by Brenda Joyce
“I want you, not Rick,” she said immediately, without thinking.
A terrible pause ensued. Then he said slowly, “I did not hear you turn him down, Francesca.”
She felt her heart thudding. “He is one of my dearest friends. That is all.”
“Do you really believe that?”
That image flashed, of her and Bragg dining together in some deserted establishment. No, she did not believe that—the affection between them was simply too strong.
“I thought so,” he said harshly. He started past her.
She ran after him. “Please wait. I will admit how fond I am of him. But damn it, Hart, you are the man of my dreams.”
He whirled. “No, I am not, and I have never been the man of your dreams! You rescued me—as you do everyone. And I used all of my charm and appeal to seduce you.”
She seized his arm. “And I am glad!”
His eyes blazed and she realized he was absolutely furious, just as she also realized he was an instant from sweeping her into his arms and kissing her. She went still, her heart thundering, as he stared at her mouth. “Goddamn my black soul.”
She cried out. “Don’t you say that this is all your fault!”
“But it is. Have you ever considered that if you had not posed nude for that portrait, you and I would now be man and wife?”
He was right. “Damn that portrait!” she cried.
“Ah, so finally, you admit the portrait is a damnable thing.” He pulled away from her. “I am not leaving the city either, Francesca, until we have recovered the damn portrait and thrown the thief in jail.”
She inhaled. “You would never abandon me in my time of need. I had no doubt.”
“No, I would never walk away, not at a time like this.”
She touched his jaw. “Then we can dine together this weekend. After all, you are my champion and my defender—you have said so yourself. I need you, Calder.”
“That is not possible, Francesca,” he warned. He caught her hand, but did not remove it. “Do not think to seduce or manipulate me.”
“I miss you terribly,” she breathed. “I miss our evenings. I miss being in your arms—you know it. And I believe you miss me, too.”
Grimly, he removed her hand from his face. “There will be no such confession.”
Francesca did not hesitate. “Yet.”
And for an instant, the dark light in his eyes softened.
She smiled. “You are here, Hart. And you called Rick.”
He made a sound. “I have an inherent instinct to protect you, Francesca. I will freely admit it. And I doubt that will ever change.” But before she could become thrilled, he continued. “Even though the writing is on the wall.”
“There is no writing on the wall.”
“We will see.”
They stared at one another. Hart finally said, “Are you going up?”
Francesca didn’t pause to think. “Will you come with me? I could use your help, and I am being sincere.”
He hesitated, then abruptly nodded.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wednesday, July 2, 1902
11:00 a.m.
SHE HAD WON this round, Francesca thought, acutely aware of Hart as they started toward the brownstone where Maggie lived.
“Don’t gloat,” he said. She felt his breath on her ear and the warmth of his body behind hers.
She smiled to herself. “I am not gloating, Hart. You happen to bring very useful insights into an investigation, jaded as you are.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“No. I need a good dose of healthy cynicism now and then.”
“Yes, you do. And you are gloating, Francesca, I can feel it. I have never denied that we are friends or that I wish to aid you in your various endeavors, nor will—” He stopped before finishing his sentence.
Francesca turned. Hart was looking toward the street in sharp surprise. She followed his glance and saw a burly fellow in a plaid shirt climbing from a wagon, carrying a package in his arms. Except the package was squirming.…
“Lizzie!” she screamed.
Hart was already rushing toward the ruffian. The gray-haired man dropped Lizzie, who fell on her hands and knees and started to howl in a toddler’s shrieking rage. The stranger was reaching for the back of the wagon to jump in; another smaller fellow was in the driver’s seat. As Francesca rushed toward Lizzie, she saw the rough grab the back of the wagon bed with both hands, hauling himself into it. As the driver yelled, “Giddap,” to the horse, Hart seized the man by one shoulder. The wagon began to move. Hart pulled the man off the cart, throwing him down into the street.
“Lizzie!” Francesca cried, kneeling and sweeping the crying child into her arms. “It’s all right,” she soothed, but she was watching Hart as he descended upon Lizzie’s abductor. And instantly, she knew he was a man bent on vengeance. “Hart! No!”
If he heard, he gave no sign. He reached down, hauled the man to his feet and slammed his fist into his face. Francesca heard a bone crack. “Hart!” she screamed.
Hart held the rough up and drove him across the sidewalk into the building. He hit him in the face again. “I despise bullies and cowards,” he said coolly.
Francesca held Lizzie tightly as a crowd gathered. She saw the big German grocer amongst the gawkers. “Mr. Schmidt! Please—get Bragg. He is at Maggie’s!”
“Is that the bastard who took Lizzie?” a young man exclaimed angrily.
“That’s the crook who stole Maggie’s girl!” a boy about Joel’s age cried, holding a baseball bat and a glove.
The thug was surrounded now, his nose and eye bleeding. Francesca knew he was frantically looking for a possible means of escape. She bent and kissed Lizzie’s soft blond hair. “It is all right. Your mother will be here shortly.”
Lizzie looked up at her, her face tear-stained, and smiled angelically. “I have a new doll,” she said, showing Francesca a tiny porcelain figurine with blond hair.
Tears welled. If Lizzie had been given a toy, then she hadn’t been mistreated, and she certainly did not look upset now. In fact, she looked clean and happy. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?” Francesca asked, cuddling her.
“Mama,” Lizzie said fiercely. “I want Mama to see Fran.”
It took Francesca a moment to realize that Lizzie wanted to show the doll to her mother—and that she had named it after Francesca. Francesca straightened, holding the little girl tightly. Hart glanced at her. She shivered, because the look in his eyes was frightening.
Hart said to the thug, “Don’t even think it. I should love to break open your skull.”
“I ain’t done nuthin’ except follow orders,” the man cried, wiping blood from his face.
“Whose orders?” Hart calmly asked.
Francesca knew he was going to hit him again. She knew he should not. She didn’t speak—neither did the thug. Francesca quickly covered Lizzie’s eyes. Hart slammed his fist back into the man’s nose. Bones broke. The man screamed.
“String him up!” someone cried. “Hang him for stealing Lizzie!”
“Whose orders?” Hart asked again.
The thug was panting. Hart did not look away from him, but he said, “Boy, give me your baseball bat. I need to borrow it.”
Francesca cringed as the boy rushed forward to hand Hart his bat. Before she could tell him to stop, the door to Maggie’s building flew open, and Bragg, Maggie, Joel and his brothers, and Evan came rushing out. Maggie saw Lizzie in Francesca’s arms immediately. She ran forward to take her daughter, crying out.
Keeping one eye on Hart and the thug as Bragg quickly strode through the crowd, she said to Maggie, “I don’t think she was hurt.”
“No one is getting hanged today,” Bragg told the crowd, which roared in protest. He looked at Hart. “In this city, judges in courts dispense justice.”
Hart looked at the gray-haired fellow, who was cringing against the wall of the building. “Ignore him—he is the virtuous one. I am the son of
a bitch who is going to break your kneecaps with this baseball bat. Whose orders?”
“She calls herself Countess!” he cried. “She’s one of them rich snobs over on the west side!”
Hart smiled at Bragg, triumphant. “You can thank me later.”
“You should ice that hand,” Bragg said tersely. “And you can thank me for not pressing assault charges, Calder. This is a civil society.”
Hart rolled his eyes and strode past Bragg. The crowd parted for him. Their gazes instantly met. Hart handed the bat back to the boy, never looking away from her. And in spite of knowing better, in spite of the values she treasured, her heart swelled.
Her pulse raced as she left Lizzie and Maggie in one another’s embrace. She slowly walked forward. “Your hand is bleeding, Hart.”
“It’s his blood, not mine.”
She doubted that. “Hart,” she began, about to reprove him.
“Don’t. It will only remind me that you and Rick are perfectly suited.”
She bit back what she wished to say—that he shouldn’t have taken the law into his own hands. Then she smiled. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For seizing that crook and—”
“And beating him until he identified Bartolla?” He brushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. The gesture was so impossibly tender that she went still. “You know, Francesca, where you live, it is a ‘civil’ society. We should all aspire to the rule of law. But this is a vast city—and an even vaster world. There are times when clinging to the law is sheer insanity. At times, might makes right—and an iron fist is all that separates good from evil.”
She hated admitting that he was right. Then the reality of Lizzie’s kidnapping struck her, hard. Bartolla had paid that thug to abduct Lizzie. “It is suddenly sinking in.” She reached for his hand and he winced. “I cannot believe that Bartolla would do such a thing.”
“I can,” Hart said flatly. “And I’m not the only one.”
He wasn’t looking at her. Francesca turned. And the expression on her brother’s face was frightening.
AS FRANCESCA GOT OUT of her cab at 529 Broadway, she smiled to herself. Lizzie was just fine. It had taken her about an hour to tell her story, and it sounded as if she had spent the night in a hotel room with a young woman who might have been a housemaid. She had been well fed, read to and given the toy. She had been told that she was on a holiday.
Bragg had sent men to the Channing residence to bring Bartolla downtown for questioning. The thug who had abducted Lizzie had gone silent after being taken into custody. There wouldn’t be any charges until a case could be proven in court. Bragg had had a meeting with the city council, so he had left Francesca to her own devices.
She still couldn’t believe that Bartolla would stoop so low. Maggie was furious—she wanted Bartolla behind bars. Francesca did not blame her.
She trembled with ballooning joy. She had taken Hart over to the grocery, sat him down on a big barrel and provided him with an ice pack. As she had hovered over him, trying to hold the ice for him, he had looked at her with the dangerously sensual gaze he so often had. It had been impossible keeping her hands to herself.
What are you doing?
I am icing your hand.
I am an adult, Francesca, I can hold the ice myself.
Her hands had fluttered over his shoulders. He had given her an intense look.
What are you doing?
There is dust on your jacket—no, dirt.
Can’t keep your hands to yourself?
No, Hart, I can’t.
For one moment, she had thought he would take her in his arms or upon his lap. Instead, he had stood, tossing the ice pack aside and thanking Schmidt for it. Then he had told her he had business matters he wanted to pursue. And he had put her into a cab.…
Now she faced the front door of the building where the Moores lived. He was thawing. Desire still raged between them. She loved him and she felt certain he loved her. He hadn’t meant a word of what he had said to her on Saturday evening, after she had failed to show up for their wedding.
She was almost certain.
The only thing he had meant was that he wasn’t good enough for her. She sighed. He might think that till the end of his days, but she did not believe it, not for a single second. But hadn’t she known, going into the marriage, that Hart was complicated and dark and that their journey wouldn’t be easy?
Today had proven to her just how powerful an ally he could be.
Francesca pinched herself, reminding herself that she was on a case, and she went up to the Moores’ residence. It was early enough that she expected Marsha to be at home. The gallery was still the scene of a criminal investigation, so she did not know if Daniel would be in or not.
His wife answered the door directly after her first knock. She appeared stricken to see Francesca, who smiled. “I am so sorry to call without advance notice. May I please come inside and speak with you, Mrs. Moore?”
Marsha was pale. “Miss Cahill, I have nothing more to say.” She began to close the door.
Francesca stepped forward, so the door struck her hip, and she winced. “If your husband is innocent, as I believe he is, don’t you want to help prove it?”
Tears arose in Marsha Moore’s eyes. “I am so tired of this! What have I done to deserve so much unhappiness?”
Francesca did not care for self-pity, but she felt sorry for Marsha. “You have already been a huge help. Don’t you believe your husband is innocent of any wrongdoing?”
A moment passed. Then she opened the door, allowing Francesca inside. “Yes, I do. But—” She stopped.
“But what?” Francesca asked gently.
“These are hard, difficult times. It wasn’t always this way.”
Her compassion escalated. Marsha seemed like a kind, solid woman. “I am sorry for all your troubles,” Francesca said, meaning it. “You do not deserve any of this.”
“Thank you.”
“Mrs. Moore, on Saturday night, when you saw a man on the street outside this building, waiting for your husband, was it dark out? The street is well lit at night.”
“It was late, so it was dark. When I looked out the window and saw Daniel below, speaking to that strange man, they stood by one of the oak trees. Daniel was entirely visible, but the other man was harder to see.”
“So you didn’t see his face?”
She hesitated. “He was in the shadows, Miss Cahill, but not so much so that he didn’t upset me. I recognized him from earlier in the week, and as I said, he looks like a dangerous man.”
“Was it also dark when you saw him outside the gallery?”
“No, it was only five or six, but he loitered by some trees then as well—he did not want to be seen.” She was firm.
Francesca decided that Bragg had been right. Marsha could not possibly identify the loiterer with certainty. It could have been Bill Randall outside the apartment and the gallery. “I am sorry for intruding and taking up your time.” She smiled. “If you remember anything else that has happened that you think odd, which might help us find the culprit who locked me in the gallery and stole the portrait, please do contact me or the police.”
Marsha Moore didn’t move.
Francesca became alert. “Is there something else, Mrs. Moore? Something you have yet to reveal?”
She hesitated. “Maybe…I don’t know.”
“Please, I will gladly take any clue.”
She inhaled. “There was a woman in his gallery earlier in the week.”
Francesca thought of Rose and stiffened. “Go on.”
“I do the books there every week. Daniel told me she was shopping for an oil, but…I didn’t believe him.”
“Why not? Can you describe this woman?” Francesca cried.
“Because I heard them arguing. She was so angry. I peeked out from the back office just for a moment. She was dark haired, Miss Cahill. That’s all I know. When they saw me, they became silent—as if hiding s
omething. I went back to the books, and apparently, she left.”
Rose was dark; Rose was volatile and angry; and Rose had known about the portrait. Had she been at the gallery, negotiating for its lease? Was she the thief, after all? Francesca thought her heart might explode with excitement over this new clue. “Would you recognize this woman again?”
“I think so,” Marsha Moore said.
GRAND CENTRAL STATION was in chaos. Dozens of passengers were alighting from private coaches, public taxis and the occasional motorcar before the Lexington Avenue entrance. Luggage was piled up on the sidewalk and in the street and adjacent portico. Porters were helping passengers navigate their way into the terminal with their bags. Evan shoved a dollar bill at his cabdriver and leaped from the cab.
Bartolla had not been home when the police had arrived at the Channing mansion to detain her. He had left Maggie happily ensconced in her flat, with milk and cookies for all her children, the moment he had heard the thug confess. She had rushed after him. “Leave Bartolla to the police!” she had cried, so in tune with him that she knew exactly what he was doing. He had smiled grimly at her, kissed her on the mouth and told her not to worry.
He had arrived at the Channings’ before the police, and the butler had told him that he had just missed the countess. She was taking a 3:15 train to Kingston, New York.
It was 2:50 now. Evan strode through the crowd, his gaze on a pair of policemen who were also intent on getting into the station. He cursed inwardly. If he did not miss his guess, a plainclothes officer was with them. Had Bragg sent them?
He had never been as enraged. He struggled to remind himself that Bartolla was carrying his child. Or was she?
Now Evan entered the vast, granite-floored lobby, his gaze veering to the huge information boards overhead. It took him a moment to locate her train: Syracuse: Track 10 A; Departing 3:15. On Time.
Evan broke into a run, shoving past the men and women milling around the terminal. From the corner of his eye, he saw the navy blue uniforms of the police. They were following him, obviously intent on locating the same track. He lengthened his stride, outdistancing them.