Deadly Vows (19 page)

He eyed her and she flushed. Her tone had been throaty and they both knew what that meant. “You are like a cat with nine lives. I haven't decided how many you have left.”

There was tension in his tone. She couldn't decide why. She hoped he was feeling the pull of the magic between them, as well. She hoped, very much, that he hadn't meant a word he had said to her on Saturday night, and that he not only loved her, but desired her as he did no other. Ahead, she saw her front gates. She held her tongue, clasping her hands in her lap. “I'll call Rick when I get in,” she began.

He caught her left hand. He said softly, “You could have been hurt today.”

“But I wasn't.”

“Do you have to throw yourself in front of speeding locomotives?”

“There wasn't a train in sight. I was simply meeting a blackmailer.”

He hadn't released her hand. His grasp tightened. “I think I need a drink, as well.”

She went still. That heavy anticipation permeated her every pore. “Are you suggesting we share a very old, very fine scotch?”

“Will I rue the day?” And his mouth softened, along with his eyes.

“We can discuss the case and what we must do tomorrow,” she cried, smiling. Other far more romantic ideas danced in her mind. Then, recalling her sister's advice, she said, “Or we can discuss the case tomorrow, over breakfast.”

His gaze narrowed with speculation. “So you prefer breakfast tomorrow?”

“I hardly said that. You know how fond I have become of a good scotch.”

When he simply stared, she added, “I do not want you to think I have any ulterior motives, that's all.”

His brows lifted. “Do you?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly, smiling. Why hadn't he asked her about the ring? “What I am trying to say is that I have done a great deal of thinking—about our relationship.” She waited for him to respond, and when he did not, she said, “I am not going to chase you, Calder.”

His stare remained impossible to read and he still did not take the bait. She sighed. “I am beginning to comprehend your rationale. I am even beginning to think that you are right.”

He finally said very calmly, “Are you trying to tell me that you have changed your mind…about us?”

She swallowed. Deceit was not her forte. But Connie was so much more vastly experienced than she was. “I treasure our friendship. It means everything to me.” That
was the truth. “I cannot imagine my life without you in it.”

“Please, do go on.”

“Our friendship remains more important to me than the desire we have shared.” She smiled firmly, amazed at how well she was lying. “As you have made up your mind about us, I began to realize that my pride would never allow me to chase or pursue you. Then I began to wonder if you are right. I mean, we get on famously as friends. But as lovers, we always seem to fight.” There, that had sounded simply perfect.

His gaze was watchful and steady upon her. Never removing it, he said to Raoul, “We will go directly home.” Then, “Are you playing me, Francesca?”

She bit her lip. “I doubt that any woman could ever play you.”

“So that is why you aren't wearing my ring? You have agreed that we are off.”

She inhaled. “We are two very different individuals, are we not?”

“Yes, we are two very different individuals.”

He was not being helpful, she thought. “My sister advised me to take it off—as did you. Aren't you pleased with my rationale, Calder?”

His stare remained enigmatic. “So for once in your entire life, you have decided to take the advice of others, instead of following your own inclinations? For once in your life, you have decided to adapt to circumstance, instead of remaining infuriatingly stubborn?”

“And how do you know what my inclinations are now?” She sat back, still anxious about her deception. “And I can see reason, Calder. In fact, I pride myself on it.”

“You told me,” he said dryly, “that you would never
take my ring off, that you would wear it to the grave. And you were very passionate about it.”

She hesitated. She must not cave and blurt out how madly in love with him she was. “That was then and this is now. Connie gave me an earful. As did you. And even I can see how different we are from one another, now that I am calmer. Our engagement was made in haste—and perhaps it was made without logic.”

He looked at her as if she had just suggested they take a trip to the moon. “You have never been logical, not about our relationship.”

Her pulse pounded. She moved in for the final blow, hoping he would be convinced. “We are meant to be friends—good friends—eternal friends. But I am no longer sure that we are meant to be anything more.” She managed a firm smile.

“Really?” His brows lifted, as if he was mildly disbelieving.

“Really.” She smiled again. She had won that round, hadn't she? She decided to deliver a last jab. “For isn't a good marriage built on common interests and common goals?”

“Probably.”

She smiled widely now. She had won. He believed her.

“Are you gloating?” he asked very, very softly.

She hid her smile. Very innocently, she said, “I much prefer our relationship like this—as one of equals. It was not very pretty of me to be reduced to tears the other day, much less to grovel.”

“You have never groveled,” he said as calmly. “And you are a bald-faced liar.”

She blinked at him. “Did you just call me a liar?”

He smiled slowly, suggestively at her. “I beg your pardon. That was terribly rude. On the other hand, you
have just spent the past five minutes delivering a carefully rehearsed speech, when you are the most impulsive and spontaneous woman I know.”

He didn't believe her? “Are you becoming angry, Calder?” she asked carefully.

“Why would I be angry? I have been jilted at the altar, in front of most of society, and the woman I meant to take as a wife is now in dire jeopardy due to my depraved nature. My recent bride-to-be is now eager to be my dear friend. In fact, she is so eager to be my friend that she has forgotten our rather unique history. Oh, and did I mention that my brother is probably responsible for all this? If not for dear Bill, we would be on a ship, bound for France, with a wedding ring on your finger. Except, of course, for the fact that ultimately I brought this house of cards down.” He lapsed into a brooding silence.

Francesca hated having pretended that she was fine with their estrangement. She could not decide if he believed her or not. Was he hurt? Angry? He didn't seem upset. Hurting Calder was the last thing she wished to do. She hated following Connie's advice, but she wanted him back, and begging would hardly achieve that end. Then she realized he was staring. His scrutiny was unnerving. She must never underestimate Hart. “I am not going to fight your decision,” she said simply. “And it is a matter of both logic and pride.”

“I am glad you have seen the same light that I have,” he said softly.

His tone was so sensual that she shivered, tingling from the tips of her toes to the nape of her neck. He smiled at her.

A few minutes later they were walking into the library, a delighted Alfred rushing off to ask the cook to prepare a light meal for them. “Is anyone else home?” Francesca asked. Hart walked past her and brushed her as he did.
She trembled, ready to leap into his arms. He turned on two lights, apparently unaware of the contact.

“I have no idea.” He walked over to the bar that was built into one floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “But Rathe and Grace are leaving for Newport Beach on Wednesday, taking Colin and Gregory with them. Nick is going back to San Francisco tomorrow, until the fall semester begins. I believe Rourke intends to mope about the city—and moon over Sarah Channing.” He turned and handed her a scotch.

Francesca smiled happily at him, her nerves stretched taut within her body. “I do hope a romance is brewing for Sarah and Rourke.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down, aware of Hart watching her. She was certain his mind had gone in the same direction as hers, never mind her declaration of friendship. She took a sip of scotch, sighed with pleasure, then unbuttoned and removed her kitten-heeled, black-patent shoes.

He still stood by the bar, a drink in hand. She did not turn around to look at him. Images flashed. She had wound up naked on that sofa several times. She would love to wind up naked on it now.

He had such a powerful effect on her. Surely he felt the same way about her.

“I can feel your thoughts,” he said, having come to stand behind the sofa where she sat.

She arched to look up at him, over her shoulder. “Really? So there is gypsy in your blood?”

His eyes were definitely warmer. “Hardly. But I know you very well, now, don't I? Better than anyone—even better than Rick.”

“Don't,” she said, the sexy moment on the verge of vanishing. “But it is true. No one knows me as well as you.”

He sipped his drink thoughtfully. Then he reached
past her and set it down on one of the sofa's end tables. A moment later he laid a hand on each side of her shoulders. “So you now wish for us to be friends. Will that really satisfy you, Francesca?”

He was leaning over her from behind. She sank back into the couch, staring up at him. His face was inches from hers. She tore her gaze from his mouth to his eyes. “We are already great friends—so I hardly need to wish for that.”

“You didn't answer my question,” he murmured.

She looked at his mouth. “Of course it won't satisfy me.”

His eyes gleamed. “You are so transparent.”

She gave in to the urge to touch him and reached up to caress his jaw. “Then you must know what I am yearning for right now.”

“But we must hold to logic, darling. We must be mere friends,” he murmured. But he turned his face slightly and kissed the center of her palm. “You can only play me if I let you.”

Her entire body was on fire. “Then let me,” she said, and she reached up and caught his face and arched upward, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth.

He did not move, braced above her, his knuckles white as he grasped the sofa, one hand on each side of her. Francesca strained higher, managing to brush his mouth with hers, softly, gently, several times. “Calder, I have missed you,” she whispered. “And I am rather desperate now.”

He was breathing harder. He pulled his head back slightly and their gazes met, his eyes black with desire. “When will you admit that you lied to me in the coach?”

She was taken aback, finding it hard to think clearly. “Not now, Calder.”

“Oh, yes,” he said softly. “Now.”

His mouth curved and he lowered his face, briefly brushing her cheek with his. Then his mouth moved over her exposed throat. She sighed in raw pleasure. Fire fanned within her, dancing through the entire core of her body, tightening her, swelling her. His mouth moved lower, down the column of her neck, and lower still, until he nuzzled her cleavage. “Admit that you baldly lied.”

Francesca moaned, reached up, finding his tie. She tugged on it. “I lied. Come to the sofa and kiss me properly.”

She felt his mouth curve with satisfaction. “Sit up,” he ordered against her ear.

She was dazed with desire and absolutely breathless, but she straightened. His hands went to the back of her dress. Her heart thundered as he undid the buttons, deftly and skillfully. Francesca stood up, her skin tingling, and slowly stepped out of her dress, letting it pool around her feet on the floor. She turned and looked at Hart.

His eyes were black with desire. Her chemise was sheer, her corset ivory. She stepped out of her petticoats. Her drawers matched her corset, coming to midthigh. Garters held up her stockings.

“You are wearing new underwear,” he said calmly.

She turned and walked around the sofa, reaching for his tie. “I am so glad you noticed.”

He caught her wrists, his grasp unyielding. “No.” And for one moment, they stood that way, his dark eyes smoldering. Francesca knew he was not going to allow her to be in control, and she did not care.

“Tell me what you really want—tell me the truth,” he said harshly.

“I want you.”

Hart moved. He wrapped her in his arms and their mouths fused. Kissing her deeply, his hands on her
buttocks, he moved her back around the sofa. He pushed her back, coming down on top of her. Francesca gasped with pleasure and need as she came into contact with his huge arousal.

“So we will be friends—and lovers?” he murmured with laughter, ripping apart her chemise. He nuzzled her bare breasts, spreading her thighs. “I have missed you, too.”

“Hurry up,” she demanded as his hand snaked between her thighs. And because it had been so long—a matter of days—the moment he touched her, she started weeping, the explosion immediate.

Francesca gave herself up to the series of climaxes, vaguely aware of his removing her drawers and settling his face against her. His tongue began probing. She wept again.

And when she was back in his arms, recovering from a series of explosive orgasms, she began to think about his need and his pleasure. He caught her hair, which was now loose, with his hand. “Francesca.”

She managed to open her eyes. “Calder,” she breathed, loving him impossibly—so much so that it continued to hurt. She kissed him again and again, now fumbling with his trousers.

“Do you really wish to remain mere friends?” he asked harshly.

She caught his beautiful face in both her hands. “Of course not! I love you.”

He slowly smiled and she had the disturbing notion that she shouldn't have admitted the truth. But she would worry about her confession later. Francesca reached down and yanked his fly open.

He inhaled harshly as he sprang into her hand. Francesca stroked him and smiled, guided him carefully between her thighs and looked at him. His eyes were tightly
closed, his face glazed with passion and strained with self-restraint. Immediately, he looked back at her. “You cannot tempt me.”