Deadly Vows

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. The only male in the wedding party who was not present was the father of the bride. Andrew Cahill was downstairs, pacing in the front hall. Hart knew he would meet every single guest personally. “It must be love,” Hugh Bragg snickered. He’d arrived from Texas two days earlier.

Hart was adept at ignoring conversations he wished to ignore, and he said, unperturbed, “I am marrying the most interesting woman on this planet. Need I say more?”

Francesca’s brother, Evan Cahill, smiled. “Even the mighty fall,” he murmured.

“Like I said…” Hugh laughed, reaching for a flute of champagne.

He was only fifteen, and his father adroitly removed the flute before he could take a sip. Scowling, Hugh accepted a root beer from Alfred instead.

Hart meant his every word. He had no doubts. He had realized, within days of meeting Francesca, that she was the most extraordinary of women. She was as brave as she was beautiful. Her intellect was astounding and she had more ambition than most men he knew. She was all that was good, pure and honest in the world, and he worried, because she was so trusting. He had never known anyone more selfless or more generous. She had shown him, time and again, that she could not turn her back on anyone in need.

She was also independent. Most men would hate her refusal to be subservient and obedient; he admired her willful, libertarian nature.

Of course, she was reckless and impulsive; no one had less common sense. But now that he knew how easily she leaped in front of runaway trains, he would be there to restrain her from her poor judgment. She had already caused him to grow a gray hair or two—and they had only known one another for five months.

He had first glimpsed her in Rick’s office on January 25, but he hadn’t spoken to her until an outrageous party on the rooftop of Madison Square Garden on January 31. By February 23, he had known that she was the one woman in this world who would never bore him. He had looked at her, realizing how much her friendship had come to mean to him, his heart lurching oddly. She had changed his world in a handful of days, and while he thought the human aspiration to acquire happiness incredibly trite, she had warmed his entire life. The decision made in an instant, he had abruptly informed her that he intended to take her to wife. Needless to say, Francesca had been in shock.

She had accepted his suit five days later.

It was almost impossible to believe that they had come this far. But he wanted to marry Francesca Cahill, and he always got what he wanted. No one acquired the wealth and assets that he had, coming from such stark and impoverished beginnings, without sheer will and unholy ambition.

He was even eager for their wedding night, although he tried to feign indifference, even nonchalance. He was so used to casually seducing the beautiful women that crossed his path that it had become a game of sorts. He hadn’t wanted to treat her like the others. Francesca, he intended to treat with respect. He had decided that he would not take her innocence until they had said their vows.

He had a moment of hesitation, almost a frisson of fear.

She thought him noble. That was her most astounding feature—her unshakable faith in him. She simply did not understand that he was motivated by self-interest—always. If he were truly noble, he’d tell her to find someone worthy of her—someone like Rick. But he would never do such a thing. She was his first and only friend. His best friend. Of course, he must have her entirely for himself.

She refused to see him as he truly was, and sometimes, that terrified him.

One day, he knew his world would implode—when she realized the truth about him.

And as he had that unhappy thought, the lounge door opened and Rick Bragg walked into the room.

Hart stared at his brother, who had given up all the finer things in life to pursue justice, equality and liberty for all. He despised his virtuous half brother, but he recognized that Rick was as selfless as Hart was selfish, a noble do-gooder. He truly wished to save the world, and it was not a show. Yet Rick was not the perfect gentleman, no matter how he might pretend to be. He had flesh-and-blood needs and dark desires, just like anyone else. Sometimes, Hart could not stand Rick’s attempt to cling to his moral code. When it crumbled, Hart thrilled. Unfortunately, those moments were rare. As unfortunately, the world needed men like Rick Bragg, just as it needed women like Francesca. Otherwise, the world would be a living hell.

He just wished that Rick were not his half brother. He was good, Hart was bad. He was loved, Hart was not. Rick was the insider, the wanted one; no matter his wealth and power, Hart was always the outsider.

Mostly, he hated the fact that Rick had seen, courted, kissed and loved Francesca first.

Rick looked grim. Hart did not smile now. Rick was perfect for Francesca. They were exactly alike—two radical, reforming, saintly peas in a pod. He had always thought that they were perfect for one another. But Francesca had chosen him.

He tensed. “Hello, Rick. I really didn’t think you would come.” He had won this battle. He might as well relish the fact.

Rick did not smile in return. “I debated declining.”

He approached, feeling predatory. He was not a hypocrite; he had not asked Rick to stand up with him. “And what, pray tell, changed your mind? Surely you do not wish to celebrate my union with Francesca?”

“I saw Francesca this morning.”

Hart started. He did not like being taken by surprise.

“She remains dazzled by you. But then, you know as well as I do that she is trusting and naive.”

His fists clenched involuntarily. “She came to see you?” Why would she go to Rick on the morning of their wedding? Oh, he knew why!

Rick stared. Finally, slowly, he smiled. “No, Calder, I went to see her. I wanted to persuade her to delay the wedding. I am afraid for her.”

He inhaled. For one moment, he had been blinded with jealousy; for one moment, he had thought that Francesca had doubts. “I am going to take care of her—in every possible way.” He let the ugly innuendo hang.

Rick flushed. He lowered his voice and said, “And for a while, she will be even more smitten, won’t she? But one day, passion will not be enough.”

Hart wanted to tell him to get out. But within half an hour, he would be exchanging vows with his bride and he wanted Rick there, suffering through it—as jealous as he himself had just been.

“You know I am right. You broke it off with her after Daisy was murdered, to protect her from yourself. You should do the right thing now. Call off the wedding.”

Hart smiled, and it felt ugly. He had broken their engagement when he had been arrested for his mistress’s death. He hadn’t wanted her ruined by association with him. He would never be able to live with himself if he brought her down that way. “I am not under arrest now. I am not in jail. I am not a suspect in a murder. In fact, what I am is one of the country’s wealthiest millionaires.” He couldn’t help thinking that Rick was acting as if he still loved the woman Hart was about to marry. His half brother had been detoured by the return of his wife and his lust for her, but lust wasn’t love and it did not last for very long. Besides, Rick was no fool. The blinders were clearly coming off. Leigh Anne was as weak and selfish as Francesca was strong and good. Sooner or later, he would realize the mistake he had made—if he hadn’t already realized it.

He continued viciously. “I am going to give Francesca the life she deserves—a life of intellectual freedom, with all the power she needs to do as she wishes, when she wishes. Nothing and no one will stop me, and certainly not you. In a few more moments, we will stand before Reverend Cramer and exchange our vows to become man and wife. Tonight I will consummate that union, and no man—not even you, Rick—will be able to come between us. In a few more days, we will be on our way to Paris on our honeymoon. Did you know I bought the vessel that will transport us across the Atlantic?” They would be its only passengers.

Rick flushed. “Lust isn’t love. And you don’t have a clue as to what the latter is.”

“And you do?” Hart mocked. “Is the lovely Leigh Anne downstairs—or upstairs, in your bedroom?”

Rathe came to stand between them. “I cannot believe that the two of you are carrying on the way you did as small boys!” He glared at Hart. “You are provoking him, when you know he has strong feelings for Francesca.” He glared at Rick. “You are married, and your wife deserves more. Today is Calder’s wedding day—for better or for worse!”

“I am afraid for her,” Rick said, not even looking at Rathe. “He will destroy her, either slowly or in one fell swoop.” He turned on his heel to leave.

“Rick. Don’t bother to attend the ceremony,” Hart said softly, furious now. Rick was wrong. He would never hurt Francesca. He just hoped his black past wouldn’t ruin them, as it had almost done so recently.

Rick turned back to face him. “I apologize. I gave Francesca my blessings this morning, and I meant it. I want her to be happy. That means I want both of you to have a successful marriage. I am hoping you will be a good and devoted husband.” He flushed again. Clearly, the words pained him.

Hart raised his brows, incredulous. “You are giving me your blessings?”

“Unlike you, I prefer taking the high road.” Rick stared, his expression hard and tight. “I am trying, no matter how difficult you make it.”

Hart had to laugh. “Of course you are—you are so damn noble!”

Rourke shoved a scotch at him. “Drink it. He has apologized, and you should bury the hatchet, at least for the rest of the day.”

Hart took the scotch, but did not bother to take a sip. He was utterly amused. Only Rick would sincerely offer him his blessings. He wondered how noble his brother would be later that night, after he and Francesca had gone home to finally and thoroughly make love to one another. He hoped Rick would stay awake, brooding unhappily about it.

A knock sounded on the lounge door and Gregory went to open it. The moment Hart glimpsed Julia’s starkly white face, with Connie standing behind her fearfully, his heart turned over with sickening force. He glanced again at the grandfather clock. It was 3:30 p.m.

“Julia?” Rathe hurried forward. Hart saw Rathe’s wife, Grace, standing with Julia—her arm around her, as if she might collapse.

“I don’t know where she is!” Julia cried. “Francesca isn’t here, she isn’t at the house, and no one has seen her since noon!”

Hart felt the room still. All conversation ceased. Time stopped.