Deadly Vows (11 page)

He strode past her, his hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers. He stared outside the office window at Mulberry Street, his face hard and tight. He finally said, “The stirrings of my body are meaningless.”

She did not believe it. He was too jaded to become so swiftly aroused. “I miss you,” she whispered. “And I need you.”

He turned, his hands still in his pockets. “I am here to help you solve the case, as this is, ultimately, my fault.”

She began shaking her head. “Blame me, if you are to blame anyone, for being such a fool as to pose nude.”

He was silent, but she knew he hadn't stopped blaming himself—and he never would.

At least they were talking. At least he cared enough to want to help her now. She said carefully, “So you are here to help us find the painting?”

He became wary. “I don't want you hurt, Francesca, and I do not want you ruined.”

She was very still. “You still care.”

His wary expression did not change. “I will always enjoy your company. I will always appreciate your intelligence and wit. I feel as you do—that we will always be friends, unless the day comes where you turn your back on me. So yes, I still care. You are a special woman. I am here as your friend.”

Francesca sighed. Had she really thought to maneuver him into some kind of declaration of love? “And after we find the portrait and the thief?”

“I will remain your friend, supporting you in all your endeavors and choices.”

It was hard to breathe properly, much less speak. “And if you remain my choice?”

He gave her a warning look. “You cannot pursue me and win.”

She trembled. “So we are no longer engaged.”

He said quietly, “I am sorry, Francesca. It was a mistake.” His gaze moved to the eight-carat diamond she was wearing. “That should be in a safe.”

She hugged herself. She wanted Hart back. Of that, there was no doubt. But she had no idea how she should proceed. Just then, honesty seemed the best policy. “I am wearing your ring to my grave.”

He shrugged. “I suppose that is your decision.”

She looked at the beautiful diamond. It glittered with stunning fire from her finger. Softly, not looking up, she said, “I will not give up on us.”

“Yes, you will.”

She jerked to meet his speculative gaze.

“You will come to your senses soon enough, Francesca, because my powers of persuasion—and seduction—will no longer be exercised.”

He was the most powerful man she knew. Even if he loved her still, she wasn't sure he would change his mind once he had committed to such a strong decision.

Ironically, his reasons were moral, when he claimed to be as amoral as a man could be.

A silence had fallen. He still stood by the window behind Rick's desk. She stood in the middle of the office, not far from the fireplace, no longer at liberty to move close to him, to touch his arm or take his hand or even blurt out whatever was on her mind. A gulf yawned between them—the gulf made by his decision to end things. It felt as vast as an ocean.

The pain of heartbreak stabbed through her again. She was never going to stop loving him, she thought. And even the greatest of oceans could be traversed.

A soft rapping on the door sounded and Rick poked his head in. He glanced at her and then Hart, before stepping back into his own office. “I suppose the lack of fireworks is an indication that some progress has been made?”

Francesca hugged herself rather miserably. She did not know what to say. Clearly, they had arrived at some kind of truce. He meant to aid her in the investigation, which meant they would work closely together. There was hope. It was not over yet.

“I am here to offer my services in this investigation,” Hart said, ignoring Rick's flicker of surprise and the concerned glance he cast at Francesca. “By the way, I have fired every one of my investigators. I believe it is time to roll up my shirtsleeves and resolve this matter once and for all.”

Rick said, “As much as I'd like to decline your offer, I'll take all the help I can get. No one is better connected than you are to the art world of this city. I imagine that most art dealers would jump at the opportunity to aid you. We were about to interview Daniel Moore. Whatever his story is, Hart, you can certainly verify it.”

“I stopped by the gallery this morning.”

Francesca looked at him in surprise.

“I had never heard of it. The work there is quite commercial—and inferior. Moore does not know his art. He might be a charlatan, simply out to make a quick dollar.”

“That is a leap to make, based simply on his artistic judgment,” Rick said.

“Yes, it is. But time will prove whether my leap is correct or not.”

“Maybe Moore allowed our thief into his gallery,” she said. “Perhaps there was remuneration. In any case, I would welcome a blackmail note.”

Rick took her elbow. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“I cannot imagine the thief not sending a blackmail note,” she said, glancing at Hart. “I feel as if one is impending.”

Hart frowned. “If the thief wanted cash, he would have ransomed the portrait long ago, instead of waiting for our wedding day. The thief wishes to toy with you—to torment you.”

“Or he or she wishes to torment
you,
” Rick said flatly to his half brother.

Hart shrugged. “That remains a distinct possibility. My coach is outside.” Hart shoved off the wall he had been leaning against. “I can take Francesca to question Moore.”

Her heart leaped wildly, exultantly, again. “Rick, we
could go now and fill you in later.” She wanted this time alone with Hart.

He looked carefully at her, warning in his eyes. “I do not mind you interviewing Moore without me, Francesca. But are you sure you wish to do so with Hart, after all that has transpired?”

She looked at Hart, who gazed back at her. “I think the worst is over,” she said, truly hoping that was the case. “He has come to help, and we remain friends. And we are agreed on one point—that portrait must be recovered, and quickly.”

“That portrait must be destroyed,” Hart said.

“Fine,” Rick said. “But keep me posted on what you discover.”

Francesca could barely believe that she was leaving Bragg's office with Hart. She smiled at Rick, then started out, clutching her purse. Hart fell into step behind her.

It felt odd and yet perfectly familiar. She dared to glance sidelong at him, hoping he would not suspect how nervous she now was.

His gaze was sober. “After you, Francesca,” he said, gesturing at the elevator.

She faltered. “You don't have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

He was looking at her directly, without anger, his gaze holding a significance she could not decipher. And in that moment, she knew there was hope. He was on her side, no matter the decision he'd made—and decisions could be changed. She smiled a little and preceded him into the cage.

 

An awkward silence came between them as they drove downtown.

Uncertain of what to make of their relationship, Francesca forced a smile. “Please, let's not be formal with one another.”

“And how is asking for a list of suspects formal?”

“It was your tone.” She smiled warmly this time. “I do not think I will be good at this, Hart.” When he remained silent, she said, “We are very close, and I can hardly pretend otherwise.”

He shrugged, his dark gaze steady.

She sighed. He could be so impossible! “Solange Marceaux is at the top of my list. I am hoping to find the prostitute I met when I was masquerading as one. Dawn might know where Solange is.”

“And how will you find Dawn?”

“I will begin by interviewing Rose,” Francesca said, glancing intently at him.

He remained calm. “My investigators spoke to her at length, Francesca. She was very hostile to them. I do not trust her, not even now, as there is so much past history between us. She remains hateful of me.”

“I don't believe that Rose would go this far to hurt me.”

“No, but she might go this far to hurt me.” He added, “Rose lives in a brothel off Sixth Avenue. Two months ago, I had Daisy's house thoroughly searched. We found nothing.”

Francesca started. “You thought Rose had taken my portrait and hidden it there? How would she have ever known about it?”

“Where else would she hide it if she took it? Under her bed?” His smile was brief. “I commissioned your portrait rather publicly, Francesca—at a ball, in front of guests. The fact that Sarah was painting it was rather common knowledge.”

“Yes, but only you, Sarah and I knew it was a nude, Hart. When you first commissioned it, you asked me to pose in my red ball gown.”

“I remember.” He gave her a significant look that made
her flush. He had been so jealous at the ball. It was the night they had realized that desire charged their relationship. “I admit that I was grasping at straws. In any case, you should talk to her. I am sure you will be at your most persuasive, and if she knows anything, you will discover it.”

He had such faith in her abilities, she thought. “Thank you.” She smiled, but he turned to glance out his window. She almost sighed. The coach turned onto Broadway. She began to think about the gallery owner, whom she hoped was home. As it was a Sunday afternoon, he might be out and about, strolling in a park, or dining in a restaurant with his wife—if he was married. She leaned forward eagerly, toward Hart, to see which street number they were passing.

“Number 529 is ahead,” he said softly.

She brushed his arm with her shoulder, and she simply looked at him, not moving away. The Hart of old would have touched her cheek and removed a tendril of hair there. Instead, he was the one to break eye contact, looking out of his carriage window again.

Francesca settled back in her seat as their coach stopped. She would dwell on her personal life later. Impatient now, she was pleased that Hart did not wait for Raoul. He opened his door, stepping out, then very politely, as any gentleman would, helped her out to the street.

“Thank you.” She started forward swiftly as Hart told Raoul to find a convenient space to park the coach. Number 529 was a squat brick building containing two apartments per floor. Daniel Moore's name was on the plaque that read 2A. “He is on the second floor.”

Hart reached past her to open the heavy front door, and they entered a pleasant hall with a Persian rug and a brass chandelier. Against one wall, a handsome, if tired,
table with gilded claw feet stood, a painting of a house in the snow in a wood frame above it. The oil painting was terrible—Francesca had seen enough art to know the difference between a layman's rendering and that of a genius. “This has come from his gallery, I think,” she said.

“I would definitely say so.” Hart took her elbow, turning her toward the stairs. She smiled impulsively at him. He dropped his hand and she knew he hadn't thought before touching her in such a familiar way.

She was going to reclaim their love, she thought fiercely, her pulse pounding. Then she turned her attention to the interview about to take place. She hurried up the two flights of stairs, Hart behind her. The moment she knocked on Moore's door, a blonde woman of about thirty answered.

“May I help you?” The woman was plump and well dressed, but she wore only a single cameo pin and ear bobs that Francesca felt certain were glass and paste.

Francesca handed her one of her calling cards. “Hello.” She smiled pleasantly. “I am Francesca Cahill and this is my fi—my friend, Calder Hart. I am investigating the theft of a portrait. Are you Mrs. Moore?”

She froze, blanching. Then she began to shut the door in Francesca's face. From behind her, a man called, “Marsha, who is it?”

Hart placed his foot between the woman and the door, preventing her from closing it. He smiled, but not all that politely. “May we come in? We have a few questions. You may answer them now, or later, at police headquarters.”

Francesca looked at him. He was angry; she saw it in his eyes. She was very surprised that he would push so hard before the interview had even begun.

Daniel Moore appeared, his expression distraught. “Who are these people and what do they want?”

Marsha wet her lips, stepping back into her parlor, handing him Francesca's card. It was a pleasant room with a round table in its center, a small chandelier overhead. Flowers were on the table. Francesca saw a parlor to her left, with tired furniture and an equally worn piano, music sheets on a stand there. A small dining room was to her right. The table there could only seat four and the sideboard was small and bare of any ornaments. She assumed the bedroom was directly ahead. The couple was, she thought, childless, and struggling to maintain a genteel life.

Francesca followed her inside, as did Hart. He closed the door behind them and said, “Miss Cahill was locked in your gallery yesterday afternoon, Mr. Moore.”

Moore had glanced down at her card. He looked up now, still pale, and blinked more furiously. Francesca realized he was hiding something. But it did not appear that he recognized her from her portrait. “Yesterday I received an invitation to preview the works of Sarah Channing. She is a friend of mine, and I was eager to do so. Did you send the invitation, Mr. Moore?”

“No, I did not. I don't know the artist or anything about an invitation,” he said, frowning. He was very defensive, Francesca realized, but his answer did not surprise her. She glanced at Marsha, who had backed away and now stood halfway between the center table and the dining room, worrying the folds of her skirts. She looked close to tears.

Marsha knew something, as well, and she would easily break.

Moore continued, “Are you telling me that someone invited you to my gallery—on Saturday—when we are closed?” He was incredulous. “And that you got yourself locked in?”