Brenda Joyce - Deadly Illusions

“You’ve never offered marriage to anyone else, so even if we share a bed before the wedding, you are not treating me like the others!” she cried. But this was a useless battle and she knew it. They’d had it several times before.

He stepped away from her, murmuring, “I’ll take care of you, but this is not the time or the place.”

She finally began to breathe, trembling now. She knew what he meant. She had been in his bed, once, for a few hours. He had touched and kissed her everywhere, giving her more pleasure than she had ever dreamed possible. It had been sheer ec stasy. She blushed just thinking about it. “When?”

He laughed and turned away, raking his hand through his coarse, dark hair. “As soon as the opportunity presents itself,” he said, amusement in his tone.

“What is so entertaining about this?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

He stood at the fireplace, both hands on the marble mantle, and he gave her a look over his shoulder. His eyes were hot; his tone was not. “This is far harder for me than you, darling. Trust me.”

“Let’s move up the wedding,” she demanded.

“You know it is your father who insists upon a year.”

“I am going to change his mind,” Francesca vowed grimly.

He turned and faced her, making no effort to come close. “There is blood on your jacket,” he remarked.

Surprised, she glanced down at herself. When she saw a large, obvious smear of dried blood on the bottom of her blue wool jacket, she gasped. Then the comprehension dawned and horrified, she looked up.

His smile was grim. “Only you would walk into a dinner party covered in blood. Another case…darling?”

She found her voice. “No wonder Mama sounded so strange! Oh, dear! And I am not covered in blood—it is one smear!”

“There’s a patch on your skirt, too.” His tone was flat and surprisingly calm.

Which meant nothing. With Hart, it could be the lull before the storm. Francesca carefully noted a spot near her left knee. “I must have brushed the sheets,” she remarked, more to her self than to him.

“The sheets? Care to elaborate?” How casual he sounded.

She wrung her hands and met his gaze. “Did everyone see?”

“Undoubtedly.” He softened, approaching and taking her small hands in his large ones. “We will be the talk of the town, will we not, darling? I can see it now. My indiscretions, my past, my penchant for depravity, my shocking art—all will become passé. You shall meet me at an affair covered in blood, or with the smell of gunpowder on your clothes and in your hair. Now, instead of gossiping about me behind my back, they will gossip about you. They shall whisper that we are the oddest match, but that we deserve one another.” He actually smiled, clearly enjoying the notion.

“This isn’t funny,” she said, her heart sinking. “I know you don’t care about your reputation, but I do care about mine, or at least, Mama cares, desperately, and—”

He suddenly reached out and reeled her back into her arms. “I know it hurts you to be called an eccentric, but with me at your side, they can call you far worse and it simply will not matter. As my wife, you will be able to do as you want. Surely you know that, Francesca? Our marriage will give you more freedom to be what you truly are than you have ever dreamed of.”

She stared, stunned. Of course, she knew Hart liked to shock society, as he so disdained its conventions, and he had the wealth and power to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased. But she frankly hadn’t considered the power she would gain as his wife. He was right. They might gossip about her be hind her back, but as Mrs. Calder Hart, no door would ever be closed to her. As Mrs. Calder Hart, she could do whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased to do it.

The concept was stunning.

He chuckled softly. “You are usually a step ahead of the game, Francesca. I see how surprised you are, and how pleased.” He added, “I am glad that is not the reason you are marrying me. It isn’t my wealth you are after and it isn’t posi tion and power. Hmm. It must be my kisses. Now, tell me about this latest case.”

She became aware of his powerful body and snuggled closer. “It is definitely your kisses, Hart, that have so ensnared me.” She laughed softly as the notion of marrying any man merely from desire was so absurd, but then her smile faded. Hadn’t she been worrying about that very possibility just that afternoon? The notion was far too frightening. She quickly changed the subject. “Did you read about the Slasher in Chicago?”

His gaze as intent but far different, he shook his head. “No.”

Francesca quickly told him about the first two victims. “Do you remember little Bridget O’Neil?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, I do. Of course. We rescued her from that child-prostitution ring.”

“Her mother found a woman murdered next door to their flat. And from the look of it, it was also the work of the Slasher. At least, that is what we think.” She thought about the trip she must make to police headquarters that next morning. It was her first order of business, actually. She needed to know if the police had surmised that the Slasher had indeed been the murderer. Afterward she would call on Francis O’Leary.

Then Francesca realized that Hart had tensed, and she knew what was coming. She wished she had chosen her words with more care.

“We?” he asked, his gaze direct, his tone sharp.

She winced to herself and sighed. “Bragg was at the crime scene. He was as concerned as I was for Maggie Kennedy’s safety. We happened to be there at the same time and apparently we are both on the case.” She avoided his eyes, wondering if there would be a jealous eruption. With Hart, she never knew what to expect. He was entirely unpredictable, at times arrogant and secure, at others, jealous and enraged.

His jaw flexed. “Of course, your latest investigation involves my dear, so noble half brother.”

She met his gaze and sensed the storm clouds, but did not see them. “He is the commissioner of police!”

“He has more to do than investigate common crimes—he has a detective force for that.” Hart walked away from her. His shoulders seemed rigid now.

She followed. “You have no reason to be jealous,” she said, and the moment she spoke she regretted it.

He turned. “I never said I was jealous. The last thing I am is jealous of Rick.” His eyes had turned dark.

“If he wishes to pursue an investigation, I can hardly stop him.”

“Of course not. But the question is, do you welcome his attention?” And his tone was mocking.

She tensed. “Hart, we are engaged. I have made my choice and a sincere commitment. Good God, a moment ago I was fainting from passion in your arms! I don’t want Bragg to be between us, especially not when my profession will constantly bring me into contact with him.”

He sighed. “You are right. I am jealous. I have been gone for two weeks, and every day I have been acutely aware of the fact that at any moment, you could change your mind and take him back.”

She was stunned. “He is married. Leigh Anne almost died. In fact, she is going home tomorrow. He would never leave her, especially not now.”

Hart stared at her, clearly not accepting her every word.

Francesca did not like it. She was being sincere. She wanted to marry Calder Hart, never mind that there would be no white picket fence, never mind his reputation and his ex-lovers. The only thing she could not get past was how much courage was involved in being with such a man.

“And if he did leave her? Then what?” he asked softly.

She felt chilled. “You already know my answer.”

“Do I?” He was grim.

Francesca felt real despair. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she loved him, but she knew that everyone whose opinion she held dear would advise her against it. And even a woman of no previous experience knew better than to tell the city’s most notorious womanizer that she was in love. Besides, her emotions were so turbulent she wasn’t sure it was love. “Hart, you do know.” She hurried to him and took his hands in hers. “I want to be with you. I think I have been clear.”