Deadly - Deadly Desire Part 8

Evan straightened like a shot, hearing another knock now. He adjusted himself, his s.h.i.+rt, his tie. "Your hair," he said grimly, now appalled with himself and his behavior. He was not a free man yet.

And as he stepped quickly forward, tugging up one of her slim shoulder straps, the door slowly opened.

He leaped away from her as she whirled to face the intruder. It was Rourke who stepped through the door.

His face impa.s.sive, his amber eyes hooded, Rourke looked from Evan to Bartolla and back again. The man was a rake, for Evan knew a ladies' man when he saw one, so he had to know what had just transpired between them. However, he gave no sign. And whatever his reaction was to the affair, he gave no indication of that, either.

"The butler told me you were here," he said. Now his gaze slid over Bartolla, inch by inch.

She stood straight and still, a smile pasted to her face, letting him take his fill. She did not flush.

Evan's fists closed. He felt like pounding the other man for looking at the countess in such a s.e.xual way.

"I had hoped to see Sarah," Evan said, hoping his voice would not betray him. It did-his tone was rough with need, and he coughed to clear it.

"Oh, yes, I can see that," Rourke said, quite coolly now. The glance he sent Bartolla was a disparaging one.

Evan stiffened. "How is she?" He now noticed that Rourke carried his medical bag.

"She has a fever of one hundred and one again," Rourke said, looking now at Bartolla as if she were a tropical insect that he wished to dispose of. "I am worried, Cahill. She does not have the flu, and although I have checked her lungs, I am going to bring a specialist over to make sure she does not have pneumonia."

Pneumonia was more often deadly than not. Evan started with dread.

Bartolla stepped forward. "I hadn't realized she had a fever again," she whispered, wringing her hands, stricken with worry. "Please, you don't suspect pneumonia, do you?"

"How could you realize anything?" Abruptly-rudely- he turned and walked out.

Evan and Bartolla looked at each other with dismay. Then he turned and hurried after Rourke. "Rourke! Can I go up and see her?"

"No." Rourke was receiving his coat from the houseman and did not even look at Evan as he spoke.

"Now what the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"It means she is ill with a high fever and she does not need to be agitated any further."

Evan felt like punching the other man. "Do not judge me," he warned.

"Why not? This is a democracy, the last I heard. And judgments are free." Rourke's eyes burned. "If you think to f.u.c.k the countess, at least do it in another house," he said. "At least have that simple decency."

Evan struck, intending to hit Rourke right in the face. The other man's reflexes were a surprise, as he dodged and the blow grazed his high cheekbone. But he straightened swinging. Evan felt a mean blow in the chest. It sent him backward across the hall.

"Stop! The two of you!" Bartolla cried with horror in her tone.

Evan caught himself before falling, balling his fists, wanting to pummel the other man to a pulp. But Rourke stood in a similar stance, clearly wis.h.i.+ng for another round.

"Apologize. Not to me. But to the lady," Evan said, and it was a warning.

Rourke flushed. He glanced at Bartolla, then said, "I was rather uncouth. I am sorry."

Bartolla looked at him with huge eyes. "Thank you."

Rourke appeared disgusted and he turned to go.

Bartolla gripped his arm. "Rourke, wait. Please try and understand. We have never-it was a mistake-it just happened and we both love Sarah dearly!"

He faced her, shaking her off. "Please! I am a man of the world! Nothing just happened. But Miss Channing deserves more respect than either of you seem capable of giving her. I apologize only for using such ungentlemanly language, but not for the gist of what I have said. The two of you clearly deserve each other." He turned abruptly, angrily. Fortunately, the doorman was listening to their every word and he managed to fling the front door open before Rourke crashed into it as he strode furiously out.

He was right, at least partly. Sarah did deserve respect, and the pa.s.sion that had erupted in the salon had been untimely and wrong. Evan was grim, glancing at Bartolla. "I had better go."

She nodded, pale. Then, "He is right. I am going to go upstairs and spend the rest of the evening seeing if I can make Sarah more comfortable."

Something melted inside of him. "That is very kind of you."

"She is my cousin," Bartolla returned. "I love her."

Evan hesitated. In that instant, with the utmost certainty he knew that some of the things being whispered about by the likes of his father about Bartolla Benevente were completely wrong. She could not help the fact that she had been born so desirable, and it did not detract one whit from the innate goodness of her heart. "I know you do," he said.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 -8 P.M.

Francesca felt as if she were a freakish display in a circus. The moment she stepped into the salon, all eyes fell upon her. She remained very aware of Hart behind her and now, too late, that she was draped in his black dinner jacket. Somehow, she smiled at the Braggs, but only Rourke was smiling, and there was a knowing light in his eyes. Francesca darted a worried glance at Rathe and Grace Bragg. She wanted to explain to them that she and Hart were only friends and that nothing had happened on the terrace. But Hart was removing his jacket from her shoulders. Francesca flinched at the touch of silk and his fingertips, but she was not given the chance to speak. For Julia was ushering everyone from the salon. "Shall we go in? Supper is being served," Julia announced.

Francesca suddenly realized that her mother and father stood at polar ends of the group gathered in the center of the salon, ignoring each other. Worry swept over her with hurricane force. She could withstand many crises, but a disruption in her parents' relations.h.i.+p, in their marriage, was not one of them.

Andrew held his arm out to Grace. "May I, dear? I do believe you are my dinner partnertonight." Grace smiled and she became beautiful when she did so, even though she had chosen towear a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, which kept slipping down her nose. "You know Ihave missed our political debates, Andrew," she said softly. "And I do want your opinion onRick's efforts with the police department-and his clash with the mayor." Francesca straightened like a shot. Bragg had clashed with Mayor Lowe? When had thishappened? How come he had not told her? "Lowe cannot afford to alienate the workman's vote-no matter that they are led by the nosethrough the Tammany machine. He has backed down on the issue of Sunday saloonclosings. I do believe your son remains firm in his convictions to uphold the letter of the law." Oh, no, Francesca thought, seized with more than worry, then fear. She knew Bragg. He hadbeen appointed to reform the police department, and that meant, to him, upholding thelaw-with no exceptions. Sunday saloon openings were a direct violation of the Blue Laws.In principle, Lowe supported those laws. Clearly he felt that his political future might bethreatened now by actually doing so. Hart leaned close and whispered, "Your knight in s.h.i.+ning armor will survive." Francesca met his dark eyes and saw he was annoyed, so she did not bother to reply. Rathe had taken Julia's arm, and as they began to file out, Lucy seized Francesca's hand. "Ineed to talk to you," she said in a low, tense tone. And fear was in her eyes. Francesca knew that something dire had happened. "The best time shall be after supper,"she said as quietly, aware of Hart at her elbow and Rourke lazily moving closer to them. Shehad no wish to have either man overhear them now. Lucy whirled. "Hart, Rourke, wait for us in the hall," she ordered tersely. Hart's brow lifted. "I might be inclined to agree, if such an imperious tone were not used," hesaid. Then his gaze narrowed. "Is something wrong?" "Nothing is wrong," Lucy said, far too swiftly. Rourke stared. "She's worse than that when company is not present. What is wrong?" Lucy smiled too brightly. "Just leave us to our wicked gossip! Please!" Lucy cried, grippinghis arm. She kissed him on the cheek. "Now, go!" Hart smiled a little but looked at the two women thoughtfully. "Seeing you both together, Ishudder. I sense a conspiracy of danger, and no good can come of it." "There is no conspiracy here!" Lucy cried, her smile brittle. Francesca touched his arm and smiled. "We will be in momentarily," she a.s.sured him. His gaze locked with hers; any annoyance he had just felt vanished, and he finally nodded."Very well. Francesca..." He hesitated. Her heart seemed to flutter. "Yes?" He shook his head rather self-derisively. "I do hope that the two of you are not in anytrouble." "We're not!" Lucy pushed him toward the door. "Now good-bye!" Francesca could not look away from Hart's dark, piercing eyes until he finally acquiescedand walked out with Rourke. Instantly Lucy slammed the salon door closed and ran toFrancesca. "You are right. I lied. I am in trouble and I don't know what to do!" Francesca gripped her arms. "Craddock?" For one moment, Lucy did not speak. Then she reached into her bodice and handedFrancesca a crumpled note. Francesca unfolded it and smoothed it out and was faced with crude childish handwritingand many misspellings: FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS TWOSDAY NOON OR CHILDREN.

WON'T BE REEL HAPPY.

NICE CHILDREN. I LIKE THEM REAL LOT.

Andrew had suggested that the men adjourn into the library for cigars and brandies. Connie and Neil had declined and left, Connie seeming very tired though it was not that late in the evening. Hart had sent Francesca an amused look, which clearly said he would rather sip a good scotch with her. But rather pliant, he had gone off with the men. Julia, Grace, Lucy, and Francesca were left to their own devices in the salon where they had first gathered. Francesca had not had a chance to speak any further with Lucy before supper, for the moment she had read the threatening note, Julia had appeared, demanding that they come into supper. She was determined now to speak to Lucy at length and alone and felt that the determination was mutual. But leaving her mother and Grace Bragg would be more than awkward. The two women had so very little in common. Julia was politely asking Lucy about her life in Texas and her grandparents, whom she had met twice in Was.h.i.+ngton at state occasions. Francesca stood before the fire, carefully contemplating Craddock's note. There was no doubt in her mind now that this was a police matter. "We haven't had a chance to speak," Grace said quietly, at her elbow. Francesca started, because she had been so engrossed in her speculations that she had not heard the other woman approach. She managed a smile; knowing she had to appear terribly nervous. "No, we haven't." Grace smiled a little, studying her. "You seem like an unusual young woman. I take it your family does not approve of your interest in criminal investigations?" Francesca hesitated, but they had kept their voices low. "No, they don't. Mama is very traditional-she wants me to be exactly like Connie." "Yes, that is obvious. Connie has so fit her bill. She is married to a n.o.bleman, she has two children in the house, and she attends enough charities to a.s.suage any and all guilt. I cannot quite see you following in your sister's footsteps." Her soft smile was a pleasant one. But Francesca knew an interview when she was in the midst of one. "I am very different from my sister." "That is rather obvious. I don't think your sister would have tracked down the killer of Hart's father with such courage and conviction. More women should dare to gain a higher education, be politically and socially active, and pursue a profession." She paused. "I understand that, briefly, my son was a suspect. Thank you, Francesca, for all that you did on his behalf." She flushed. "Calder is a friend. And Bragg-Rick- helped me. We solved the murder together." Grace studied her. The silence felt more than awkward, and nervously Francesca said, "And I would do the same for anyone who is the victim of injustice and crime." "Are you in love with one of my sons?" Francesca froze. No coherent reply came to mind; there was only panic. It was sheer and very real. Grace studied her. "The last thing I wish to see is two of my sons fighting with each other over a woman, even a very unique woman like you." Francesca inhaled, felt tears rise, and fought for composure. "Mrs. Bragg. Hart and I are friends, that is all-" "And Rick is married; Calder is not," she said pointedly. Francesca felt herself blanch. Grace gave her a long, thoughtful look. "I would not want to be in your position," she said at last. Then she softened visibly and kissed her cheek. "I am tired. There was a very long meeting of the Ladies Republican Club this morning; and this afternoon, the Suffragettes of America. I have not had a moment to sit down." She turned. "Julia? I must retire for the night, but it has been lovely, thank you."

Julia stood and hurried forward. "I am so glad you came," she cried, and as the two womenleft to retrieve Rathe Bragg, Francesca and Lucy looked at each other. This time, it was Francesca who rushed to close the salon door. "Lucy, what is happening?Is Craddock blackmailing you?" "I don't know what is happening!" she cried. "This is the first time he has demanded money!"She was as white as a freshly laundered sheet. Francesca took her hand. "Let's sit down. You must start from the beginning." "The beginning?" Lucy looked at her as if she did not understand the definition of the word. "Yes, the very beginning." Francesca guided her to the sofa and sat down there beside her. Lucy stared at her as if she had grown two heads. "Lucy?" "I first saw him a month ago. He started appearing in town-in Paradise-where I was. Iwould be picking up a few things at the grocer's or having a fitting at Madame Del-fine's,and I'd look up, and there he was, staring at me through the window. Of course, the first timeI thought nothing of it!" she cried. "But then I saw him here, Francesca, here-he followedme all the way from Texas to New York City." "Has he demanded money before?" Francesca asked. Lucy shook her head. "No." Then, "Five thousand dollars! I don't have that kind of moneylying around. Shoz is a rancher. Everything we have is tied up in the ranch." "You're not paying him," Francesca said firmly. Lucy grabbed her hand. "He's told me more than once that he is a friend of my husband's." Their gazes locked. "What else did he say?" She shook her head. "Nothing. But... you have to understand, Francesca. When I met myhusband, he was a hard, dangerous man. He'd been in prison. Wrongfully, I might add, butwhat difference does that make? It hardened him even more. He had a life before ourmarriage, one I do not like to think about-one I do not know very much about." Tears filledher eyes. "We have been so happy," she whispered. "I love him more now than I ever did,and I will do anything to protect him!" Francesca hesitated. "I saw Craddock's police records. He was in Fort Kendall, Lucy." Lucy gasped. "That's where Shoz was," she said fearfully. Francesca did not pretend to be surprised. "I know. Bragg told me." Lucy shot to her feet. "Rick can't know! No one must know! There are things in Shoz's past,things I have always been afraid of-we simply have to pay off this Craddock and get him togo away!" Tears fell now in a stream down her porcelain cheeks. Francesca also stood. "I think we had better find out just why Craddock thinks he canblackmail you and your husband." Lucy shook her head. "I am going to get the five thousand dollars, somehow-Hart will lendit to me!" "Lucy, he will come back for more. This is a police matter. Please, trust me now," Francescatried. "Don't you understand? Rick is a policeman. What will he do when he uncovers someterrible secret from Shoz's past?" Her blue eyes were wide, intense. Francesca stared. She hadn't even considered that Lucy's husband might have a criminalbackground. Nor had she thought about the position it would place Bragg in, should he learnof it. "Bragg told me Shoz was erroneously incarcerated and that he was later pardoned." "That's true. But there's so much more." Lucy wet her lips. "When I met him he was runningguns illegally, Francesca. To the rebels in Cuba. And that is only the tip of the iceberg, Ithink." She sat back down and covered her face with her hands. "I knew this was going tohappen one day. I have been waiting for his past to blow up in our faces. And what of ourchildren? He loves them so! He is such a good father!" "Nothing is going to blow up in your face," Francesca said firmly. But now she felt unsure.Maybe it was not a good idea to bring Bragg into this. He was the law. And he waspa.s.sionately committed to upholding it. Yet he was a family man through and through. His moral dilemma would be horrendous. "We have to get to the bottom of whatever it is thatCraddock thinks he has on you and Shoz," she finally said. "That is what we must do first." Lucy looked up, wiping her eyes. "You are forgetting about the note. He wants five thousanddollars by Tuesday at noon. He has threatened the children!" "Then we have more than an entire day in which to get our facts," Francesca said decisively."I am expecting a telegram tomorrow from the warden at Fort Kendall," she said. Sheprayed his reply would be that timely and did not say that in truth she was hoping for aresponse to her inquiry. "What happens if I don't hand the money over to him on Tuesday? He might hurt thechildren!" Lucy cried frantically. "Ssh," Francesca said, clapping her hand over Lucy's mouth. "Keep your voice down. Yourfamily has a few very curious and bold snoops in their midst. Let me spend tomorrow tryingto get to the bottom of this, before we become hysterical. It is not Tuesday yet." When she dropped her hand, Lucy said, more quietly, "Hart has money. Tons of it. He couldhand me cash tomorrow." "And what will that accomplish? Lucy! I know you are terrified for Shoz and now for thechildren. But listen to me. Try to displace the fear so you can think clearly, and hear what Ihave to say! Caving in to Craddock's blackmail attempt will only encourage him to comeback for more-" "You are right." "What?" Lucy stared at her. Her eyes were wide; clearly her mind was spinning. "You are right," sherepeated. Her gaze had intensified, almost frighteningly. "We do need Calder." "What do you mean?" Francesca asked warily. She did not like the look in Lucy's eyes, ohno. It was chilling. "I am going to Calder. Not for money-for help." At first Francesca did not understand. "For help? What kind of help? How can-" Shestopped. "Would you ever... commit murder? " "If someone I loved was in danger, I would commit murder to protect that person. " Lucy was staring at her now, her eyes ruthlessly hard. Francesca locked gazes with her."You want to go to Hart." "Yes." Her face tightened. It had become almost unattractive. At first, Francesca couldn't breathe, much less speak. And then a red haze seemed to formover her eyes. She fought it. "I see. Because he will do the kind of dirty work you cannot?That you would not let Shoz or anyone else do?" How calm she sounded to her own earswhen, inside of herself, she was hardly calm, as the fury began to build. "Yes." Francesca inhaled, trembling. The explosion came. "How dare you!" "Oh, I dare." Lucy's eyes blazed as she got up. "You would ask Calder to what? To get rid of Craddock? Instead of going to the police, youwould go to Calder, have him remove Craddock somehow?" "What other choice do I have?" "You would have him commit a criminal act-murder- for you?" She was shouting,shaking. "There is no other choice!" Lucy shouted back. "I will never allow it!" Francesca cried. She could not even think straight; all she knew wasthat she would never let Lucy use Calder in such a way. In that moment, she hated her newfriend. "I don't believe I need your permission to ask my own brother for anything," Lucy said coldly. Francesca stared. Could she stop Calder from coming to Lucy's aid-in such a frightful andwrong manner? In a manner that might backfire, hurting him?

He would be a murderer.

"I take it I am interrupting?"

Francesca whirled as Hart stepped into the room.

Chapter Thirteen.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1903 - 11:00 P.M.

His timing was simply uncanny. Francesca looked at him, overcome with dismay. He stared carefully back and then turned to smile at Lucy. "The two of you are shouting-andcausing some concern in the front hall." Francesca was horrified-had they been overheard? And what had Hart heard? ClearlyLucy was equally worried- frantically so. She ran up to her stepbrother. "Did they hear whatwe were arguing about?" She practically ripped off his sleeve. He eyed Francesca again, his composure unshaken-unflappable. "The walls are thick, andno, I don't believe the actual text of your argument was audible. But I did happen to overheara sentence or two from this doorway. What is it that Francesca will not let you ask me?" Hisgaze moved to and locked on Francesca again. She leaped forward, to his side. Had she been able to step directly between him and Lucy,she would have. "Calder, it's so late! Shouldn't you be on your way?" She smiled brightly,desperately, at him. "Isn't Rourke ready to take Lucy back to the hotel?" "A book, Francesca," he said softly. Then, in a normal tone, "I am taking Lucy back to thePlaza. Rourke has been playing doctor again. He wishes to stop by the Channing residenceand will take a cab." Francesca could only stare, consumed with dismay. Hart and Lucy alone in his carriage?She would beg him for his help, and Francesca would not be there to intervene. She told herself that Hart would not rush out and murder Craddock the moment Lucy askedhim to. In fact, he would probably hire an a.s.sa.s.sin. She was not relieved. b.l.o.o.d.y images began to dance through her mind. "We should go; it is late!" Lucy cried, glancing at Francesca. Her eyes were wild, the eyes ofa desperate and frightened woman. In them was a warning that Francesca had better mindher own affairs. So quickly, then, their friends.h.i.+p had evaporated-Lucy was not going to letFrancesca get in her way now. "Francesca?" Hart's silken voice washed over her in cashmere-soft waves. She gripped his hand. Her mind raced. "What if I told you I wished to share a scotch withyou, outside in the moonlight-alone?" He started. "Are you thinking to seduce me in order to keep me from taking Lucy back?" Of course he guessed her intentions. She didn't bother to deny it. "Yes." He stared at her. Then, "That is very tempting, Francesca." She stared back, speechless. "I don't know why you are so frightened. But I can guess." His expression changed,hardened. "This is clearly about Rick. Or Leigh Anne. As for what Lucy wishes of me, I havenot a clue. Have no fear, Francesca. Your problems are not as overwhelming as you thinkthey are. In the end, life has a way of leveling out the playing field." She was ready to cry. Now she had an image of Hart holding a smoking gun. It was followedby an image of him standing before a judge in a packed courtroom, the verdict: guilty. "Chin up," he murmured, and he leaned forward, about to kiss her cheek. She started. He had never done more than kiss her hand; what was he doing? At the last moment, he changed his mind, smiled with some degree of self-derision, andabout-faced. Lucy gave her another warning glance and ran out of the room behind him.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902- MIDNIGHT.

It remained horrifically cold. Francesca stepped out of the drive and onto Fifth Avenue, hugging her fur-lined coat to her. It did not help. She was s.h.i.+vering madly. She was not about to go to bed, where she would never sleep. By now, Lucy had asked Hart to do the unthinkable. Francesca felt certain he had agreed. When he had told her he would commit murder for a person he loved, she had believed him because he had meant it. She had to stop him from murdering Craddock. She looked up the avenue for a cab and at this late-or early-hour saw nothing except two private coaches. She began to s.h.i.+ver and shake. She would never find a cab, because to make matters worse, it was a Sunday night, which was a night most people uptown spent at home. She was going to have to walk. It was only ten blocks, but ten of the coldest blocks in her life. A gusting wind from the north did not help matters. When Francesca paused outside of Hart's door at No. 973 Fifth Avenue, she felt blue. There was no more feeling in her fingertips and toes. She estimated it was half past midnight, so that the entire house should be asleep, except for a doorman. Her knock was promptly answered by Alfred. "Miss Cahill," he said, as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Francesca stepped quickly inside. "You are up late, Alfred." "I was about to say the same thing about you." Alfred seemed rather fond of her, and she had stumbled upon Hart terribly drunk one afternoon and made him lock up all of his employer's liquor. As Alfred had not been dismissed, clearly it had worked out. "Dear G.o.d, you are blue. Here, let me take that," he said, reaching for her coat. If he was shocked that she was calling in the wee hours of the morning, he gave no sign. "I'll keep it." She hugged her coat to her body. "This is an emergency, Alfred. I must speak with Calder. If he is asleep, I must ask you to rouse him." Alfred smiled. "Mr. Hart never sleeps until one, sometimes two. Rather amazingly, he is up by five or six. He is in his library doing his paperwork, Miss Cahill." Francesca was surprised. There was so much she did not know about him, she realized. But she was relieved. Doing paperwork was innocuous enough. "He enjoys his businesses, then?" "I believe so. There is always a negotiation that is crucial and in progress," Alfred remarked, leading her down the front hall. "He has a meeting over breakfast at the Union Club this morning at seven," he said. Francesca avoided glancing at the beautiful adolescent girl with the dove as they pa.s.sed it. "Is anybody else up and about?" she asked carefully. "Everyone retired some time ago." He seemed about to say more but checked himself. They turned down a corridor with paintings lining the wills. There was a tapestry that seemed to be ancient, perhaps from the period of the Norman Conquest; she saw a Rembrandt, a Sargent, and an abstract that appeared to be nothing more than childish lines. Above it was a t.i.tian. His collection was truly spectacular. Why would he want a portrait of her? Alfred knocked on a pair of beautifully finished doors that were ajar. "Mr. Hart, sir," he said quietly. Francesca had already stepped up behind Alfred, so she could gaze inside. Hart was sitting behind a huge desk that was probably eighty-odd inches long; legs as thick as her torso and beautifully sculpted in swirls supported it. The top was leather, she thought, but as most of the desk was covered with folders, files, and papers, it was hard to say. He had been sitting with his elbows on the desk, hands clasped, forehead on his hands. Francesca knew she was catching him in an extremely private moment-she could imagine what he was contemplating. Oddly, her heart leaped in the most erratic way. He straightened and looked up. Their gazes locked. He shot to his feet. Papers fell to the floor. "Francesca?" He was wearing his white dress s.h.i.+rt, which was open to the middle of his chest. The bow tie he'd worn earlier dangled about his collar. He still had on his black evening pants, but he'd removed the c.u.mmerbund. She somehow smiled, not the easiest task. "I hope that is an 'I am pleased to see Francesca' 'Francesca?' and not a 'do not disturb me' one." Her smile seemed to fail her. His s.h.i.+rtsleeves were rolled up, revealing strong, muscular forearms. Of course, she already knew that his hands were large and strong. But now, with him dressed so simply, she saw how broad his chest and shoulders were, how lean his waist, how narrow his hips. And she could not help noticing that his thighs, which were very muscular, strained against the expensive wool of his pants. And he smiled, recovering. "I am always pleased to see you," he said in his lazy drawl-as if he had not just knocked over his papers like an awkward schoolboy. He stepped out from behind his desk, glancing at a huge antique bronze clock, set on another desk, this one small and for show and beneath a window. "It's half past midnight," he said. "The neighbors will talk." She had to smile, because he had no neighbors. He smiled back, but his gaze was inordinately watchful now. "Alfred? Bring us two brandies-the Louis Quatorze." "I won't be that long," she said, oddly nervous now. He smiled and it filled his dark eyes. "If you like scotch, you will like brandy, especially this brandy, which is from a very private and restricted reserve." Alfred smiled far too widely for a servant, then backed out of the room, closing the doors behind him. The sound was oddly final. "I suppose I could experiment with a brandy," Francesca said, more nervous now than before. An hour ago, she could think of nothing else but convincing Hart not to do the unthinkable. Now, she despaired. Why hadn't she waited until the early morning to confront him in his den? He suddenly grinned. "Frankly, I imagine that there shall come a day when you will wish to experiment in many ways," he said. "What does that mean?" She stiffened, suddenly wondering what his master suite was like and, more specifically, his bed. "You have been caged up like all proper young women. I think that you have one wing out of the cage, Francesca, and nothing will stop you from flying freely now." She stared. Her heart turned over, hard. "Conventions are tiresome, and even ridiculous, at times," she agreed. "And unfair-as women must follow one set of rules, men another." "I happen to agree with you completely," he murmured, settling one hip on the edge of his desk. "Hart. We have to talk," she said, finding his posture far too provocative. "So now it is 'Hart.' You do know that whenever you are angry or upset with me-or nervous-'Calder' gets left by the wayside and I become 'Hart.'" "I'm upset," she said. Their gazes held, and she simply had no wish to look away. "Very upset." "You were very upset an hour ago," he agreed, his gaze intent upon her face. "What happened when you left? Did Lucy..." She stopped. "What did she say?" He reached out and caught her left hand. "She told me everything," he said softly, while Francesca stiffened. Then he reeled her toward him. "You are so worried, Francesca." She stared at him. With him sitting on his desk while she stood, they were almost eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose. "Why are you smiling? What did she tell you? And then what happened!" she cried. "And to think that last night I a.s.sumed it was Rick you were worried about." He smiled, and he was obviously pleased. "Do not be boorish, now!" She tried to shake her hand free of his, and when she failed, he let it go. She straightened, asking, "Did she ask you to ..." She stopped. Her gaze had moved past his left shoulder. Sitting in the center of his desk, amid his papers and files, was a gleaming black gun. "What's that?" He stood, glanced behind him. With no apparent urgency, he walked around his desk and slipped the gun into a drawer. She watched him lock it. And he looked up. His eyes were so dark and so grim-Francesca wasn't sure she had ever seen him this way. She had been frozen; now she came to life. She raced around the desk and grabbed his s.h.i.+rt with her good hand, her bandaged hand on his chest. "Please. Please do not do this!" He slid his own palm over her back. "Calm down. The sky is not falling-yet." "I can't calm down," she gasped. And even though she was afraid, terribly so, his gesture felt like a caress. "Why was that gun on your desk?" "Francesca, unlike you, I am a very deliberate person. I never act on impulse. I was considering my options," he said. He still seemed unshaken, but no trace of his trademark amus.e.m.e.nt could be seen. "Lucy is being blackmailed," he continued calmly. "This fellow Craddock has recently threatened her children. And you and now I are the only ones who know." He added, "First thing tomorrow, she and the children are moving into this house, where they will be safe." "You are so calm," Francesca remarked rigidly. "How can you be so calm?" "Calm? A woman I consider my sister is suffering greatly. My calm is only surface-deep." She was hardly rea.s.sured. And as their eyes held, she sensed but did not see a huge well of anger within him. It was so contained, so controlled. "This is out of control," she whispered. "I begged her on Sat.u.r.day to go to Bragg." "I am not sure that going to the police is the best thing to do," he said. "There may not be any love lost between Rick and me, but even I should pity him were he put in a position of having to arrest his own brother-in-law." Francesca wet her lips. "So what is the answer?" "Craddock's demise would help," Hart said as calmly. "I knew it!" Francesca cried, her fists now clenched. Had she ever been this angry? "She dared to ask you to remove Calder, didn't she? She hasn't told her husband a word- G.o.d forbid he should be the one to commit murder-but you, you she does not hesitate to go to!" "Yes, she asked me to remove Craddock." He could not seem to stop studying her. "How could she!" "Easily. We grew up together, Francesca. We share no blood, but we share a family-and a history. In a way, she is my sister, and there are times when I almost forget that we do not share a single drop of blood." Francesca found herself grabbing his hands. "What did you say? Did you tell her you would do it?" His hands tightened on hers in return; their gazes held. "Francesca, Lucy is in trouble. Who will help her if I do not? Frankly, she should have told Shoz. He would have ended this little matter before it ever began. But she didn't. And he is in Texas-we are here. If I do not help her, who will?" "There is still the police. There is still Bragg. The one thing about him, he will see that there is justice-" "Her husband was wrongfully incarcerated once," Hart said, interrupting. "I know you are a supreme romantic, but justice is a rare and capricious thing, Francesca. I am afraid for Shoz as well. I am afraid that, no matter the record of his life these past twelve years, Lucy may be right. If Craddock is blackmailing Lucy, Shoz has something to hide. Are you telling me that you think Rick would sweep this under the rug ... if Shoz is guilty?" "I think there would be a way to prove him innocent!" "As I said, you are a terrible and hopeless romantic," he said softly. His tone was almost tender, but she could hardly remark that now. "So the answer is to murder Craddock?" He stared. "That is one answer," he finally said. "I am begging you, Hart, begging you not to do this! Please, Hart, please, do not compromise yourself this way! What Lucy is asking of you is wrong. It is that simple. Murder is wrong!" she cried. "So that is the extent of your concern? You wish to protect a convicted and violent felon froman illegal fate? A fate which, I might add, he does deserve?" He watched her carefully now. "No," she said huskily, watching him as closely, "that is the least of my concerns." And shespoke the truth. Once, not so long ago, she would have been incredulous and disbelieving ifanyone had ever suggested she might be thinking in the way that she now was. How strangelife was. He waited. She breathed hard. "What if you can't get away with it? What if you are the one to be triedand convicted in the end?" His gaze moved from her eyes, wandered over her face, then came back to her eyes. "I amflattered, Francesca," he said, with no mockery at all. "This is not about flattery! Do you wish to be a sacrificial lamb?" His gaze narrowed. It was brilliant with intensity now. "Actually, I have no intention of everstanding trial for any crime, my dear. How much do you care, Francesca?" "Oh, stop it! Of course I care-or I wouldn't be here! There has to be another way, Calder;there simply has to be!" Oddly, the tears she had refused to allow to well for the past hoursuddenly came, blurring her vision. She almost felt as if her own life were at stake. He pulled her into his arms. "Don't cry." The tears fell freely now, but she refused to make a sound. It crossed her dazed and strickenmind that she was actually in Calder Hart's arms. Her cheek was actually on his chest. ... Herheart lurched and her body stilled. The tears stopped. She was afraid to move. With the one eye she was capable of using, as her other eye waspressed shut against his now wet s.h.i.+rt, she could see a large swath of dark skin, dusted withpitch-black hair. She could see the hard and muscular swell of the one side of his chest. Shebecame aware of the firm, strong beat of his heart. He had both hands on her back; even so, he held her rather loosely. Every fiber of her being was on the highest alert. If she made one movement, she felt likeshe would snap. Still, she s.h.i.+fted and looked up, slowly pulling away. She saw the notchbetween his collarbones, the underside of his strong throat, the cleft of his chin. His hands tightened, and then he released her. He stood up so quickly that she almost fell face first onto his desk. Francesca gripped the edge to save herself, for one moment so thoroughly dazed she didnot have a coherent thought. "Were those tears for me?" he asked. She stared at her white knuckles, and she nodded. He did not speak and he did not move. Francesca dared to straighten and turn. "If you care about . me at all-if you care aboutLucy, Shoz, your family, yourself-you will not remove anyone!" "I believe you already called in your marker, did you not?" She was relieved he had become his callous self. She had-although she could not recallhow and when. "This is not about markers," she said, after a pause. "And you know it." "Touche." He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. It only strained the fabric moretightly over his groin. "No one has been removed yet; no murder trial is pending." "I can't let you do this, Calder," she said heatedly. And she was aware of flus.h.i.+ng and forcingher gaze to hold his. "And I mean it." "G.o.d help the man whom you love enough to marry." His brief smile vanished. "I think thefirst order of business is to interview Craddock. Thus far, he has been toying with afrightened woman; it is time he dares to toy with me." Relief swamped her. "Thank G.o.d! But how will you find him? I have put out a reward, and wehave yet to locate him." He started; then amus.e.m.e.nt began. "You have offered a reward for him?" She nodded. "Don't forget, my sidekick can get around the worst wards downtown."

He eyed her. "Have you forgotten that is where I also grew up?" he asked softly. For a moment, surrounded by his art and his wealth, there alone in his huge house, facinghim-a wealthy and powerful man-she had. He smiled a little at her. "Leave this to me now, France-sea." His tone was patronizing. "Ihave already hired one fellow whom I have worked with in the past. I am fully confident thathe can locate Craddock. We will find him- although perhaps not by Tuesday at noon." She decided to ignore the fact that he had almost patted her on the head and told her to gohome. "So you will confront him Tuesday, then, if you have not already done so?" "Yes." He nodded approvingly. "That would be step one." She froze. Comprehension seared her. She stood unsteadily. "And what is step two?" He stared at her and did not answer. She did not move. But the words came out, unbidden. "And then you will kill him?" "Yes."

Chapter Fourteen.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1902 -BEFORE 8:00 A.M.

Bragg was just stepping out the door when Francesca arrived at his town house on Madison Square. He saw her as she stepped out of the cab, his eyes widening with surprise.

She rushed forward, tripping in her haste. He caught her, steadying her. She didn't think she had ever been happier to see anyone, and she clung to him. He would stop Hart from carrying out his mad scheme.

"Francesca? What's wrong?"

She embraced him and, leaning her cheek against the wool of his overcoat, she was aware of how much comfort and relief there was. There was no one she trusted more than this man, and she decided that she was going to make sure she never forgot that-especially around Hart.

She had intended to go to Bragg last night after leaving Hart's mansion. But Hart had insisted he escort her home personally, and she had been effectively waylaid.

His hand found her nape. "Francesca?"

She stepped back a little so their eyes could meet. "There is trouble, Bragg. You have to stop Hart-before he kills."

Bragg's eyes widened in shock. For one moment he did not respond, and then he released her, his face hardening. "I do not like the sound of this."

"I am so afraid," she returned.

"I can see that. I was on my way to headquarters, but let's go inside and you can explain yourself."

His choice of words took her back, but then she decided she was overwrought. She followed him back into the house and heard a woman's raised voice in the kitchen. It had to be the new nanny, Mrs. Flowers.

Guilt seized her. She hadn't seen the children since Thursday, when Bragg had brought them both by to visit her.

"And I have grown tired of your interference. Is that clear, my good man?" the crisp British voice asked.

Francesca looked at Bragg, imagining a tall, thin woman with a ramrod-straight bearing, spectacles, and the character of a marine sergeant. "Poor Peter," she whispered.

"Cats and dogs," he said, remaining terribly grim. "Do you wish to see the girls and meet the nanny your mother hired?"

"Of course," she said, pasting a smile on her face. She moved past him, trying to momentarily shove aside her worries about Hart and what he intended to do. In the light of day, she was very angry at Lucy for placing him in this position, no matter how understanding she tried to be.

Francesca paused in the kitchen doorway. Dot was on the floor, playing in a mess of cooked cereal. Katie was actually eating the very same oatmeal at the table. Both girls saw .Francesca at the same time. Katie almost dropped her spoon, her brown eyes going wide.

Dot clapped her hands and began to scream at the top of her lungs, "Frack! Frack! Frack come!"

Francesca saw Katie look down and pretend indifference to her arrival. She ate now with care. But at least the six-year-old was eating. The first week with Bragg-which was right after her mother's death-she hadn't eaten at all, and she was as thin as a rail to begin with.

Francesca swooped down on Dot, lifting her into her arms, taking in the scene by the stove.

Mrs. Flowers was hardly tall and mean-looking. She was a tiny woman with curly dark hair and quite pretty features, just slightly plump. She did wear spectacles, but they somehow added to her pretty face. She could not be even five foot tall, Francesca saw, hiding a smile, and it was truly absurd for her to be confronting the Swede, who was six feet, six inches.

Still, Mrs. Flowers stood facing Peter, her hands on her curved hips. He, of course, towered over her. His expression was one of resignation; no, he appeared to be suffering greatly and resigned to that.

"Katie shall go to school today, and that is that. There. Have I made myself clear, Mr.

Olsen?"

Peter looked helplessly at Bragg.

Francesca hesitated. Was school a good idea? Of course, Katie should be in school, but the school would be a new one, and she had just lost her mother. Her behavior remained sullen and hostile, as well as aloof.

But before Francesca could speak, Mrs. Flowers faced them. "I have had years of experience, sir. I am fully aware of all that Katie is going through. But she must return to a normal routine. He shows me no respect. I cannot work here if my authority is not absolute, Commissioner."

Bragg said, "It is absolute, Mrs. Flowers. Peter, do you not agree?"

Peter grunted and walked to Katie. "Kat? A bit more?"

Katie shrugged, her gaze darting to Francesca, who was being strangled by Dot. Peter took that as an affirmative, and he took Katie's bowl to the stove to refill it.