I know you care about what happened to me today.” When he did not look at her, she cried urgently, “We must plan another wedding.”
He finally set the papers down and stared at her. “There is not going to be another wedding.”
She choked, her heart exploding with sickening force in her chest. Only his desk stood between them now. “You can’t mean that!”
“But I do.” And finally, she heard the twinge of anger in his tone.
It was a moment before she spoke, and it was an effort to control her tone. “You must be very hurt and very angry, even if you are not showing it. I shouldn’t have mentioned another wedding, not now.”
His gaze black, not even flickering, he did not respond.
“No one stops loving another person in an hour or a day, Calder.” She tried reason now. “You cared about me this morning—of course you care now.”
Finally, he spoke. “You are assuming that our relationship was founded on love.” He stared. “Let me offer some advice—you do not want to have this discussion with me.”
No one could miss the warning in his tone. Her heart thundered with more alarm, more fear. “I never meant to stand you up!”
His gaze finally flickered. “It is for the best.”
She cried out. “What? I love you. Missing my wedding was not for the best!”
“Good day, Francesca.” He sat abruptly down, pulling a folder forward.
She was disbelieving. “Is this your response to what has happened? To pretend you don’t care—to refuse to discuss it—to dismiss me as if I am not your fiancée?”
She saw him tremble, but he did not look up.
She had struck a nerve and she meant to strike more. “Have you even looked at me? I have cuts all over my face from broken glass! My nails are torn, my fingers scratched from trying to hold on to a wall while I crawled out of a window!” She was rewarded when he raised his eyes to hers. His expression was dark, like thunderclouds. “I received a strange note this morning, Hart, an invitation to a preview of Sarah’s works! The moment I read it, I knew that I was being invited to view my own portrait. Of course I had to investigate!”
His black gaze was unwavering. “Of course.”
She rushed on. “When I got to the gallery, the door was open and my portrait was there. But before I could do anything, someone locked me in from the outside. I spent hours and hours trying to get out. Finally—at four o’clock—some small children heard my cries for help.” She realized she was trembling incessantly.
Hart steepled his hands and looked down. “You said you were not hurt.”
“I’m not!”
When he refused to look up, she cried, “Of all days for the thief to play his hand! Clearly he did not wish for us to marry. I was lured downtown. Can’t you see that? Don’t you believe me?” She had never been more desperate. Why was he behaving this way?
He finally glanced up at her. “Oh, I believe you. But does it even matter? It is over, Francesca.” And he began to read the papers on his desk.
She knew he had chosen to retreat behind this wall of icy calm. Because his behavior was a pretense, wasn’t it? A careful and clever facade? Hart was the most volatile man she knew. “Oh, God. I expected you to be angry, but you’re not, are you? When you are angry, you explode—and you drink. I have hurt you.”
He sat back in his chair, staring at her. “If you are expecting a rage, you will be sorely disappointed. And surely you do not expect tears?”
She did not like that last mocking note which had emerged. She had hurt him, hadn’t she? There could not be another alternative. “You have decided to pretend indifference, perhaps even to yourself.”
“I have decided that our relationship was a mistake.” He was final. “It is over.”
She reeled. The one thing she had not expected was this. “I will quote you now. ‘It will never be over!’”
“I have never enjoyed clinging women.”
She gasped.
He stood up. “Please show yourself to the door.”
She did not move. As dazed as she was, a tiny voice in her head screamed at her to leave and come back another time. Men like Calder Hart could not be chased. She spoke unsteadily now. “Hart. I love you.”
“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.”