Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce

Francesca. I knew, shortly after meeting you, that you were the one woman I wished to share the rest of my entire life with. I told you, in a true confession of my feelings, that I could no longer enjoy being with those faceless women, whose names I could never even recall! I asked you to marry me because you are the only genuine friend I have ever had, and because I have come to care deeply for you—because you have changed my life! Now, you believe I was sleeping with Daisy? I have never been faithful before, Francesca, but I have been faithful to you! And you are ten times more beautiful than Daisy!”

      He was so angry. Francesca huddled against the velvet seat, shocked by his passionate outburst—and thrilled, too. “Calder, I was merely being honest. I don’t really believe you went to Daisy to sleep with her, of course I don’t. But Daisy always worried me. She was so beautiful. I am such a bluestocking, and I am so different from women like her. I admit it—when it comes to such women, I am a jealous, witless fool!”

      He swept her into his arms. “Yes, you are jealous, witless and foolish at times like these,” he muttered, and he covered her mouth with his. He moved so quickly that Francesca was stunned, and then his tongue thrust hard and deep. Before she could react, the kiss softened, becoming thorough, and more thorough still. Francesca forgot the conversation, holding on to his hard, powerful body, her blood surging with heat. When he finally pulled away, she was dazed and throbbing with a terrible need and urgency. His sexual tension emanated from him in waves, but he gently brushed some strands of blond hair from her cheek. “You are as different from Daisy and her kind as can be—and I am so grateful for it! You tempt me, Francesca, as no one else ever has,” he whispered roughly.

      It was always this way, she thought, recovering some of her sensibilities. When she became terribly insecure, he would make love to her and she would realize she had been a fool. When she was in his arms, all doubt died. She smiled at him and clasped his cheek briefly.

      He smiled back and, his eyes closing, he kissed her hand.

      The electricity that existed between them sparked. She covered his hand, pulling it against her face. Her heart pumped, each beat solid and pregnant with desire, in the hollow of her chest. She had missed him terribly while he was out of town and it would be a few more minutes before they reached her home.

      He sensed the direction of her thoughts and looked directly at her. His gaze was brilliant as it met hers. Very softly, he said, “This is a dangerous night. I don’t feel in control, Francesca. I am not certain this is a good idea.”

      She slipped her hand under his shirt, against the warm skin of his hard chest, but his shirt remained stiff with dried blood. She looked at it; so did he.

      Daisy was dead and Hart was in trouble, she some how thought.

      He kissed her cheek lightly and took her hand. Francesca fought the raging of her body until it softened. “I am sorry,” she said when she could speak. “I am sorry for being so foolish and for having even the tiniest doubt. But I am afraid I will always be jealous when it comes to other women.”

      “You don’t ever have to be jealous of another woman, Francesca,” he said so seriously that her insides melted.

      “I will try to prevent such a lapse in the future, I swear it, Calder.” She actually managed to smile at him.

      He glanced at her. “Maybe I should be more understanding,” he said, surprising her. “Recently Daisy did her best to interfere in our relationship. Maybe your response to her was reasonable. But, Francesca, I have to remind you of one basic fact. Daisy had the airs of a well-bred lady, and I am rather certain she came from a genteel background, but she sold her body, Francesca. I paid for her attentions—they were never freely given.” He held her gaze. “Darling, she was a whore.”

      “Calder!” She was shocked that he would speak so ill of the dead. But her mind quickly grasped the fact he had just tossed her way. Francesca sat up straighter. “Did she ever tell you anything of her background?” she asked. She had also realized upon first meeting Daisy that she was from society, although Daisy had never once referred to her background.

      “It never came up. Frankly, I wasn’t curious, not at all.”

      Francesca began to plan her next day. “This was a crime of passion, Calder, not some random killing. The killer knew Daisy and I think he knew her well. I must find out who she really was—where she came from, and why she left that life to become a prostitute.”

      He sighed. “I can see how determined you are. Well, if anyone can uncover the truth about her life, I am sure that person is you.”

      She barely heard him. She had so much work to do—and the sooner, the better, so she and Calder could get past this terrible tragedy and get on with their lives.

      He tilted up her chin and their eyes met. “You lied for me tonight, Francesca,” he said quietly. “I was at that house by half past eleven, an hour or so before you ever got there. You did not arrive until half past twelve.”

      She tensed. “I know what I did, Calder.”

      “You lied to Rick.”

      She bit her lip. “And I hated doing it. But you were at Daisy’s for perhaps an hour after discovering her dead. And the police will think that terribly bizarre.”

      He took her hand again. “I told you—after Rose came in, I was looking for her killer.”

      “I know. And I believe you. I just want you off their list of suspects.”

      “You lied to Rick for me.”

      “I hated lying to him, but we are engaged,” she said softly. “I will always be on your side, first and foremost.”

      His gaze moved slowly over her face. “I think I am finally beginning to understand that, Francesca,” he said. He hesitated. “I am grateful.”

      She smiled warmly at him. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

      He stared another moment, then faced his window, his face becoming a hard, tight mask of controlled emotion.

      Her smile vanished. She knew his thoughts had veered away from her to the murder—and perhaps to the private matter he had wished to discuss with Daisy—and she could not help thinking that Hart was hiding something from her.

      She was afraid.

      FRANCESCA PASSED A MOSTLY sleepless night. At eight in the morning, dressed in her usual no-nonsense navy blue suit, she stared at her pale reflection in the mirror of her boudoir. She had thought about Daisy’s gruesome murder all night, endlessly analyzing the little evidence she currently had. Maybe today Hart would tell her why he had called on Daisy. Maybe she would find a new lead, one that would point her in the direction of the real killer. As distasteful as it was, she had to acknowledge that Rose’s behavior that evening had been odd and suspicious. Francesca could not come to terms with the concept of Rose murdering her best friend and lover, but she was clearly on the police’s list of suspects and she would have to be considered a possible perpetrator. She could certainly deflect attention from Hart. Instead of worrying about what Hart might be hiding, she was going to focus all of her attention and efforts on finding the brutal killer. Sooner rather than later, she would interview Rose at length.

      Francesca added some pins to her jaunty blue hat and left the dressing room, her long dark skirts swirling about her. She grabbed her reticule as she left the bedroom, having already placed her small derringer inside. A servant was coming up the corridor toward her. “Miss Cahill? You have a caller.”

      Francesca was taken aback. A call at eight in the morning was unheard of. This had to be urgent. “Is it Hart?”

      The servant handed her a business card. “It is a Mr. Arthur Kurland, ma’am.”

      Francesca was filled with surprise and anger. Kurland was a newsman from the Sun. Usually he accosted her outside of her home or on the street. He had never dared to call in such a social way before.

      “Should I send him away, ma’am?”

      Francesca