how to give it. “His or her death was not your fault.”
“No! You don’t understand. I genuinely did not want that child.”
Rourke tried to remain calm. “Calder, you were shocked, and you were probably angry with Daisy—as anyone would be. But just because your initial reaction was to reject the child, that doesn’t make you responsible for his or her death.”
Hart shot to his feet. “Haven’t you ever heard the expression Be careful of what you wish for?”
Rourke flinched.
“Well, I got what I wished for, didn’t I,” he said savagely. And he swept the files and papers from his desk.
Francesca sat on the pale green sofa in Hart’s large, wood-paneled library, her hands folded in her lap, some of her composure recovered.
Alfred had shown her in and had told her that Hart was not home yet.
Francesca had told him that she would wait, and with a firm smile, she had refused any refreshments.
She looked at the clock behind his desk.
It was almost six. She had been waiting for more than an hour.
She would wait all night, if she had to.
Daisy’s pregnancy still felt like a betrayal, but now she could think rationally and had shoved those feelings aside, to be dealt with at a later date. Her resolve had never been stronger.
Hart needed her now. He had never needed her more. No matter what the future might hold for them, she would see him safely through this terrible time.
She felt him behind her, before she even heard his footfall or the door open.
Francesca tensed, forgetting to breathe.
In spite of her resolve, a new nervous anxiety consumed her.
She turned. The library door was open and Hart stood on the threshold, staring at her, looking as if he had spent the day in hell. Francesca slowly stood.
Hart came into the room. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. Francesca’s tension increased. “Would you care for a Scotch?”
“No, thank you,” Francesca said tersely. She went to the door and closed it.
He glanced briefly at her as he poured one Scotch. “Are you certain? This case just arrived and you have yet to try it.”
She wet her lips. “Yes.” She had no intention of pretending that nothing was amiss.
He smiled, his face terribly blank, as if they were strangers and nothing more.
He obviously intended to play a game with her now.
But then, Hart had never been an easy man to be with.
In moments like these, he retreated with such icy calm behind such a wall of reserve that it was frightening to try to reach out to him.
Francesca thought she understood. He was suffering and he did not want her to see.
He must be suffering even more than she imagined.
I don’t want your goddamned child.
Francesca did not want to think of that.
He had spoken in shock and anger and she would never believe that he had meant his words.
She started to approach. Not looking at her, he drained the glass and poured another one.
Francesca refused to be intimidated, even though it was clear he was not pleased by her presence.
Holding the refreshed glass to his chest, he said casually, avoiding eye contact, “How was your day?”
She could not smile, but she did not want to play this game anyway. “Terrible.”
His brows arched.
“But probably not as terrible as yours.” She exhaled. “I know all about the child.”
His eyes widened and their gazes clashed. Instantly, he turned away.
Francesca wanted to run to him and take him in her arms, but she knew he would reject her. “Calder,” she said quietly, in a plea. “Let me help you.”
He did not move, not for a long instant. Then, not answering her and not looking at her, he asked as quietly, “How did you find out?”
“Annie and Mrs. Greene both heard your argument with Daisy on Thursday. They have amended their earlier police statements. The police know, Calder.”
He turned. He was not smiling now. His face was strained, but his feelings remained so skillfully disguised that she could not read them.
She was about to approach when he saluted her with his glass.
“I should have known you would find out. It will be your epitaph, Francesca—No Clue Left Unturned.” He was not mocking; he was resigned.
She was taken aback by that odd note of defeat. “I really did not make any discovery, as both women came forward.”
He made a harsh sound and drained that drink, too. “I am sorry. You are the last person I should lash out at.”
She started toward him.
He stiffened. “Don’t.”
She froze. “I am so sorry,” she said, meaning it.
His eyes grew shadowed. “Only you, Francesca, would be sorry that my bastard is dead.”
Tears threatened. “Just let me help you through this. You can feign apathy, but I know you cannot be indifferent, Calder. I know you are in mourning.”
As if he had not heard her, he said, “Is my arrest imminent?”
“Why are you doing this? Why are you treating me as if we are polite acquaintances? We are lovers, we are friends,” Francesca cried. “Another woman was carrying your child and she is now dead! Surely you wish to discuss this with me!”
“You must know—is my justice-driven brother preparing to arrest me?” he asked sharply.
“No!” She inhaled, shaking. “Hart—he did say you should get a lawyer.”
Hart laughed. The sound was ugly, but Francesca recognized it—his pain was there, ready to erupt. Determined not to be pushed away, she walked over to him, her trepidation huge. He watched her very warily now.
“I know you did not kill Daisy.”
“Do you?”
She paused before him, ignoring that provocation. “I am going to prove you innocent. If being nasty makes you feel better, then so be it. I will be your whipping boy.”
He studied her, his face hard and set. “You heard them. I didn’t want the bastard. I have motive, Francesca, lots of it, and I am sure the police will find opportunity as well.”
“Stop it!” She took his face in her hands, ignoring his tension. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
“I meant it,” he roared at her.
Francesca cringed, releasing him.
He whirled away from her, pacing, then faced her again. He was shaking. “Why won’t you stop being so goddamned loyal? When will you realize that your family and friends are right? You have made a mistake. I am no good. You have all the proof you need, do you not?”
She shook her head in protest. “You are a good man,” she cried.
“I can think of nothing worse, nothing, than bringing an unwanted bastard into this world. Do you understand me?”
She had never seen him with so much rage and anguish. “I understand,” she managed to say, because it was hard to stand her ground, “that you were an unwanted bastard.”
His look was murderous. “Please leave, Francesca. Please leave.”
Francesca was afraid. But she could not walk away when he was suffering so terribly.
“Calder, stop,” she whispered desperately.
“I am here because I care. I know that from your perspective, learning Daisy was pregnant was the worst fate you could imagine. But you are not your father! Had your child survived, he or she would have been loved—by both parents! I am certain!”
He stared at her. “You have chosen to believe the best about me from the first. You have chosen to ignore my reputation and my past. When are you going to learn from your mistakes? The past is here, Francesca, in the present. My mistress and my child are dead, and I am the prime suspect.”
“I am not making a mistake,” she said, and she finally felt a tear falling, but the tear was for him. “I know you better than anyone. You are like a stray dog, Calder, all bark and no bite. One kind caress and the tail wags!”
“Am I supposed to be touched by your loyalty? Damn it, Francesca, I did not want you involved in this from the start!”