style="font-size:15px;"> “Do you know how many times women have declared their love for me?” He was cool.
She cringed. His gaze was scorching and she knew he was in his most ruthless mood. “Don’t do this to me.”
“Do what? You are the one who did not show up today.”
“You have admitted to me that you love me!”
He laughed, the sound mirthless. “You are so unique, Francesca, that I undoubtedly deluded myself for a while, but we both know that I do not believe in love. It was lust, Francesca, and nothing more. You see, I have come to my senses, as well. What was I thinking, to shackle myself to a woman for what might be an entire lifetime? When the lust is gone, all that would remain is the ink on our marriage license.”
She inhaled. “I know you don’t mean anything you have said tonight.”
“I am not interested in what you think—or in attempting to convince you that I have meant my every word.”
He could not be serious. “How can you be so cruel to me? How can you dismiss me after all we have shared?”
“And what have we shared, other than some conversation, some danger…and several nights in my bed?”
She felt tears well.
“I cannot stand women who cry,” he warned.
She somehow shook her head. “You are trying to make me feel as if I were one of your passing amusements—one of your play toys!”
His stare was filled with innuendo, his silence an affirmative. She was shaken to the core of her being.
“This cannot be happening. We are meant to be, Hart.”
He walked out from behind his desk—and past her. “Nothing is meant to be. And darling? I have no intention of being the one to ruin you. My position hasn’t changed. Your desires will remain unrequited. Luckily, I’m sure Rick will be more than happy to oblige you on that particular matter.”
“Your words are killing me!” she gasped.
“Really? Have no fear. This heartbreak will pass. It always does.” He opened the library door and stood there, waiting for her to leave.
She wasn’t sure how she approached him. She felt as if she had been cut up into so many tiny, bleeding pieces. “I have hurt you. I am sorry! I love you and I always will—even now, when you are trying to destroy that love.”
“Do I appear hurt? I am not. I am relieved.”
She choked.
“God, I hate theatrics. Would you mind? This drama has become more than sordid or distasteful, it has become tiring. I have affairs to attend.”
She hugged herself. His gaze was as frigid as the Arctic Ocean. “I am not taking off this ring. I am not giving up on us, either.”
“Then I feel sorry for you. But you may keep the ring. Use it to buy the portrait, darling.”
She could not withstand his cruelty anymore. Francesca ran past him. As she started to stagger down the corridor, blinded by tears, she heard him behind her. She tensed, sensing a final devastating blow.
It came instantly. “Francesca? Do not bother to come back. When I am done, I am truly done. You are no longer welcome here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Saturday, June 28, 1902
7:00 p.m.
FRANCESCA WAS BEYOND shock. Could it truly be over? Had he really meant his cruel words? Hadn’t Bragg warned her what she was in for if she tried to go forward with Hart—if she dared to love him?
Oh, God, her heart was breaking apart!
When he had broken their engagement a few weeks ago, it had been entirely different. He had been motivated by the desire to protect her from the scandal of Daisy’s murder. He had put her welfare above his love for her. Somehow, their love had emerged even stronger. His feelings had never been in doubt.
But now, he seemed to be completely indifferent to her. As if he had cut her out of his heart—and his life—in one fell, effortless swoop.
“Miss Cahill? Let me help you to a chair.”
She realized that she had somehow wandered into the front hall and that she was still crying. Alfred faced her, his dark gaze filled with concern. She struggled for composure, no easy task.
If Hart did not love her—if their relationship had only been based on infatuation and lust—then it was over and there was nothing she could do about it. But if he was as hurt as she suspected, if he had retreated into this pretense to avoid his feelings, if she was really his best friend, then there was hope. She had aroused his passion and love once; she could do so again.
But she could not do anything about their current dilemma now.
And her damn portrait remained downtown in the Gallery Moore.
She wiped her eyes with her fingertips, feeling just slightly better. At least she had a task to accomplish; she desperately needed a new focus. “I am afraid I cannot linger, Alfred. I am on a case.”
He started.
“I have had a terrible falling-out with Mr. Hart, but I believe it is only temporary. Tomorrow is another day.” She managed a smile. “Hopefully he will be more kindly disposed toward me then.”
“I am so sorry, Miss Cahill.”
She shuddered. “I was well aware of his occasional moods when I accepted his proposal,” she said. She inhaled, finding more resolve. “Can a doorman hail me a cab?” She could not go home. She was not up to facing her mother. Julia would undoubtedly be relieved to see her, but only for a brief moment. Then she would be furious with her for failing to attend her own wedding, never mind the danger she had been in. And she would not be able to tell her parents what had really happened—they could never learn of the portrait.
Worse, Julia would get to the heart of the conversation that had just happened. She was clever and shrewd, and she adored Hart. She would want to know if Francesca had gone to him to explain herself and seek his forgiveness. Julia Cahill was determined to see this marriage come to fruition. Francesca did not want to discuss this new terrible impasse with Hart with her mother.
However, her family needed to know that she was all right. Francesca asked Alfred to send word that she was unharmed, and would be home as soon as possible. The butler assured her he was only too eager to do so. As Alfred sent a doorman out for a hansom, Francesca thanked him and stepped outside into the warm June night. Amazingly, there was a bright crescent moon and a canopy of stars overhead. There was even the whisper of a silken breeze. It had been the perfect night for a wedding. She remained sick at heart from the recent confrontation. She briefly closed her eyes, trying hard to shove the memory away. She had known how cruel Hart could be, but she had never expected him to be that cruel with her.
“Miz Cahill? Are you all right?” a small boy asked worriedly.
Her
