Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] by Deadly Promise Page A

“I have changed my mind about one thing, however.”
    “That is?” she asked warily.
    “I want you to pose nude.”
    She stared, speechless.
    “We will probably be wed, my dear, by the time I get my portrait.”
    She melted in a heap. “I don’t mind. You won’t hang it . . . ”
    “Publicly? Of course not. I intend to hang it in my private rooms.” He smiled at her in a way that made her skin begin to burn.
    The coach jounced wildly and Francesca realized theyhad turned into the driveway in front of the Cahill mansion. The grounds sweeping up to the limestone house were now muddy instead of snow-laden, and lights flickered in the two lower stories of the twenty-room house. Francesca looked back at Hart, flushing wildly. “I am flattered,” she managed.
    He grinned. “I am sure that you are. Other ladies would be insulted. You do realize that?”
    “I do.” She hesitated, aware of how pleased she was that he wished to admire her portrait at any time of night or day. Then, “I am not voluptuous, Calder.”
    He laughed as the coach halted in front of the wide steps leading up to the front door. “I know exactly what you are, Francesca; have no fear of that.” His grin was a wicked one.
    He helped her to alight from the coach and he walked her to her door. There they paused. Francesca trembled and moved closer, but he gripped her elbows and did not pull her into his arms. His gaze was oddly speculative now.
    “My parents can’t possibly be home,” she said huskily. “It’s far too early, Calder.”
    “Anything is possible,” he said. Then he added, “And tomorrow? Will you enlist the aid of the police?”
    She hesitated. Hurting Rick Bragg was the last thing that she ever wished to do. And she thought he would also be very angry. Facing him tomorrow would be terrible. She did not know if she could do it.
    But she had no choice. She needed his help; of that she had little doubt. Because time was of the essence and in order to find a real lead they had to move swiftly now.
    She tensed. “Yes.”
    “You should,” Hart said dispassionately. “If you intend to canvass the entire neighborhood, you will need the help of his men. You also need the additional manpower to get a timely clue.”
    She asked warily, “You don’t mind?”
    “I hardly said that.”
    “After tonight, he may not be inclined to help my investigation,” she said tersely.
    “I wouldn’t,” Hart said. “But we both know he will. Remember, he would never let an injustice go unattended, and that is a major difference between us.”
    “You sell yourself short,” she said swiftly. “I think you are more concerned with injustice and suffering than you let on.”
    “And you remain hopelessly naive and romantic. Another aspect of your charm,” he said, and he kissed the top of her head as if she were a child. “Good night, Francesca.”
    “I am not as naive as you think,” she protested.
    Hart knocked and the Cahill doorman opened the door. “Well, let us put it this way—you are not as naive as you were several months ago.”
    She blushed.
    He smiled and turned away, striding swiftly back to his coach. Francesca did not move, watching as the elegant barouche swept around the circular drive and finally exited back onto Fifth Avenue. Then, finally, she shivered.
    A nude portrait. She would be the talk of the town if anyone ever found out.
    She smiled.
    Perhaps she would sit for Sarah tomorrow.

CHAPTER
THREE
    F RIDAY , M ARCH 28, 1902—8:00 A.M .
    I N ORDER TO LEAVE the city—and when Francesca had left in late February she hadn’t had any idea of how long she would be gone—she had finally given in to what now seemed inevitable. She had sent the dean of students at Barnard College a letter advising her of her immediate withdrawal. She had worked very hard to secretly enroll in the exclusive women’s college, and her sister had helped her with the tuition. The enrollment had been kept secret because Julia never would have