by Brenda Joyce
His heart lurched. “I told you, I will take care of him.”
“He is going to fight us for the girls, I just know it!” she cried.
He tried to cup her cheek but she jerked away. “The lawyer is a bluff, Leigh Anne. No judge is going to choose him over us and he knows it. He is going to blackmail us, I am certain, and when he does, I will arrest him.”
“You should just pay him to go away,” she said tersely, her gaze wide on his.
Maybe she was right. Everyone seemed to think that paying O’Donnell off was the best solution. “I spoke with Mr. Feingold today. He said our chances of adopting the girls are excellent. O’Donnell’s shady history makes it unlikely that any court would give him custody of the girls,” he added, hoping to reassure her and chase the terror in her eyes away.
But a tear fell. “I am sick with fear, Rick. You have to get rid of him before he destroys us!”
She was keeping something from him. He knelt before her, taking her stiff, frozen hands in his. “What happened, Leigh Anne? If I am going to take care of O’Donnell, I need to know everything.”
She was as pale as a ghost. She shook her head, incapable of speech. She was clutching a handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes. He suddenly saw that her hands were bandaged with gauze. He took her wrist. “What the hell happened?”
“I hurt myself rolling the chair without help. But it’s only a few scrapes.”
“Why did you do that?” he asked, still holding her arm.
“I was so angry and so afraid,” she whispered.
Acting on sheer impulse, he placed her bandaged hand on his chest and held it gently but securely there. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said thickly. “I am going to take care of O’Donnell. But you have to trust me.”
His every instinct told him that his wife was in trouble now. “What happened, Leigh Anne? What happened here today? What aren’t you telling me? Please, let me help you.”
She met his searching gaze. “He doesn’t want you to know.”
He was sick. “He doesn’t want me to know what?”
She trembled. “I promised to get him fifteen thousand dollars by tomorrow night.”
His blood surged red-hot now and his fury threatened to erupt. “He blackmailed you.” He was amazed at how calm and quiet his tone sounded.
She shook her head. “No. He never asked for money. He is family now, isn’t he?” More tears fell. “I would merely be helping the girls’ uncle a bit.”
His wife had been thoroughly manipulated. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly. “I will take care of this.” But in his mind, he saw himself strangling O’Donnell, squeezing the life out of him.
“I tried to borrow the money from Bartolla,” Leigh Anne whispered, more tears tracking down her face. “But she is not wealthy at all. As it turns out, her husband left her nothing.”
He was beyond anguish for what she had been through, and what she had tried to do alone. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked, cupping her cheek. “You used to trust me.” He rubbed at some tears with his thumb.
She tried to nod and glanced up, holding his gaze through her tears. “I was a fool. There is no one that I trust more.”
His heart stilled. He wondered if she knew how much that meant to him, and how much he still loved her. He could not help himself—he leaned closer to her. She had become very still, but she did not press back in her chair. “I will get the money by tomorrow night,” he whispered, his mouth close to hers. “Tomorrow this will all be over.”
He saw the relief in her eyes, and something else, some thing he had not seen in months. He saw desire and need.
All thought vanished, because he needed her, too, terribly. He touched her mouth with his. The soft, full feel of her lips sent blood pulsing to his loins, hot and hard. The bare kiss wasn’t deliberately planned, and he certainly did not mean to escalate it, no matter how much he wanted to, if Leigh Anne did not want him to. But she did not move and she allowed her lips to ever-so-slightly part. He felt her hesitation.
“Leigh Anne,” he whispered, suddenly desperate to make love to her. He kissed her again, and her lips parted even more beneath his.
He began to kiss her more urgently, his need rising so hard and so fast that he was stunned by it.
“Rick,” she managed to say, a whisper of protest.
“You are still the most beautiful woman in the world,” he cried against her wet, full mouth. And he kissed her throat, a man telling a woman he wanted her and that she must submit.
“I’m not beautiful anymore,” she gasped, but she was trembling.
He stood, lifting her into his arms as he did so. She wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her eyes, and their gazes met. He carried her to the bed, whispering, “I have to make love to you. Please, don’t ask me to stop.”
He laid her down. She pushed once at his chest, and her bandaged hand slid to his neck. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“I think it is a very good idea,” he said, already poised over her. He kissed her again, and this time, as he slid his tongue deep, she opened widely and a shudder racked her body. He could not wait. He slid his hands over the bodice of her dress and Leigh Anne arched wildly in an invitation she apparently could not control. It had been so long.
Somehow his hands were under her dress and petticoat. Leigh Anne’s eyes flew wide the moment he touched her. She was wet, but she was also afraid.
He understood. “Give in,” he pleaded. “Darling, give in to me.”
She cried out, her eyes closing. “Then hurry,” she whispered. “Oh, Rick, hurry!”
It was an invitation he had dreamed of hearing again. Pushing her skirts up, he kissed her deeply and darkly, no longer able to think. She writhed against him and he thrust hard, again and again, while she sobbed her re lease and he sobbed his.
When his breathing slowed, he was shocked to realize that he had just made love to his wife. He moved onto his side, overcome with the ballooning feelings in his heart. Taking her into his arms, he glimpsed her long, naked legs. The left one was twisted now. His heart lurched and he smoothed her clothes down. Now all he wanted to do was hold her for a very long time.
So much joy expanded in his chest. He studied her as he held her, amazed by how beautiful she was. Her eyes remained closed, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping; she was merely relishing the aftermath, as she was wont to do. His heart tightened and he kissed her cheek.
Her lashes fluttered and she looked up at him. He smiled, but she did not.
Some dread began. “Are you all right?” he asked, praying she would not pull away from him now.
She smiled briefly, but it was forced. “You didn’t hurt me, Rick.”
He did not want to go back to that dark place in hell where they had so recently lived. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Leigh Anne, I need you.”
She stared, the tip of her nose turning red. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand that your husband loves you and wants you?” he asked, but he tried to keep his tone light.
“How can you want me? I am a…cripple!”
He was shocked. He sat. “How could you call yourself such a name?”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Then she glanced away. “He called me that.”
He felt his world still and reality intruded, ugly and dark. “Who?” But he already knew.
“O’Donnell. It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Rick, we shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, making love to you is right.”
Leigh Anne tried to sit. Instantly he helped her to do so. “Everything has changed. If we didn’t have the girls, I would set you free, Rick, so you could be with a real woman—not a crippled one.” But her gaze was searching.
He understood what he was fighting for and he chose his words with care. “You are a real woman. And we have the girls. But even if we didn’t, I would not let you go.”
She studied him and he
smiled, just a little at her. “I want to take care of you no matter what—and I would like it very much if you also took care of me.”
Her eyes were wide. “How?”
“I think you know how.” He touched her face. “Please don’t turn away from me now. Please.”
She simply stared, appearing torn.
Although he very much wanted to make love to his wife again, he got up. His shirt was open and he began to button it. Hart’s image came to mind. He saw himself groveling before him, and how Hart would gloat. Then he saw O’Donnell in some dark, dank cell, waiting for his turn in the electric chair.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I am going to borrow fifteen thousand dollars,” he said.
THE MAIN BRANCH OF the Bank of New York was down town and not far from Hart’s Bridge Street offices. It was a large, handsome building built well over a century ago. Inside, the oak floors gleamed with wax beneath several large Oriental rugs, a huge chandelier dominating the wood-paneled room. Francesca had inquired after Robert Miller and had been asked to wait in a small reception area, set somewhat apart from the tellers and the vaults. She had made it clear to the bank officer that she was there as an emissary of Mr. Hart.
She gave herself a moment of pure release and sank deeply into the plush blue velvet sofa. She was so tired. The truth was, the strain of this separation from Hart was frankly unbearable. Thus far, she had been focusing on the case and avoiding any thought of the future. But now she could not help think about it. She had not been able to identify herself as Hart’s fiancée to Robert Miller. Fear twisted inside her, edged with panic. What if she had really lost Hart? What if he never came back to her?
There had to be a way, when this was all over, to convince him that letting her go served no one, that it was not in her best interest. But she knew him so well now. Once Daisy’s murder was solved, there was still the issue of her missing portrait. Francesca knew he had been blaming himself for ever commissioning that portrait. And even though she had agreed to pose nude, he insisted that it was his fault. She knew he was not going to change his mind and share the blame.
He could be such an impossible man. She missed him. She had never missed anyone more.
“Miss Cahill?” A short, slim man with a goatee approached, smiling. He was immaculately dressed and had an unmistakable air of authority. “I am Robert Miller,” he said, extending his hand. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
She realized he knew who she was. “Thank you. Calder directed me to you, Mr. Miller, in regards to the current case I am on.”
He nodded. “Come onto my office,” he said, and they traversed the spacious hall where a few customers were at the long, gleaming counter, conducting their banking affairs. “May I be so bold as to ask how Mr. Hart is?”
“He is doing as well as can be expected, considering the nature of all that has happened,” Francesca said as he closed the door behind him. His office was a smaller version of the public room outside. “And he is innocent, of course.”
Miller smiled. “I had no doubt. How can I help you?” he asked as they took seats.
“Miss Jones made two unusually large deposits into her account in May, for eight and then twelve thousand dollars. We need to know where that money came from,” Francesca said.
Miller stood. “As a favor to Mr. Hart, I will see what I can find out. Why don’t you make yourself at home? I will be right back.”
Five minutes later he came back with a file in his hands. “I think I may have some useful information for you, Miss Cahill.”
“Do you know where the money came from?”
“Yes, I do. Miss Jones deposited two bank checks from First Federal of Albany.”
Francesca felt her world still. The money had come from Albany. “Is there any way to find out who drew those bank checks in the first place?”
“Yes, but it will take some time. And you would have to approach First Federal directly. I think they might need the police to request the action, Miss Cahill.”
“Consider that done.” Her excitement grew. “How much time?”
“Days, I should think. You would need to send someone to Albany to go over the bank records there.”
“Can we send a telegram and wire instructions to the bank there?”
“I suppose so.” He hesitated. “Miss Cahill, what is this about?”
Her day had become exceedingly bright. “This is about uncovering the identity of a murderer, Mr. Miller.” And as she left his office, she was almost ready to skip her way out of the bank. Clearly, Judge Gillespie had sent Daisy the money. Now the only question was why.
She paused outside of the bank, unable to stop smiling. Daisy had never let go of her father and the clippings were proof of that. As far as was known, Gillespie had been to see her twice in May—but not at any other time. Only in May had she received money from him. Francesca was ready to conclude that Gillespie hadn’t known his daughter’s whereabouts until then. Had he merely been giving his long-lost daughter funds to supplement any allowance she was already receiving? After all, that was what fathers did for their children.
On the other hand, Daisy had been a huge embarrassment to him, and his lying about knowing her when she had first confronted him in Albany was proof of that. Had she been enough of an embarrassment for him to murder her?
It was a leap, but Francesca was close to the truth now and she could feel it. She had to discover the real reason Daisy had left home in the first place. It was the missing puzzle piece.
She needed to see Bragg. Maybe they could decide on a plan in which to pressure the judge. And of course, the police had to contact the Albany bank. She had yet to learn about the knife discovered at Hart’s last night. By now, that report should be in. She started toward the curb, raising her arm to signal Raoul to bring her coach from farther down the block, where he had found a place to park.
The person passing by her turned around. From the corner of her eye, still focused on her driver and coach, Francesca saw a gloved hand being raised, a dark object there, but it was too late. Pain lanced the back of her head and, with it, the realization that she had been at tacked. Then there was only darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thursday, June 5, 1902—6:00 p.m.
FRANCESCA LAY ON THE sofa in her sister’s home while Rourke took her pulse for the third time. An ice pack was beneath her head, which ached and throbbed. The moment she had been struck from behind, Raoul had rushed to her aid, apparently having seen the tail end of the attack. But instead of pursuing the assailant, he had helped her into the coach. Unfortunately, the blow had been damaging enough that she had lost her wits for a moment and had not been able to identify her attacker. However, within moments, she had recovered enough to instruct Raoul to tell her everything that he had seen and to search the area, where she had found a small sterling shaving cup. It was dented, and clearly, it had been the weapon with which she had been hit.
“How is your headache?” Rourke asked with a kind smile, while Connie fussed over her sister.
“It isn’t as bad as earlier,” she admitted. “I am fine, Con. It was just a tap on the head with a little cup. Could you call Bragg? I have to speak to him.”
“You are not fine!” Connie cried, as pale as an alabaster statute. “Rourke, should she be investigating this case now?”
“Absolutely not,” Rourke said firmly. He closed his black satchel, but before he stood, Francesca seized his hand.
“I need to talk to Rick. It is urgent—it cannot wait.”
“Francesca.” He said patiently, sitting back down by her side on an ottoman. “If you are right and you were hit with that shaving cup, it is quite serious, indeed. You have some swelling on the back of your head. You may have a slight concussion. You can consider yourself fortunate that the cup did not cause a gash, which might have required stitches. You need to rest, but you must stay awake for the next twelve hours.” He glanced at Connie. “Someone needs
to stay with her through the night. I do not want her falling asleep. She can have plenty of liquids, but only something very light to eat—maybe some jam and toast.”
Connie nodded, her expression fearful. “Neil and I will take turns,” she said.
Francesca was not about to give up. “Raoul managed a glimpse of my attacker. He needs to tell Bragg what he saw. He thinks the attacker was a very slim man, or it might even have been a woman. In any case, he or she was wearing a large overcoat and a fedora, a man’s fedora—and this in June!” She could not help but wonder if Gillespie had been her attacker. He was only of medium height and build. After all, she had been investigating his transfer of funds to his daughter.
“I will be back in the morning,” Rourke said in a friendly manner. He patted Francesca’s shoulder. “Francesca, it is six at night. You are not going to solve the mystery of your assailant this evening. Whatever you need to do, it can be done in the morning—after I check on you.”
She was annoyed. “Then come early, if you please.” In a way, Rourke was right. No one would be at the First Federal Bank of Albany at this hour to receive a telegram. Of course, Gillespie could be interviewed. Francesca was very impatient to hear just what he had to say about his visits to his daughter in May, and about the money he had obviously sent her. And where had he been an hour ago, when she had been struck on the back of the head? She shivered. She was lucky to not have been seriously hurt. “Rourke? Are you on your way back to Hart’s?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated. By now, he should have been released on bail. Wouldn’t he come running to her side if he heard about this mishap?
“I am not sure what you are thinking, Francesca, but I have every intention of telling Calder what has happened. He would want to know. Besides, I don’t want to risk my neck by withholding this kind of information. Now, try to rest—but do not fall asleep.”
Connie walked with Rourke to the salon door, and Francesca heard them exchanging a few words she could not distinguish in a low tone. When Connie returned to her side, as worried as ever, Francesca met her gaze. “I saw Calder today. Nothing has changed, Connie. He remains as recalcitrant as ever.”