Deadly Kisses

by Brenda Joyce

  “Don’t wait,” she whispered. Their eyes met and she loved the blinding heat in his gaze. “Just hurry.”

  He gave her a look and bent between her legs, pressing one hand just above her sex and pushing his tongue against her.

  And she surrendered to the exquisite pleasure building in tidal waves inside her. His clever tongue knew every fold, every peak, every valley of her sex, and in a moment, Francesca was sobbing her release and his name.

  When she had floated back to earth and the sofa, she instantly recalled the past few hours. Refusing to dwell on reality, she opened her eyes. Hart knelt beside her, one hand remaining possessively between her legs. In the frenzy they had just shared, he had somehow jettisoned his jacket and his tie was askew. He was breathing hard and watching her intently.

  Francesca’s heart lurched with renewed need and great resolve. She reached out and seized his tie. “I seem to need you again,” she whispered with a small, promising smile. She felt as seductive as the most infamous and desirable courtesan. “But I will be fair.” She jerked on the tie.

  He smiled slightly, allowing himself to be pulled down so she could kiss him, slowly and lazily, using her tongue with great skill against the mobile seam of his lips. As she teased, she held the tie like a leash so he could not move—at least, as long as he played along. With her left hand she reached for his belt.

  Hart tensed, understanding.

  Francesca nipped at him, jerking on his tie. “Stay still,” she said, and unbuckled the belt.

  He murmured one word, “Darling.”

  She stroked the bulge in his fly, just once, and looked up.

  His smile was strained. “If you expect me to beg the way you do, it will never happen,” he said. “I am a very patient man.”

  She loved the power unfolding in her now. She teased open a button, murmuring, “We shall see.”

  He sucked in his breath, giving her what was in tended as a warning look.

  Francesca freed him, releasing his tie. Hart leaned hard on the sofa now, his breathing loud rasps.

  She bent and touched the fully distended tip with her tongue.

  And Hart lost the battle. “Francesca,” he cried, a plea.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tuesday, June 3, 1902—7:00 p.m.

  BRAGG WAS AWARE OF the insistent pounding of his heart. He was preparing to do battle and he knew it. O’Donnell had not suddenly appeared in their lives to innocently visit the children. Tension filled him as he prepared to knock on the door of the rooms O’Donnell had let. A uniformed roundsman was with him. Bragg could handle any trouble by himself, but if there was trouble, he wanted a witness.

  It had not been hard to locate O’Donnell, not once he had reacquainted himself with the man’s file. An officer had learned of his present whereabouts from his parish priest.

  He knocked. Bragg felt his tension rise as the door was opened. A plump woman with gray hair that was pulled back into a bun, an apron covering her blue dress, stood there. “Mrs. O’Brien?”

  She seemed surprised, her glance moving to the policeman and then back to him. “Yes, I am Mrs. O’Brien. Can I help you?”

  “I am looking for your nephew, Mike O’Donnell,” he said. “I am Police Commissioner Bragg.”

  She opened the door more widely. “Mike? There is a policeman here to see you.”

  He thanked her and stepped inside, the officer following. Mrs. O’Brien closed the door and the suntanned, blond man sitting at the kitchen table, a book in front of him, slowly rose to his feet. “Sir,” he said.

  Bragg felt like rolling his eyes. O’Donnell’s polite manner was absurd. He remembered the man too well: a thug who had left his wife and child, who had not cared for them in any way, and who had not been moved by either the murder of his wife or sister. “Please, don’t stand on formalities with me. We are old friends, aren’t we?” He had a sudden urge to smash the man’s nose in. He was not going to let O’Donnell complicate their lives. Things were already difficult enough. Since the accident, Leigh Anne had become fragile, and she was so unhappy at times. The girls were her only source of joy.

  O’Donnell was wide-eyed, as if in awe of Bragg. “Beth! Put up some hot water for tea. I’d offer you a whiskey, but I gave up drinking in March.”

  “How meritorious,” Bragg said. He had already glanced around the small flat, commonly referred to as a railroad apartment because it was long and narrow, with a single window at the far end. He could see into the bedroom where a dress, a lady’s coat and a scarf hung on the wall pegs, so he assumed Beth O’Brien was using the room. There was a quilt folded up on the sofa beside a pillow, so clearly, Mike O’Donnell slept there. The parlor and the kitchen were really one room, the sofa just a foot from the kitchen table. For dwellers in a tenement, O’Donnell and O’Brien were living like a king and his queen; usually several families shared such a flat. Although cramped, with the furnishings in dire need of new upholstery and the wood desperate for wax, the flat was as neat as possible, and it was clean.

  Bragg gestured for O’Donnell to sit. “I see you are reading the Bible.”

  “Yes, I am,” Mike said, taking his chair. “I find comfort in the words of the Lord now.”

  Bragg almost snorted. “I don’t recall such devotion a few months ago, when Miss Cahill and I were trying to find the person who killed your sister and wife. I recall Miss Cahill being cursed at. And I recall your priest expressing that you had an unusually strong affection for your sister.”

  O’Donnell’s eyes widened. “I am so sorry for that! But I have confessed to those sins—and other ones—many times over now, sir. I was terribly rude to Miss Cahill. I was mean to my own wife, God rest her soul. And yes, I had feelings I shouldn’t have had for my poor, dear sister. I have confessed and I have been given absolution. I am not the same man now that I was then. After you found Kathleen and Mary’s killer, it all hit me hard. I had lost the two people I loved most, after my precious daughter, and I could not go on. I was ready to kill myself.”

  “You didn’t want anything to do with either your daughter or your wife.”

  “Sir, he is telling the truth.” Beth stepped forward. She wore an earnest expression. “He sent this strange and in coherent letter to me, and I could tell he was about to go off the deep end. My mistress had just passed away—I worked in Hartford for many years—so I terminated my employment and came to the city, hoping to help him. Sir? I found Mike on his knees in prayer, a changed man.”

  Mike nodded. “God found me,” he said with hushed reverence. “God saved me, and now I understand why He took my wife and my sister.”

  “Really? Care to explain it to me?”

  “We must never question God’s plans, but there is always a plan,” O’Donnell exclaimed.

  “Sir, if you have any doubts as to Mike’s fine character, you need only speak with Father O’Connor. He gave up cards and liquor and he attends Mass twice a day. He is a good man now.”

  “Well, I am very relieved to hear this,” Bragg said. “And where is your daughter, the child you abandoned when you left your wife? I mean, now that you are such a model Christian, shouldn’t she be here with you and your aunt?”

  O’Donnell was pale. “I tried to get her back, but it was too late! A couple from Brooklyn had already adopted her—they stole my child, they did.” He covered his face with his hands, apparently about to weep.

  Beth O’Brien went to stand behind him. “It isn’t right,” she said flatly. “To steal a man’s only child that way!”

  It was impossible to miss the implication—that he and Leigh Anne were stealing the girls. “It’s too bad you didn’t find God sooner,” he said. He turned to Beth. “When did you arrive in the city to stay with your nephew?”

  “A month ago,” she said, “in early May.”

  He faced O’Donnell. “And why did you call on my wife and your nieces today?”

  O’Donnell dropped his hands. “Sir, they are my flesh and blood. I have miss
ed them terribly. I wanted to see if they were being properly cared for—and if they were happy.”

  Bragg laughed. “Your aunt may buy your theatrics, O’Donnell, but I don’t. What is it that you really want?”

  “I am a changed man,” O’Donnell replied. “And God is giving me the chance to do things right this time.”

  A chill tickled the back of Bragg’s nape. “I’d appreciate it if you spoke in plain English.”

  “My own child was taken away from me. That was God’s hand, punishing me for my life of sin.”

  Bragg waited.

  “But He is giving me another chance. I could see that the girls were fat and happy, but they belong with me.”

  Bragg stared. It was a moment before he spoke. “I’ll see you in hell first.”

  O’Donnell flinched but did not reply.

  The temptation to arrest O’Donnell on the spot was vast. It would be so easy to accuse him falsely and drag him downtown, throwing him in the tank. No one would care if he was being held there on trumped-up charges.

  But the pursuit of justice and reform had ruled his entire life. It still did; Bragg simply turned and walked out.

  FRANCESCA’S SISTER, CONNIE, lived just around the block from the Cahill home on Madison Avenue with her husband, the titled Englishman Lord Neil Montrose. She had supper guests, Francesca realized as she was let inside, as she could hear the sounds of quiet conversation and the tinkle of crystal. She had barely handed off her light wrap and gloves when another dinner guest arrived. Francesca was surprised, and then delighted, to realize it was her rakish brother.

  “Evan? This is a surprise.”

  Evan was tall and slim, dark like their father, and very handsome, especially in his white dinner jacket. He quickly embraced her, his smile sporting a dimple. “Connie makes certain to invite me once a week to a society affair,” he said, apparently in a good humor. “She is terribly afraid I will forget my roots.”

  Francesca laughed and it felt good. Enough time had passed that they could joke about his fall from Cahill grace. “Is Bartolla with you?”

  His smile seemed to falter. “She was invited, of course, but she is resting this evening.”

  That was odd, as no one enjoyed society more than Bartolla Benevente. “And how is the beautiful countess?” She deliberately pried. Here was her chance to learn why Evan had not been to see Maggie for the past month.

  He glanced away. “As beautiful and charming as ever,” he said lightly.

  She knew then that all was not well. She took his hand and pulled him away from the front door, where there was a bit of a chill. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine,” Evan said firmly, so firmly that Francesca knew it was not true.

  It was wonderful to have someone else’s problems to solve. “Do you want to talk about it—or her?” Francesca asked.

  He gave her a look of some exasperation. “There is nothing to talk about! You must not be on a case, Fran, if you need to interview me.”

  She sobered. “Oh, I am on a case all right, and by to morrow, you shall hear all about it. But I want to know why you are not happy.”

  “I am very happy,” he snapped, his blue eyes flashing, but he started, as if caught in a trap.

  “If you no longer love her, why not leave her?” Francesca asked quietly.

  He gave her a dark look. “I hate it when you pry. Be sides, I am committed.”

  “Committed?” Francesca was shocked. An image of Maggie in Evan’s arms on the lawns outside of Hart’s home came to mind, as he comforted her after a near brush with death. “What about Maggie?”

  “I do not have a clue as to what you are talking about.” He paused. “How is she?”

  “She seems somewhat melancholy. I think her close call with the Slasher has had its toll,” Francesca said, knowing she was being misleading. If her instincts were right, Maggie’s spirits were low because of her feelings for her brother.

  “Are you certain she is not ill?” Evan asked, with such concern that his own feelings were obvious.

  “I don’t know, Evan. Maybe you should call on her yourself and find out.”

  He looked away, his jaw hard. “That is not a good idea,” he finally said.

  She jerked on his sleeve. “Why not?” When he refused to answer, her annoyance escalated. “If you have no feelings for Maggie Kennedy, then you should have behaved far differently with her. She is not like the countess, to be flirted with lightly and then dismissed!”

  “I know very well that Maggie is not at all like Bartolla, Fran,” he said quietly. “And if I have flirted with her, I am very sorry. That was never my intention.”

  “Then what was your intention?” she asked. “Because frankly, I thought you had genuine feelings for her.”

  He was taken aback. “Don’t push me!” he exclaimed. “Has it ever occurred to you that in spite of the facade I keep, my life is far from jolly? I am trapped in a prison of my own making!”

  She seized his hand. “What are you talking about?”

  He shrugged free. “Everything. Do you think I like scrimping for pennies? Do you think I like making a commitment to a woman I do not care all that much for? Do you know that every single day I imagine returning to the tables, just for one roll of the die? One roll, Fran. I dream of it at night!” he cried. “And I still owe well over fifty thousand dollars to my creditors, not to mention another fifty thousand to Hart, who so generously helped me pay off LaFarge and saved my life in doing so.”

  “Hart doesn’t care when he gets the money back, and once we are married, I am sure he will forgive the debt,” Francesca whispered, aghast. “I thought you had got ten over the urge to gamble.”

  “I will never get over the urge,” he said sharply. “Now, if you will excuse me, I really must greet Connie and Neil.”

  Francesca could not help herself. “Tell me one thing, Evan. If you do not care about Bartolla, why are you committed to her?”

  He was angry. “I know you mean well, but you need to get the notion of a romance between me and Maggie out of your head! It is not happening, not now and not ever!”

  She wet her lips. “I never suggested that you should have such a romance. But clearly, you have strong feelings for her.”

  He leaned close, his face grim. “You will find out eventually, anyway, so you may as well know. Then you can stop harassing me about Maggie!”

  She recoiled, as he never spoke to her in such a harsh, rude and frightening way. It crossed her mind that her sunny-natured brother had changed, before everyone’s eyes. “I will find out what?”

  “The countess and I are eloping, sooner rather than later,” he said, anger burning in his eyes, “because I have had the terribly good fortune of getting her with child.”

  WHEN BRAGG SLIPPED INTO the small, narrow foyer of his home, an hour later than expected, he was not sure of his reception. But just as Peter materialized, so did Leigh Anne. She was in her chair, of course, her nurse pushing her from the parlor, where, apparently, she had been waiting for him. Her green eyes were wide and worried.

  “Sir?” Peter asked, as was his habit.

  He had no coat to hand off, just a brown felt hat. “I will take supper later, in the study,” he replied, his gaze on his wife.

  Peter hesitated.

  Leigh Anne’s chair came forward. “I haven’t dined yet,” she said.

  He was surprised. They hadn’t shared a meal together in weeks. Even on Sundays, he had always found an excuse involving his work so that he might conveniently vanish.

  She managed a slight smile. “But maybe we should have a sherry first.”

  He understood. “I’ll take that,” he told Mackenzie, moving behind the chair. Mackenzie and Peter left, and he pushed his wife’s chair back into the parlor. The scene with O’Donnell tried to replay in his head, but he refused to allow it to do so. He had no intention of worrying his wife. Clearly, she was in a state of extreme anxiety already.

 
Leigh Anne never asked for anything, but the moment he had closed the doors, she said, her tone terse, “I will take a sherry, Rick, if you do not mind.”

  “Not at all,” he said, pouring her a glass of wine. He handed it to her and their hands brushed, the brief intimacy making him ache for everything he did not have. Shaken by so much need, he walked away from her slowly.

  “You aren’t having a drink?” Her tone was sharp. “What has happened?”

  He quickly turned. “Everything is fine, Leigh Anne,” he lied.

  She searched his eyes. “Did you see O’Donnell and his aunt?”

  “Yes.” He did not like lying to her, but he wanted to spare her the worry he was afflicted with. “He seems to be a changed man. Apparently he has given up alcohol and has become very devout. He seems to want to make amends, and visiting the girls is a part of that.”

  Her beautiful, perfect features filled with strain. “And that is all?”

  He hesitated. “That seems to be all.”

  She seized the large, thin wheels and began to move them. He was shocked, as he had never seen her attempt to maneuver the chair before. Now she came right at him. “My instincts tell me this man is trouble, for us, for the girls!” she cried. “Rick, please don’t coat this with sugar.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. He knelt before her and touched her face. Her skin was as smooth and soft as silk. She did not flinch. She looked at him as if begging for his help. A tear fell.

  His heart tightened and he almost leaned forward to catch it with his lips. Instead, he said roughly, “I don’t believe he has found God—or that God has found him. He’s just a lowlife thug, Leigh Anne. He can’t harm the girls and he certainly can’t harm us.”

  She inhaled. “But what does he want? And did you speak with our lawyer? Can he hurt the adoption?”

  He stopped the tear in its tracks with his thumb. “He probably hopes to extort a tidy sum from us.”

  “I knew it!” She seized his hand, gripping it tightly. “Just give him whatever he wants. I want both of them to go away.”

  He wanted to pull her close and comfort her, but he was afraid she would resist. He was acutely aware of her hand, clinging to his, and it was very hard not to raise it to his lips. “We decided to adopt the girls. I will make sure it happens. They need us—and we need them.”