Deadly - Deadly Illusions Part 3

He then heard Dot shriek in glee, but did not hear a sound from his wife.

"Peter."

The six-foot-four Swede paused. "Sir?"

"I take it all went well when you brought my wife home from the hospital?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

Bragg felt more guilt. He had insisted that she come home, and so had the doctors.

Perhaps to punish him for not allowing her to remain at Bellevue, Leigh Anne had requested that he send Peter to bring her home and that he not interrupt his busy schedule on her account. How polite she had been. How calm, how detached. He had agreed, knowing d.a.m.n well that it wasn't his schedule motivating her. Even if she did not wish to punish him, she certainly wished to avoid him as much as possible. And maybe she was right.

He wondered now if he was right in forcing her against her will to come home. He thought it was best for her and for the children. Here she was loved, here he had newly hired staff to see to her special needs.

But maybe he was being selfish. He had his own needs. And in spite of the crushing burden of his guilt, he wanted her home, where she belonged. Although he was torn, the urge to take care of her was far stronger than the urge to flee.

Besides, he had already learned that he could not flee his own remorse.

"Mrs. Bragg was very happy to see the children," Peter said quietly. He hesitated.

Bragg was surprised. Peter clearly had something more to say. "What is it?"

"She does not know how to use the chair you ordered for her, sir. She is distressed about it.

And she sent the nurse home."

Bragg started. "She dismissed Mr. McFee?"

"No, sir. She told him to return in the morning."

That was a relief. They could not manage without the male nurse. "She will become accustomed to the wheeled chair in no time," he said, more to rea.s.sure himself than Peter.

Peter inclined his head. He was blond and blue-eyed, his hair thinning, his face round. "Will you be taking supper, sir?"

"No, thank you," he declined. He had no appet.i.te. How could he, when his heart felt as if it had sunk into his stomach? Slowly, his hand on the worn banister of the narrow Victorian staircase, he went upstairs.

Conversation drifted from the girls' small bedroom. Bragg approached with care, his nervous state increasing, glancing inside before he was even on the threshold. Leigh Anne sat in her wheeled chair, excruciatingly beautiful in a pastel green silk dress and a jade necklace. Her hair was pinned up and she was smiling, an angel in their midst. Dot was on her lap, Katie seated on the floor and snuggled up to her feet. She was reading them a children's bedtime story and in the small room, the wallpaper a beige-and-gold print, the furniture darkly stained and old. The scene was a charming and cozy one.

He smiled and his heart ached. He should be in that room, too, a welcome part of the family.

Instead, he had somehow become the outsider.

But Katie saw him. She stood and hurried to him, flinging her arms about him, hugging him

hard. "You're home!" He stroked her soft, ash-brown hair. "Yes. And your mother's home," he said softly. In the past he had not allowed himself to refer to Leigh Anne as the girls' mother. The children were fostering with them, after all, and he had not intended for Leigh Anne to stay with them for too long. But that had now changed. Katie smiled up at him, nodding. "I'm so happy," she said. Just a few months ago, after her real mother was murdered, the eight year old had been withdrawn, sullen and depressed. He was thrilled at the change in her and he stroked her cheek. "It's a happy day," he said, and slowly, he glanced at his wife. She had been looking at him; now, she flung her gaze to the open book on her lap. Dot, an angelic toddler, blue-eyed and fair, clapped her hands and beamed. "Papa!" she shouted enthusiastically. His heart beat wildly in the cage that was his chest. Leigh Anne refused to look up. Was this her way now of avoiding him, even when they were in the same room? And as he leaned down to greet Dot, who grabbed some of his hair and tugged, he wondered if he should have let Leigh Anne stay at Bellevue the way she had wished. He inhaled baby and woman, powder and something floral and spicy, something soft and seductive. As he kissed Dot's soft cheek, he could see Leigh Anne's hands on the book, where they trembled. He began to straighten and then dared to feather Leigh Anne's cheek with a kiss. "h.e.l.lo. Welcome home." When he was standing straight, she said, "Thank you." She did not look him in the eye. "Girls? Let's finish the story and then, Dot, it's time for bed." He shoved his hands helplessly into his pockets, feeling unwanted. The fact that Leigh Anne did not ask him to sit down was glaring. He wanted desperately to join his family, but he lacked the courage to do so. His cheeks began to burn. Katie jumped to sit down on the floor, careful not to touch Leigh Anne's legs, and Dot cried, "Read, Mama, read more!" Leigh Anne cleared her throat and began to read. '"So the little boy felt sad. Robert started to walk away...'" Bragg turned and left the room. In their bedroom, he stripped off his tie. It fell to the floor and he realized he was angry. He shrugged off his suit jacket, unb.u.t.toning his shirt. He had no right to be angry and he knew it. She was crippled because of him. There was simply no getting around it and she had every right to blame him, avoid him and even hate him. But d.a.m.n it, he wanted to be in the children's room, with Leigh Anne and the girls, not alone in the master suite, feeling caged up and enraged. If only he could fix this! Bragg flung his jacket to the floor but did not feel better. He stalked into the bathing room and paused, removing his shirt and dropping that as well. He leaned on the vanity, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired, disheveled, grim, with the eyes of a haunted man. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, biceps bulging, and heard Dot shout with laughter. His heart hurt even more. G.o.d, how was he going to manage this marriage now? He had thought his life a living h.e.l.l before, when he had refused to accept a reconciliation with Leigh Anne, only doing so when his wife had forced his hand. He had hated her so much for denying him the divorce, for coming between him and Francesca and then for promising him that very divorce, providing he meet the conditions she laid down. He had let her move in for the six months they had agreed upon. She had promised him that, if after six months, he still wished for a divorce, she would not contest it. And that was when she had had the accident. Now, divorce was out of the question. Not only would he never abandon Leigh Anne in her state, he didn't want to. All he wanted was to take care of her and the children. He wanted them to become a family. But G.o.d, that seemed like an impossible dream.

He needed a drink.

Bragg went into the bedroom. A bra.s.s bar cart was against one wall by the bookcase, and he poured himself a stiff bourbon. He was sipping it repeatedly, determined to find some mental and emotional relief, when he heard Leigh Anne telling the girls that she would be back to tuck them in after Mrs. Rowers readied them for bed.

He hesitated, knowing she would refuse his help, but the gentleman in him demanded he try.

He set the gla.s.s down, shrugged on a smoking jacket, and stepped into the hall. Leigh Anne sat in the wheeled chair in the children's room, looking grim and unhappy. He forced a smile. "Let me help," he said, approaching.

"No!"

He froze.

She smiled back at him. "I'm fine. I need to do this by myself, don't I?" Her tone was one of forced cheer.

Unable to dissuade her, he returned to the bedroom, straining to hear. But as the moments ticked by he heard only the sound of the nanny and the girls in the bedroom. There was silence in the hall. He slammed down the bourbon and walked to the door.

Leigh Anne sat in the chair, now in the center of the hall, tears on her cheeks. When she realized he was present she looked up, anger sparking in her eyes. "Don't," she warned.

He realized she was stuck. One of the chair's wheels was jammed against one wall. He ignored her, rushing over.

"I don't want help."

His hands were on the chair's handlebars and he flinched as if burned. "It is going to take some time to get used to moving about," he said more quietly. "There's no reason for you to expect to master the chair the first time you try it."

She covered her face with her hands.

"Please," he added, and he heard the anguish in his tone. Not waiting for a response, he moved the chair down the hall and into the bedroom. His wife's seductive fragrance enveloped him.

She dropped her hands, wiped her eyes. "I apologize. That was rude."

He walked around the chair so he could face her. "Don't treat me as if I were a stranger," he heard himself say.

Her gaze slipped down and he realized he had belted the smoking jacket so loosely that a good deal of his bare chest and abdomen were revealed. She flushed, looking away as he quickly pulled the lapels closed and tightened the belt, although she had seen his chest bare a dozen times since their reconciliation. And suddenly he thought about being in bed with her-about holding her gently in his arms and stroking her hair, her face, until she slept.

Unfortunately, desire slammed over him, stiffening every inch of his body.

He ignored it. "It will get easier," he said to her. "I feel certain of it."

"That's easy for you to say," she said, refusing to look at him.

And he couldn't stand it any longer. "If I could undo it all, Leigh Anne, I would. Right back to four years ago! I wish I had paid attention to you then! I wish I hadn't taken that d.a.m.n job defending crooks and indigents. I wish I'd gone to that fancy law firm the way you wanted, the way we'd planned, I wish we'd bought the mansion next to my parents, I wish we'd started our own family! I wish I'd brought you back from Europe when you left instead of turning around and coming home alone! I would undo it all if I could."

She stared, her face suddenly devoid of color.

He started. "Are you all right?"

It was a moment before she managed a small, uncertain smile. "Yes." She looked away, closing her eyes and trembling.

He knelt and took her hands. "Please. I don't mean to distress you any further. But that is how I feel. I regret every choice I have made since we married," he said earnestly.

Leigh Anne suddenly turned her face aside, wiping her eyes. "It doesn't matter anyway, not

now," she said. Her smile was odd. He didn't stand. He was terribly aware of her and wanted to lay his cheek on her lap. "Yes, itdoes matter, because my regrets are sincere. I have treated you terribly since you arrived inthe city. I'm sorry." She bit her lip and said nothing. He got up. "I know you blame me for this. And I don't blame you. I know the accident was myfault, just as I know that my apology changes nothing. Still, I am so sorry." She stared, two bright spots of color appearing on her cheeks. "I can't fix what happened. I can't undo the damage to your leg. But I am determined to takecare of you," he said, and he managed a smile. "I swear it." She looked away, closing her eyes tightly. And he had no idea of what she was thinking orfeeling. He reached for her small, cold hand. "Just let me take care of you," he whispered. "Thingswill be different now, I promise." Tears slid down her cheeks, escaping her tightly closed eyes. "Leigh Anne?" She swallowed and looked at him. "You don't have to take care of me, Rick." She had spoken so softly he thought he had misheard. "What?" "The accident wasn't your fault. I don't blame you. I don't blame you for what happened atall." He stared in disbelief. And then he felt the relief begin to well. "Do you mean it?" She nodded. "How could you blame yourself for an utter accident?" But he did blame himself-and he always would. He was beyond relieved, though, that shedid not. "If you don't blame me for the accident, then why didn't you want to come home?Then why are you avoiding me every moment we are together?" he heard himself ask. She hesitated. "It's too late, Rick." Comprehension began. "Too late?" "You can wish on the moon, but the past is real. The misunderstanding, the lies, the lovers,that hate. It's all very real," she said. She was starkly white and she began to shake. "What are you saying?" he cried, but he knew. She shrugged, more tears falling. "It's simply too late for us to have a second chance. Notnow. Not like this."

"Your six-in-hand is drawing undo attention," Francesca remarked, having just climbed downfrom the large, handsome barouche. Pedestrians pa.s.sing by had paused to stare, as hadseveral men leaving the corner saloon. "I think it is you receiving the undo attention," Hart murmured, his hand firmly grasping herarm. His gaze met hers and then slipped over her stunning turquoise evening gown. Thevelvet shawl she wore, a deeper, darker shade of blue, concealed very little. They were out of place, Francesca realized, both of them in their elegant evening clothesand having come by such a lavish coach. The men going into the saloon wore shabby woolshirts and patched trousers. Many were drunk. And she happened to be the only womanpresent on the sidewalk. "Joel? We'll walk you to your door before we speak with Mrs.O'Neil. It's late. Your mother must be worried." "No one's home," Joel declared. "They were gone earlier- left me a note. Went to supper,they did, with your brother." Francesca started in sheer surprise. Then delight began. "Maggie is with my brother?" Sheglanced down the block. "Maybe they have returned- ".

"Light's out," Joel announced. "They're not back."

Francesca glanced at the window that she thought probably belonged to the Kennedy flat and it was black. She continued to smile. "I wonder where they went," she murmured, more

to herself than Hart. "You are insatiable," Hart said in her ear. "And it shows." She smiled up at him, keeping her voice low so that Joel wouldn't hear her suppositions. "Ican't help myself. This is beyond intriguing-my brother is far too fond of Maggie for it to bemere friendship." "I would highly advise you not to meddle," Hart said with a sudden smile. "If you can restrainyourself." "Of course I can," she returned, somewhat indignant. "We shall see." He took her arm more firmly. "Lead the way, Joel," he said. Joel was more than pleased to do so, and a moment later Gwen O'Neil was opening herdoor. "Miss Cahill!" She gasped in surprise. She was very pale and her red nose andswollen eyes were testimony to the fact that Joel had not exaggerated the situation. Clearlyshe had been crying for some time. "Mrs. O'Neil, this is my fiance, Calder Hart. I know it is late, but may we come in? I'd reallylike to help you if I can," she added. Gwen clung to the door. She nodded. The moment they had filed past her and were inside,she slammed and bolted the door. Then she wiped her eyes with her fingertips. "I have a.n.a.llergy," she whispered. "Spring fever." Francesca saw that the drapes were drawn at the far side of the room, indicating thatBridget was asleep behind the part.i.tion. She laid a palm on the woman's narrow shoulder."How can I help?" she asked kindly. "Has something happened that we do not know about?That you have not told us?" She kept her voice down. Gwen shook her head, looking ready to burst into tears. "What is wrong? You weren't this distressed a few hours ago when I was here with the policecommissioner." And as she spoke, she felt Hart's sudden interest. His gaze bored into herback. She wished she had not brought up the touchy subject of Rick Bragg. "Before, I thought I might be imagining it," Gwen whispered. "What did you think you were imagining? Did you think you were being followed again?" "On the cross-town omnibus," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "I could feel his stare, I swear, but I saw noone, and then I had to walk the last few blocks. It seemed fine, normal, you know, so I thoughtI had made it up in my mind!" "And what has changed since this afternoon?" Francesca asked. Gwen swallowed. "I've seen him. Out there, through the window, on the street. He's therenow, in a doorway, by the saloon. I've caught him staring up at my window, Miss Cahill, I amcertain of it!" For one moment Francesca stared, trying to recall a man in the doorway near the saloon asthe men exiting it had paused to gawk at her and Hart. But she had no image of any figurelurking there. Hart said, "I'll see what I can find." "Yes, that's a good idea," Francesca said. As Hart started for the door, Joel racing toaccompany him, she restrained Gwen from rushing to look out of the window. A planoccurred to her. "Calder, maybe you should drive by in the coach, slowly-" "I think I can handle this, darling," he said with some amus.e.m.e.nt and a shake of his head.And then he and Joel were gone. Francesca had the insane urge to watch, too. Her heart beat hard with excitement andalarm. If Gwen was right, if someone was stalking her now, there was a possibility that hewas the Slasher. And that meant he was a killer. And Hart was going after him. It crossed her mind that he was unarmed, but she had a pistol in her purse. He could be in danger. "Stay here," she cried, opening her bag as she raced across the flat and out the door. Thestairwell was dark and empty, Joel and Hart on the street by now. On the landing below shepaused, taking the pistol out of her bag and then using the velvet clutch to hide the weaponfrom any causal onlooker's view. Her heart pounding, she went to the tenement's front door and saw that Hart had left it ajar.

She peered outside. Instantly, she saw that Hart and Joel had split up. Hart was across the street, clearly on hisway into the saloon, undoubtedly on the pretense of wanting a drink. That was an excellentplan. She did not see Joel. Undoubtedly he was staked out somewhere, in case their quarrymade a run for it. She swallowed and fought to see into the shadows that covered the various cellar doorwayssurrounding the saloon. The lamp on the corner did not cast its glow very far. Beyond thesaloon entrance, it was impossible to see. If a man loitered in one of the doorways, shesimply could not tell. For Gwen to have seen him, he must have stepped well out onto the sidewalk. Why was henow being so cagey? Did he suspect their presence? Or had he simply gone? Hart clearly did not see anyone either, for he never broke stride, disappearing into thesaloon. Her palm was wet. She eased her grip on the tiny revolver, dismayed. If the stalker had beenpresent, Hart would have seen him and pounced. The minutes ticked by. Two rowdiesentered the saloon, but otherwise, the street was empty and deserted, due to the late hour ofthe night. Francesca stared so hard at the opposite doorways that her gaze blurred. Andsuddenly she saw a man emerge from the shadows into the glow of lamplight. Gwen had been right. Francesca glimpsed no more than the huddled shape of him and the pale skin of his face,but if she did not miss her guess, he was staring directly up at Gwen O'Neil's window. She did not know where Hart was, d.a.m.n it, but she was not going to let the man escape.She dropped her purse and started from the doorway at a run, aiming the gun in thevagrant's direction. He saw her and froze. "Hands up," she shouted as if she were a policeman, the entire street between them. "Haltand put your hands up!" Ignoring her, he started to run past the saloon. At that precise moment, Hart burst from the saloon. He tackled the man before he got to thecorner of the block, knocking him down on his belly. A moment later, as Francesca ran up,Hart was astride him, pulling the man's hands behind his back. And then he was using hisnecktie to shackle the man's wrists. Panting, Francesca halted beside them. Joel joined her at a run, also out of breath. "I didn't do nothin'," the man cried. "Nothin'!" Hart stood and turned to Francesca, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I said I would handle it!" She bit her lip. "But you went into the saloon and I thought-" She stopped in midsentence. "And you thought what, Francesca?" Calder demanded, taking the gun right out of her hand. She felt wretched. "I knew you didn't have a weapon so I came downstairs to protect you ifthings went awry." His gaze widened. "You thought to protect me?" She nodded glumly. Now she was in trouble, indeed. "You were not protecting me by barreling out of that tenement and demanding that this manput his hands up!" She grimaced. "But you went into the saloon instead of apprehending him. I thought you didnot see him." "I saw him, Francesca. I went into the saloon to take off my tie so I had some means ofrestraining him, as I do not carry a gun like you do." He was very angry, indeed. "I'm sorry," she whispered as meekly as possible. "I doubt it," he said coolly. He was right-she really wasn't sorry. He wasn't hurt and they had the stalker! But they couldargue about this later. "Hart, take him up to Gwen's so we can interview him!" she cried, asatisfied smile appearing on her face as she peered down at the man who had now sat up. Hart gave her a dark look that meant that she was not off the hook, not by any means, but he hauled the man to his feet. "Do you have a name?" he demanded. "You're not coppers. If you're not coppers, who the h.e.l.l are you?" the man demanded in astrong Irish brogue. He was very slim and rather tall, with dark brown hair and pale blueeyes. He wore the coa.r.s.e cotton and wide-weave wool of a working man. "I am Francesca Cahill and I am a sleuth," Francesca said briskly. "And I have no problemtaking you up to police headquarters, if that is where you wish to go." He scowled at her. "I done nothin' wrong." "Of course, if you speak to me, there is no need to bring the police into this," she said, andshe smiled winningly at him. The man scowled and spat in her direction. Hart moved. With a sudden growl, he seized the man by the back of his corduroy jacket andthrew him face first into the building. "What's your name," he said calmly, holding him hardthere. And he lifted him as if prepared to smash his face on the wall again. Hart was so elegant that Francesca had forgotten how he had grown up. He had been borna b.a.s.t.a.r.d on the Lower East Side, not far from where they now stood. She cringed even a.s.she gaped at him. "Speak up," he warned threateningly, his face a dark mask of ruthless intent. "Hanrahan!" the stalker cried. "David Hanrahan and I done nothin' wrong! It's my right to behere!" Hart released him abruptly. "You have your answer," he said coolly to Francesca. And realizing just how angry Hart remained with her, some of her elation died.

Chapter 8.

Wednesday, April 23, 1902.

10:00 p.m.

Gwen simply stared at her husband as they led him inside her flat. Francesca had expected a bit more of a reaction. Still, Gwen was pale and wide-eyed. b.u.t.there were no hysterics and the extent of her surprise-the lack of shock-was more thanodd, it was telling. Hart shoved Hanrahan onto a kitchen chair. Then he loosened his bow tie, flipped a chairbackward and sat down himself. He still seemed annoyed. Francesca hoped it wasbecause of Hanrahan and not because of her reckless behavior earlier. Of course, herhopes were foolish, indeed. "David?" Gwen whispered. He nodded at her, his expression grim. "It was you? You were outside?" He nodded. "I got every right to be here! You're my wife!" he erupted. Gwen covered her face with her hands, releasing a sob. And Bridget suddenly stepped out from behind the drapes in her flannel nightgown. Hereyes were huge with surprise. "Papa?" Francesca quickly stepped over to her as Gwen whirled with a cry. As she put her armaround the child, Bridget said, "It was really you. I really saw you after school today!" Shebegan to tremble. Clearly the child was stunned to see her father. And while Francesca realized that Bridget was shocked and upset, she could not be certainthat the girl was happy to see her father, either. "It was me," David said flatly. "h.e.l.lo, my little poppet." Bridget did not move. Gwen rushed to stand between them. "You stay away from her!" she cried. David made a sound of disgust. Bridget pressed closer to Francesca. She could not decipher the complicated familyrelationships. "Joel? Take Bridget into the hall for a moment, please." Joel flushed as he approached Bridget, but he was kind. "C'mon. They'll be plenty of time feryou and your papa later, after Miz Cahill an' Mr. Hart finish their questions."

Bridget looked worriedly at Gwen. "Mama?" "Go outside, baby," Gwen whispered, her mouth barely moving as she somehow formed thewords. "We won't be too long." Joel took her hand and the two children left. Francesca stepped forward. "Did you followyour wife this afternoon when she left work?" she asked Hanrahan bluntly. He scowled. "An' if I did? It's my right!" Hart stood. The action was highly threatening, and not simply because Hart was tall andstrong. His intention was undeniable, as was his air of authority and power. He was not to bedenied. "Stalking is no man's right," he warned softly. David Hanrahan's expression became vicious. "She's my wife and that means she belongsto me. She had no right runnin' away, no right comin' to America. She's got no rights, none!"Then he became meek and added, "Sir." Francesca winced. According to the law, most women had no rights and he was, for themost part, correct. In fact, Gwen could be forced to return to him. In this city, no one wouldbother to interfere. She imagined it might be very different in a small village in Ireland. "You told me to go!" Gwen dropped her hands. She was shaking. "You told me to get out ofyour sight, that you never wanted to see me again!" "I changed my mind," he spat. Now he was trembling with anger. "How long have you been following your wife?" Francesca asked flatly. He shrugged. "Do you wish to go uptown to police headquarters?" Hart asked coldly. David blanched. "I didn't follow her!" Francesca made a sound of disgust. "I didn't! I been outside, on the street, hopin' to talk to her. But she won't talk to me! You cansurely see that? I want her back an' she refuses to talk to me!" he cried, looking fromFrancesca to Hart and back again, as if pleading with them. Gwen walked over to the sink, standing with her back to everyone. She did not run the waterbut she toyed with a chipped plate. How odd this was. "Gwen? You don't seem very surprised to see your husband. You don'tseem very surprised that he has followed you to America and that he wants a reconciliation,"Francesca said. She walked over to Gwen. "How long have you known that he was in the country?" Gwen was stiff. "A few weeks." "How did he get out of jail? Was he in jail? For attempted murder?" Francesca asked. "They couldn't prove anything!" David cried. Gwen hesitated. Finally, her voice barely audible, she said, "Yes." "He dropped the charges," David snarled. "His Lordship admitted it was a lie! He admitted Ididn't try to kill him!" Gwen choked on a sob. Francesca faced David, doubting the veracity of his statement. He clearly hated LordRandolph, but did he hate him enough to have attempted murder? Had Randolph droppedthe charges? Or had Hanrahan somehow escaped? "How did you know where to find yourwife and daughter?" "She told a neighbor back home, Mrs. Reilly, that she could be reached through FatherCulhane. Gwen left the father's address with her. The good father was only too obliging totell me where my wife and daughter were." David stared at Gwen, not looking once atFrancesca. Gwen said, hoa.r.s.e and low, "I am not going back. Not to Ireland and not to you." "You are making a mistake," David said just as low. That was a threat if Francesca had ever heard one. "Have the two of you already discusseda reconciliation?" "I will not go back!" Gwen cried. Francesca went to her. "Please, I am asking these questions for a reason. I need your honest answers." Gwen looked at her, tearful now, and nodded. "Yes. He asked me if I would go back when hefirst arrived in the city, and I was clear. I said no." Francesca felt savage satisfaction then. She looked at Hart who stared back. She a.s.sumedhe understood her thoughts completely, and then he nodded slightly at her, telling her to goon. She faced David. "Where were you this past Monday between noon and 4:00 p.m., Mr.Hanrahan?" she asked. And she smiled grimly. They had their first real suspect. * * * At this late evening hour, police headquarters was oddly quiet, half of the staff dozing on thejob. Hart slipped his arm around Francesca's waist as they left the reception area, DavidHanrahan having been put in the lockup for the night. Francesca started in surprise as theypaused before going down the building's front steps. Hart met her gaze and smiled a little ather. His arm tightened. Their evening work was done. It was late, but they were entirely alone. Francesca wasfrankly exhilarated from finally uncovering a suspect, but Hart's sudden gesture presentedher with an entirely different feeling. Warmth mingled with the leftover excitement. "I take ityou are no longer quite so angry with me?" She smiled at him. "I am frankly appalled with you," he murmured, a soft gleam in his eyes. "We have a suspect, Hart," she said with jubilation. And she laughed. "You have a suspect," he agreed. She turned and found herself in his arms. A soft breeze caressed them both. "Aren't youpleased? Hanrahan has motive and no alibi!" "If he were the killer, I imagine he could do better than coming up with a statement that hewas wandering about the streets, looking for work, on Monday. And he would surely have a.n.a.libi for the previous two Mondays, but he does not." Some of her elation vanished, as if a balloon had been popped. "But he is not very clever." "No, he is not." He caressed the soft hairs at her nape almost thoughtlessly. "Do not be toodisappointed. He does have motive. Perhaps you have your killer after all." "The Slasher is clever," Francesca disagreed. She intuited that with all of her being. She feltcertain he was no thug. "You do not know that." "I sense it." He cupped her shoulders. The gown had tiny cap sleeves, but in spite of them and the lightshawl she wore, the feeling of his palms was thrilling. She tensed and looked into his eyes. "Ihave never seen more reckless, rash behavior," he murmured, "than I have this night." His thighs were rock hard against her softer ones. "I wanted to help," she said quietly,gripping his broad shoulders. "I know-and that is what scares me so," he whispered, sliding his hands down her back. She allowed herself a soft moan of pleasure. "Don't stop," she said. "I should like to see you in this dress without a corset," he murmured, bending over hershoulder. He moved the shawl aside and kissed the bare skin near her collarbone. Sparks seemed to ignite, quickly flaming throughout her body. "Without a corset?" shegasped. How daring that would be! And how she loved the notion! "Without a corset," he affirmed, kissing her throat, just once. "No corset, no chemise, nodrawers, nothing but your shoes and stockings and this lovely dress." She felt faint. Somehow she opened her eyes to find Hart staring intently. His own dark bluegaze had turned to gray smoke. "How shocking," she managed to say, hoping to soundappropriately scandalized. He began to smile. "You're not shocked." He lowered his head and feathered her lips with akiss. She clung. "No..." She opened her mouth, praying he would invade, but he did not. His lips touched the corners, the soft full center, the dimple above. "When, Hart?"

He smiled against her mouth. His weight had shifted as she spoke and she felt the length of his arousal near her hip. The urgency intensified deep in her, making her feel faint and hollow.

"When what, darling?" His every word brought his mouth against hers. Their breath mingled.

"When will I kiss you? Or when will I take you soaring to the heavens above?"

She gripped his lapels and pressed against him. His smile vanished as their gazes locked.

"When can I wear the dress for you?" she breathed.

He anch.o.r.ed her hips so she could not move. She felt the blood coursing in his body. "Such a game should wait until after we are married, until after we have had some time to explore the more traditional aspects of lovemaking."

She felt like socking him in the nose. "Then why bring it up!"

"Because I was thinking about it, that's why, but it was rude, thoughtless and teasing, was it not? I apologize." He smiled, clearly not remorseful in the least.

She could not smile back. She stared, unable to move, barely able to breathe, wedged against him. "We need to make love, Hart."

"Yes, we do."

His response stunned her.

Hart released her. "Our courtship has become difficult for me, Francesca."

She was so surprised, she did not comment.

"I'm a man with basic needs," he said with a shrug. "And I am used to a.s.suaging them frequently." He walked away, hands in his pockets now, still in his white dinner jacket and midnight-black evening trousers, and stared up at what was left of the other night's full moon.

Did he mean what she thought he did? She composed herself-it took a moment-and went to stand besides him. "I know how important it is to you to be n.o.ble now, with me."

"It is beyond important," he said, not looking at her. He stared up at the starry night.

"Why?" She was careful not to touch him. She knew the need inside her could be ignited with a mere touch or even a single glance.

Still looking at the heavens, he shrugged.

"Even if we slept together, I will never be like the others," she pointed out. His past was filled with women, but all had been experienced-divorcees, widows or married women on the prowl for a lover. Hart had never before toyed with innocence.

He made a sound. "I know that."

"Then why? I know you are worldly enough to make certain I would not get pregnant-"

He whirled. "It's about me, not you."

She blinked. "I don't understand."

"I barely understand myself." He was grim.

She dared to pluck his sleeve. "Please, Calder, please try to explain this to me."

His jaw was rigid. "There is a man...a different man...and I can feel him...he actually exists."

She had not a clue as to what he meant.

He stared ahead now. "Having decided to marry you, Calder Hart would have seduced you months ago, never mind your innocence. Calder Hart has been more than tempted, more than once. Because he wants you so much. Now that he is engaged, Hart really doesn't give a d.a.m.n about your innocence. Hart has actually thought about seducing you well before the wedding and he has come quite close to accomplishing the feat."

She was wide-eyed. And why was he talking about himself as if he was a stranger?

"But someone else has appeared on the scene." He made a sound of self-derision.

"Someone better, in fact. Someone who can actually see that the sun exists on a gray, rainy day. Someone who actually prefers sunshine to rain."

And she understood. Her heart swelled impossibly; tears welled. "Oh, Calder."

"He isn't as selfish. He wants to be n.o.ble." He finally glanced at her. "I'm not being very clear, am I?"