Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  He kissed her, hard. Then he tore his mouth from hers and walked to the opposite end of the room, panting and seriously close to losing all control. He stared out of a window that faced the back gardens, blanketed now in snow. He supposed but was not sure that the Hudson River would be visible in the light of day.

  If Bartolla was moving, he could not hear a thing. He felt her eyes on his back.

  Still highly aroused, he raked his hair with one hand, sighed, and turned. He had been right; she remained with her back against the wall, staring. But she looked exactly as she had when she had first walked in—she must have repaired her hair, and her bodice was back in place.

  No, she did not look exactly as she had when she had walked in—she looked like a woman who had been making love.

  "I am sorry," he began roughly, meaning it.

  "No. You don't have to apologize, not to me." Her smile was brief but anxious. "We're both adults, and rather experienced ones at that. We both know that this has been brewing from the moment we met."

  "Yes, it has." He smiled a little, liking her even more for being so straightforward. "I didn't call here tonight to ravage you."

  "I know." She approached him swiftly then and laid her forefinger on his mouth. "Ssh. It's all right. I am feeling what you are feeling." She hesitated. "Perhaps more."

  He stared, trying to comprehend her, his heart accelerating. "More? What do you mean?"

  She shook her head with a sad little smile. "This can never happen again, Evan. You know that."

  He seized her hands. A little voice in his head began to warn him not to speak, but he ignored it. "Can you keep a confidence, Bartolla?" he asked softly.

  "You know that I can," she returned, her gaze unwavering upon him.

  Because she was breathless, it was difficult not to keep glancing down at her spectacular bosom. He forced himself to concentrate on her face, amazingly aroused again. "I am ending it with Sarah. As soon as she is well enough, I shall tell her."

  Bartolla's eyes widened; clearly she was stunned. "But your parents? Mrs. Channing? I mean, I know this was arranged for certain reasons."

  "My father does not control me anymore," Evan said flatly. "I have taken a stand, and nothing shall change my mind now."

  She stared. Her full bosom moved even more strenuously against the flimsy material of her gown. Her nipples were clearly erect. "Oh dear," she managed finally.

  He swallowed hard, sweating now. "I know Sarah is your cousin," he began, suddenly wondering if, in spite of Bartolla's passionate nature, she might not condemn him for his actions, "but I cannot marry a woman I do not care at all for. I may marry one day, but it will be for love."

  "No, that is not it," she breathed, gripping his hands as tightly as he held hers. "The two of you are a terrible mismatch, and Sarah doesn't even want to marry—not ever. She only wants to paint. I just did not expect you to break it off; somehow, I thought Francesca might persuade your father to do so—eventually."

  Evan was relieved. "I will tell Sarah as soon as she is well," he murmured.

  She nodded, her gaze unwavering on his face.

  He told himself that if he kissed her again he would quickly take her on the floor. "I am very wound up tonight," he said flatly, releasing her hands and turning away.

  "I know," she murmured.

  He whirled and their gazes locked.

  A flush covered her cheeks and heat filled her eyes.

  And he thought, One more kiss, I am a man, not a boy. ... He seized her and she cried out, but he cut off her cry, tearing at her mouth with his. Her teeth cut his lips; he penetrated her fully with his tongue, thinking about getting down on his knees and using his tongue against her sex, between her legs. Their tongues entwined, their mouths fused. He clasped her buttocks and lifted her up two inches, until she was against his loins. Fire blazed in his mind, only fire.

  And he knew that he simply could not wait—he would have to take her now.

  She tore away. "Someone's coming!" she cried in a stage whisper.

  He was so aroused it was a moment before he understood, but by then it was too late—a knock sounded.

  Evan straightened like a shot, hearing another knock now. He adjusted himself, his shirt, his tie. "Your hair," he said grimly, now appalled with himself and his behavior. He was not a free man yet.

  And as he stepped quickly forward, tugging up one of her slim shoulder straps, the door slowly opened.

  He leaped away from her as she whirled to face the intruder. It was Rourke who stepped through the door.

  His face impassive, his amber eyes hooded, Rourke looked from Evan to Bartolla and back again. The man was a rake, for Evan knew a ladies' man when he saw one, so he had to know what had just transpired between them. However, he gave no sign. And whatever his reaction was to the affair, he gave no indication of that, either.

  "The butler told me you were here," he said. Now his gaze slid over Bartolla, inch by inch.

  She stood straight and still, a smile pasted to her face, letting him take his fill. She did not flush.

  Evan's fists closed. He felt like pounding the other man for looking at the countess in such a sexual way.

  "I had hoped to see Sarah," Evan said, hoping his voice would not betray him. It did—his tone was rough with need, and he coughed to clear it.

  "Oh, yes, I can see that," Rourke said, quite coolly now. The glance he sent Bartolla was a disparaging one.

  Evan stiffened. "How is she?" He now noticed that Rourke carried his medical bag.

  "She has a fever of one hundred and one again," Rourke said, looking now at Bartolla as if she were a tropical insect that he wished to dispose of. "I am worried, Cahill. She does not have the flu, and although I have checked her lungs, I am going to bring a specialist over to make sure she does not have pneumonia."

  Pneumonia was more often deadly than not. Evan started with dread.

  Bartolla stepped forward. "I hadn't realized she had a fever again," she whispered, wringing her hands, stricken with worry. "Please, you don't suspect pneumonia, do you?"

  "How could you realize anything?" Abruptly—rudely— he turned and walked out.

  Evan and Bartolla looked at each other with dismay. Then he turned and hurried after Rourke. "Rourke! Can I go up and see her?"

  "No." Rourke was receiving his coat from the houseman and did not even look at Evan as he spoke.

  "Now what the hell does that mean?"

  "It means she is ill with a high fever and she does not need to be agitated any further."

  Evan felt like punching the other man. "Do not judge me," he warned.

  "Why not? This is a democracy, the last I heard. And judgments are free." Rourke's eyes burned. "If you think to fuck the countess, at least do it in another house," he said. "At least have that simple decency."

  Evan struck, intending to hit Rourke right in the face. The other man's reflexes were a surprise, as he dodged and the blow grazed his high cheekbone. But he straightened swinging. Evan felt a mean blow in the chest. It sent him backward across the hall.

  "Stop! The two of you!" Bartolla cried with horror in her tone.

  Evan caught himself before falling, balling his fists, wanting to pummel the other man to a pulp. But Rourke stood in a similar stance, clearly wishing for another round.

  "Apologize. Not to me. But to the lady," Evan said, and it was a warning.

  Rourke flushed. He glanced at Bartolla, then said, "I was rather uncouth. I am sorry."

  Bartolla looked at him with huge eyes. "Thank you."

  Rourke appeared disgusted and he turned to go.

  Bartolla gripped his arm. "Rourke, wait. Please try and understand. We have never—it was a mistake—it just happened and we both love Sarah dearly!"

  He faced her, shaking her off. "Please! I am a man of the world! Nothing just happened. But Miss Channing deserves more respect than either of you seem capable of giving her. I apologize only for using such ungentlemanly language, but not fo
r the gist of what I have said. The two of you clearly deserve each other." He turned abruptly, angrily. Fortunately, the doorman was listening to their every word and he managed to fling the front door open before Rourke crashed into it as he strode furiously out.

  He was right, at least partly. Sarah did deserve respect, and the passion that had erupted in the salon had been untimely and wrong. Evan was grim, glancing at Bartolla. "I had better go."

  She nodded, pale. Then, "He is right. I am going to go upstairs and spend the rest of the evening seeing if I can make Sarah more comfortable."

  Something melted inside of him. "That is very kind of you."

  "She is my cousin," Bartolla returned. "I love her."

  Evan hesitated. In that instant, with the utmost certainty he knew that some of the things being whispered about by the likes of his father about Bartolla Benevente were completely wrong. She could not help the fact that she had been born so desirable, and it did not detract one whit from the innate goodness of her heart. "I know you do," he said.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 —8 P.M.

  Francesca felt as if she were a freakish display in a circus. The moment she stepped into the salon, all eyes fell upon her. She remained very aware of Hart behind her and now, too late, that she was draped in his black dinner jacket. Somehow, she smiled at the Braggs, but only Rourke was smiling, and there was a knowing light in his eyes. Francesca darted a worried glance at Rathe and Grace Bragg. She wanted to explain to them that she and Hart were only friends and that nothing had happened on the terrace. But Hart was removing his jacket from her shoulders. Francesca flinched at the touch of silk and his fingertips, but she was not given the chance to speak. For Julia was ushering everyone from the salon. "Shall we go in? Supper is being served," Julia announced.

  Francesca suddenly realized that her mother and father stood at polar ends of the group gathered in the center of the salon, ignoring each other. Worry swept over her with hurricane force. She could withstand many crises, but a disruption in her parents' relationship, in their marriage, was not one of them.

  Andrew held his arm out to Grace. "May I, dear? I do believe you are my dinner partner tonight."

  Grace smiled and she became beautiful when she did so, even though she had chosen to wear a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, which kept slipping down her nose. "You know I have missed our political debates, Andrew," she said softly. "And I do want your opinion on Rick's efforts with the police department—and his clash with the mayor."

  Francesca straightened like a shot. Bragg had clashed with Mayor Lowe? When had this happened? How come he had not told her?

  "Lowe cannot afford to alienate the workman's vote—no matter that they are led by the nose through the Tammany machine. He has backed down on the issue of Sunday saloon closings. I do believe your son remains firm in his convictions to uphold the letter of the law."

  Oh, no, Francesca thought, seized with more than worry, then fear. She knew Bragg. He had been appointed to reform the police department, and that meant, to him, upholding the law—with no exceptions. Sunday saloon openings were a direct violation of the Blue Laws. In principle, Lowe supported those laws. Clearly he felt that his political future might be threatened now by actually doing so.

  Hart leaned close and whispered, "Your knight in shining armor will survive."

  Francesca met his dark eyes and saw he was annoyed, so she did not bother to reply.

  Rathe had taken Julia's arm, and as they began to file out, Lucy seized Francesca's hand. "I need to talk to you," she said in a low, tense tone. And fear was in her eyes.

  Francesca knew that something dire had happened. "The best time shall be after supper," she said as quietly, aware of Hart at her elbow and Rourke lazily moving closer to them. She had no wish to have either man overhear them now.

  Lucy whirled. "Hart, Rourke, wait for us in the hall," she ordered tersely.

  Hart's brow lifted. "I might be inclined to agree, if such an imperious tone were not used," he said. Then his gaze narrowed. "Is something wrong?"

  "Nothing is wrong," Lucy said, far too swiftly.

  Rourke stared. "She's worse than that when company is not present. What is wrong?"

  Lucy smiled too brightly. "Just leave us to our wicked gossip! Please!" Lucy cried, gripping his arm. She kissed him on the cheek. "Now, go!"

  Hart smiled a little but looked at the two women thoughtfully. "Seeing you both together, I shudder. I sense a conspiracy of danger, and no good can come of it."

  "There is no conspiracy here!" Lucy cried, her smile brittle.

  Francesca touched his arm and smiled. "We will be in momentarily," she assured him.

  His gaze locked with hers; any annoyance he had just felt vanished, and he finally nodded. "Very well. Francesca..." He hesitated.

  Her heart seemed to flutter. "Yes?"

  He shook his head rather self-derisively. "I do hope that the two of you are not in any trouble."

  "We're not!" Lucy pushed him toward the door. "Now good-bye!"

  Francesca could not look away from Hart's dark, piercing eyes until he finally acquiesced and walked out with Rourke. Instantly Lucy slammed the salon door closed and ran to Francesca. "You are right. I lied. I am in trouble and I don't know what to do!"

  Francesca gripped her arms. "Craddock?"

  For one moment, Lucy did not speak. Then she reached into her bodice and handed Francesca a crumpled note.

  Francesca unfolded it and smoothed it out and was faced with crude childish handwriting and many misspellings:

  FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS TWOSDAY NOON OR CHILDREN

  WON'T BE REEL HAPPY.

  NICE CHILDREN. I LIKE THEM REAL LOT.

  Andrew had suggested that the men adjourn into the library for cigars and brandies. Connie and Neil had declined and left, Connie seeming very tired though it was not that late in the evening. Hart had sent Francesca an amused look, which clearly said he would rather sip a good scotch with her. But rather pliant, he had gone off with the men.

  Julia, Grace, Lucy, and Francesca were left to their own devices in the salon where they had first gathered. Francesca had not had a chance to speak any further with Lucy before supper, for the moment she had read the threatening note, Julia had appeared, demanding that they come into supper. She was determined now to speak to Lucy at length and alone and felt that the determination was mutual. But leaving her mother and Grace Bragg would be more than awkward. The two women had so very little in common.

  Julia was politely asking Lucy about her life in Texas and her grandparents, whom she had met twice in Washington at state occasions. Francesca stood before the fire, carefully contemplating Craddock's note. There was no doubt in her mind now that this was a police matter.

  "We haven't had a chance to speak," Grace said quietly, at her elbow.

  Francesca started, because she had been so engrossed in her speculations that she had not heard the other woman approach. She managed a smile; knowing she had to appear terribly nervous. "No, we haven't."

  Grace smiled a little, studying her. "You seem like an unusual young woman. I take it your family does not approve of your interest in criminal investigations?"

  Francesca hesitated, but they had kept their voices low. "No, they don't. Mama is very traditional—she wants me to be exactly like Connie."

  "Yes, that is obvious. Connie has so fit her bill. She is married to a nobleman, she has two children in the house, and she attends enough charities to assuage any and all guilt. I cannot quite see you following in your sister's footsteps." Her soft smile was a pleasant one.

  But Francesca knew an interview when she was in the midst of one. "I am very different from my sister."

  "That is rather obvious. I don't think your sister would have tracked down the killer of Hart's father with such courage and conviction. More women should dare to gain a higher education, be politically and socially active, and pursue a profession." She paused. "I understand that, briefly, my son was a suspect. Tha
nk you, Francesca, for all that you did on his behalf."

  She flushed. "Calder is a friend. And Bragg—Rick— helped me. We solved the murder together."

  Grace studied her.

  The silence felt more than awkward, and nervously Francesca said, "And I would do the same for anyone who is the victim of injustice and crime."

  "Are you in love with one of my sons?"

  Francesca froze. No coherent reply came to mind; there was only panic.

  It was sheer and very real.

  Grace studied her. "The last thing I wish to see is two of my sons fighting with each other over a woman, even a very unique woman like you."

  Francesca inhaled, felt tears rise, and fought for composure. "Mrs. Bragg. Hart and I are friends, that is all—"

  "And Rick is married; Calder is not," she said pointedly.

  Francesca felt herself blanch.

  Grace gave her a long, thoughtful look. "I would not want to be in your position," she said at last. Then she softened visibly and kissed her cheek. "I am tired. There was a very long meeting of the Ladies Republican Club this morning; and this afternoon, the Suffragettes of America. I have not had a moment to sit down." She turned. "Julia? I must retire for the night, but it has been lovely, thank you."

  Julia stood and hurried forward. "I am so glad you came," she cried, and as the two women left to retrieve Rathe Bragg, Francesca and Lucy looked at each other.

  This time, it was Francesca who rushed to close the salon door. "Lucy, what is happening? Is Craddock blackmailing you?"

  "I don't know what is happening!" she cried. "This is the first time he has demanded money!" She was as white as a freshly laundered sheet.

  Francesca took her hand. "Let's sit down. You must start from the beginning."

  "The beginning?" Lucy looked at her as if she did not understand the definition of the word.

  "Yes, the very beginning." Francesca guided her to the sofa and sat down there beside her.

  Lucy stared at her as if she had grown two heads.

  "Lucy?"

  "I first saw him a month ago. He started appearing in town—in Paradise—where I was. I would be picking up a few things at the grocer's or having a fitting at Madame Del-fine's, and I'd look up, and there he was, staring at me through the window. Of course, the first time I thought nothing of it!" she cried. "But then I saw him here, Francesca, here—he followed me all the way from Texas to New York City."