Deadly Vows (35 page)

Her heart turned over, hard, as complete recollection came. She turned to face him, grinning. “We are married, Calder! You are my husband, and no one can do anything about it.”

He smiled affectionately at her. “You looked very pleased, Francesca. Hmm…I wonder why.”

Ha, she thought, thinking about the several times Hart had made love to her. She wasn't a virgin now—and his lovemaking had been worth waiting for. She slid her nails over his hard chest and watched him inhale. She grinned again. “I am very pleased, Hart. I believe I learned a trick or two last night.”

His gaze was smoldering as he watched her toy with his chest. “I do believe I once promised you an education.”

“You most certainly did,” she murmured, kissing one very erect nipple. “Oh, Calder, impossibly, I want you again.”

“I have created a monster,” he said, but within moments, he was sliding deeply into her, and soon they were both riding that wonderful wave of ecstasy again.

Afterward, Francesca took him into her arms.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I am holding you, silly man.”

He gave her an odd look. “I am hardly a child, Francesca.”

“As if I would ever think that!” She kissed the top of his head, then saw the portrait, propped up against the wall. The gold sheet Bragg had used to cover it with remained partially across the canvas. She sat up. “You brought it upstairs.”

He sat, as well. “After you fell asleep, I went and retrieved it. I realized we might be very busy in the morning when the staff returns.” He hesitated, his gaze on the painting. “It is very beautiful. Sarah caught your likeness exactly.”

He did not want to destroy it, she thought. She suddenly tossed the covers aside and got up.

“What are you doing?”

Francesca smiled at him and walked across the bedroom, not bothering to take the sheet with her.

“Oh, I do like this,” Hart said. “A modest wife!”

She laughed, whipping the rest of the sheet from the painting, aware of how appreciative his gaze was—and it was not on the portrait now. “Do I really look like that when we are together and about to make love?”

“Yes, you do,” he said rather roughly. “But you are even more beautiful and desirable in the flesh.”

Francesca trembled at his thick tone. She turned and saw him stand, but he went to the other side of the room and donned a silk dressing gown, casually belting it. She shivered, aware of being cold. “Are you being a gentleman, Hart?”

“Yes, I am—and I want to fetch us a bottle of champagne. I am not in the habit of racing around this house without my clothes. And, Francesca, I know you are very immodest and I may have created a monster, but you are not racing about in a state of dishabille, either. Rourke remains in residence.”

She smiled as he returned to her and placed a paisley smoking jacket over her shoulders. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and saw his eyes darken. She instantly understood why. The jacket just reached her thighs.

“Sara should paint you like this,” he said harshly.

“Hart!” she cried, but she liked the idea, oh, yes!

“I was in jest.” He pulled her close and held her, just for a moment, hard. Francesca was surprised by the open display of hungry affection. Then he let her go, smiling, and as one, they both glanced at the portrait.

“It doesn't have to be destroyed,” Francesca said.

He lifted a brow.

“I know you don't want to destroy it.” She took his hand.

He sighed. “Do you already know me so well? No, I hate the idea of destroying it. One day, when I am old and gray, I will admire that portrait—recalling how we met and how we somehow managed, in spite of it all.”

“You are a romantic, Hart!” she cried, smiling.

He squeezed her hand. “That is nonsense and you know it.” He turned to gaze at her portrait again, and so did she.
“If we do not destroy it, I will have to keep it in my private gallery, under lock and key.” Then he turned seriously to her. “I will do whatever you want, Francesca.”

She didn't hesitate. She moved into the circle of his arms. “I want you to look at the portrait one day, when we are both old and gray, and reminisce about this time in our lives. And you will think about how we first met, and the crimes we solved, and how I jilted you at the altar! You will recall the night that we eloped. And you will remember the good times and the bad, and how our love grew stronger and stronger each and every day. And as you do so, Calder, our grandchildren will be racing about these halls, which will be filled with love and laughter, not demons from the past!” She smiled up at him. “I am your beacon, remember? I do not want the portrait destroyed.”

His gaze had become moist. He blinked and it was a moment before he spoke. “Only you, Francesca.”

She kissed his silk-clad chest. “Only me, Calder. Only me.”