Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce

that his behavior as a mature and powerful man was really no different than that little boy’s. He claimed not to care what anyone thought of him, and he was well aware of his black reputation, but Francesca thought he did care—and that he refused to admit it, not even to himself. He refused to conform to the rules and mores of proper society; he had flaunted his lovers, many of whom were divorcées, and he displayed the most shocking and controversial art. Behind his back, society gossiped in absolute fascination. Hart laughed about it, but it was as if he had to see just how far he could go before being cast out. There had been difficult times when he had tried to push her away, as well. But Francesca understood that his actions were a test—a test of her loyalty, her friendship and her devotion. She was never going to fail.

      There was another aspect to Hart’s rivalry with his half brother. The two men were as different as night and day. Rick had given his life to social and political reform, even at the expense of his marriage. His reputation was as stellar as Hart’s was not; he would never flaunt an indiscretion or compromise anyone’s reputation. Hart was only accepted in good society because of his wealth and power. Rick was accepted not just because he was from that acclaimed family, but because he was a leader of the reform movement, universally respected and admired for all of his good works. No two men could be more different—on the surface, at least.

      It also did not help that, when she had first met Hart, she and Rick had been romantically involved. Hart remained jealous of the fact that she had chosen Rick before him and that she maintained a genuine friendship with him. Rick clearly loved his wife, and Francesca often felt he would not mind her engagement—as long as it was to anyone other than Hart. She sighed. She could not undo the past. She could not stop caring about Rick Bragg and she could not stop loving Hart. Their rivalry had begun decades before either man had ever met her, but she was aware of being added fuel to the fire.

      Francesca pushed open her window. The night was cool but pleasant; a few stars had come out to join the crescent moon. She felt a soft summer breeze and she let it caress her face. She was so worried about this case and where the investigation would take her.

      Suddenly the other passenger door opened and Hart climbed into the backseat beside her, taking her hand. “Are you cold? Why are you waiting here, when you could be inside?”

      Francesca met his dark gaze and tried to smile at him. “It can be so noisy in the lobby. I have a head ache,” she said truthfully.

      His smile faded as the carriage rumbled away from the curb. He put his arm around her. “It has been a terrible evening,” he said quietly. “I wish you hadn’t been here tonight, Francesca.”

      She looked up at his face, at the strong and attractive features she had come to love, acutely aware of his powerful embrace. “I’m glad I was here,” she said passionately. “You are not going through this alone!”

      “Francesca, I know you mean well. You always mean well,” he said roughly, and he smiled. “But this affair is already a sordid one. I have never asked you before to cease an investigation, but I am asking you now.”

      She pulled away from him, disbelieving. “Hart, don’t ask me to drop this.”

      “You are upset with me,” he remarked, his eyes moving over her face.

      “I want to help,” Francesca said firmly. “I can help. Daisy was murdered and we both know I can find her killer. Just as we both know that right now, the police think you might be involved.”

      His expression hardened and he glanced away.

      She moved into his arms, turning his face toward her. Hart could be terribly insecure and vulnerable at times, as if still that small, unloved, unwanted boy. “I am not upset with you. You did not murder Daisy, Hart,” Francesca said. “We simply need to bring her killer to justice.”

      He caught her hand, bringing it to his chest. Against her skin, Francesca felt the stiff material of his shirt, and she realized he had pressed her hand against Daisy’s dried blood. “Why are you calling me Hart? You only call me Hart when distressed.” His gaze was searching in the flickering lights of the carriage.

      She wet her lips. “I am distressed. You are, as well. How can we not be distressed after what has happened?”

      He studied her and said, “And that is why I don’t want you on this case. It will only get worse.”

      She trembled. “And how will it get worse?”

      He was incredulous. “I care enough about you not to want you reminded every hour of every day that I was in Daisy’s bed a few months ago!”

      Her mind became blurred. A little voice inside of her head said, “Don’t.” She ignored it. “Why did you call on Daisy tonight?”

      His grip on her hand tightened as their gazes locked. “There was a matter she wished to discuss.”

      Francesca continued to tremble and she knew Hart could feel it. She recalled Newman’s expression of pity, and Bragg’s. Both men thought Hart had gone to see Daisy to take her to bed. “What matter?”

      He rubbed his face and Francesca realized how tired he was. “Can we let this go, at least for tonight?”

      She knew he had not gone to Daisy for carnal reasons. While it was her worst fear that one day he would stray, they had only recently become engaged and the passion they shared remained vast. “What was so important and so urgent that you had to see Daisy tonight—the night of her murder?” She could not help herself. “Calder, we agreed to always be honest with each other. We both know that you didn’t go to Daisy’s to discuss financial matters.”

      “We had a private matter to discuss.” He was terse and there was a warning in his tone.

      Francesca became alarmed. “A matter you wish to keep private from me?”

      “Yes.” He turned away, resolute, his expression hard and tense. “Please. Just leave it for now.”

      She could not believe he would not tell her what he and Daisy had intended to discuss. But it was not his nature to ask for anything, and he was asking her now to let the subject alone. She didn’t know if she could. Her mind was spinning. She simply could not imagine what had brought him to Daisy’s in the middle of the night. “Your motive in calling on her is crucial to your defense.”

      He became rigid. “So now I am accused of her murder?”

      “Hart, I am not accusing you of anything! I know you are innocent. But the police will want to know.”

      He was angry. “No, you want to know! You want to pry! Damn it! I just asked you to drop it! But when you get an idea, a clue, a lead, you might as well be a terrier with some damned bone. Usually your tenacity is endearing—it is not endearing now. Please, leave it, Francesca.”

      She recoiled. And against her will, an image arose of him with Daisy in an intimate embrace.

      As always, he knew. He tilted up her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. His eyes were wide. “You cannot think I went there to sleep with her?”

      Francesca felt her cheeks heating. She really did not doubt Hart, but she did doubt Daisy. Had the other woman somehow lured him to her home to seduce him, in the hopes of rekindling their affair?

      And because she hesitated, he grew incredulous. “Don’t tell me you have doubts about my loyalty,” he began in warning.

      She could not breathe. She shook her head. “I don’t. Not really. It’s just—” she managed to say.

      “Not really!” he exclaimed, cutting her off. “It’s just what?” he demanded.

      Francesca saw from his shocked and angry expression that she had been wrong to even begin to doubt him. “You know I am insecure at times like these,” she said. “I did not trust Daisy—and neither did you! If only I were half as beautiful as she was.”

      He leaned close, exploding. “I asked you to marry me because I had no wish to continue my philandering ways!