Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  Francesca's heart turned over and she looked at him, absurdly pleased. "Thank you."

  "But it is the truth," he said simply.

  "Surely you are not a professional sleuth?" Grace asked quietly.

  Francesca started, facing the older woman. She felt like a delinquent schoolgirl. In fact, sleuthing had ceased being a hobby when she had been hired by Lydia Stuart to solve a case. And now Mrs. Channing had requested her services. But her parents were close with the Braggs, and as far as Francesca was concerned, they must never find out about her new profession.

  Bragg saved the day. "Francesca has fallen into several investigations, purely by chance," he said.

  She sent him a grateful smile. She had no intention of ever lying to either one of his parents.

  "And I am Lucy, Lucy Savage." The beautiful redhead put her daughter down and came swiftly forward. She extended her hand. Francesca took it. "Rick is my brother. I am so pleased to meet you!" She smiled widely, but her blue eyes were filled with curiosity. "I am very impressed. I have never met a sleuth before, especially not a female one."

  Instantly Francesca liked her. "Are those two adorable children yours?"

  Lucy laughed. "Yes, and so is Roberto. But the twins are hardly adorable—they try the patience of everyone who attempts to contain them! They are twin hurricanes, truly. They do take after their father," she added. "Roberto, come meet Miss Cahill."

  The dark-skinned boy came forward and politely shook Francesca's hand. He did not seem at all related to the rest of the family, and Francesca wondered if he was related by blood and, if not, how he fit in.

  "We live in Texas. That is where my wonderfully impossible husband, Shoz, and my grandparents, Derek and Miranda Bragg, are. Paradise, Texas." Lucy grinned. "And believe me, it is a little piece of paradise, right here on earth! I am on a bit of a holiday," she said brightly. "At the very last moment I could not resist a trip to the big city! So tell me how you solved the murder."

  "Lucy, Francesca has just stepped through the door, hardly expecting to find a Bragg reunion in progress, not to mention my extremely garrulous little sister. Can you slow down?" Bragg asked with a fond shake of his head.

  "Perhaps I can show you the city," Francesca said, now glancing at Grace Bragg again. She was watching Francesca carefully, not missing a single word, as if carefully sizing her up. Francesca prayed she would like her. She sensed this woman would not fall for any tricks and that she would not be easy to impress, either.

  "Oh, that would be fun," Lucy said. "Of course, I did grow up here—before my handsome husband abducted me and carried me off to Death Valley." She grinned.

  Francesca blinked, diverted. "Death Valley? He abducted you?"

  "It is a long story," Bragg remarked calmly, before Lucy could speak.

  "But I want to hear about how you caught the man who murdered Hart's father!" Lucy cried. "When shall we get together? What about right now?"

  "Lucy," this from Rathe, and his tone was fatherly and stern. But he was smiling, and he said to Francesca, "My daughter is a whirlwind. She was born that way—and marriage and children have not calmed her down."

  Francesca smiled. Lucy sent her a conspiratorial glance that meant, "ignore him." Then, "What happened to your hand?" she asked.

  Francesca hesitated, instinctively looking at Bragg.

  "I can answer that one," a voice from the doorway said.

  Francesca froze. The voice had been lazy and sensual in tone. There was only one man who spoke in such a languid and amused drawl.

  "Calder!" Lucy shrieked, flying past Francesca. She turned and watched the gorgeous redhead mauling Calder Hart.

  And he was grinning—a flash of very white teeth in extremely swarthy skin. He lifted Lucy off of her feet. "I like that greeting," he said, and it was brazenly flirtatious.

  Francesca realized in that moment that they were not really related. Bragg and Calder were half brothers, but they shared the same mother, not the same father. Hart did not have one drop of Bragg blood in his veins. She felt paralyzed and oddly annoyed.

  "Keep looking at me that way and Shoz will kill you," Lucy breathed, grinning up at him and still in his arms.

  "But you like keeping him on his toes," Hart said easily, looking pleased with himself. "And he's an old man now."

  "He is very jealous," Lucy said, clearly with satisfaction. "But he isn't so old that he can't teach you a thing or two." She did grin.

  "You are probably right." Slowly Hart released Lucy, and finally he looked directly at Francesca.

  She flushed.

  "So much for bedrest," he said. And then he shrugged, as if it was not his problem, as if he did not give a damn. He looked at Rick. "We should have bet on her. I was going to give her three or four days. Clearly, I would have lost."

  "Calder," Bragg said tersely with an abrupt nod of his head. He wasn't thrilled to see his brother and it was obvious.

  Hart entered the room, as always a rather devastating sight. He was darkly, dangerously handsome, and he favored brilliant white shirts and pitch-black suits. Only he could carry off such a look and not look like a funeral home manager.

  Grace was smiling—and tears sparkled on her lashes behind her spectacles. She had taken both Hart and Bragg in when their mother had died when they were young boys. She cupped Hart's cheek. "Why has it been so long? Why, Calder?"

  Hart hesitated. "It is good to see you," he said, and Francesca was startled, as she had never seen Hart unsure of himself before. He was usually terribly—insufferably—arrogant.

  "It is wonderful to see you! Are you sure you don't mind all of us staying with you? I hate to inconvenience you," Grace said softly.

  He shrugged again, but now he was flushing. "God knows I have plenty of room."

  His house was the size of a museum, Francesca thought.

  Rathe had clasped Hart's shoulder, as warm as Hart was stiff. "You are looking well. It is good to see you, Son."

  Hart nodded, turning away quickly, so no one would see how emotional he was. But Francesca had seen, and she suspected he had a tear or two in his eyes.

  She realized that Bragg was watching her. She felt guilty, so she smiled at him, but he did not smile back.

  Hart had turned to Lucy. "Francesca fancies herself a sleuth," he said lightly. He gave her a disapproving glance. "She likes to put herself in danger—I imagine the rush is rather similar to that experienced by gamblers ... or illicit lovers."

  Francesca frowned at him. "Please." She did not need this now.

  Bragg sighed in exasperation. "Enough, Calder."

  He ignored his brother. "Do you not get a rush of adrenaline when you confront a maddened criminal, Francesca?" Hart drawled. "A rush that I imagine is exactly the same as when you are wildly kissing the man of your dreams?" Both dark brows slashed upward. As he had practically caught her in Bragg's arms at the Channing ball a few days ago—the cause of his commissioning her portrait—she knew he was referring to the passion she felt for his brother.

  Hart was purposefully putting her on the spot. He was purposefully referring to the fact that she and Bragg were in love—which he thought was lust and nothing more. She felt like slapping him—but she had done that once and would never do so again. "The only rush I get is one of fear," she snapped. "Fear, Hart, not excitement, fear."

  He laughed. "I somehow doubt that." He turned to Lucy, who was wide-eyed. "She enjoys danger. Soon, no doubt, it will become an addiction—if it hasn't already."

  "Calder, do you wish to upset Miss Cahill?" Grace finally spoke with quiet censure.

  Hart looked at his stepmother. "If my brother can't keep her in line, then someone should."

  Francesca found herself rushing to the rescue even though she was angry with Hart. "He hasn't upset me, Mrs. Bragg. I am sure that he doesn't wish to be abrasive. It is just a character defect." She smiled sweetly at Hart. "And do not blame Bragg—Rick—for my actions. That is completely unfair."

  He sighe
d and looked at the ceiling. "Of course you defend him"

  Bragg stepped between them, but he faced Hart. "This was an extremely pleasant gathering until you arrived, Calder. As always, you enter a room and do your best to cause trouble."

  But Hart was speaking. "Oh, so now the fact that you allow her to engage in police work is my fault?" Hart shook his head.

  "That's enough," Rathe said firmly. "Company is present— and the two of you haven't changed at all. It's like watching you both when you were boys. What's next? Fists and blows?"

  Grace looked at her, Francesca. The older woman's eyes were wide and intent and.... accusing? But just what could she be accusing her of?

  "I'm sorry," Bragg said instantly, to his father. "And you're right. We're acting like children."

  "I apologize." Hart actually seemed sincere. "In fact, I give up." He looked directly at Francesca. "If you wish to endanger yourself, it is not my affair." He shrugged. "If you and Rick wish to rush around the city together, chasing murderers, so be it." He did not smile. His eyes had become black. "Who knows? Next time instead of a mere burn, perhaps one of these madmen will place a bullet in you." His gaze locked with hers.

  "I think I had better go," Francesca said tersely.

  "I'll walk you down," Lucy said quickly, rushing to her side. "Mother, please watch the children for me, just for a moment."

  "I think Francesca can find her way downstairs," Bragg said firmly. Then he gave her an odd look. And there was a question in his eyes.

  "I did want to speak with you, but it can wait until later," Francesca said. She truly wanted to escape, and as much as she liked Lucy, she wasn't ready for a tête-à-tête with his sister. Perhaps she would call Bragg later on the telephone and fill him in on what had happened at the Channings'.

  "Rick will lend you his Daimler," Lucy said, whipping her coat off a wall peg. "Isn't that right, Rick?"

  "Peter will take you home." Peter was his man, and Francesca had come to realize that he was a jack-of-all-trades. "Lucy, Francesca has a burned hand. My understanding is that she is supposed to be at home for the entire week." He spoke quite calmly. "Do not try and subvert her good intentions."

  "And to think I was under the impression that she was to remain in bed," Hart murmured.

  Francesca flushed, even though his meaning had to have been innocent.

  "I am merely walking her to the roadster," Lucy said demurely. "At least we can chat a bit."

  Bragg capitulated. "Fine. But mind your manners, Lucy."

  She shook her head. "I am a grown woman, Rick, not a child."

  "I know." His smile was an affectionate one. "Mind your manners," he repeated.

  She groaned and rolled her eyes.

  Francesca turned toward his parents. "It was so nice to meet you." Then she glanced at Hart. He wasn't even looking at her. He was studying his fingernails, as if an insect had appeared upon them, making them a fascinating sight indeed.

  "It was a pleasure, Francesca," Rathe said, smiling. Grace also smiled at her.

  Lucy grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hall. "Well, you survived, and admirably, I think." She grinned.

  Francesca was now weak-kneed. She realized she had been perspiring. And she might never forgive Hart for trying to humiliate her in front of the Braggs. "Do you think so? I mean, do you think your parents like me?" She and Lucy entered the elevator cage.

  "What's not to like?" Lucy asked, hauling the cage door shut. She faced her. "So? What is going on?" she demanded, her hands on her hips.

  "What?" Francesca had not a clue as to what Lucy was speaking about, but her tone caused no small amount of apprehension.

  "Are you in love with my brother?" she cried.

  The question was like a blow—right between the eyes. "What?"

  Lucy grabbed her arm. "Are you in love with my brother?" she repeated. "And if so ... which one?"

  Chapter Three

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1902 — 4:00 P.M.

  The elevator began to descend. Francesca was certain she had misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

  Lucy was staring, her eyes eager and wide. "Are you in love with Rick ... or Calder?"

  Francesca could not believe her ears. What was she talking about?

  Lucy shook her head, suddenly amused. "Wait—you don't know?"

  "What are you talking about?" Was she mad? Yes, Francesca was in love with Bragg—for she hadn't known he was married when they had met and begun working together on the Burton Abduction. He had been a perfect gentleman, but she had fallen hopelessly in love with him as they tried to decipher clue after puzzling clue. For he was everything she admired in a man. In fact, even now, those who knew him and his marital status had to admit that if he were eligible, he and Francesca would be perfect for each other.

  Hart had said that, too.

  What was Lucy thinking? Hart was only a friend, and often an insufferable one, at that—as he had just proven moments ago.

  "I am talking about the fact that Rick clearly admires you in a way that is not platonic. But Hart obviously cares about you, too, which is something I have never seen before. And while you clearly adore Rick, I see the way that you look at Calder. But, of course, most women are mesmerized by Calder." She shrugged. "I know I am being very blunt—"

  "You are!" Francesca cried, suddenly panic-stricken. The elevator had stopped, but she did not notice. All she could recall now was the way Hart had looked at her at the Channing ball when she had been wearing that horrid and provocative red dress. She was the least fashionable woman that she could think of, as she preferred navy blue skirts and white shirtwaists or a tailored ensemble. When Hart had seen her in her new and extremely daring red gown, a gown that had not suited her at all, as she was not a siren, he had looked at her the way a man looks at a woman that he wants. It was precisely then that he had, finally, found her alluring. It was in that single moment that a dangerous and ugly beast had raised its head between them—one that would not now go away.

  Francesca wished the moment had never happened.

  She regretted ever wearing that red dress.

  "We can get out now," Lucy said very quietly.

  Francesca was jerked out of her thoughts. Her gaze met the other woman's and quickly skidded away. Lucy was wrong. She was wrong about everything.

  "I have upset you. I am sorry." Lucy took her hand and led her out of the elevator. "I didn't mean to. I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I apologize. I just never expected this."

  Francesca managed to nod. She said, "Rick is married and Hart is a terrible ladies' man. Neither one is for me."

  Lucy opened her mouth, clearly to refute Francesca's words. But then she smiled and closed it. "Are you free for lunch tomorrow? Or perhaps a glass of champagne? We could stop by at the Fifth Avenue Hotel—it is one of Rick's favorites. I do so want to get to know you better before I return to Paradise."

  Francesca wanted to hug her for changing the topic, but within herself she remained aghast, no, horrified. "Either one would be lovely," she said, barely relieved to be discussing something as simple as a social engagement. They stepped outside.

  "There's Peter. Isn't he a sweetheart?" Lucy was speaking of Bragg's man. The huge six-foot, six-inch Swede had seen them. "Peter!" She waved. "Miss Cahill needs a ride!"

  Peter nodded and walked over to the front of the Daimler to crank it up. Lucy smiled at Francesca and gave her an impulsive hug. "I am so glad I decided to bring the children to New York," she said.

  "I have been hoping to meet you—and your parents," Francesca admitted.

  Lucy grinned, as if she truly knew why. "Have a wonderful day. And, Francesca? I really did not mean to upset you."

  Francesca smiled weakly and got into the car. Peter had the motor started, and he climbed into the driver's seat beside her, handing her a pair of goggles. Francesca put them on, then turned to glance back at police headquarters.

  Lucy was exchanging words with a very disreputable- and dangerous
-looking man who was clearly a thug of sorts. She seemed angry—he seemed amused. Actually, he seemed more than amused, for his grin was lascivious and even cruel. What was this?

  Flushed, Lucy whirled away.

  The hoodlum seized her by the arm, whirling her back around.

  Lucy cried out, trying to shake him free.

  Francesca ripped off her goggles and pushed open her car door just as Peter started to drive the Daimler forward. The roadster was braked, and Francesca stumbled out. "Lucy!"

  Lucy and the brawny shaggy-haired thug both turned toward her. He released Lucy and fled down the block.

  For one moment, Francesca hesitated, torn over whether to chase the thug or go to her new friend. In the end, her better judgment won out, and she hurried to Lucy. "Are you all right?" she gasped.

  Lucy jerked away from her, smiling—and it was forced. "Oh, I am fine!"

  Francesca was disbelieving. "Who was that? What did he want? Did he hurt you?"

  "What—what are you talking about?" Lucy asked, wide-eyed.

  "What am I talking about?" Francesca echoed. "That lout in the heavy brown tweed jacket. He grabbed you; you seemed to be arguing—"

  "I don't know what you are talking about," Lucy said abruptly—coldly. "Now, I am afraid I must go, as the twins and Roberto are waiting."

  Francesca recoiled.

  Lucy seemed to realize how cool she had become. She smiled and touched Francesca's sleeve. "I mean, I've never seen that man before. He must have mistaken me for someone else." She smiled, but it seemed forced. "So, until tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow, then," Francesca managed, but she knew a liar when she saw one, and Lucy was lying through her teeth.

  Not only that, but there had been fear in her wide blue eyes, real, raw fear.

  Francesca slipped into the house and found the front hall empty, with the exception of Jonathon, the new doorman.

  "May I take your coat?" he said.

  "Where is everyone? Has anyone noticed that I have not been at home?" Francesca asked quickly, speaking in a very low tone as she handed him her hat, gloves, and coat. He had not batted an eye earlier when she had left, her manner rather furtive. However, she had been gone most of the afternoon. Francesca felt that she was doomed.