Deadly - Deadly Desire Part 10

Oddly, he did not like the sound of that. Without thinking it through, he pushed open her door and was faced with utter darkness.

He blinked and saw his wife standing before the drawn draperies, about to open them. She was wearing her night-clothes, her hand on the pull cord, looking over her shoulder at him.

Not a single light was on. She came to life, pulling open the curtains, and sunlight filled the sitting room. "I asked you towait," she said calmly, moving to another set of draperies and opening those, too. He did not answer. He walked over to the closed door that adjoined her bedroom andopened it. That room was utterly dark, too. "Neil?" Her tone was terse. He found a lamp and turned it on. The four-poster bed was mussed, for clearly she had sleptthere. The rest of the room was as neat as a pin. "Neil?" He went to the heavy gold satin draperies and pulled them open. Connie's room waspainted a warm b.u.t.tercup yellow. Her bed was upholstered in shades of beige, gold, andyellow, the pattern floral, with flashes of dark red and burnt orange. Similar colors had beenused throughout the room, and rich Persian rugs covered the wood floors. It was a warm,happy, cheerful room, at once elegant and inviting. The same color scheme extended to hersitting room, except that there the walls were a darker gold, and numerous red pillowsbrightened up the sofa. He turned and found her standing in the sitting room, watching him.The moment he turned, she smiled, but it seemed terribly grim. "Have you just gotten up?" "Yes. I don't feel well, today." "Shall I call Dr. Finney?" "No, I am sure it will pa.s.s." "Connie." He strode across her bedroom and into the sitting room. It, too, seemedundisturbed. It was as if no one had been there for even a moment. And his wife was notexcessively neat. She was hardly indifferent to tidiness, but usually a scarf would be lying ona chair, a purse on a bureau, jewelry by the bedside table. She was an avid reader of fiction,mostly popular romance, and there was always a book lying open somewhere, along with apair of reading gla.s.ses. And then he realized what was really missing, not just from this room, but from the house.Connie adored flowers. The house was always full of them, and in her own rooms she mighthave a half a dozen arrangements, from a single rose in a bud vase to a huge andextravagant bouquet. Where were all the flowers? Where was his wife? "What is it, Neil? Did you wish to speak to me?" He stared. Even now, she remained impossibly beautiful; even having just arisen from bed,she could have slipped off her nightclothes and thrown on an evening gown and gone outjust that way. Then he had an image of her perfect, naked body. The few times he had daredto admire her, she had been flushing with embarra.s.sment. He did not want to think about her that way now. Desire was instantaneous. He knew he wasalways going to want to make love to his wife. "You are staring," she said rigidly. "I did just get up, Neil. I did ask you to wait." "Charlotte misses you. I miss you," he said impulsively. Something flashed in her blue eyes and then she turned her back to him. "Did she saythat?" He hesitated, her heart pounding, a roar in his ears. "Yes. And I am saying it, Connie." Hewent to her and gently cupped her shoulders from behind. She stiffened. "I am merely a bit under the weather, Neil. I shall be fine in no time at all," shesaid in a light, forced tone of voice. Despair claimed him. "You are not fine. You are slipping away from me. Please comeback," he heard himself say. She pulled away, walked over to the windows, and stared out at the corner of MadisonAvenue and Sixty-first Street. "I am not slipping away, Neil. I have a cold, I think, and a touchof a migraine." She did not turn to him as she spoke. He closed his eyes, in real despair. How could he win his wife back? How? He tried another tack. "Did you enjoy yourself last night?" She turned, and he saw relief in her eyes. "Yes, I did." "I am not pleased with Julia's scheming over Hart and Francesca. That must be stopped." "Why? He clearly is fond of her, and he does need to wed, eventually." Neil could not believe his ears. "He will break her heart, Connie." He did not add, "just as hewould have broken yours if you dared to continue flirting with him." "Well, I think we should take a wait-and-see att.i.tude." She smiled at him. The smile was genuine, if brief; he was thrilled. He rushed to her, but before he could takeher hand she pulled away. He froze. Then she smiled again, and it was forced. "Can you send up the girls?" "I already have. Charlotte is having a second breakfast with you." Her smile vanished. "I have no appet.i.te." "Connie, we have to talk." "Neil? I am really not up to anything, much less a serious conversation. Which, from yourgrim expression, I can see is what you have in mind. I didn't sleep well last night. In fact, Ihaven't been sleeping well all week. I am really tired." He watched her walk away. "Are you punishing me?" She halted but did not turn. It was a moment before she spoke. He expected her to deny itpolitely. She said, "You made your bed and now you shall sleep in it, Neil." As Francesca and her maid, Bette, began packing a few necessities for an overnight trip,most of which would be spent upon a train, Francesca tried to develop a plausible reasonfor going out of town for a day. But this was the first investigation that was taking her so farafield, and she was too excited to come up with a single excuse. She really couldn't think ofa single thing that she would rather do than travel out of the city with Bragg while trying tosolve a crime. "I think that will do," Francesca said, glancing at the bronzed clock on her desk, which satcatty-corner from her lovely four-poster bed, on a wall before a window. She had packed herbest (prettiest) nightgown and robe, slippers, a change of undergarments, a secondshirtwaist, and a few items for her personal hygiene. At the last moment she added a pot oflip rouge and a bottle of French perfume. Bette had eyed her a few times as she folded thelacy nightgown, which was hardly a winter garment. "Can you leave the bag downstairs bythe front door? Thank you, Bette!" Francesca ran from the room, down the hall, and to her parents' bedroom. The door wasajar-a maid was within, making the bed and tidying up. "Where is my mother?" "In her dressing room, Miss Cahill." Francesca smiled a thank-you and darted through the bedroom and an opulent sitting roomwith orange marble floors and into a carpeted boudoir with peach-hued walls and matchingupholstery in a variety of prints. Julia was choosing a hat as she ran in. "Francesca? This is a surprise." She was wearing anavy blue dress in an exquisite washed silk, so the dress seemed to catch and then reflectthe light every time she moved. "Do you like this hat?" She held up a small pretty dark bluehat with a lace band and several very real-looking roses upon it. "Yes. Mama, I must go out of town. But I shall be back first thing in the morning!" "Absolutely not," Julia said calmly. Francesca smiled brightly. "You have not even asked why. It is a matter of extremeimportance to the Bragg family. Actually, I am doing Lucy a huge favor." Julia had put on the hat and was studying her reflection carefully in the mirror. "Mama?" She turned. "What kind of favor, Francesca?" "It is a very personal one," she said. "Are you on another investigation?" Francesca froze. "I thought so. The way you have been dashing about these past few days, I simply knew it."

Julia removed the hat and stared grimly at her. "Mama, I am helping Lucy. Please try to understand. Do not make me defy your authority!"Francesca cried. "I don't want you in danger," Julia said. "I am twenty years old. If I cannot make my own decisions now, when will I ever be able to?" Julia said, "Many women never make an important decision, not a single one, not once intheir life." "You have made every important decision in this house," Francesca said. She grabbed hermother's hand with her left one. "Mama? Surely you realize I intend to make my owndecisions, even if I do marry one day?" Julia sighed. "Yes, I do know that." "I am trying to help Lucy, Mama. It is really important. And ... I am not lying to you." "Francesca, you are not a liar. You have never been a liar," Julia said with a slight smile. "But in the past few cases, I had to withhold the truth. I am not doing that now," Francescasaid earnestly. "Where are you going?" "Upstate." "Where, exactly?" "I cannot say." "And with whom?" She didn't hesitate. She kept a straight face. "I am going with Bragg-and Hart." And thatwas a lie. A complete and terrible lie. "Hart is joining you?" she asked, smiling widely. "And Rick Bragg?" Francesca bit her lip. If Julia ever found out, she would never trust her again. But if she hadtold her the truth, a huge argument would have ensued. "When do you leave?" Julia asked, her smile not fading. "Right now." Julia hugged her. "Andrew may murder me for this." Her smile vanished and her gaze metFrancesca's. Francesca bit her lip. "Can't you and Papa make up?" Julia pulled away. "I don't know. Evan has moved out. But you already know that, don't you?" Francesca nodded. "But you and Papa must make up! You cannot quarrel over Evan, as Itruly do not think there is anything you can do to make him change his mind." Julia closed her eyes in despair, then opened them and smiled. "Have a safe trip," she said,and she hugged her. "I will manage your father." It was a rare day indeed that he was out and about so early, as he was a creature of thenight. Evan smiled up at the morning sun, inhaling the cold fresh air. He stood on the stepsof the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where he had taken a room. He had almost taken a suite. But as he was checking in, he thought about his finances-thefact that he had no income and was hugely in debt, but had, currently, good credit, at leastwith the right people. So he had taken a room instead of a suite, feeling rather pleased withhimself as he did so. He glanced up and down Fifth Avenue. Just across the avenue was Madison Park. To hissurprise, quite a few gentlemen and ladies were strolling across it, usually in pairs of thesame gender. As it truly was a beautiful morning, he realized it was not that surprising. He set off, heading downtown. Over breakfast in his room, he had made a list of gentlemenwhom he might approach for a job. These were men he knew socially, as did his father. Hehad crossed off anyone on that list who was a real friend and not just a social acquaintanceof Andrew Cahill . He felt confident that he would have a job and an income by that evening. After all, he hadbeen employed in a big business most of his life. He could a.n.a.lyze finances no matter thesubject. He realized he was excited to begin using his intellect for something other thanslaughterhouse accounts.

He heard himself whistling as he strode down the block. And as he did, it crossed his mind that he hadn't had a chance to say good-bye to Mrs. Kennedy and her children before leaving the house. That fact made him sober a bit. As he had no intention of going back to the house, he decided that he would send her a note. And perhaps he would invite Julia to meet him for lunch or tea later that day, simply to rea.s.sure her that all was well and that his leaving was not the end of the world.

A gentleman without a coat was walking ahead of him, but more slowly. As he stopped to regard a shop-front window, Evan shifted slightly so as to avoid b.u.mping into him as he pa.s.sed. But the man suddenly moved, and Evan was knocked completely off balance, almost to the point of falling.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, regaining his balance and meeting a pair of dark eyes. "I do beg-"

He never finished his sentence. Metal flashed in a gloved hand. In that instant, he knew the man was not a gentleman, just as he knew what was going to happen and why it was happening.

But no shot was fired. He was. .h.i.t in the back of the head. The pain was like lightning, blinding him.

But still he managed to stay upright, panicked. And as he swung his fist to defend himself, he knew this was the end.

His blow glanced off of the other man's chest. And then bra.s.s knuckles connected with his cheek, and as his head snapped back, as the impact of the brutal blow filled him with more pain, Evan found his feet knocked out from under him as the man kicked him in the leg. As he went down, an arm went around him, like a vise.

Panic.

G.o.d, was this really the end?

And even through the haze of white-hot pain, he felt himself dragged across the street, thrown down. He finally managed to see his a.s.sailant's face, and he recognized that man as Charlie, just Charlie, a big brute who guarded a particular moneylender and loan shark. He knew he had to explain; the bra.s.s knuckles smashed across his forehead. Evan caught Charlie's wrist.

Charlie laughed, shaking him off, and a booted kick came, right in the ribs.

Evan gasped, blinded, as his ribs cracked and broke.

More kicks followed, each and every one carefully aimed-his stomach, his kidneys, his groin. There were more blows with the bra.s.s knuckles. And he lay helpless, a heap of broken bones, choking on his own blood.

And then the whisper came. "Don't worry; you won't die. This is just a warning, Cahill," it said.

Chapter Fifteen.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1902 - 8:00 P.M.

The warden had met them at the train depot, which consisted of nothing more than a wood shack with a bolted door and a dilapidated sign that was hanging lopsidedly and read: KENDALL. They were the only two pa.s.sengers to disembark; in another hour and fifteen minutes the train would be stopping in Albany.

"You must be Commissioner Bragg. Read a bit about you, I did. Guess you're the lady detective, Miz Cahill. Decided to come down and meet you folks, as it ain't often I got a big investigation on my hands."

Bragg shook Warden Timbull's hands. The warden was a big man with heavy jowls and a huge belly. He was chewing tobacco and he smelled a bit like cheap whiskey, but he had

smiling eyes. "Thanks for meeting us, Warden," Bragg said. "I appreciate it. as time is of theessence. We are taking the twelve-oh-five back to the city tonight." "Can't say I blame you," Timbull remarked, shifting the wad of tobacco to another cheek. Hesmiled as he picked up Francesca's bag. "Now that's the prettiest detective I ever did see." Francesca actually flushed. "Thank you, Warden." "Nothing of it," he said, leading the way down three oak steps, one with a gaping crack, andonto a boardwalk that was crusted with ice and snow. "Careful. Slippery as anything outhere." As it was a dark, moonless night, it was hard to see, much less to watch her step. Onestreetlight was glowing perhaps a half a football field away, and as Francesca could see theoutlines of a dozen buildings, she a.s.sumed that was the heart of the town. She felt Bragggrasp her elbow firmly and she dared to look at him. He avoided her eyes. He had been avoiding her all day, it seemed, no easy task, considering that they had beensharing a private compartment together ever since they had boarded the train just beforenoon. The eight-hour train ride had pa.s.sed in an awkward manner, as if they were strangers,not a man and a woman in love or even friends. Bragg had hunkered down with morereports and files than any man should ever have to read. He'd merely remarked that this washis chance to catch up on paperwork and then he'd erected a brick wall around himself,which she knew she must not breach. Francesca had been stunned. She had expected to spend the day in conversation, discussing the case, politics, their life.Apparently Bragg had different ideas. Fortunately, Francesca had brought both her biology text and Flaubert's Madame Bovarywith her, and she used the time to catch up on her own studies. The conductor had alsocome by with various newspapers, and she had taken the Times, The Sun, and the DailyNews. At six Bragg had suggested that they break to dine. Francesca had carefully folded up the Times. "You're ignoring me," she had said quietly.The truth was, she felt crushed. "I am trying to get through my work," he'd said as quietly. "I think we need to talk." "Francesca, I think that is not a good idea. We have a very long evening ahead of us." Hisgaze was direct. "Why are you doing this?" She stood up. He hesitated. Then, "I am afraid to let you come too close-when we are alone like this. It ismyself I do not trust," he said, his eyes holding hers. With her somewhat relieved and somewhat mollified, they'd gone to the dining car. Whenthey began their meal, Bragg told her that he'd sent a telegram to Shoz, advising him tocome to New York. "I want to find out from Shoz himself what happened, and then I shallknow how to proceed," he had said. Francesca had reached across the linen-clad table to take his hand. As it was now dark out,nothing could be seen outside of the train's window, with the dining car lit by gla.s.s-domedcandles. "Then we shall know how to proceed, Bragg." He had smiled a little at her, their eyes meeting, and she'd thought about the sleeper trainthey would take back to the city, her heart quickening. She knew he was thinking about it,too, for she saw the flare of heat in his eyes before he withdrew his hand, looked away, andpicked up his fork, eating his steak with determination. Now Timbull heaved her small valise into the back of an open buggy. Bragg tossed in hisown small duffel. "Sorry I ain't got a better vehicle. Belongs to the prison, you know." "How far is it from here?" Francesca asked. "Not far. Maybe thirty minutes." He smiled at her, his teeth stained and yellow. When they were all seated together on the single front seat and on their way out of town,Timbull said, "Decided to read those files you asked for, in case it jogged the ole brain.Hard to recollect all the way back to '96, much less to 1890."

"And did it help?" Bragg asked. Francesca was shivering. She sat between the two men, and she inched a bit closer toBragg, her only wish to become warm. Timbull saw and eyed her. "Real cold up north, ain't it? Five below, tonight." "No wonder I can't stop shivering," Francesca said, managing a smile anyway. Bragg hesitated and their eyes met. Then he put his arm around her. "That coat isn't warmenough." "No, it is not," Francesca agreed, her teeth chattering. Then, snuggling closer to him andtrying to ignore the thrilling tingle of desire, she said, "What did you find, Warden?" "He sure was a model prisoner. Recall him now, oh yeah. Kept to himself, stayed out offights, did as he was told." Timbull glanced at them both as the gelding trotted along thesnowy country road. They were pa.s.sing rolling pastures now, Cranston having been left farbehind. Cattle seemed to dot the countryside. "Craddock was a model prisoner?" Francesca gasped. Bragg twisted to look at her. "No, he's talking about Shoz. Aren't you, Warden?" "Yeah, Shozkay Savage. The Indian. He was no trouble, although when he first arrived, therewere a few fights. I been warden here since '89. Once I read those files, it all come back tome. That Savage fellow ain't the kind of man a fellow forgets. Strong, silent type. Yeah, Iremember him. Kinda man you don't want to make mad, if you know what I mean. All themfights was him bein' picked on, tested. Savage defended himself real good and then he wasleft alone. Can't tell you what a big surprise it was, my best-behavin' prisoner up andescaping." He frowned. Francesca was still shivering, and she was pleased when Bragg rubbed her arm lightly, notlooking at her. "What about Craddock?" Bragg asked the warden. "Do you remember himat all?" "I didn't, not until I read his file. Ha!" Timbull snorted. "Now he was a problem. He was inmore fights than you could count, did solitary two dozen times. He actually stabbed a fellowinmate with a toothbrush, right in the eye, blindin' him, the argument over some woman whocame to visit one of them prisoners. He was trouble from day one," Timbull said flatly. "An'he didn't think twice about taking out another man's eye." Francesca and Bragg exchanged a look. "That's hardly a surprise," Francesca said. "What about the relationship between ShozSavage and Joseph Craddock?" "Don't know." He grinned at her. Francesca was disappointed. "Is there anyone at the prison now who was there in 1890whom we might speak to?" "Doubt it," Timbull said cheerfully. " 'Nother five minutes or so. Prison's up on the top of thathill." Francesca followed his gaze and saw nothing but a series of dark hilly outlines. Bragg said, "I've had two of my men doing a bit of investigative work, Warden." Timbull c.o.c.ked a brow. Francesca looked at Bragg in surprise. "Apparently there was a big scandal just after you took over Fort Kendall." Timbull stared. "You must mean the murder," he finally said. Francesca twisted. "The murder? What murder?" Timbull sighed. "Just one of the prisoners, ma'am." "It was never solved," Bragg said quietly. "And Shoz escaped a week later, at the end ofFebruary 1890." Timbull grunted. He shook the reins, urging the horse on. Francesca could not believe that Bragg had not mentioned this before. Of course, themurder of a fellow inmate just before Shoz's escape might not mean anything. Or it couldmean everything. "Warden? Surely you recall the first and only scandal of your administration of the prison?" He spat now, almost angrily, over the side of the buggy. "One morning a guard found him strung up in his cell, carved up good, and hanged. Coroner said he died from a brokenneck, not loss of blood. Someone did a number on him." "You mean torture?" Francesca gasped. "Oh, yeah, he was tortured, all right, Injun style. Long and slow." Francesca did not want to think about the fact that Lucy's husband was mostly Apache and,to use her own words, extremely hard and dangerous. "Who was he?" she whispered. "Cooper. Randy Cooper. Cooper had been a big man inside. He ran the show, so to speak.In every prison there's a king and his army. Cooper was king. Big smart fellow, as cold asice-colder. Anyone who didn't play his game his way got his head busted, sooner or later.You know what I mean." He gave Bragg a significant look. "Wasn't a single witness, if youknow what I mean. We're here," he said as they drove past a pair of fortlike gates. Francesca saw that a long, ugly building lay ahead of them, surrounded by a woodstockade. She shivered-this prison felt terribly unpleasant now. Bragg faced Timbull. "Any guesses as to why Cooper was tortured and murdered? Anysuspicions as to who did it?" "There was an investigation, but bein' as no one came forward to say a single word abouthim or the murder, it was dropped. He was a bada.s.s-er, a real bully, Commissioner. Hehad his own army of soldiers; even the guards were afraid of him." "So any prisoner might have hated Cooper enough to torture and murder him?" "That's right." Francesca and Bragg faced each other again. It was a moment before he turned to Timbull."Any interactions between him and Shoz?" Bragg asked. "Shoz got his a.s.s kicked a few times, if I recall, by Cooper and his gang of thugs. Everyonedid. But he wouldn't join the gang; like I said, he kept to himself. Never said a word, pointeda finger, nuthin'. But generally speaking, they didn't have any business, if you know what Imean." "An' Craddock?" Timbull grinned. "He was one of Cooper's top guns. In fact, after Cooper, he was top man.When Cooper bit the bullet, Craddock got the throne." With that, he heaved himself out ofthe front seat of the buggy. Francesca met Bragg's glance. "What are you thinking? Where are you going with this?"She asked in a whisper so Warden Timbull would not hear. He hesitated. "Cooper was the alias Shoz used after escaping prison." Three hours later, the local train was pulling out of Kendall. Francesca and Bragg had spentthe past hours in the warden's office, reading every word in the files of all three men, as wellas the extremely scant investigative report. They had learned nothing new, but the wardenhad told them that Craddock's reign hadn't lasted very long-another felon had been placedat the prison, someone stronger, smarter, and meaner than Craddock, who had beendemoted to a lieutenant again. "Lady's compartment," the conductor said, sliding open her wood door. Two beds were inthe small s.p.a.ce, one directly above the lower one. "Beds fold in. Table there comes out," hesaid, indicating a folded tabletop beside which was a single small chair. "Dining car opensat six; club car stays open all night." He turned in the small s.p.a.ce of the corridor. "Yourcompartment, sir." He slid open the door to an identical cubicle. "Thank you," Bragg said. Because it was extremely difficult to move with the three of them standing in the narrowcorridor, Francesca stepped inside her compartment. The conductor tipped his hat andwalked on down the train. Francesca looked at Bragg. "We have to meet Shoz. I'm sure he has quite a bit to say onthe subject of prison life- and some strong opinions about Cooper's murder." Bragg didn't comment. She touched his arm; he was so very grim. "Just because Shoz used Cooper as an alias forseven years doesn't mean he killed him."

"I'll bet there were quite a few witnesses to Cooper's murder, and I have a hunch that Craddock was one of them."

Francesca started.

"I am going to the club car," Bragg said abruptly. He smiled, but it was tight. "Good night, Francesca."

She felt her mouth drop open, but he didn't see, as he was already walking after the conductor, swaying a bit along with the train.

She was in disbelief. This was their chance to freely discuss the case, and he was simply walking away. And what was she supposed to do by herself? Sleep? As if she could!

She slammed shut her compartment in a fit of anger, and it crossed her mind that Calder Hart would never abandon her like this. He'd go to the club car, fetch a pair of whiskeys, and they'd spend the next few hours discussing the world- and his jaded view of it.

Francesca sat down hard on the lower bunk, whacking her head as she did so. Tears filled her eyes.

She was losing him.

She stood, because sitting was impossible without craning her neck in a hurtful position.

She told herself that she was not losing him. He was trying to be virtuous. He was trying to protect her virtue-because he loved her. And because being alone with her was simply too difficult, now.

Francesca moved carefully to the chair beside the folding tabletop, and sat down on it. What should she do?

Hart's image came to mind. Unless you come to your senses and forget this absurd notion that you love my brother, this is war.

She did not want to think about Leigh Anne now.

Rick is married; Calder is not.

Grace's words dared to echo next. Francesca wanted to clap her hands over her ears.

Neither of them knew that Bragg was prepared to divorce his wife for her. Perhaps she was wrong to refuse his marriage proposal. Perhaps their personal happiness was more important than his political future; besides, they could still reform the world even if he wasn't in politics. There were hundreds of causes they could take up, hundreds of societies and unions to join and support, and countless charities to raise money for.

But he was a natural-born leader. His place was in government.

Francesca rubbed her eyes. Suddenly she was exhausted. Nothing was going the way she had hoped, and now, too late, she realized she had packed her sheer, lacy nightgown for a reason, so he could admire her in it-worse-to break his self-control.

But he was stronger than she was. He- wasn't going to compromise her, and she loved him even more for it.

But where, dear G.o.d, could they go from here?

The answer was chilling. It whispered through her tiny sleeping compartment like a sigh coming from the train's chugging wheels. Nowhere.

Francesca left the stool abruptly, curling up on the lower bunk, hugging her pillow. The weight of worry coupled with grief settled upon her like a hundred-pound rock. Perhaps Bragg wasn't her destiny after all; perhaps they were doomed.

Tears moistened her eyes, blurring her vision. The train chugged on, but there was no comfort in the rocking motion or the steady sound. The small light from the lantern danced before her eyes. She saw Bragg and Leigh Anne; she saw Hart.

Suddenly Francesca was awake. The lantern continued to burn brightly, and she realized she had fallen asleep, but obviously not for very long. She strained to hear, for something had awoken her, and then she was rewarded by the sound of his compartment door sliding closed with a loud and resounding click.

She sat up, whacking her head as she did so.

"Ow." Holding her throbbing head, she slipped out from under the top bunk, breathless now.

What time was it? Did it matter? She stood unsteadily and fell against one wall as the train

veered around a curve. She unlatched the shade to peek outside-it remained pitch-black.

She didn't have a clue as to whether she'd been sleeping for an hour or hours.

Her gaze fell upon her small valise. An image danced in her mind, and while she knew she should not, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the valise, opening it. She quickly dug out her lace nightgown and a silk robe trimmed with the same ivory lace.

The garments were nearly weightless and silken in her hands.

Did she dare?

And why was she so afraid?

If they made love now, there was no going back. It would solve their problems-seal their love. And that was what she wanted. That was what she had wanted from the moment they had met.

She refused to entertain doubts now. Francesca unb.u.t.toned and shrugged out of her shirtwaist and camisole. Her nipples hardened from the cold, but she ignored the chill. She slipped off her skirt, petticoat, and drawers. Then she stepped into the nightgown, a sheer sheath held up by two tiny lace straps. Lace trimmed the low bodice and the hem. A small rosebud was in the center of the bodice, which was enticingly sheer.

Her teeth were chattering now. It was probably five below in the compartment, too, she thought, and it was easier dwelling on that notion than on what she intended to do-and what might or might not happen. She slipped on the robe, belting it tightly; then she realized that was not helpful, and she loosened the sash.

She hesitated, then unpinned her hair, shaking out the golden waves. Her hair fell to her shoulder blades.

Rouge.

She dug into the valise, found the pot, and applied a dab to her lips and cheeks. It was hard to feel now. She just knew she could not turn back, as if, in doing so, she might never get back on track.

She had a small hand mirror tucked inside the valise, and she paused to check her reflection. She started, because her eyes were wide with apprehension and anxiety and perhaps even fear.

What could she possibly be afraid of?

Bragg was her destiny.

She looked again, but the fear remained in her wide cornflower blue eyes. The rouge, however, was fine. She lowered the gla.s.s and hesitated. Her ensemble hid nothing. Her every curve was obvious, the outline of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her aureoles and nipples, her ribs, her navel, her s.e.x. She could hardly breathe. Could she really do this?

I am throwing myself at a man, she thought, suddenly grim.

A married man.

She was about to sit back down on the bunk, but in the nick of time she recalled hitting her head twice. Instead, she held onto the wall with one hand. But she loved Bragg. And he loved her. He despised his wife, and he'd been separated for four years.

She wasn't soothed. She could hardly breathe.

Just do it, she thought.

But what if it did not solve all of their problems?

Even if you become his lover, there will only be ruin, guilt, and shame.

Are you afraid that the story you have told yourself will blow up in your face?

She refused to heed her fear or Hart's terrible words. Filled with determination, Francesca slid open her compartment door just enough to peek out and make sure that no one was in the corridor. It was empty. She stepped out and knocked on his door. "Bragg!" she cried, almost desperate now.

There was no answer.

She banged again. "Bragg! I'm locked out of my compartment!"

A moment pa.s.sed, in which she wondered if he had heard her and was being obstinate, or if he was sound asleep. But then his door slid open. "Why don't you call the-" he began,

and he stopped. His gaze slammed to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her hips, her thighs, and the hot delta in between. Francesca managed a smile and darted past him, into his compartment. She was tremblingnow. He turned slowly. "Your compartment door is open, Francesca," he said calmly. "I lied. I can't sleep," she said in a rush. Oh, G.o.d. What was she doing? So cling to yourd.a.m.n fairy tale! But there will not be a happy ending, Francesca. And with his words, Hart'sdark, intense, and angry image came to mind. She did not want to think about him now! Not now! "You cannot stay here," Bragg said, unmoving. She met his gaze and stilled. The panic and the fear stilled. The voices in her head stilled.And something else came to life, deep within her, and she recognized it instantly. She was alone in a tiny sleeping compartment with a gorgeous man, a man she loved, andthere was no mistaking the way he was looking at her now. This was what she wanted-wasn't it? Francesca did not understand herself now. She remained afraid, and there was dread, too,but with her ambivalence there were other sensations that were not ambivalent at all. Herloins were swelling, an involuntary reaction to the man she was with and the night. Sherecognized the tightening there, the budding urgency, the need. "You are trying to seduce me," Bragg said roughly. She nodded. "Yes." He leaned back against the compartment door, which he'd left ajar. He stared up at theceiling. She could see his pulse throbbing in his throat. Her thoughts began to simmer down, to calm. The night was no longer cold, it was warm andvital, alive, and she was on a train, hundreds of miles from the city, with Bragg. They werealone. Entirely, completely alone. No one would walk in on them now. No one would everknow what happened in his sleeping compartment, other than her and him. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s felt swollen, too. Heavy, full. And he was looking at them. Staring at her lowbodice, her erect nipples, which were barely covered by the French lace. "Francesca." Bragg's tone was low, husky... seductive. He looked up now, his golden eyesheated. "Please go." And she hesitated. Your friendship is more important to me than s.e.x, Hart's voice purred in her mind. Oh yes, Isee the writing on the wall. And I must stand by and watch it all unfold.. . Francesca almost hated Hart then. How dare he predict her future? And he was wrong!Wasn't he? "Last chance," Bragg said so softly she could hardly hear him, and she saw him tremble. It crossed her mind that she could go, that she should go, that Hart was right. "I'm staying,"she heard herself whisper, but not without a terrible accompanying pang of anxiety. After this moment, there would be no going back. Bragg's arm whipped out before she had even finished her words, and he caught her, hisgrip so hard that she gasped. But he did not loosen it, and their gazes collided, locked. Hunger consumed his eyes, his face. What was she doing? He pulled her against him, his mouth covering hers. He was all muscle and bone, a man ofsteel. And the moment she was against him, her body seemed to explode in greed andpleasure; the moment she was wrapped in his arms, she knew it was right. Francescawrapped her arms around him as their mouths fused, as his tongue thrust against hers,mating wildly within her mouth. She felt him reach out behind her, abruptly sliding the doorclosed. Anxiety stabbed at her again. Should she go through with this? What if Hart was right? And then she felt his hands on her b.u.t.tocks, caressing them, molding them, spreading them wide. Her thighs opened for him instantly as her knees buckled, as intense desire flooded her.

He shoved the weight of his arousal against her s.e.x and she cried out, shocked by his weight, his heat, his hardness. There were no thoughts now. His s.e.x burned; her s.e.x answered, yearned.

He cupped her face with his hands. "I love you. I want you. This is how badly I want you, that I am doing what I have sworn I would not do. I can't even think right now!" he cried urgently.

She could hardly speak; she was insane with the throbbing member between her thighs.

"Bragg," she gasped.

He caught her by her b.u.t.tocks again, lifting her harder, higher, on the ridge of his manhood.

Francesca felt the delicious friction and the sparks going off, one by one, quickly, and as he rubbed himself over her, again and again, rhythmically, a masculine demand, the sparks caught fire. He moved harder, faster, sensing where she was going, carrying her there. The explosion took her by surprise. She cried out frantically, he was banging against her, and she was swept up, away, far away, into a black void shattered by a zillion stars, each and every one exploding, fire and light.

When she drifted back to earth, she was in his arms and on the bunk, on her back. His hand was splayed dangerously low on her belly, just inches above her wet, swollen s.e.x. She blinked her eyes open and was met by golden fire. He bent and kissed her long and hard, his tongue thrusting into her mouth.

And when he straightened, he smiled just a little, at her.

Francesca could not smile back. Reality hit her, hard. She was flat on her back on his bunk, in his sleeping compartment, and they had come precariously close to consummating their relationship.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.