Deadly Vows (20 page)

“I want to be lovers—real lovers,” she whispered.

“Absolutely not.”

They had had this same argument a thousand times. This time, she meant to win it. She started to move her calf over his back, but he caught her leg and stilled it. “You cannot win this battle,” he said.

“Damn it, Hart! My victory is overdue. No one will ever know!”

“I will know.”

They stared. She was not really surprised. For some odd reason, he thought that they should not consummate their affair until they were actually married. But her frustration hadn't changed.

“My poor darling.” His mouth curled with amusement. “Do not play the desperate card now. I am the one suffering.”

Before she could respond, he caught the hair at her nape, leashed it and kissed her deeply, his mouth hard and unyielding. Francesca forgot about making a protest. He knew exactly how to touch her and move against her, and she tightened impossibly. And because she remained aware of his shocking arousal, she sat up, pushed him down and bent over him. When he allowed himself a moan, she felt a moment of triumph.

He was as still as a statue now, except for his heavy breathing. Francesca nuzzled his great length. She slipped her tongue over the tip. Suddenly he pushed her down on her back, reared over her and began rubbing his arousal over her breasts and neck. She gasped with more pleasure. She wanted him to experience the same fireworks she had.

He suddenly turned from her. Francesca pulled him
back. Smiling, she bent over him. Hart inhaled—and he cried out.

Sometime later—Francesca did not know how much later, as Hart had been ruthlessly determined to give her more satisfaction than ever before—she floated back to earth. She sighed, draped over his body, as the sofa was too small for them both. They were both fully unclothed now.

Being with Hart was perfect, she thought. The satisfaction was so vast, so consuming, and she felt that she had never been happier. She smiled when he kissed the top of her forehead. Then she turned over to lie atop him, and their gazes met.

He gave her a lazy, sensual, rather arrogant and very satisfied smile.

And then she recalled her confession. She wished she hadn't made it. Did confessing under sexual duress even count? But surely they were now reconciled—or well on their way to reconciliation? “There is nothing,” she said softly, “like a good, stiff drink.”

“I have so thoroughly corrupted you.” But his smile faded. “Are you hungry?”

“I will have to think about it,” she said. She nipped his jaw.

He sat up, causing her to do so as well, and gave her an unfathomable look. Francesca hoped he would not bring up any unpleasant subjects. “Actually, I am famished,” she said, reaching for her underclothes. She did not want to discuss anything of consequence—she did not want to ruin the rest of the evening.

He took a sip of his scotch, watching her pull the short pants on. Francesca retrieved her petticoats and corset, wondering what he was thinking. She decided to forgo the corset due to the late hour, but she slipped on the torn shift. Hart was usually quiet after lovemaking, but
she glanced at him carefully. His gaze was hooded. She smiled at him. “You have ruined my beautiful chemise, Hart.”

He smiled back. “I will buy you another one.”

She picked up her dress, pleased that she had made him smile. “I believe I have heard that line before.”

“Yes, I believe you are right. I owe you several garments.” His mouth firmed as he stood up. She pulled on the dress and gave him her back, holding up the mass of her hair. He quickly did up the buttons. How often had they done this? she wondered. But instead of kissing her nape, as he usually did, Hart simply released her.

Francesca turned to stare. Weren't they well on their way to reconciliation? What else could their lovemaking mean?

He said, “You are an impossible temptress. But you know that, don't you?”

Why was his tone so serious? “Do not be absurd. I am an unfashionable bluestocking, but somehow, I have ensnared you anyway.”

He walked away and stepped into his trousers. As he zipped them up, he said, “An impossible temptress—and a very bad liar.”

“Let's call Alfred,” she said quickly, not wanting to begin the subject she feared he was about to broach.

He caught her arm before she could go to the door. His gaze was frighteningly somber now. “I do not want to lead you on, Francesca.”

She was alarmed. “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

“Your sister obviously encouraged you to attempt to manipulate me, did she not? Let me guess—she advised you not to chase or pursue me in any manner.”

Francesca stared uneasily. “I do not like being less than honest with you,” she finally said.

He touched her face. “I cannot tell you how many women have pursued me, either before or after an affair. But you are not those other women.”

“What are you saying?” She was uneasy. She had the uncanny feeling she would not like whatever was on his mind.

“I am saying that I appreciate your candor, your honesty, your impossibly impetuous and open nature. I appreciate the woman you truly are. I despise your resorting to the kinds of games other women play. You do not have a scheming bone in your body.”

She bit her lip. She hadn't really liked such a pretense, and not when it was aimed at Hart. “I don't think crying—and begging you to take me back—was a very effective tactic.”

“But you do want me back.”

Her heart raced. Now what? “Can't we just return naturally back into our relationship?”

His eyes darkened. “I know that you would not allow my lovemaking if we were mere friends, Francesca. You are a woman of logic—when it comes to investigations. But when it comes to love, you are a woman of passion.”

She hesitated. “What are you trying to say? I trust you, Calder. I trust you with my heart—with my life. And you are right—I would not have leaped into your arms tonight if my feelings were casual.”

He was grim. “I am fond of you. Very fond, in fact, but nothing has changed.”

“What does that mean?” she cried, bewildered. Hart would never use a tepid word like
fond
when declaring himself. His cruelty Saturday night returned full force to her mind. But she no longer believed him. Of course he loved her, otherwise the past two hours would not have
happened. “You are
fond
of me? What on earth are you trying to say?”

“Yes, I am fond of you,” he said, flushing.

She was overcome with confusion. “We just nearly made love!”

“I should have controlled my desire for you tonight. I let you play me, Francesca, and well.” He picked up his drink and drained it. “I did not care for your declaration of casual indifference, not one bit. But I am glad you have taken off my ring. It belongs in the safe.”

She inhaled, shocked. “Are you telling me that we are not reconciled?”

“We are not reconciled,” he said flatly.

She felt the room still. No, the world stilled. Why would he continue to do this?

“This is my fault entirely,” he said. “Playing games of manipulation with me is never a good idea.”

Hurt began. “This is impossible.”

His face was hard. “I am holding firm to my decision of Saturday night. I can't—I will not—marry you, Francesca.”

She choked. A long, terrible moment passed, in which she could hardly think. “Have you just used me?”

He started. “I would never use you.”

“I want more than your kisses, Hart. I am not one of your divorcées!”

His eyes flickered. “I am aware of that. But I have just shown my true colors, haven't I?” He sounded disgusted now.

“Are you telling me you behaved like a cad with me? Because I refuse to believe it.”

“You tried to manipulate me with that silly speech. I don't like being manipulated, Francesca. Two can play that game.”

She now recalled her confession, made in the heat of the moment. “So you just manipulated me?”

He hesitated. “Sex can be a weapon.”

“Against me?”

“Even against you.”

She trembled. “I do not seem to be thinking clearly after the passion we just shared. In fact, I am confused. If we have not reconciled, then what just happened a moment ago?”

“I wanted you to admit that you spewed nonsense in my carriage—that you are not indifferent to me.”

She stared. Sometimes, she thought Hart incredibly vulnerable—that he hid behind a facade of arrogance, conceit and power. But he did not look vulnerable now. “So you have apparently gotten what you wanted.”

“Yes, I have gotten what I wanted.” He paced away from her.

It was very hard to think clearly, as shock, hurt and confusion mingled. “This is incomprehensible! How could you make love to me if you did not mean to reconcile?”

“I am a selfish bastard, remember?”

“But you have never treated me the way you have treated other women!” She choked. “I assumed that if we made love, you would come to your senses and realize that we are meant to be together.”

He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “That is very romantic.”

She trembled, hugging herself. “My assumptions were wrong.”

“Have you forgotten that I am not a romantic man?”

He had been terribly romantic toward her, but just then, she could not speak.

He wet his lips. “The last thing I ever wish to do is hurt you,” he said. “When I tell you that I care deeply, you may believe my word. Francesca, I care enough to truly
want to make your every wish come true! I truly want to give you the world on a silver platter. And as your friend, I hope to do just that. In fact, you might come to think of me as an odd benefactor, a champion of your dreams and desires. But I am not the right man for you. And once this infatuation passes, you will see the fact as clearly as I do.”

“You are the perfect man for me,” she heard herself somehow say.

“No, Rick is perfect for you.”

She closed her eyes in despair. “Please don't start on Bragg. This is about us.”

“His marriage will soon be over, Francesca, in case you haven't noticed. He is miserably unhappy.”

She started. “I hope you are wrong. But I am not discussing Rick now!”

“You're right. This is about us. I told you once and I will tell you again—I am not going to be your downfall.”

She stared at him. “So you are being noble now? You will sacrifice yourself for my sake? Instead of blaming me for jilting you, you have now taken up your old position that I deserve someone better?”

“Precisely. My mind is made up,” he warned.

“We had this same argument three weeks ago!”

“Three weeks ago, I was accused of murder. By association, you were about to be ruined.”

“And you have been proven innocent. So this is about the portrait?”

“You know me so well,” he said softly.

She trembled. “It is not your fault!”

“Your future is at stake—and it is entirely my fault.”

Francesca was in disbelief. How would she ever get him to change his mind?

“I am very sorry I took advantage of you a moment ago.”

She bristled. “Your apology is not accepted!”

“I hope that one day we will look back on our ill-fated romance and laugh about it.”

They were spiraling downward now, at breakneck speed, she somehow thought. “While I am married to another?”

“Yes.”

It was impossible to decide how to proceed, when she was so upset. She looked around for her purse. All she felt like doing was retiring to her bed and shamelessly crying. She felt terribly used. Was this how those divorcées had felt? she wondered. Maybe it was truly over.

She found the purse on a chair and retrieved it. “I am not marrying anyone else.” She refused to look at him now. “I think I will pass on supper.”

He strode to her. “I will take you home.”

“I prefer to ride home alone.”

He started. Then, carefully, “I will always be your friend, Francesca. I will always be on your side—I will always champion your causes. You need only ask.”

She finally looked at him. His stare was dark and intense. “Friends do not make love to one another, Hart.”

“No, they don't.” He hesitated. “I don't want to lose your friendship. I refuse to do so.”

It crossed her mind that she had one last card to play. She hesitated, uncertain if she was willing to use the threat of withdrawing her friendship. Because it would be an even worse lie than her previous one of indifference. Hart needed her; she would never abandon him, no matter how angry she was. “We will always be friends.”

He stared sharply. “You don't sound convinced.”

“I am not feeling particularly friendly now.”

“I see. Have I just destroyed our friendship?”

She trembled. She thought of what had just happened—and her expectation that they would be affianced anew
afterward. “We are on very shaky ground, I think.” She somehow found her pride. “I believe I will investigate on my own tomorrow.”

He was very still. “I don't think that is a good idea.”

The extent of his rejection was hitting her. “Then I will ask Bragg to play escort and bodyguard.”

Did he flinch? “Good.”

She fought not to hug herself. She felt terribly used, and it was a horrible feeling. She had trusted Hart completely. If he was merely a friend, then it was truly over. She would never leap into his arms again or walk down that aisle with him. If he was a friend, she had lost the greatest, and only, love of her life.

In silence, he walked her from the library and down the hall to the front door. As they waited for Raoul, he looked at her. She stared back. How could they be even more estranged now than they had been on Saturday night?

“Francesca.” He suddenly took her arm.