Chapter 12 #2
She leaned closer, but he did not pull her into his embrace. “There is no need. I could never hate you. We are in this together, whether you want it or not.”
He cupped her cheek. “Why can’t you understand?
I could never live with myself if I remained engaged, Francesca.
I would hate myself even more than I now do.
I am protecting your good name. I will continue to do so, no matter what you think, no matter what you say.
Nothing is more important to me, not even proving my innocence. ”
“I don’t want my good name protected!”
He shook his head. “Yes, you do. You merely do not realize it just yet.”
He was resolute, she realized, disbelieving.
“But you are right. Friends do not jump ship at the first sign of inclement weather. We will always be friends, won’t we?” he said, and she heard the uncertainty in his tone.
He wanted reassurance, she realized, dumbfounded. Her heart ached impossibly. “Hart,” she said, only managing a whisper, “I will always be your friend.”
He nodded and walked away from her. “I feel the same way.”
Francesca dropped into the closest chair, incredulous. Why did he have to want to protect her reputation so badly, when he had never cared about his own?
He faced her from a careful distance. “I had my office release a statement to the press earlier today. It will be in all the morning papers.”
She stiffened. “What kind of statement?”
“I announced that our engagement was over,” he said. Softly, he added, “I am sorry, Francesca.”
She just sat there staring at him, loving him so much that hope refused to expire.
He wasn’t going to change his mind—at least not now, not in the midst of this investigation, and maybe, not ever.
It was hard to think, and even harder to know what to do.
She tried to imagine a future in which they were merely good friends.
It was impossible. “Do you still care about me?” she heard herself ask.
“Or is this case a convenient means of ending an affair that no longer interests you?”
He wet his lips, never looking away from her. “I will never stop caring,” he said.
She realized he was struggling to appear calm. Slowly, she stood. “Then don’t do this.”
“Don’t,” he warned.
She could not stop herself. She walked to him, determined, reaching for his shoulders.
“Don’t,” he said again, with some desperation flaring in his navy-and-gold eyes.
She ignored him, standing on tiptoe, pressing her mouth to his.
He did not move; his lips were firm and closed beneath hers. Francesca kissed him again, and then again, more insistently, and again, and even though he refused to respond, desire rose in a swift crescendo until he seized her in his arms, kissing her back.
Her mind rested, overcome by waves of dizzy relief.
He kissed her urgently, mindlessly, hot and hard and openmouthed, as if this might be the last kiss they ever shared, and she knew his control had snapped.
Francesca reached for his shirt, unbuttoning it and pulling it open, so she could run her hands up and down his broad, hard chest and solid, sculpted torso.
His skin was smooth and warm. His chest hair was coarse, like the stubby hair on his jaw.
He gasped, breaking the kiss and pushing her away from him.
Francesca was dazed from consuming desire. He made no move to close his shirt, which hung open, outside his pants, revealing a muscular body more fit for an athlete than an urban businessman.
“That doesn’t help,” he said hoarsely, his chest rising and falling.
“I had a point to prove,” she managed to say as breathlessly.
“I told you—I will always care, and I will always want you.” He finally reached for his shirt, buttoning it. “What difference does it make? You have brought out my noble side, Francesca, and I am not changing my mind. No matter what will remain between us, I am protecting you now.”
“Fine,” she said, trembling. But she was beginning to realize that, if he still cared and he still wanted her so passionately, there was hope. “The engagement is off, but we are friends and you shall continue to protect me from your big, bad self.”
He gave her an undecipherable look.
“And Calder?” She smiled at him now, as sweetly as possible. “You have the power to break up with me, but you do not have the power to stop me from investigating Daisy’s murder.”
“Oh, Francesca. Do not push me now, my darling.”
“Why? Because you are angry with yourself for being an idiot where we are concerned?”
His smile was dangerous. “I am angry at life. As I said, do not push me now.”
She decided to let go. “Do you want to hear about Gillespie?”
Walking over to the bar cart, he poured two very hefty Scotches. She was pleased to notice that his hands were shaking. Then he carried a drink to her. Francesca accepted it, noticing that he was careful not to touch her as he handed her the glass. “Yes.”
She felt more satisfaction then. If he wanted to know the progress she was making, it would keep them involved.
She sat down, taking a good long sip of the Scotch.
She had never needed a drink more. The alcohol warmed her instantly, and she waited for it to have its intended effect. She wanted the tension in her to dim.
Hart clearly needed the drink as much as she did, for he did not press her to reveal that day’s discoveries.
He sipped his Scotch, staring at it very thoughtfully.
No matter their current status, Francesca felt the same bond she always had with him.
He slowly glanced up at her. His eyes told her he felt it, too.
Managing as his friend would be difficult, if not impossible, she thought with savage pleasure.
It occurred to her that, instead of accepting his dictum, she could use every wile she had to attempt to seduce him.
She knew that if she could get him to take her virginity, he would marry her, no matter his intentions today.
She began to like the idea, oh, yes.
“I can feel you scheming,” he remarked. “So, tell me about Gillespie.”
Her thoughts veered to the case at hand. She leaned forward eagerly, about to describe her meeting with Gillespie, when Alfred appeared on the room’s threshold. Although they both looked up, he knocked lightly on the open door.
Hart was his usual abrupt self. “I asked that we not be disturbed.”
Alfred shot Francesca a very worried glance. “Sir, it is the police. I think you had better come into the front hall. They have a warrant to search the house.”
Francesca hurried into the front hall with Hart, Alfred behind them.
Bragg was waiting there, his hands in the pockets of his dark brown jacket, Inspector Newman a portly figure at his side in an ill-fitting suit and a battered felt hat.
Four officers in uniform stood behind them, staring at the life-size nude sculpture on the other end of the front hall.
The moment she entered the marble-floored room, Bragg’s gaze leapt to hers.
In that single instant, she realized he knew about the failure of her engagement, for his expression changed, tightening.
He glanced at Hart, looking disgusted and angry at once.
Hart’s strides ate up the room. He halted before Bragg. “You have a warrant to search my house?”
Bragg glanced at Francesca again. “I’m afraid so. Given all of the evidence, there was no other choice.”
Hart’s smile was nasty. “There is always another choice.”
Bragg handed him the document. “Why don’t you read it?”
“No, thank you. You would never trump up such an important document, now would you?” He whirled, gesturing at the rest of his house. “Please, feel free. I have nothing to hide.”
Francesca’s heart was leaping wildly. She wished Rick had not done this. But of course, the police would not find anything, unless they found more evidence of his involvement with Daisy.
“Calder,” Bragg said sharply. “I need that note Daisy sent you, asking you to meet her that night.”
“I can’t find it.” Hart shrugged mockingly at him, as if to say, tough luck.
Bragg grimaced and turned to her, lowering his tone. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine,” she lied, too brightly. She glanced nervously at Hart, but he was pretending to ignore them. “What do you expect to find here, Rick? Hart is not the murderer.”
He sighed. “Francesca, Chief Farr approached me about the need to search the house. And he is right. It would be remiss of the department not to take a good look around Hart’s home.”
“Farr!” she exclaimed in disgust. “I still think he is up to no good.”
He touched her arm. “Let’s talk privately.”
Unable to stop herself, she glanced at Hart. He had been very jealous of her friendship with Bragg until recently and she had no desire to provoke him now.
But he no longer pretended to ignore them. His smile flashed, as cold as ice. “By all means, have a little tête-à-tête. After all, you are a free, unattached woman now.”
“We can speak here,” Francesca told Bragg.
He took her arm. “I don’t think so. He will have to get over it.”
Francesca glanced once more at Hart as Bragg led her into an adjoining salon, often used by the family when they visited for smaller, more intimate gatherings.
Hart simply stared at them before walking away, his gaze terribly intense.
Rick closed the mahogany doors. “I heard, Francesca,” he said quietly.
“One of the newsmen told me of Hart’s statement to the press. It will be in tomorrow’s newspapers.”
She searched his face for any sign of pleasure on his part, but she could find none. “Aren’t you going to gloat? Or at least say I told you so?”
He started. “No, I am not.” He touched her cheek briefly, shocking her. Instantly he dropped his hand. “I know you have been smitten. And I can see that you are very hurt.”