Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  He threw one arm over his eyes, beyond shaken. He did not want to think about some pretty seamstress while he was making love to his mistress!

  “Evan? Are you all right?”

  He got up from the bed in one fluid movement, indifferent to his nudity. He gave her a brief smile and crossed the bed room of his hotel suite. In the salon he poured himself a drink. His hand trembled.

  And then he was angry. This was utter nonsense! Imagining another woman in his bed meant nothing at all—he had done so a hundred times, for God’s sake. And Maggie Kennedy was not his type of lady, oh no. She was too sweet, even meek, for God’s sake, and too damn good anyway for a rake like him.

  “May I join you?” Bartolla asked.

  He turned, quickly hiding his frown. Bartolla smiled in appreciation at his lean, hard body. She had slipped into her peignoir. A few weeks ago, shortly after their affair had commenced, she had begun leaving her possessions in his suite. He hadn’t minded then but now, suddenly, it irritated him.

  He took a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and opened it. Champagne was her choice of drink.

  She accepted the flute when he handed it to her. “Shall I get you a robe? Not that I mind, but if a maid walked in, she might never recover from such a view.”

  “Thank you,” he said, absolutely indifferent to her suggestion. When she had left the salon he walked over to the window and gazed down at Fifth Avenue, where traffic remained heavy. The city’s upper crust was out on the town, on their way to this fête or that, to a supper party, a ball, a charity or the theater. The urge to walk down the block to a private club he knew suddenly overcame him. He tensed.

  It wasn’t the first time. Every evening the urge came, and every evening he began to sweat, thinking about entering a game, any game, poker, craps, he didn’t care what it was. God, there was simply nothing that came close to the rush of excitement of being at the tables, the stakes so high now, being life or death.

  He tossed down his scotch.

  Maggie’s image came to mind, sweet and smiling. Then she looked him right in the eye and shook her head no.

  Bartolla returned, smiling, handing him his robe, navy blue velvet with his initials embroidered in black and gold on the chest pocket. He slipped it on, belting it. “What are our plans for this evening?” he asked. He wasn’t going to walk down the block. If he was very lucky, one day the urge would lessen, and if there was a god, it would even disappear.

  “We have theater tickets, but I’m afraid the curtain goes up in an hour. I doubt I can be ready in time.”

  He finally faced the fact, as he stared out of the window, that he would rather be alone that evening than be with his mistress. But he didn’t trust himself to be alone. Not one single bit.

  “Darling.” She took his empty glass and refilled it, handing it back to him. “I must speak with you about something.”

  Her tone was oddly serious. He glanced at her and saw that she wasn’t smiling and some alarm began. Was she going to leave him? He truly liked her and definitely appreciated her skill in bed. There had been a time when Evan had thought himself in love with the countess. Now he realized he was not in love with her at all.

  “It’s all right,” he heard himself say, and he realized he wouldn’t be dismayed at all if their affair ended. In fact, maybe it was time for it to end.

  Maggie smiled at him.

  He was so surprised, that he felt himself gape. Why was she haunting him now? Why?

  “Are you unwell?” Bartolla asked, guiding him to a chair.

  “I’m fine,” he said, very grim now. “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving me.” He had changed his mind. “I’m enjoying being with you immensely.”

  Maggie’s eyes turned reproachful.

  “You think I want to leave you?” she cried, clearly stunned. “Evan, darling, I am in love with you!”

  There was no denying his dismay.

  “Darling, I do hope you will be pleased.”

  He just looked at her, thinking about the club and the tables there, able to hear the roulette, the die, the laughter and conversation, able to feel the excitement. All the while, he kept thinking about Maggie Kennedy, too. “What are you talking about?”

  She clasped his hand. “I’m pregnant, darling. I’m pregnant with our child. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  EVEN THOUGH IT WAS only nine o’clock, Leigh Anne lay in bed, the lights out. But she wasn’t even trying to sleep. The events of that day replayed in her mind while she listened to the sounds on the street.

  She had taken a walk with the girls around Madison Square. Or rather, her male nurse had wheeled her chair while the girls had strolled alongside her, with Mrs. Flowers and Peter in tow. The girls had been so happy, Katie regaling Leigh Anne with stories of her day at school and her new best friend, Dot constantly interrupting with her attempts at communication. Leigh Anne fought the tears and the depression without success.

  She bit on her hand to choke down a sob. She would never stroll in any park with the girls again.

  How had she taken her health—her legs—her life for granted?

  She wondered, not for the first time, if she was being punished for walking out on her husband four years ago, but she had never really believed then that she was walking out. She had been certain he would follow her and bring her directly home and then change his life to suit her needs. How naive, selfish and stupid she had been!

  But, apparently, he had followed her. More tears came. Apparently he had come to Europe and then never identified himself, returning home alone. If only she had known he was there, nothing would have stopped her from finding him and returning with him.

  But she hadn’t known and she had waited and waited, and after a year and a half she had allowed herself to be seduced. She had been desperate for affection but the affair had been bitterly sweet. It hadn’t eased the heartbreak and the comprehension that had then begun—her marriage might really be over.

  At some point she had heard that he’d taken a mistress, a beautiful woman a bit older than he, a widow and intellectual, a suffragette like his mother. She had been terribly hurt but had pretended to herself that it didn’t matter. There had been days when she still expected to see him enter a room, arriving to bring her home.

  But he never came, not after that first time, and finally she had returned home to nurse her ailing father, trying to ignore the fact that only miles of railroad track now separated them and not an entire ocean. But when Bartolla had written her informing her that Rick was falling in love with another woman, she had rushed to New York City on the next departing train.

  And he had despised her from the moment he had set his eyes on her.

  Now he said he wanted to take care of her. She looked up at the ceiling and laughed while she wept. Never.

  She wiped her eyes. Did he really think to attend political functions with his wife in a wheeled chair? Did he think to wheel her about himself, or would her nurse be in attendance? And did he think she could hostess their parties when she could not even go to the toilet by herself? The tears fell. And what about making love? The one thing she remained certain of was her husband’s amazing virility. Would he be celibate now? She laughed rudely at the ceiling. Or was she to look the other way as he took a mistress? Pain stabbed her heart. He certainly wasn’t going to touch her now!

  She clapped her hand to her mouth to still a sob. She hated herself for her self-pity, but she was no martyr and no heroine. Francesca Cahill was brave and courageous. She would somehow navigate life as a cripple if this had been her fate. Leigh Anne knew she should have never come back. God, he deserved Francesca, he did.

  The front door slammed.

  Her tears stopped. She froze in alarm and strained to hear, and in sinking dismay she recognized his voice in the entry just downstairs. Quickly she exhaled, wiping the tears away with the sheet and then closing her eyes, pretending to be asleep.

  Some minutes passed and he did not start up the st
airs. Relief began. If only she could really fall asleep before he came up! But sleep eluded her now, when she spent so much time in a chair or in her bed, when all she wanted to do was sleep, sleep, sleep. And then she heard him.

  She stiffened, reminded herself to breathe, and listened to his every footstep. The stairs were old, like the house, and each plank creaked. The footfall changed on the landing, where a thin runner was in the hall. She heard him pause in the doorway of their room, where Mr. McFee had left the door ajar.

  She tried to breathe naturally, no easy task when her body was rigid with fear.

  He approached the bed.

  She prayed he would think she was asleep.

  She felt him hesitate and then lean closer. His hand drifted over her shoulder and she shivered, tensing even more. As he moved some hair from her face and adjusted the covers, she bemoaned the fact that his most innocent touch remained a sexual invitation. It had always been that way for her with him.

  “Leigh Anne?” he whispered, and she knew that he knew she was awake.

  She hesitated, wanting him to believe he was mistaken, that she was asleep, wanting him to leave.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked softly, clearly not fooled by her pretense. And he touched her again, this time on the side of her cheek.

  Her jaw ground down. She wanted to scream at him not to touch her. “I’m fine,” she managed to say.

  He hesitated, still leaning over her, not moving.

  She became very alarmed and her eyes flew open and she met his intense, unwavering golden stare. “What are you doing?”

  His temples throbbed visibly. “It’s been a long day. I am getting ready for bed.”

  He never slept this early! She wanted to be alone! If only the house was larger, if only she had her own room, her own bed! “It’s nine o’clock,” she heard herself say, and she sounded terrified.

  He just stared at her.

  “Don’t do this,” she begged.

  He hesitated for one more moment, then went around to his side of the bed, still completely dressed, even in his shoes, and he got in to lie down.

  “What are you doing?!” she cried.

  He moved close and pulled her into his arms. “Just let me hold you,” he said.

  She tried to say no. She tried to protest. But she couldn’t speak; she wept instead.

  IT WAS SO LATE and so dark—if only Bridget were safe!

  Gwen left the omnibus and began walking as fast as she could. Her supervisor had made her stay late with two other workers to fill a large order for a major department store, an order that was overdue. There had been no choice; he had ignored her protestations, her fears. Hans Schmidt simply did not care that a cold-blooded killer was on the loose and that her daughter was home alone.

  The night was black and still, starless and cool. A whispering breeze caressed her cheek, chilling her to the bone. Gwen could not breathe, choking on her fear for her daughter. There was very little traffic on the street as she paused on the sidewalk at the corner, waiting for a lone carriage to pass.

  She saw no one. It didn’t matter. A killer stalked the young women of the city and Margaret Cooper was proof of that. Even now, he could be in her flat, attacking Bridget…

  But maybe David was there. She knew that he hated her now, with all of his heart. His demand that they reconcile was vicious, for he only wanted her back so he could spend the rest of his life flinging the fact of her single love affair in her face, every chance that he got. That, and to poison Bridget against her own mother. But she didn’t think he hated his daughter, his flesh and blood. Still, she could not be sure. He was a weak, mean, cowardly man.

  God knew he wouldn’t help Bridget if she was in danger, but his presence might be enough to forestall the Slasher.

  The carriage, pulled by a single bay, passed. A pebble flew out from its wheels and skittered her way. Casting one more glance behind her, she rushed across the cobbled street, thinking about how late it was, how dark. She was ready to weep.

  Damn David. He had always been good for nothing and while she could not wish that she’d never met him—he was Bridget’s father—she could wish that she’d never married him and had borne her child alone. She reminded herself that the Slasher struck on Mondays, and today was Thursday. He also assaulted women, not children. But Bridget looked fifteen, not eleven, and she was so terribly beautiful. Men older than Gwen turned to ogle her all the time. And last month that awful man, Timothy Murphy, had abducted her to add her to his ring of beautiful child prostitutes. God, hadn’t they suffered enough?

  Gwen knew she only had two more blocks to go but it felt like two miles. She tried to continue to run, but she was exhausted and her legs were failing her now. She faltered, panting terribly and holding on to a street lamp for support. And then she felt the eyes, boring into her…

  And she felt him there behind her…

  As she realized he was there, he seized her arm.

  Incapable of screaming, filled with terror, somehow knowing the Slasher had found her this time, Gwen whirled.

  Slowly, he smiled.

  “THIS IS VERY WICKED,” Francesca said with a sigh. She smiled at Calder as she sat on a sofa in one of the many salons in his home, her jacket unbuttoned, her kidskin shoes on the floor, her feet tucked up beneath her. She took another sip of the very old scotch and positively sighed. “Sooo wicked.”

  He sat in a facing chair, watching her with a smile, making no effort to taste his own drink. “I’m very glad you appreciate a finely blended and very old scotch whiskey.”

  She gave him a sidelong look. “Accepting your invitation to dine with you here, alone, could be even more wicked.” How she hoped so.

  His smile widened and he stretched out his long legs. “Our supper will be ready at any moment.”

  “Are you avoiding me?”

  He chuckled. “Most definitely, darling. My full house is empty tonight. Rathe and Grace are out to supper. My cousin, D’Archand, is out on the prowl, I think, and Lucy went home last week. Other than the staff, we are very much alone.”

  The crisis they had just weathered felt very far distant, but the interlude of being in his arms did not. Francesca smiled at him, thinking about how nice it would be to be in his arms right now, enjoying a few kisses before their meal. She set her glass down.

  “I should like to meet your second possible suspect, Francis O’Leary’s fiancé.”

  Francesca had just stood up; she started. “You would?”

  He sipped his scotch and eyed her over its rim. “I am a very good judge of character,” he murmured.

  She stared, debating his motives, hands on her hips. “You wish to distract me,” she declared.

  “I do.” He grinned.

  She approached, feeling very seductive, indeed. “Alfred will knock. No one is home. A kiss between fiancés is hardly unusual.”

  “A kiss,” he said, smiling as he watched her very carefully now.

  She came up to his side, her heart racing with excitement, enjoying being the predator, oh yes. She stood behind his chair. “A simple, little, tiny kiss,” she breathed, leaning over him. Her bosom flattened against his upper back.

  He turned his head to meet her gaze and he seemed somewhat amused. But his eyes held a familiar gleam and she knew he was hardly immune to this new game. “Do you really think to seduce me?”

  She grinned. “Yes. And if that is a challenge, I accept,” she said, delighted to be goaded.

  “A challenge,” he repeated, shaking his head. “It is not a challenge, Francesca.”

  “A warning, then…darling?” She laid her hands on his shoulders, caressing the strong muscles there. And his body tensed.

  “A warning you will not heed,” he murmured, his head tilting back.

  She stroked the hair at his nape. “You know how I hate being told what to do.” She bent lower and whispered, her mouth on his ear, “Let’s wager, then. Can you resist me—or not?”

  He shif
ted and met her gaze. His smile was lazy, but it did not reach his eyes. “And what do you wish to wager, darling?”

  Their gazes locked. His eyes smoked and she thought with surprise and a rush of delight that he was as aroused and enthralled as she was. Somehow, he never did act very jaded around her. She leaned over him, brushing her mouth against his, his cheek now pressed solidly into her breast. Desire stabbed through her with unyielding, consuming force. She paused, briefly stunned at how playful passion could so quickly change into something so powerful, and she said, her tone odd and husky, “I want a few more hours in your bed, exactly like the last time.”

  He looked at her, unsmiling, and she knew he was remembering every moment of that wild interlude.

  He reached for her and pulled her down and their mouths fused.

  The door slammed open. “I heard Francesca was—” Rourke stopped.

  Francesca leaped away from Hart, cheeks burning, heart rushing, feeling as if Rourke Bragg had just caught them in bed—with her in the dominant position. She smiled brightly at him. “Hello,” she cried, tucking too many tendrils of stray hair to count behind her ears. Then she remembered she was shoeless, and she tried to hide her feet beneath her skirts.

  His cheeks blotched pink. “I’m sorry.”

  Hart slowly stood. “The door was closed,” he drawled.

  Still blushing, Rourke said, “It was. I’ll come back at another time.”

  “Don’t leave. Francesca needs a chaperon,” Hart said, laughter in his tone. “Scotch?”

  Rourke, who took after the Bragg men with his dark, golden-brown hair, amber eyes and sun-kissed complexion, nodded and glanced at Francesca. “I seem to have left my good manners in Philadelphia.”

  “It’s all right,” Francesca said, meaning it now that she’d had a moment to recover her composure. She was terribly fond of Rourke and not because he looked like Rick Bragg’s younger but nearly twin brother. He was a compassionate, considerate gentleman and he’d been rather heroic on several occasions, as well as helpful on more than one investigation. “I heard you have applied to Bellevue Medical College?” she asked with a wide smile.