Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  She gasped. Then, "Is that what you are thinking? Now you think to divorce me? After all that you have done? Now you think to divorce me?" She was on her feet, her mouth quivering, her eyes filling with tears. Her small body was trembling. "My father is at death's door. My mother is incompetent and you know it. And then there is Charlie, my uncle's bastard. She is a hoodlum, Rick, uncontrollable, wild, without any social graces! And I am supposed to find her a husband! She has been left in my household, for me to raise! Now you would divorce me?" The tears finally fell, drop after drop. And to make matters worse, Leigh Anne was as beautiful when she was crying as when she was not.

  He grabbed her in sudden fury.

  She stiffened.

  "Don't even think of starting with me, now," he ground out, almost shaking her. Her shoulders were small and fragile beneath his hands—he felt as if he could crush them into dust if he tried. "I want a divorce. I have made up my mind. I shall marry Francesca, whom I love. And you, you can then do as you please, freely. Fuck the whole world, Leigh Anne, and I shall not care!"

  "You're hurting me," she whispered, her eyes filled with fear. "Stop."

  "I'm hurting you? You walked out on me, my dear, not the other way around." But he eased his grip. He was seeing red now, red and white, for she was impossibly porcelain, impossibly beautiful, and her fear only heightened her beauty.

  "You broke every single promise you ever made to me!" she cried with a gasp. "Let me go!"

  "I broke promises?" He pulled her off her feet. Her small body could so easily be crushed by his larger one. He felt every inch of her now, against his own anger-wracked frame. "You swore to love and cherish me until death, Leigh Anne. Through better and for worse."

  "You also swore to love and cherish me until death, Rick, and you promised me a wonderful life! A wonderful life! You promised me that Georgian mansion with the cast-iron fence, the one we both fell in love with, the one just two blocks from your parents'! There were gong to be family dinners on Sunday nights! And what about the two children we were going to have? There was going to be supper parties, once a week, I do believe. Our first guest list would be your partners at Holt, Holt and Smith! You promised me a home, a family, an entire life—and then you reneged on every single one of your promises," she gasped, the tears falling in a ceaseless stream now. "And you are hurting me. Damn it. Let me go."

  He held onto her for one more minute, through the haze of anger and pain, acutely aware of her fragility and femininity, and even her breasts, crushed against his chest. And then he released her, as she had asked, but he made a mistake in doing so, and she slid down his body before her feet hit the floor.

  Unfortunately, he was a virile man, one denied the pleasure of the bedroom for the past two months, and his reaction was reflexive and instantaneous.

  She felt it, backed away, and became utterly still, freezing in the process of beginning to rub her arms where he had gripped them.

  He hated himself.

  "You still think I'm beautiful," she whispered.

  "I am a man, Leigh Anne, not a eunuch," he said roughly.

  "You still want me," she said.

  He laughed without mirth and shook his head. "There is only one woman I want, and she is not you."

  Leigh Anne stiffened. Her eyes blazed. "That's not what your body says."

  "I get hard in my dreams," he ground out. "And what does that mean? It means I have been in public office for well over a month and I have been living like a monk for even longer than that."

  "Deny it if it makes you feel better," she whispered. "But you could never take your hands off of me. I don't think anything has changed."

  "I don't care what you think," he said, turning away.

  When she did not speak, he glanced at her.

  "I am not giving you a divorce," she said.

  He faced her. "Then we will have a bitter battle on our hands." He did not want to think about the fact that Francesca was against his divorcing as well, but for all the right reasons.

  He stared, struck then by the utter and most basic difference between the woman he had once loved and the woman he now loved. Leigh Anne remained selfish to the core; Francesca was selfless. She did not have a single selfish bone in her entire body.

  His heart turned over, hard and painfully.

  "I understand that you have an excellent reputation," Leigh Anne said softly, staring directly at him. She smiled a little, her gaze intent. "I understand that you are highly thought of and that, in some circles, the talk is that you will be groomed to run for the Senate."

  He knew exactly where she intended to go, and he became even more tense, if possible.

  "I can help you, Rick," she said.

  He stared. What game was this? "I don't want your help."

  "No? I can help you win the Senate. While a divorce will end your career—forever. No one in this country would ever forget it—you would be a political pariah. But to run for the Senate, why, you need a gracious and elegant wife at your side. Someone to shake hands with the wealthy who will support your run with their funds, someone to host those fund-raising dinners and even mere political affairs. You need a wife to smile at the gentlemen who will back you and to campaign at your side. You need me, Rick."

  "I may not run for the Senate ever," he said.

  She shrugged. "I am not giving you a divorce. Not now, not ever. I am sorry you have fallen in love with someone else, but now I am doing what I have to do," she said. "For it would ruin me, too, or have you so coldly forgotten that a divorced woman is a social pariah?"

  His heart beat hard. He could see Francesca so clearly now in his mind's eye, smart, beautiful, impossibly determined—mulishly so. When he had thought about her after they had first met, while they were falling in love but blissfully ignorant of it, his thoughts had made him smile, and they had made him want to cheer and laugh. Now, he thought of her and felt like weeping.

  He could not let Leigh Anne stand in their way, but hadn't he known, on some level, that Leigh Anne would never complacently let him leave? And hadn't he also known that the pull of his political future was simply irresistible and not to be denied? Because he had so much to achieve; so much remained to do! Cleaning out the hornets in the corrupt nest that was New York's police department was only a beginning.

  He gripped the back of a chair. "You will never campaign at my side. We are separated, and that is not going to change."

  She smiled, a soft, secret sensual smile, and did not say a word.

  His knuckles turned white. "This isn't about my future, is it? This is your way of punishing me. Why? It's been four years. We've both moved on with our lives. Why? Why stand in my way? Why did you really come back?"

  Her beautiful green eyes became moist. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked.

  "Nothing about you is obvious," he said harshly.

  "I still love you, Rick," she said. "And I will not let another woman have you."

  Francesca could not concentrate. Her cab had arrived and now sat in the driveway before Calder Hart's huge home. She did not move. She couldn't move. Leigh Anne Bragg's lovely face was engraved on her mind, as was Bragg's furious one.

  Grief weighed her down. The sense of loss was acute. The fear was even greater—it felt like panic. Nothing was ever going to be the same again, she thought in terror. Leigh Anne had returned, and her every instinct told Francesca that she meant to stay.

  You can let him divorce her, a small voice inside of her head said. That option remains.

  Francesca covered her face with her hands. They were shaking. She wanted to cry. She would not. And divorce was not an option, because she could not steal him away from his destiny.

  But there will not be a happy ending, Francesca.

  I will tell you about women like Mrs. Rick Bragg. . . . She didn't want him—but you cannot have him.

  Hart's voice was so strong and resonant that she blinked and opened her eyes, expecting to find him standing outside the cab, peering insi
de. But he wasn't there, of course; no one was there. There was only the bleak and dreary day, the wind and the snow.

  It was coming down fast and furious now.

  "Miss? That's seventy-five cents," the cabbie said, staring at her over his shoulder.

  Francesca tried to smile and handed him a silver dollar. She shook her head when he tried to offer her change, already pushing open her door. How was she going to survive? And what did Leigh Anne really want? Why had she really come to New York?

  She wants Bragg, you fool, she heard her mind answer her. What woman would not?

  More despondent now, Francesca crossed the drive to Hart's house. The huge stag on the roof seemed to be gazing knowingly down at her. It said, I told you so!

  As she rang the door's bell, she told herself to forget about Leigh Anne now. There was work to do, a criminal to apprehend. Besides, she was his wife.

  To her shock, Hart thrust open the door himself. He was in his shirtsleeves and an open vest, looking as if he had just gotten out of bed. He saw her and his eyes widened—and then his face hardened into a barely controlled mask of anger. "Where is my brother?" he demanded.

  Francesca had never been greeted so rudely. But the words were hardly out when she knew something was terribly amiss. "I don't know," she began.

  Hart grabbed her arm and dragged her inside, slamming the door closed behind her. "I already know he went to Fort Kendall, Francesca," he said dangerously, his black eyes flashing.

  She inhaled, hard. She was ready to become undone now, and this was not the time or the place.

  "And you have been crying." Now he gripped her by both shoulders. "What's wrong? Didn't the two of you enjoy the night you spent together on that train all by yourselves?"

  She could not move. She could hardly speak. Hart was furious—and he was furious with her. "We didn't," she began breathlessly.

  He released her. "I hardly care. So spare me the sordid details of your little love affair," he said harshly. But he was looking at her mouth, her hair. His gaze moved into the opening of her coat and over the front of her tightly buttoned jacket. She knew he was searching for signs of recent love-making.

  Francesca swallowed. "Leigh Anne is here."

  He stiffened. And his expression changed.

  She would not bawl like a cow. "She met us at the train," she whispered unsteadily. The urge to cry was overwhelming; she choked on a sob instead.

  "Poor Francesca," Hart murmured, and he pulled her against his chest. There was no mockery in his tone.

  She buried her face there on one hard plane and wept.

  He held her, stroking her back. She heard him say, "I am sorry, my dear. I am very, very sorry for you."

  She thought that he meant it. She gripped his vest until her knuckles turned numb. She felt his shirt growing wet beneath her cheek. She also felt him stroking her nape beneath her hat.

  The tears ceased. Where he was stroking her, her skin tingled. Instantly grief was replaced by something else, something she did not want, something she truly feared. That was when she became acutely aware of his heart, pounding in a rhythm that was strong and insistent, but not at all slow.

  His hands moved to her upper arms, holding her in such a manner that she could not move. For one instant, she felt every inch of his body, a body of strength and power. And then he pushed her an inch, no two, away.

  He was staring searchingly at her now, looking so terribly grim. She felt her cheeks flush. How could she deny that she felt a terrible attraction to him? After last night, she had never been more in tune with her body. This man merely had to walk into the room to make her breathless.

  "Are you feeling better?" he asked quietly, never moving his gaze from hers.

  "Yes." She tried to breathe normally, and failed. "I fear you have been right. Hart! She is so beautiful."

  "She is not as beautiful as you," he said quietly.

  Francesca stiffened. "You are being kind—"

  "I am not a kind man. Wipe your tears. Unless you wish for the entire family to know what has happened in the past twenty-four hours." He seemed about to go. He turned back to her. "Oh. Your mother is furious. Apparently I was not supposed to miss the train."

  She flushed.

  His gaze remained even. "I covered for you, Francesca. I told Julia a meeting caused me to miss the train and that I was planning to accompany you and Rick."

  "Thank you," she managed.

  "I shall collect another time. Now where the hell is Rick?" Suddenly his expression changed. "No. I see. He must be with Leigh Anne. Damn it!"

  "Hart, what happened?" She grabbed his wrist.

  "What happened?" His brows slashed upward; he was incredulous. "One of the twins was abducted, Francesca, right out of her nanny's hands, this morning after breakfast."

  Chapter Seventeen

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1902 —JUST BEFORE NOON

  Francesca gasped.

  "That is right," Hart said grimly. "The nanny takes the twins for a walk every morning after breakfast. She left at nine. She was back before half past. Craddock walked right up to her, grabbed Chrissy from the baby carriage, and leapt into a waiting vehicle."

  "Oh, my God." Francesca grabbed him. "Lucy?"

  "Is in hysterics," he said. He started down the corridor and Francesca followed, running to keep up with him.

  "What about his note? I thought he intended to collect more money, today at noon!" she cried.

  "Apparently he changed his mind. The good news is that he wanted money, and I can only assume he still wants money and that murder is the last thing on his mind."

  "Calder!" She grabbed the back of his vest.

  He whirled so quickly that her nose crashed into the wall of his chest. She backed up. "There was a gruesome murder at Fort Kendall in 1890. It was never solved. Shoz escaped a week later, while Craddock took over this murdered man's position among the inmates. Craddock is extremely dangerous," she said, trying to keep her voice down.

  "He will not be dangerous for very much longer," Hart told her. "My private detective is on his tail—we learned where he has been staying until last week. Have no fear—I shall dispose of him the moment he is found—one way or the other."

  Their gazes locked and she knew he meant his every word. Somehow, now, she could not blame him. She thought about the beautiful blond twin, and then she thought about Lucy. Anguish filled her.

  "What do we do now? Wait for word from your detective? From Craddock himself? Surely there will be a ransom note," Francesca said.

  "I guarantee it," Hart said harshly. "The only thing we can do is wait. But we do need Rick now. The one thing he is, is astute."

  As he spoke, his front doorbell rang. He stared at her. "That must be my oh-so-virtuous brother." The look he gave her was a dark one, filled with innuendos, and she knew he was thinking about the night she had just spent with Bragg on the train. He whirled and rushed back down the hall.

  Francesca set chase and saw Alfred admitting Bragg. Hart did not slow as he entered the front hall; Francesca halted by the reclining nude with the dove, at the hall's far threshold. She trembled and could barely breathe as she set her eyes upon him.

  Bragg looked extremely upset. No, he looked grim, horribly so. Whatever had happened after she had left Grand Central Depot, it had not been a pleasant experience. What had happened?

  "Did you enjoy your journey upstate?" Hart purred.

  "Don't even think to begin," Bragg warned unpleasantly. "I am in no mood to spar with you."

  "Craddock abducted Chrissy this morning," Hart returned coldly.

  Bragg turned white.

  "Why else would I leave a message of such urgency with your clerk?" Hart asked.

  "Give me all the details. Why didn't you go to the police?"

  Hart said, "Considering the bottom line, which is our brother-in-law, I decided this should be kept unofficial. It is a family matter, not a police matter, Rick."

  "What happened? Where is Lucy? How
is she holding up?" Bragg demanded.

  "The nanny took the twins for a stroll at nine this morning. Craddock got out of a waiting coach, snatched Chrissy from her baby carriage, got back in the coach, and drove off. Actually, he had an accomplice, as the coach had a driver. There has been no ransom note, but it had been less than three hours since he took her. I have already hired a private detective to locate him, and the entire family is with Lucy in the library. She is crying," Hart added with a downturn to his mouth.

  "I need your phone," Bragg said tersely.

  "I will not have the police involved," Hart warned.

  "Generally, you are not a foolish man. So why start now?" Bragg asked coolly. "And I am the police, Calder, or have you forgotten? So the police are involved."

  Hart clenched his fists, his expression hardening with anger. He looked ready to strike a blow; Bragg also clenched his fists, but he was smiling, extremely unpleasantly now.

  "Calder, don't!" Francesca cried.

  Bragg started. He looked across the huge hall for the first time and she stepped out from behind the reclining statue. Their gazes met, held, locked. What had Leigh Anne said to him? What had happened when they were alone? Had he admitted to his wife that he loved Francesca? Had her name even come up?

  Bragg dragged his gaze back to his half brother, who had been watching them both. "I have more resources at my beck and call than the entire Pinkerton Agency," he said, very softly. "And I do not suggest we sit around here twiddling our thumbs while waiting for a ransom note—which may or may not come. I intend to locate Craddock before he ever sends that note."

  "He wants money," Hart said coldly. "There will be a note, before nightfall, if I do not miss my guess."

  "He is a murderer," Bragg snapped. "And I do not trust him with my niece."

  Hart's mouth twisted upward, without any mirth at all. "Ah yes, shove my face in the fact that Chrissy is not really my niece. And when your little investigation gets out of hand? Then what? If Cooper was murdered by Shoz, will you cover it up?"