Deadly Vows by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page B

husband—it was always Bragg who she had wanted to marry. She had wanted him as her lover.…
    She lusted for him, but she loved Bragg.
    He was her second choice.
    He trembled and realized his fists were clenched. How could he have been such a fool?
    â€œWho was the last to see her?”
    Hart started, realizing that Rick had stepped forward to take charge.
    Julia said hoarsely, “Connie. Francesca asked her sister to bring her clothing here. She told her she would meet her here at 3:00 p.m.”
    â€œI begged her not to go!” Connie cried.
    Hart heard, but vaguely, as if from a distance. Something odd was happening inside his chest, but he was determined to ignore it. How could she have done this to him?
    More images flashed in his mind of the many moments he has shared with her—over a good scotch whiskey in his library, or inside his coach in the dark of night, or at a supper club by candlelight. There had been debate and discussion, levity and laughter, lust and love. He had committed himself to her completely. He had trusted her completely. Or had he?
    He was her second choice and he had always known it; he had never forgotten it.
    The odd feeling in his chest intensified, as if something within the muscle and flesh was snapping—no, ripping—apart. He was determined to ignore it. He should not be shocked or surprised. He should have realized how this day would end.
    Connie was speaking to him, he realized. “I don’t know what the note said. She wouldn’t show it to me. I begged her not to go! She swore she would be here at three!”
    â€œDid she leave the note in the salon?” his half brother was asking.
    â€œShe had it with her when she ran upstairs to get her purse,” Connie said, wringing her hands. “Only Francesca would respond to whatever was in that note on her own wedding day!” She looked pleadingly at Hart.
    He stared coldly back. He did not care about any note.
    â€œDid she say anything about the note, anything at all?” Rick asked.
    â€œNo,” Connie said tearfully. “But she seemed very distressed.”
    And he almost laughed, bitterly. Francesca had received a note that had distressed her—enough for her to fail to attend her own wedding. He had meant to spend his life with her. He had looked forward to showing her the world, offering her any experience she wished to have, when she wished to have it. He had wanted to open her eyes to the pyramids of Egypt and China’s Great Wall, to ancient Greek ruins and the temple of David; he had wanted to share with her the greatest works of art in the world, from the primitive drawings in the caves of Norway, to Stonehenge of Great Britain, and the medieval treasures cloistered in the cellars of the Vatican. How could she have done this to him?
    He had taken her friendship to heart. Having never had a friend before Francesca, he had thought her friendship an undying profession of loyalty and affection. How wrong he had been. Friends did not betray one another this way.
    He realized Rourke was offering him a drink. He had given her his trust—his friendship—his absolute loyalty—and her desertion was his reward.
    In front of three hundred of the city’s most outstanding citizens.
    â€œCalder, take the scotch. You clearly need it.”
    He took the glass, saw that his hand trembled and hated himself for being a weak, romantic fool. He downed the entire contents of the glass, handed it back and walked away from everyone.
    Hadn’t he expected this? Wasn’t that why he had kept staring out the window, waiting for her to arrive? Hadn’the known on some subconscious level that this marriage was not to be?
    Of course she didn’t want him.
    He refused to remember being a small boy, scrawny and thin and always hungry, sharing a bed with Rick, in the one-room slum that was their flat. He did not want to think about their mother, Lily, before she died,