Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  Real warmth filled his eyes and she smiled, reaching for his hand. “I want to talk to you,” he said softly, so Bragg could not hear. “When we get home.”

  Her eyes widened and her heart lurched. Her grip on his palm tightened. “Should I be afraid?”

  “I don’t want you to ever be afraid of me,” he said, “but I cannot answer that.” He hesitated while her mind scrambled and raced. “I want to discuss Daisy,” he said.

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s a very good idea.”

  He smiled a little at her then turned his gaze to Bragg. His smile faded. “What is it?” he asked sharply.

  Bragg had walked over to them, his expression rather serious. “That was Sarah Channing,” he said.

  Francesca gasped. “Is she all right?” There was no reason under the sun for Sarah to call Bragg, and especially at police headquarters.

  “She is somewhat hysterical,” he said, his gaze dark and on her now. “It seems that your portrait is missing.”

  “Missing?” she echoed in disbelief.

  “Stolen,” he said.

  SARAH WAS WAITING FOR THEM. She was wringing her hands, appearing ashen, as they were ushered inside. Bragg hurried to her.

  Francesca did not follow. She remained shocked and disbelieving. They had left the police station as if it were on fire and she could hardly recall the ride to Sarah’s. “Calder. This is impossible,” she whispered hoarsely.

  His jaw was so tight his face appeared in danger of cracking. He was as distressed as she was, and that was not reassuring. “Apparently not.”

  “Calder, someone other than you, me or Sarah has seen that portrait.” Dread consumed her now. How vain and foolish she had been to pose nude with such abandon for that portrait. She knew her cheeks were on fire. Who was staring at her portrait even now? Who had stolen it? And why?

  “Francesca, it is far worse than that,” Hart said.

  “What in God’s name do you mean?” she cried.

  “I mean, that portrait may very well wind up on public display. Art is usually stolen in order to be fenced.”

  The sound that escaped her was high-pitched and choked. She clung to him and he steadied her. “We won’t let that happen,” he said firmly.

  Her horror knew no bounds. She was mortified. It was one thing to pose for Hart nude, but another to have half the world gaze upon her in such a state. And society would hear all about it—no secret like this, once let loose, could ever be kept. Oh, God! She thought about her family. Julia would be horrified, Andrew ashamed…. They would all be ruined, she thought. They would be ruined by association. But it was embarrassment that consumed her now. If that portrait surfaced, how would she ever appear in public again?

  Bragg and Sarah had approached. Bragg looked from Francesca to Hart and back again. Sarah suddenly blurted, “I am so sorry! I should have kept my studio locked! Francesca, please, forgive me!”

  Francesca managed to nod. She could hardly form any words. She licked her lips. “It’s not your fault.”

  Sarah started to cry.

  “All right,” Bragg cut in. “I see I am missing something. We seem to have a crisis at hand—one a stolen portrait hardly merits. What exactly is going on? Why do the ladies look as if someone has died, and why do you look ready to murder someone?” he asked, directing this last bit to Hart.

  Francesca turned away, somehow moving into Hart’s arms. He said, holding her close, “The portrait is a highly suggestive one.”

  Francesca closed her eyes, hard.

  “Highly suggestive?” Bragg echoed.

  Sarah tugged on his sleeve. “It’s a wonderful portrait, really. Francesca is lovely and the likeness is unmistakable…” She faltered and broke off miserably.

  “It’s a nude,” Hart said.

  There was a moment of silence.

  Francesca decided to be very brave and turned to face Bragg.

  He gaped at her in shock.

  She stared back. There was absolutely nothing to say.

  “I see,” he finally said, color now flooding his cheeks. And then he directed his attention to Hart, and he was furious. “You taint everything you touch.”

  Hart stiffened. “I take all blame,” he ground out. “The idea was mine, of course.”

  Francesca whirled. “This is hardly your fault!”

  Hart made a mocking sound.

  “Like hell it isn’t! He has never given a damn about anyone but himself. Even now, engaged to you, he only thinks about his own hideous appetites. What in hell were you thinking to expose Francesca this way?” Bragg demanded. His fists were clenched.

  Hart made no attempt to defend himself.

  “That’s not fair.” Francesca stood between the two men, facing Bragg. “I didn’t have to be persuaded. I wanted to pose…that way. Hart planned to hang the portrait in his private rooms…after our marriage,” she added lamely.

  Bragg stared at her in disbelief. “Even if the painting hadn’t been stolen, did it not cross your mind that even a whisper of such a portrait would compromise your reputation?”

  She shook her head. How foolish she had been. “No.”

  “You leave her alone.” Hart seized Bragg, who shook him off. “I suggest you focus your efforts on doing what you are paid to do. This theft is a crime and it needs to be solved before any damage is done.”

  “I doubt there is any way to prevent the damage that will arise. It is hardly possible to conduct a secret investigation!” Bragg flared.

  “Untrue. In fact, I think the police should not be involved at all,” Hart said slowly but very firmly. “I’m hiring my own detectives. I will get that painting back.”

  Francesca turned to him. Maybe Hart was right. If they assembled a small, independent team, they could find the portrait before any word leaked out of its existence—much less before it was ever displayed. She turned to Bragg and bit her lip. “He’s right. We should keep the police out of this.”

  His expression tightened. “You don’t want my help?”

  She touched him. “Of course I want your help. But unofficially,” she said. “The fewer who know, the better.”

  His jaw was hard, but he nodded. Then he glanced at Hart with sheer disgust. “I pray for the day when she comes to her senses,” he said. “You will never be good enough for her.”

  BRAGG PAUSED AS HE stepped into the front hall of his house, the weight of dread settling upon his shoulders like a terribly heavy yoke. Instantly he heard the girls upstairs, Katie’s tones soft and quiet, Dot alternately giggling and shrieking. His heart warmed, in spite of the fact that his wife was somewhere in the house and that he was afraid to see her. It was impossible to guess what kind of mood she would be in. The only thing he could be sure of was that every day was worse than the one before. Every day she grew more distant and sadder.

  Bragg closed the door and started up the narrow stairs. Leigh Anne was waiting for him. She sat in her wheeled chair in their bedroom, appearing sad and pensive. Clearly, there was some matter she wished to discuss. Just down the hall, he saw that Mrs. Flowers was watching the girls, their bedroom door open.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I thought I would be able to come home directly after the funeral, but there was a new lead, a major one, into the case of the Slasher,” he said, pulling off his tie.

  She tried to smile at him and failed. “I know your work comes first. You don’t have to apologize,” she said.

  His heart lurched. She remained the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, even now in that wheeled chair, the light gone from her emerald eyes, and he wished that four years ago she had been as understanding. He turned away and hurried into the dressing room, the ache in his chest expanding. But when they had first been married she hadn’t been understanding at all. She had refused to accept the importance of his work and his priorities—just as he had refused to recognize her needs, just as he had taken his bride completely for granted. Not for the first time, he had the most absurd yea
rning to go back in time and do everything correctly this time.

  He dropped his suit jacket on a chair, his necktie with it, and stared at his reflection in the mirror as he began to remove his cuff links. There was no going back; there was only the present and the future. A month ago, he had wanted a divorce. Now, he hardly knew what he wanted. His emotions had never been more tumultuous. He certainly wanted the two little girls to be happy and in his life forever, and he also knew he wanted to spare Leigh Anne any more anguish and pain. If only he could comfort her. But he had only to look at her to see how unhappy she was. How in hell could he make her happy when she would not even give him a single opportunity to try?

  If he could, he decided, he would fix everything, including their marriage. But he simply did not know where to begin.

  Images flooded his mind then—Leigh Anne radiant and glowing in a ball gown, dancing in his arms; Leigh Anne in the girls’ bed, reading them a fairy tale, each child snuggled against her; Leigh Anne in his bed, moaning in pleasure, desperately accepting every inch of him.

  He tossed his shirt aside, unfortunately aroused. Nothing had changed for him since her tragic accident. She seemed to have lost interest in the physical act that had until recently been their single bond. He gripped the edge of the vanity, wondering if he dared even try to make love to her. He knew he could bring her so much pleasure and it felt as if that might be the only way to reach her now.

  But he was a coward, afraid to make any seductive move.

  “Rick, I know you’ve had a difficult day but—oh, excuse me,” Leigh Anne said, her cheeks coloring. She had wheeled herself into the boudoir and now glanced at her lap.

  He turned his back to the mirror, facing her. He did not understand her reaction to his bare chest, not at all. “What is it?”

  Not looking up, she shook her head as if she could not speak, then began to try to wheel herself and turn around, clearly wanting to leave the small dressing room. “It’s nothing,” she said just before she crashed the chair into the wall.

  He seized the handles of the chair. “Let me help,” he said, staring down at her.

  She kept her face turned down, but he could see that her eyes were closed, her lashes thick and black and wet on her still-pink cheeks.

  He touched her shoulder without thinking and she jerked, as if burned. “Just let me help,” he repeated, acutely aware of the fact that somehow, his partial nudity disturbed her. Worse, the small room made him aware of every inch of her. He wheeled her back into their bedroom, grim.

  “Thank you,” she said, her tone barely audible.

  He walked around to face her, taking a deep breath in the hope of recovering some composure. “Is there something you wish to discuss?” he asked quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She looked up and kept her eyes on his face. “Could you get dressed?”

  He was very surprised. “You’ve seen my bare chest a hundred times.”

  She looked past his shoulder. “Everything has changed,” she whispered.

  He stared, making no move to retrieve a shirt. Her cheeks remained high in color and if he was not mistaken, her breathing was somewhat rapid. So many carnal images chased one another through his mind then, and the fist of desire that slammed into him made it impossible for him to breathe. The one thing he had always been able to count on was their insatiable desire for one another. Maybe, just maybe, her apparent lack of interest was a pretense, a façade, a lie.

  What if he could reach her this way?

  She looked up and for an instant, their gazes met. And she must have sensed his purpose. “What are you doing?” she asked warily.

  And he slipped off the bed, kneeling besides her, his intent making it almost impossible for him to breathe. “What I have wanted to do since you first came home from Bellevue.” And he tilted up her chin.

  Alarm widened her eyes. “No, Rick,” she began, but he cut her off, covering her mouth with his lips.

  At first he held her face with one hand, his other hand on her arm, and as he touched her mouth again, he felt like a dying man being given a new lease on life. His heart slammed wildly against his chest and he knew an insane giddiness, wondered why he hadn’t kissed her sooner, because her taste was all he would ever need, and then he felt her lips soften and yield. He pressed harder, opening her, tasting all of her that he could, and the elation turned into pure, mindless excitement. His entire body shook, desire raging, so much so he had the urge to throw her onto the bed and take every inch of her then and there. But somehow, he knew he must be very gentle and very tender now. Instead, he lifted her carefully into his arms, smiling at her.

  Her hands pushed against his shoulders, her eyes wide and aghast. “No! Stop!”

  He could barely comprehend the words as he laid her down on the bed. “Let me make love to you,” he whispered, their gazes meeting, and he felt triumph when he recognized the haze of passion in her eyes. He smiled and kissed her throat, just once, and then the hard peak of one breast.

  “I said no!” she cried, two fists slamming into him.

  He jerked back.

  She began to cry and he somehow knew that if she could, she would be crawling away from him, but of course her leg was useless and she could not move. “What could you possibly be thinking?” she accused.

  He straightened, his chest heaving, the air burning his lungs. No, it wasn’t the air, it was his heart causing him so much pain. He rubbed his chest. “I want to make love to you.”

  She was clearly disbelieving. “Like this? Why? Is this an act of pity?”

  He swallowed. His heart continued to pound with maddening, lustful force. “No. There is no pity involved, just…” He hesitated. He was consumed with lust, but it was so much more. He was afraid, though, to name it. “I still desire you, Leigh Anne.”

  “Desire someone else!” she shouted at him. Tears fell now in a stream. “I want you to take a mistress. Because of the girls, we can’t divorce. I mean, you have every right to divorce me now, of course you do, but I know you love the girls the way I do!” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands.

  He felt certain he had not understood her correctly. “What?” He could feel all the color draining from his face. It also seemed to be draining from his life.

  She looked up at him through the sheen of tears, shaking wildly. “Or do you want a divorce? I won’t deny you now, Rick. If you still want the divorce, of course I will give it to you, but we must somehow take care of the girls.”

  What was she talking about? “I don’t want a divorce,” he heard himself say, as shocked as if a stick of dynamite had blown up right beside him.

  “I know this isn’t fair to you,” she began, more tears falling, and his mind came to life.

  He cut her off. “I’ll decide what is fair for me and what is not,” he said in absolute disbelief. Could this really be happening? “Do you want a divorce?”

  Their gazes locked. A long moment passed before she spoke. “I want the girls,” she whispered hoarsely, her mouth quivering. “I love them so much. I know you love them, too. We have given them a good home, the kind of home they deserve. I can’t bear to send them away. They already love us—dear God, they would not understand!”

  And he began to understand. If it weren’t for Katie and Dot, she would disappear from his life forever. He folded his arms across his bare chest, when what he wanted to do was kneel beside her and hold her hands. He was sick, so sick, inside. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said thickly. He hesitated and added, “And I’m not taking a mistress, either.” Now he began to shake, the horror of it all finally sinking in.

  She was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, and finally she looked up. “I cannot take care of your needs,” she whispered. “I will look the other way…please.”

  How clear she was. He smiled coldly at her. “Don’t worry, Leigh Anne. You have been very clear and I won’t bother you again.” Suddenly furious, he started from the room.

  She w
atched him go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sunday, April 27, 1902 5:00 p.m.

  FRANCESCA FOLLOWED HART into his library, still consumed with dread. He closed both doors behind her. “I am sorry,” he said gravely.

  “This is not your fault!” she cried.

  He went to her and took her into his arms. “Isn’t it? And isn’t Rick right? If this portrait finds its way into a public gallery, I will be the reason you can never hold your head up again. I will be the reason you are scorned. I will be the reason you are hurt.”

  She gripped his lapels. “I agreed to pose nude. I agreed freely. There was no gun pointed at my head.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “I had thought, until now, that I would begin a new life, and even acquire a new reputation with you. Suddenly the opposite seems to be the case. Rick is right. Eventually I taint everything I touch.”

  “That is not true! Do not abandon me now!” she said fiercely.

  Their gazes met. “I would never abandon you. I don’t want to ever be without you. In fact, I miss you terribly.”

  She started. “What do you mean?”

  “I hate being at odds,” he said vehemently. “These past few days, my life has felt so utterly cold and devoid of all meaning. The way it was once, before I met you, before you became my loyal and true friend.”

  She leaned close, laying her cheek against his chest, her heart pounding now. “Calder, I miss you, too. I miss you terribly! I have come to count on my days being filled with you.”

  “Really?” he asked softly, tilting up her chin so that their eyes met.

  And the look there was so warm that it stole her breath away. Desperately, she wanted to tell him that she loved him. She wet her lips. “I cannot imagine life the way it was before we became engaged to one another. I cannot imagine life without you,” she said quietly.

  He started, his gaze flying wide. “Do you mean it?” he demanded, as if stunned, his hands on her shoulders. “Did I just hear you say that you could not live without me?”

  Had she said that? But it was the truth—she could not live without him. Without Calder Hart, her life would never be the same. She bit her lip even as she somehow smiled. “Yes, Calder, I mean it. I mean it with all of my heart. I cannot live without you.”