Deadly Caress

by Brenda Joyce

  He started, his eyes widening in surprise.

  "Please," she added.

  And he stared, his gaze narrowing now with speculation.

  Francesca remained on the sofa. She was sipping her second scotch, having finished giving Inspector Newman a detailed report of the attack. Hart stood protectively a few feet from her, where he had positioned himself well over a half an hour ago. He didn't drink or speak, but he had listened to her every word. There were no secrets between them now. The doors to the small salon were solidly closed. Francesca knew, though, that most of the Bragg family had gathered in the hall outside. When Newman had been escorted inside, she had glimpsed Rathe and Grace, Nick D'Archand, their handsome nephew, and Lucy and her husband, Shoz, all huddled in whispered conversation. She could imagine the train of their thoughts. And the absence of the city's police commissioner was now glaring.

  Francesca refused to think about Bragg now. Hart had deferred to her wishes not to summon him, and Chief Fan-had been called instead. The city's chief of police stood beside Newman. Farr had arrived within minutes of the inspector but had allowed the detective to do all of the questioning.

  "Well, I think we have it covered, Miss Cahill," Newman said. His brown eyes were gentle and kind. "I'm sorry you had to go through such an ordeal."

  "Thank you. Will you pick up LeFarge and Neville for further questioning?" Francesca looked at Brendan Farr as she spoke, tensing instinctively as she did so. She knew he did not like her, as he never had, not from the moment they had first met. But then, he was a part of the old guard of the Department and would not care for any civilian's interference in police affairs, much less that of a woman.

  "Why don't you let us worry about the details of this investigation, Miss Cahill?" Farr replied with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I think this evening's events have proven that criminal investigations are best left to my men."

  Francesca smiled stiffly at him. It was reasonable now to conclude that LeFarge or Neville had been the assailant. Unless Hoeltz had been released earlier—and he had followed her to the Royal. But the time of his release would be easy enough to discover.

  Farr continued to smile at her. "I must request that you stay out of police affairs from this point on." He faced Hart. "Mr. Hart, it is best for everyone involved if Miss Cahill gives up her sleuthing until the strangler is found."

  Francesca wished Farr would disappear off the face of the planet. She smiled, felt that it was more a bristling, and said, demure, "Whatever you wish, Chief."

  "He is right," Hart said, giving her a look that said that he knew she was lying to Farr's face. "This case is beyond your scope, Francesca."

  Francesca smiled at Hart in a similar manner and finished her second glass of scotch. She was more than ready to throw in the towel—for that evening. But tomorrow, why, tomorrow was another day, and she had had enough. If Fan-did not make an arrest, she must take matters into her own hands. But how?

  Suddenly an intriguing notion struck her.

  The strangler had meant to murder her and he had failed. What if she set a trap for the killer?

  He clearly wished for her to be his next victim. What if a trap was set with her as the bait?

  She stood, excited now, and came face-to-face with Hart and Farr. And in that instant, she realized she had been expecting Bragg to be there, so she could eagerly share her new idea, so they could debate it, so they could begin to formulate a plan to entice the strangler into a foolproof trap.

  "What is it, Francesca?" Hart said, too sharply.

  She looked at him and hesitated. Would Hart agree to her idea? She doubted it. Bragg would be hard enough to persuade, yet she knew she could do so. With Hart, she knew no such thing. She decided to remain mute. Nothing could be done that evening anyway. She smiled. "Nothing. I've had too much to drink, I fear. I had a notion, but it's absurd." She smiled again, brightly.

  Hart stared, filled with suspicion now.

  "We may have more questions for you tomorrow," Farr said. "Newman, let's go." He nodded at Hart. "Thank you for your help. And, Miss Cahill? It is a fortunate instance, indeed, that you were not seriously hurt tonight, or worse."

  Francesca kept her smile plastered on her face until he left.

  "Just what are you up to, Francesca?" Hart asked, reaching for her.

  She was surprised to be pulled against his side. A delicious warmth unfurled within her. "I am not up to anything, as you put it."

  "Somehow, I doubt that," he said. But his face softened and he smiled at her as they stepped into the hall.

  Instantly the Bragg family descended upon them. From the corner of her eye, Francesca watched Farr and Newman speaking in the foyer, waiting for their coats.

  "Are you all right, Francesca?" Grace Bragg asked. She was the foster mother of both Hart and Bragg, and now her blue eyes were filled with concern.

  Francesca smiled at the red-haired woman, who, although middle-aged, remained beautiful, even with the spectacles she wore. "I have certainly had better days," she said.

  "Calder says you are spending the night here," Grace returned as Lucy, her equally red-haired daughter, paused beside them. "How would you feel if I saw you up to your rooms?" She smiled warmly then.

  Francesca had so wanted to be liked by this woman. She smiled back. "Female company is just what the doctor ordered," she said. Looking past both women, she saw that Farr and Newman had their coats on and were about to leave. But Brendan Farr had paused in front of a sculpture of a reclining nude and he was staring at it. Francesca had seen the somewhat sensational nude before. Now, however, something tugged at her. She stared.

  Farr turned away, his expression impossible to read.

  "Excuse me," Francesca said quickly to Grace and Lucy, and she started through the front hall toward the two police officers.

  "Never saw anything like that," Newman was saying to his superior, his cheeks beet red. "Rich gents are odd, aren't they, Chief?"

  "Everyone knows Calder Hart enjoys his whores," Farr returned evenly.

  Francesca stopped short, a dozen feet from the front door.

  Alfred ran up to the policemen, murmuring, "Good night," as the doorman opened the door.

  Newman stepped outside, but Farr suddenly glanced over his shoulder and instantly his iron gray gaze met France-sea's.

  Her stomach heaved.

  He nodded politely and walked out.

  Francesca could not move. Her heart was thundering explosively in her breast. She could feel his hardness against her buttocks, brick against her cheek, hear the rasped obscenities in her ears. Ever take it in your mouth? ... I heard dying in ecstasy is the ultimate climax.

  Francesca cried out, clinging to the wall.

  "Francesca!" Hart reached her in a stride. He seized her arms, turning her to face him. "What is it?"

  Everyone knows Calder Hart enjoys his whores.

  "Oh, God." She trembled violently, knew she was about to become ill. "It's Farr."

  Hart stared at her.

  Francesca wrenched free and ran for the closest water closet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday, February 22, 1902—11:00 p.m.

  Francesca came out of the bathing room in a peignoir borrowed from Lucy. The redhead, who was just a few years older than she, had settled herself on the foot of the canopied bed in Hart's guest room. Grace had disappeared, declaring she would have Cook arrange some refreshments for Francesca. Hart had also left, to impart the news of Francesca's whereabouts to Julia and Andrew. Now Francesca walked barefoot across the huge bedroom suite, the Aubusson rug underfoot exquisite. A fire crackled in the hearth beneath a white marble mantel veined with gold. The walls were painted the softest shade of pastel green, and the ceiling above had been scalloped with pink and gold. Several beautiful paintings adorned the walls—a mother serenely bathing her child, a brooding seascape, fisherwomen on the beach with baskets on their heads. The room was as dramatic as the rest of Hart's home. Yet it wa
s also elegant, sublimely so. Francesca settled down in the bed, and the moment her shoulders and back touched the six down pillows stacked at its head, she realized how exhausted she was. Briefly she closed her eyes.

  But she did not want to think about Brendan Farr now— and his image assailed her strongly. But was she right? Francesca knew she was extremely distraught—and she knew she had no proof that Farr was the City Strangler. But God, for one instant, when their eyes had met in Hart's front hall, she had felt certain it was he. Now she did not know what to think—and she was filled with doubt. He might be a crooked police officer and he might hate her, but that hardly made him a killer. And now, with actual physical distance and some time placed between them, she felt that she had been too quick to accuse him. Hart had told her she was too distressed to be able to think clearly. He had told her to get some rest. She shivered, deciding she was, in all likelihood, wrong, and then felt Lucy take her hand.

  "You are so brave," Lucy said quietly. "When your parents come, you had better button the collar of the wrapper, Fran."

  Francesca smiled at her and buttoned up the collar. Her mother would have apoplexy if she ever saw the darkening bruises on Francesca's neck. "I wasn't brave tonight. I was terrified, Lucy. In fact, I have never been so afraid." She thought about Brendan Farr again. Why would he vandalize Sarah's studio and then kill Grace Conway? It made no sense, none!

  Lucy leaned forward to hug her. "This time, Hart is right. This case is too dangerous!"

  Francesca hated to admit that Hart might be right.

  Lucy settled back on the foot of the bed, studying her. Then she said, "Where is Rick?"

  Francesca flushed.

  "I mean, the two of you work together solving crimes. I don't understand why he isn't here."

  Francesca looked away, recalling how lovely and sensual Leigh Anne was. "He reconciled with his wife," she began. She wanted to tell Lucy that she hadn't wanted to disturb him, but she did not want to lie to her new friend.

  "I know!" Lucy cried, at once angry and upset. "He has always had a fatal weakness for that horrid tramp! I cannot even begin to tell you how I wish she would vanish into thin air! But no, she has come back, to wreck his life once again!"

  Francesca drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. "But they are married, and I think his fatal weakness has something to do with love."

  Lucy blinked. "You defend their reconciliation?"

  Francesca shrugged. The sadness remained, but it wasn't as overwhelming as it had once been. In fact, it was more of a faint ache that she could ignore. "There is no one I admire more than your brother, Lucy. And while I believe he is terribly fond of me, I think a bond remains between him and his wife, a very strong bond, one that will never go away."

  "So you blithely support his marriage?" Lucy was aghast.

  "I am hardly blithe about your brother. But as my sister Connie pointed out, I have no rights, none, and Leigh Anne has every right, Lucy, to be with him now."

  "I thought you loved him."

  She smiled and knew it was sad. "I do.". Then she closed her eyes and thought, I did.

  Her heart tightened as Hart intruded upon her thoughts. Then it sped wildly. Surely she was not falling in love with him! That would be more than dangerous—it would be fatal. She might as well crawl out on a shaky tree limb—while a saw was going through it! No, she wasn't in love with Calder Hart. That brief moment of insanity had been due to the trauma of the attack. She was terribly fond of him and terribly attracted—that was all.

  "So it is Calder now—instead of Rick?"

  She stiffened. Did she dare tell Lucy about Hart's proposal? She hesitated.

  "What is it?" Lucy asked quickly.

  Francesca shook her head. "Nothing," she said.

  "If Calder and Rick were not brothers, I would approve. Because Rick is married and because Calder isn't what he claims to be—not at all. He deserves love—they both do." She was thoughtful now. "Calder is different. He seems happier than I have ever seen him. He will always be a rude cynic, but he is not half as bad as he once was. I think it is because of you." She smiled a little. "I have never seen him so undone as he has been this evening."

  Francesca's toes curled. A thrill chased up and down her spine. "Well, there is certainly an attraction between us, but only a very foolish woman would think it to be anything more." She did not want to recall how he had seemed to care so deeply about her just an hour or so ago. She had been very vulnerable then, still raw from the attack of the City Strangler, and she had not been thinking at all clearly where Calder was concerned, oh no.

  "Calder is a hard and difficult man," Lucy mused. "But so was my husband when I first met him." She smiled then, to herself. "Even hard men can soften—given the right woman."

  "I am not the right woman for Hart," Francesca said sharply, while a treacherous little voice inside her head answered, Why ever not?

  Lucy studied her and then shrugged. "Well, I doubt Calder will ever think to settle down and marry, so this conversation is moot. Besides, he knows how you feel about Rick—and how Rick feels about you."

  Francesca leaned forward. "What does that mean?"

  Lucy started. "I don't understand."

  She wet her lips, careful now. "Bragg thinks Hart wishes to strike at him through me, Lucy."

  Lucy's eyes widened. "They have been rivals ever since I can remember!" she exclaimed. "When my father brought them home, Rick was eleven, Calder nine. Rick was always trying to look after Calder, and Calder was always defying him. If Rick told him to be inside the house by dark, he would come back an hour later. They first came to blows when Calder was twelve. I remember it because I was right there. Rick was looking after Calder, as always. I don't remember what the argument was about, but Calder turned around and punched him in the nose. Rick was in shock— and Calder was furious. He hit him again—and then Rick struck back. It was horrible—bloody—Father had to break them up. And from that day, they frequently fought that way. Calder hated Rick telling him what he could and could not do—what he should do. He hated the fact that Rick was responsible, while he was always in trouble. But what he really hated was that Rathe was Rick's father and not his."

  Francesca's heart turned over with stunning sympathy now. "What he really hated was that Rathe came for Rick, but his own father did not come for him when their mother died," she said softly.

  "Yes, I think you are right."

  Francesca wondered if that was still the basis for Hart's jealousy of his half brother.

  Lucy said, "But they are grown men now. I know them both so well. Calder would never pursue you to hurt Rick. Never! That was a silly, immature game played when they were adolescents. They have both outgrown such rivalry now."

  Francesca stiffened with dread. "What? Are you saying that Calder has trespassed upon Rick's affections before!"

  Lucy looked upset to have spoken so baldly. It was a moment before she replied. "Francesca, those games were played when they were boys. It was a long time ago!"

  Francesca struggled to sit upright, filled with alarm and dread. "What games?" she cried. "Are you saying that Hart has pursued women Bragg was fond of?"

  "I shouldn't have said a thing," Lucy said, her expression turning stubborn. "That was a decade ago, Francesca. Really. They have long since gone their separate ways."

  Francesca realized that she was hugging a fluffy pillow now. She couldn't force a smile; she could only stare and recall Bragg's furious insistence that Hart was using her to strike a fatal blow at him. And Bragg believed it.

  Francesca refused to believe it, but she was afraid.

  And suddenly her mother and father rushed into the room, Grace and Hart pausing behind them in the doorway. "Francesca!" Julia cried. "Calder says you slipped on some ice and fell from a hansom! Are you all right? Oh, dear! Your face!"

  As Julia embraced her, Francesca looked past her mother's shoulder at Calder Hart. His eyes were warm as they met hers, but they held a cautio
ning note.

  Francesca looked away. She was not reassured—she did not know what to think.

  Sunday, February 23, 1902—10:00 a.m.

  Somehow she had overslept. Francesca paused on the threshold of Hart's breakfast room, a room the size of most people's formal dining rooms. She was not surprised to find the long, dark, polished oak table empty, with a single setting left there. As she had come downstairs, the mansion had been extremely quiet—clearly, none of the Braggs slept in, and she suspected everyone was out, the house deserted except for the staff.

  Francesca walked over to the sideboard, chasing away all of her memories of the night before. One covered platter contained scrambled eggs and sausage, another pancakes. She helped herself to the former, and despite her resolve, images of Hart, Bragg, and Brendan Farr assailed her mind. Thinking of Farr, she lost her entire appetite.

  Was she right about him? Could he possibly be the City Strangler? In the light of day, it seemed absurd.

  But last night, when he had looked at her, she had been certain.

  "So you are up," Hart said softly, behind her.

  She whirled, almost spilling the contents of her plate. "Yes." Faced with Hart now, completely dressed in a black suit, so devastatingly seductive, her heart began to thunder. "Good morning. Thank you for all that you did for me last night, Calder." She avoided his dark eyes.

  He studied her. "Something happened last night, didn't it? When I returned with your parents you refused to look me in the eye, and now you are as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date."

  Francesca meant to smile. She grimaced instead and hurried to the table. She had hoped he would be downtown at his offices when she awoke.

  Hart followed. "And I don't think this is about Farr."

  She sat down and attacked her eggs, moving them about her plate.

  "Francesca." He sat down beside her and laid his palm over her hand.

  She faced him, trembling. "I could be wrong about Brendan Farr. I realize that."

  "You are probably wrong. All of the evidence points to Neville. But I do not want to discuss the case now. Have I offended you?" His black gaze held hers.