Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  "No one expects you to be exactly like Father," Francesca began.

  "You do not have to grow up on a farm on a diet of milk, butter, and bread in order to have some kind of ambition, some sense of direction, and some glimmer of responsibility," Andrew snapped. "Or have you forgotten that the reason you are so currently shackled is because you have gaming debts which total almost two hundred thousand dollars?"

  Evan's flush increased.

  "Papa, don't," Francesca whispered. "He regrets those debts; he truly does!"

  "Does he?" Andrew moved behind his desk and almost tore a drawer from it. He held up a handful of papers. "These debts are new and they have just come to my attention. Last week you incurred another eighteen thousand dollars of damned debt!" he shouted.

  Francesca turned huge eyes upon her brother. Had he been gambling again? But he had promised that he would never do so again. How could he?

  He met her gaze and looked away, with clear guilt. Then he looked up at Andrew. "Do not make me marry this woman. I will pay off my debts, somehow. Over time. But do not shackle me to Sarah Channing."

  Francesca looked at Andrew. "Papa? It is the worst match. I adore Sarah, but she is not for Evan. And she doesn't even want to marry, not him or anyone. Please, Papa, let them go their separate ways."

  "She is the best thing to ever happen to him!" Andrew cried.

  "You are wrong! She is the worst thing to ever happen to me!" Evan cried in return.

  "And whom would you have as a wife? That countess Benevente?" Andrew demanded.

  Evan stilled. "I hadn't really thought about it, but she is available and we should do nicely indeed."

  "Over my dead body," Andrew spat. "That woman would cause you nothing but grief! You are a fool, Evan, a complete fool, ruled by one thing, no, two things. And I do believe you know what those two things are."

  Evan's face hardened. "You know what? I am done here. I am truly done." He turned and strode for the door.

  "What the hell does that mean?" Andrew cried, not moving from behind his desk.

  "Don't," Francesca whispered, ready to cry.

  Evan paused in the doorway, his smile ugly. "I am finished. I am finished with all of this. I am sick of being your lackey at the office, and I am not marrying Sarah Channing, and as of this moment, I am no longer your son."

  "Please don't!" Francesca cried, rushing to him.

  Andrew strode forward.

  Evan did not move.

  Francesca found herself trapped between the two men, her father, who was about five-foot-nine but stout, and her taller, slim brother. It was not a happy or pleasant place to be.

  "Are you saying that you are leaving the company?" Andrew asked, his tone eerily quiet.

  "Yes."

  "And you will not marry Sarah?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I am not paying your debts," Andrew said softly.

  "I will find a way to pay them myself," Evan said.

  Andrew hesitated.

  "Papa, don't; enough has been said," Francesca said into the sudden silence, grabbing his hand.

  But it was as if he hadn't heard her. "Then you may leave this house, for you are no longer my son," he said.

  Francesca followed Evan down the hall. "Go back. Apologize. Don't do this!"

  He reached the stairs. When the Cahill mansion had been built, it had been done so in such a way that his house was attached on the other side. The intention was that one day, after marrying, he would live right next door with his wife and children. Evan's house was almost as large and grand as his parents'. There was an outside entrance on Sixty-second Street, but he could also enter from within the Cahill home, on the second floor. That was clearly where he was going, now.

  Evan paused and faced his sister, still flushed. "I would not be a man if I meekly did as Father ordered."

  She closed her eyes, filled with fear. Then she looked at him. "If you do not pay your debts, you will wind up in debtors' jail."

  "That's right," he said grimly. "And that is a risk I have decided to take, because I am not marrying Sarah Channing."

  Francesca touched his sleeve. "Wouldn't it be better to pretend to go along with the engagement for now, while raising the money to pay off your debtors?"

  He looked at her and sighed. "Leave it to you, Fran, to strike to the heart of common sense. Yes, obviously it would. But I am so furious right now that I think I have come to hate Father."

  "Don't say that!"

  "Why not? He has been disappointed in me since I was born. I have never done a single thing right, not in his eyes."

  "That's not true!"

  "Yes, it is. And you know it. And do you want to know something else? This isn't just about Sarah. I hate being his lackey, and that is what I have been my entire life. I hate the company. I hate it! I have hated every single day I have worked there, and you know I started working there after school when I was twelve years old."

  She bit her lip. "I knew you didn't really like the business, but I never suspected you disliked it so much!"

  "I do," he said firmly.

  "You will not at least think about retracting some of what you have said?"

  He didn't hesitate. "No. I shall take a room at one of the hotels, look for a new job, and eventually let a place of my own."

  "Oh God," Francesca said, feeling as if her world were falling apart. "But this is your home." She meant next door. "Mama and Papa built Number Eight-twelve for you. You have been living there since you were eighteen."

  "You may have it on your wedding day. I don't want it."

  She sensed he didn't really mean it. She sensed that within him there was a part that remained loyal to his family, a part that did not want to leave. Or was it wishful thinking on her part? "Please rethink what you are going to do," she whispered.

  "Fran, do you think I have decided to quit Cahill Meatpacking on a whim? Do you think I decided to break off the engagement on a whim? I owe one hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars! I have some unsavory types breathing down my neck! I am worried that one of these days one of them will break my neck! I have been up at nights, debating my options. I have no choice!"

  "You dislike Sarah that much?"

  "No, Fran. In fact, as a friend, I rather like her. This is about me, and this is about Father. Sarah is just an unwitting pawn in a much larger scheme of things."

  Tears came to Francesca's eyes. But she understood. "What about Mama?" she asked suddenly, with dread and concern. Mama adored Evan. For her, he could do almost no wrong. Francesca thought that she was going to be heartbroken but could not be sure.

  "Mama will cry. And it will break my heart to be the one to make her cry. But I love her dearly, and I will not let my war with Father interfere in our relationship. We will continue on, somehow."

  Francesca stared at him. He was dark and grim now. Her brother was, by disposition, kind and friendly; in fact, he had a naturally sunny disposition and he rarely lost his temper. She had never seen him so resolved or determined—or so darkly and deeply angry—before. "I will help you raise the money," she said, meaning it. And instantly Hart's image came to mind.

  He was so wealthy. He had given her a $5,000 check for one of her societies, the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements. Thus far, they were the only two members, as she had not had any time to lobby for her latest cause.

  He softened. "I knew you would. I could use the help, Fran."

  "I know. I will never let you down, Evan."

  He smiled then. "I know that, too. I feel the same way."

  They smiled at each other.

  Suddenly Francesca saw Maggie in the hall, approaching from the other end, clearly having been in the kitchens. She was paler than she had been earlier and leaning far more heavily upon her cane.

  Evan heard her and he turned. His eyes went wide. "Mrs. Kennedy! What are you doing downstairs!" He rushed to her, putting his arm about her. "You should not be downstairs," he scolded gently. "What are you t
hinking?"

  Maggie had clearly used up most of her strength, and she leaned against him, two bright pink spots of exertion on her cheeks. "The doctor told me I could move about, but I have suddenly lost all of my strength," she said softly.

  "That is obvious, and Finney is a fool," Evan said. "Do not protest. I am going to carry you upstairs."

  "No," Maggie said instantly. "I can walk—"

  He swept her up into his arms, as easily as if she were a feather. "Where are the children?" he asked, starting up the stairs with boundless agility. Clearly Maggie's slight weight did not affect him at all.

  "They are having dinner in the kitchens. Please put me down, Mr. Cahill."

  "Mrs. Kennedy, I am merely being a gentleman. Do cease and desist." But his tone was soft and he was smiling down at her.

  Francesca's heart had done a quick somersault. She stared thoughtfully after them. It was simply not possible that Evan would find a seamstress romantically interesting, or would he? She knew him so well. He liked flamboyant beauty, and he frequented women like his mistress, Grace Conway, the actress, and Bartolla Benevente. He never fooled with housemaids or barmaids. He was not that sort of man.

  He glanced down toward her. "I will be going to dinner, Fran. Shall we ride over together?"

  "Yes." She hesitated.

  He understood. "Sarah and I have agreed to meet at the Plaza. I will speak with Sarah later tonight, or first thing tomorrow."

  She suddenly felt some relief, because the ending of this engagement was a good thing for them both. It was, ultimately, in both of their best interests. "I won't say a word," she promised.

  And too late, she realized that they had not had a chance to discuss Sarah's case.

  The Plaza Hotel was one of the city's most renowned and elegant hotels. Doormen in red livery rushed to intercept their brougham, and Francesca was assisted out. It had begun to snow, rather heavily, but the huge bronze canopy effectively shielded her and other guests from the inclement weather. The gaslights of the hotel and those on the street caught the snowflakes as they fell in their halo, and the snow seemed to be dancing in the air.

  On the cab ride over, Francesca had told Evan what had happened to Sarah's studio, and he had been concerned. He had been incredulous, though, at the notion that a young lady of his acquaintance might have been so hopeful at the prospect of becoming his bride that she had gone off on a rampage in Sarah's studio. He thought Francesca's theory of a jilted woman absurd.

  Now, as Francesca walked up the stairs and into the lobby, with Evan by her side, she was acutely aware of being beset by an extremely nervous anticipation. She felt like checking her appearance in the cloakroom, as she had barely had fifteen minutes to change into an evening gown. Her hair had been hastily swept up and back; there had been no time to wave it with tongs. At the last moment she had seized a small pot of rouge, and she had used it on her lips in the coach. Evan had not been amused.

  Now he whispered in her ear, "You are so tense—and so excited. You are worrying me, Fran."

  She smiled at him. "I am merely looking forward to what shall be an impossibly interesting evening."

  "No, you are looking forward to seeing the police commissioner, even though you know he is married. And the other night when Bartolla mentioned his wife, you were not surprised—you already knew! What are you thinking?" he demanded.

  They had entered the lobby. It was a vast room, the ceiling high, huge columns forming a square around an atrium. To Francesca's right were the registration and concierge counters, all gleaming mahogany inlaid with a pale, streaked marble. Directly ahead, but on the other side of the atrium, was the oh-so popular and elegant restaurant. The last time she had been within it had not been to dine. Hart had been pursuing her sister and she had dropped in on them to chaperon them and to prevent Connie from making a drastic mistake.

  It felt like ages ago that he had set his sights on her sister. Still, the notion disturbed Francesca no end even if he had backed off—at her insistence.

  "Fran? Have you heard a word I said?"

  "Not really," she said truthfully, smiling. "There they are." She stopped in midstep.

  They had taken a table in the atrium and were being served champagne. She saw Bragg first.

  He wore a white dinner jacket and midnight-black trousers; he sat on a small love seat, beside Lucy, looking far too thoughtful and miles away. She knew he was thinking about police affairs or perhaps even the Channing Investigation. Light from the chandelier that was overhead fell upon him, highlighting the streaks in his dark golden hair and accentuating his high cheekbones. An impossibly warm feeling came over her. She so trusted this man.

  But there was also a twinge of guilt. Of course, she had to tell him about Leigh Anne's note. She should have told him the very day she had received it. It crossed her mind that if he took her home, she would have the private moment to do so tonight.

  He shifted ever so slightly and he saw her and their eyes locked. His expression changed, becoming dark, intent.

  And then he was on his feet, smiling. He moved toward her, his strides long and effortless. Francesca was vaguely aware of the rest of his family turning to look her way while she tried to appear calm and unmoved.

  But it was a facade. She did not have a calm cell in her entire body.

  He paused before her. "Cahill," he murmured to Evan, giving him the barest and most cursory glance. "Francesca." His eyes warmed. "I'll take your coat," he said, his golden gaze skimming over her.

  She handed it to him, their hands brushing, touching. She knew at once that he was no longer distressed over her posing for Hart's portrait. She knew he was happy to be spending the evening with her, too. "I thought we might be late, but I see that Sarah is not yet here," she said lightly, hoping everyone would think their conversation innocent, should anyone be observing them, and somehow, everyone was.

  "No." His gaze slid over her new turquoise dress again. The vee over her breasts was low, tiny cap sleeves clung to her shoulders, and the gown fell closely over her hips, finally swelling in a pool of lace around her calves and ankles. The dress showed off the best curves of her body, accentuating them, when, in truth, she was a touch too thin. At the very last moment, she had thought to add a necklace with a pearl cameo. "Mrs. Kennedy's work?" he asked with a soft smile.

  Francesca nodded, pleased because he clearly liked it. "Any news on the vandal who struck at Sarah's studio?" she asked. From the corner of her eye she glanced at his family. Grace remained calmly seated, as if sipping champagne, but her gaze was steadily upon them. Rathe was standing politely, as was another man whom Francesca had never seen before. As he was almost Bragg's twin, he had to be Rathe's son as well. Like his father and his mother, he was watching them, but unlike the other two, his gaze was hooded and hard to comprehend.

  Francesca wondered if Bragg's family cared at all for his wife.

  "There has been no other instance of such vandalism in the city in the past three months," Bragg was saying. "But Inspector O'Connor is checking further back."

  "If such an attack were not reported to the police, then he will never learn of it."

  "That's true," he said with a slight smile. "And a single act of vandalism might not have ever been reported."

  She absorbed that. "Have you or your men interviewed Bartolla?"

  "She has been elusive," he said, meeting her gaze. "She clearly is amused by the entire event. And I do believe O'Connor is smitten with her." He rolled his eyes. "He has been newly promoted," he added.

  Francesca laughed but sobered quickly. "I spoke with her briefly. She had nothing of importance to say and she did seem unperturbed by the entire event."

  "I think I will call on her tomorrow myself," he said. "Press her a bit."

  Francesca touched his hand. His skin was smooth but not silken or soft. His eyes touched hers. She said, "Let me join you."

  He hesitated. "You may join me, but I think I might have more success, in this one case,
with Bartolla if I speak with her alone."

  She stared, not liking the implications of his comment. "What does that mean?" How terse her own tone sounded to her ears.

  "You do not have to be dismayed, Francesca. The countess adores men. And while I have no intention of flirting with her, I think I can interview her more effectively if you are not present."

  She hated the idea.

  "Don't scowl," he said with amusement. "When you are old, you shall have scowl lines."

  It wasn't funny and she did not laugh, but she hated the extent of her jealousy.

  "What is this about?" Evan asked, apparently having been listening to their conversation. "How is the countess involved?"

  Francesca started, having forgotten that her brother was standing behind them. She glanced at Bragg. He said, "The single canvas destroyed in the attack upon Sarah's studio was a portrait of Bartolla. Perhaps, and it is a mere perhaps, the vandal struck a blow at the countess and not at your fiancée."

  Evan's eyes were wide. "Is she in danger?"

  Bragg hesitated, and it was clear that he was uncertain as to which woman Evan referred to. Francesca knew that he referred to Bartolla, as she had previously assured him that Sarah was fine and did not seem to be in any danger. Her words had been automatic, however, as she had only to recall the use of so much dark red paint to shudder and have a terrible sense of foreboding. "Neither Sarah nor Bartolla appears to be in any imminent danger."

  Evan was now concerned. Grim, he walked away. "You must be Mr. Bragg," he said, extending his hand toward Rathe. As they shook hands, Lucy jumped up to make the introductions.