Deadly Pleasure

by Brenda Joyce

“If he was not surprised, the killer must be Mrs. Randall or Mary.”

  “Who else could it be—if he was not surprised? Still, having met them both, I feel certain neither Henrietta nor her daughter is involved. Unless one of them is a fantastic actress. What about Randall’s debtors? Could the killer have been one of them?”

  “I am already on that angle, Francesca. I have a team of detectives interviewing everyone he owed money to. So far, it is a dead end. His debts were legitimate ones, owed to three different bankers, and while the sums were tidy, these gentlemen have outstanding reputations and are, I believe, pillars of New York society. It would be shocking if any one of them would murder over the debt Randall owed.”

  Francesca sighed. “That is too bad.”

  He gave her a look. “I hate to say this, but Georgette de Labouche is still a possible suspect. I wonder if she knew Bill Randall?”

  “I was there, Bragg. My every sense says she is innocent.”

  “Perhaps you are entirely wrong about Bill Randall. What if you have mistakenly identified young Randall as the intruder? What if it was someone else? I shall telegraph the police in Philadelphia and see if they might spare a man to go round to the university and learn anything regarding Bill Randall’s departure.”

  Francesca knew she was not wrong. She had seen Bill Randall at the de Labouche house that night. “I have more news,” Francesca said with a small grimace.

  He smiled. “Not good, I take it?”

  “No, it is not good.” She had become quite nervous now. “Hart lied. He was not with Daisy and Rose on the night of the murder, Bragg.” She met his gaze and did not look away. “He confessed the truth to me.”

  Bragg stared, his eyes widening. “He told you that?”

  She nodded, wringing her hands. “Nicely, I might add.”

  A thundercloud was descending over his expression. He paced to her. “And why, might I ask, would my half brother confess to you that his alibi was a bogus one?” His tone was harsh.

  “Because I am a good sleuth,” she said quickly. “Please, do not overreact. There is no need to get angry!”

  His expression grew darker. “There is every reason to get angry. I asked you to stay away from him, Francesca. You said that you would. Where did this conversation take place?”

  “You should thank me for my sleuthing,” she said. “And I never said I would stay away from him—you took my silence as compliance.”

  “That is wonderful!” He was sardonic. “You did not answer my question,” he said.

  The door opened then as Peter entered the room. Francesca accepted a sherry with some relief and watched Bragg indicate wordlessly to Peter that he put the wineglass on his desk. The big man did so and left. “Well?” Bragg demanded. He had not taken his eyes off of her for a second. He reminded her of an arctic wolf, the kind she had read about in Jack London’s books. Waiting and predatory, with golden, glowing eyes.

  “I called on him at home earlier this evening,” she said grimly. “He was quite drunk, and that is why, I suspect, he volunteered the truth.”

  Bragg cursed. “Damn it, Francesca! Will you ever do as I ask?”

  She flinched a little. “But are you not happy that I have gotten to the truth? The bad news is, he dismissed the staff that night, a habit of his, I have learned, and was alone, at home, from just past six until he went to White’s party.”

  Bragg cursed. But this time, she knew, it was in reaction to the trouble his half brother was getting himself deeper and deeper into. Bragg stepped closer, his eyes on her face. “And what else did my saintly brother have to say—and do?”

  Francesca was surprised—she had expected Bragg to comment on the fact that Calder Hart was now an even stronger suspect in the murder. She shrugged, hoping to be nonchalant. “That was about it. He was foxed, Bragg. By the time I left, he had fallen asleep. I do believe he was drinking himself into a stupor because of his grief.”

  “Did he try to seduce you?” Bragg asked, his gaze intent.

  Francesca gasped, their eyes locking. “What?”

  “You heard me.” His entire face was hard and set.

  She could not help herself. “Do not be jealous, Bragg.” And the moment the words were out, she was mortified.

  But he did not respond to that. “Did he or did he not try to seduce you?” he demanded.

  “Not really.”

  His hand shot out and he grasped her wrist. “Not really? What the hell does that mean?” He was towering over her now.

  She stared into angry golden eyes, just inches from hers. His face was but an inch or two from hers. “It means ‘not really.’ “ She was breathless and a bit frightened by his anger but even more thrilled, in an ancient, elemental way. Was this how it had felt, hundreds of years ago, to be a damsel fought over by two charging knights?

  “My brother tries to seduce every woman who crosses his path,” he said, his tone dangerous, his breath feathering her cheek. “Did he kiss you?”

  “No!” she cried, aghast. But she did not pull away; she did not move. “Bragg, he did not!”

  Bragg did not release her. His arm somehow brushed her breast.

  “Calder happens to know how we—” She stopped abruptly, out of breath. She had been about to say that Hart knew how they felt about each other, but that would not do, oh no. It was becoming difficult to defend herself, to speak.

  “So now it is Calder? And Calder happens to know what?” His eyes gleamed. He leaned closer.

  “Are you manhandling me?” Francesca asked roughly. “You and Hart have far more in common than either one of you knows.”

  “Going over there, especially if he was drunk, was a dangerous proposition. And we have nothing in common, except for our mother, Lily Hart. Nothing.”

  Bragg had mentioned his mother but briefly once before and not by name. “He was a gentleman.”

  “Oh, really?” Bragg laughed. “Please, Francesca. If he did not try to seduce you, it was only because he was too drunk to do so. Trust me.” And he released her.

  She was disappointed, dismayed. “He is merely a flirt. At least, I think that is what he is. And I believe he did not try anything improper because he has a bit of a gentleman buried within him, that and for other reasons.”

  “Do not delude yourself.” He walked away from her and stared down at his wine, but he made no move to touch it. His broad shoulders were stiff and set with tension. Was it a sexual tension, or an angry one, or both? Slowly he looked up. “What other reasons?” His tone remained harsh.

  She stiffened. How could she say that Calder Hart knew they had strong feelings for each other and, because Bragg was his half brother, that had held him back? For that was what Francesca believed, and that was what she had hoped. “Do you not know the saying that blood is thicker than water?” she said softly.

  “In our case, there is more water than blood between us,” he returned swiftly.

  “I give up. For now,” Francesca said with a sigh. “But one day I should like to know just why the two of you have taken such hostile positions against each other.”

  Bragg stared. “The subject of Calder and myself is off-limits, Francesca,” he warned.

  “Why?” The question just popped out.

  “That is not your affair,” he said darkly.

  His words hurt her. “But we are friends. Or so I thought.”

  He lifted his wineglass and held it to his chest, staring at her. “Yes, we are certainly friends. But some things are private and sacred. In this instance, you must respect my wishes, for to fail to do so would be a terrible invasion of my privacy.”

  Of course, if he so insisted, then he was right, and she had no choice but to turn away from the entire subject of his relationship with his half brother. Still, Francesca knew there would come a time and place when reconciling the two brothers would be appropriate. Because blood was thicker than water, and because Bragg was wrong—Hart wasn’t as horrid as Bragg claimed, as Hart himself claimed. />
  “I can see those little wheels in your mind spinning and spinning,” Bragg said softly, from the distance where he now stood.

  She started, having been completely immersed in her thoughts and a new and accompanying resolve. Her gaze lifted instantly to his.

  He had, she realized, put half the length of the room between them.

  “No schemes, Francesca. Do you not have enough with which to occupy yourself now? We must find Georgette de Labouche, and Hart is becoming even more of a suspect.”

  “You are right,” she said, wanting to close the distance between them but afraid to try to do so. Why hadn’t he kissed her? “I have Joel working on finding Georgette de Labouche. Once he learns who her friends are, I shall start interviewing them. As for Hart...” She trailed off. It was hard to focus on the case now. “We must not let the press get wind of this.”

  “It will only make my job harder,” Bragg agreed, taking his first sip of red wine.

  “And it will further ruin Hart’s less than stellar reputation,” Francesca said, watching him.

  “Even he would not care about that,” Bragg said.

  He was probably right. Francesca heard the clock striking once on the half hour. Startled, she glanced around the room and found a huge antique grandfather clock standing in the corner. It was a half past eight—already. Her dismay intensified with sickening force. She was not ready to go, oh no.

  “Are you Cinderella tonight?” Bragg asked with some amusement.

  “Actually, I am. I have been warned by Julia in no uncertain terms that I must be home by eight-thirty.” She stared at him.

  He did not move away from his desk, where he stood. “Then you must leave, by all means.” His jaw tightened.

  Francesca could not prevent herself from moving to him. He stood motionless, his eyes upon her, as she approached. She set her sherry down on the desk by his lean, hard nip. And she faced him, looking up.

  “Where do we go from here, Bragg?” she whispered. And too late, even though she had meant to pose the question as a professional one, she realized it had not been a professional one at all; it had been entirely personal. And to make matters worse, her tone had been soft and husky, seductive, a tone she had never heard coming from herself before.

  He stood still.

  Oh, God, she thought, how bold can one be? She swallowed. “I meant,” she began thickly.

  “I know what you meant.” He set his glass down as well. He faced her, his hands fisted at his sides. “I shall speak with Hart tomorrow—at length. And you shall find Miss de Labouche.” His jaw was flexing. She saw his temples throb.

  He had known what she meant, Francesca was certain. She should play along with him, now. She said, “That is not what I meant. I meant where do we go from here?”

  “Nowhere,” he said flatly.

  “What?” she gasped.

  “Are you trying to seduce me?” he demanded then. “Do you know how hard it is, to be alone with you like this—at such an hour? You do realize, of course, that your being here like this, even innocently, would destroy your reputation and your prospects—should anyone realize that you were here ... with me?”

  She wet her lips. He was angry, and she did not understand. “No one knows. And I do not care about my reputation—or my prospects.”

  “But I do!” he cried. He reached out as if to grab her by the shoulders, then dropped his hands. “As long as we discuss police affairs, I can manage this, Francesca. But when you cast your eyes at me and start making innuendos, I cannot. I am not a saint. I am a man. A man who has his hands tied behind him, where you are concerned. We go nowhere from here,” he stated harshly.

  She was breathing hard now. She could understand why he did not wish to kiss her and compromise her; she was genteel, he was a gentleman and in public service, and it was wrong. But why not court her?

  Her temples throbbed. The question was on the tip of her tongue. Did she dare ask it? Did she dare find out just why he kept pulling away from her?

  “Why are you looking at me as if, on the one hand, you wish to devour me and, on the other, I am hurting you unbearably?” he demanded. He finally touched her cheek, briefly. “I have done my absolute best to conduct myself in a proper and restrained manner around you, Francesca.”

  She inhaled. “You kissed me.”

  Their gazes locked. “I was exhausted, overworked, drunk.”

  “I know,” she said softly, and her gesture was not conscious or planned—she reached out and cupped his face and the feel of his unshaven skin, his hard jaw, and the edge of his mouth beneath her palm made her faint with need and desire.

  He inhaled harshly and seized her hand, but he did not remove it from his cheek. Instead, he held it there and turned his face, kissing her palm heatedly. Francesca cried out.

  And somehow she was in his arms, but his grasp was brutal, and he anchored her by the hair pinned at her nape, and his mouth claimed hers, the way she had dreamed it would. Hot, hard, insistent. His tongue thrust past her lips. Francesca felt the wall at her back. She felt her pins falling out, her hair falling down. She felt his loins, heavy and aroused, against her own hips. He kissed her as if he wished to take her there and then.

  She found his shoulders and clung to them, for her life.

  With his tongue deep inside her, he moved his hands down her back and somehow found her hips. He held her hard against his body, and she became even more aware of his huge arousal. She had to moan, but that only made him slide one hand farther down her backside, anchoring her to him.

  She wanted to die. She wanted to fly. She wanted, desperately, to tear off his clothes and then her own.

  Suddenly he tore his mouth away from hers, and his lips pressed against the side of her neck, again and again, just as his hips pressed against hers, urgently, demandingly, and then he pushed her face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, and he simply held her, hard and tight, against his own shaking body.

  She was shaking, too. Like a leaf. Francesca became aware of her thundering heartbeat and his, an answering drumroll against her breasts. She became aware of his rigid stance, of the power, barely controlled and leashed, within his body, within him. His legs were rock-hard, braced against her thighs, almost hurting her with their strength. His arousal remained obvious, insistent. This man was doing everything he could not to give in to his most basic instincts, she realized. He was doing everything he could to treat her with respect.

  It took a long time, but finally, her breathing began to slow.

  His heartbeat also began to steady.

  His trembling eased and ceased.

  Finally, he straightened and looked into her eyes. Francesca could not smile or speak. She was stunned with the intensity of the passion she had felt, from both him and herself. The passion—the urgency. She could only stare—until she realized how dire his expression was. How dire, how grim.

  Fear flooded her.

  “Bragg?” she whispered. Something was wrong, terribly so, and his name came out frightened and unsure. She was frightened and uncertain now. “What is it?”

  “I am corrupting you,” he said tersely. “You had better go; you are late. But tomorrow, Francesca, we must talk, once and for all.”

  And somehow she knew it was a conversation to be avoided, at all costs.

  FIFTEEN

  Sunday, February 2, 1902—9:30 P.M.

  Francesca gave up trying to decide what Bragg might wish to say to her the next time that they spoke. But unease filled her—and it was accompanied by dread. No good, she thought, would come of their conversation.

  She was also late. Francesca wished she had not broken her word to Julia, because next time, her mother might not be so accommodating when she wished to run about the city at an unusual hour. She hoped Julia had retired for the evening. That would make life so much simpler—for the moment. Because Francesca could not shake the feeling that life would never be simple again.

  Jennings had reached the corne
r of 63d Street and Fifth Avenue and was turning onto the avenue. The brief snowfall had ceased. Fifth Avenue and the park were carpeted with fresh snow. Snow dusted the trees and sat atop the park’s stone walls. Stars were emerging in the blue-black night, along with a sliver of incandescent moon. It was a beautiful sight, but Francesca sank deeper into her gloom, failing to appreciate it. On the corner ahead, she could make out the high, steeply pitched roof, the turrets and chimneys of the Cahill mansion. As she espied it, she noticed her brother striding down the steps and out of his private entrance on 62d Street.

  Her coach crept forward steadily, the clopping of hoofbeats muffled by the snow. Evan started on foot toward Fifth, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his head down, a scarf thrown carelessly about his shoulders. He had not worn his hat. As he was walking, he must be on the way to the Metropolitan Club, which was but a half-block down, or some other establishment that was almost as close. Her heart sank a bit further. It was Sunday evening. Couldn’t he stay home?

  And where was he going—or rather, whom was he meeting— and why?

  “Jennings, pull up, please. I wish to speak with my brother.”

  The coach was braked immediately. As it slowed, Evan looked up, and seeing the Cahill brougham, he halted, waiting. Francesca unlatched and pushed open her window, recalling their rather nasty argument the day before. “Hello,” she said with feigned cheerfulness. “Is it warm enough to walk? I am on my way home. Do you wish to wait and use the coach?”

  “Hello, Fran,” Evan said, coming up to the door and peering through the window at her. “I am only going to the club, so I am on foot.” He smiled at her. Apparently all was forgotten, if not forgiven. But then, Evan was not one to hold a grudge.

  Except, apparently, with Andrew, in the matter of his forthcoming marriage.

  “The Metropolitan?” Francesca asked. “Come in out of the cold. Jennings will drop you there.”

  Evan hesitated, then opened her door and leaped in. “It’s actually a nice evening,” he said, settling down beside her. “It’s warmed up, with the snow and all.”