Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  "Francesca, unlike you, I am a very deliberate person. I never act on impulse. I was considering my options," he said. He still seemed unshaken, but no trace of his trademark amusement could be seen. "Lucy is being blackmailed," he continued calmly. "This fellow Craddock has recently threatened her children. And you and now I are the only ones who know." He added, "First thing tomorrow, she and the children are moving into this house, where they will be safe."

  "You are so calm," Francesca remarked rigidly. "How can you be so calm?"

  "Calm? A woman I consider my sister is suffering greatly. My calm is only surface-deep."

  She was hardly reassured. And as their eyes held, she sensed but did not see a huge well of anger within him. It was so contained, so controlled. "This is out of control," she whispered. "I begged her on Saturday to go to Bragg."

  "I am not sure that going to the police is the best thing to do," he said. "There may not be any love lost between Rick and me, but even I should pity him were he put in a position of having to arrest his own brother-in-law."

  Francesca wet her lips. "So what is the answer?"

  "Craddock's demise would help," Hart said as calmly.

  "I knew it!" Francesca cried, her fists now clenched. Had she ever been this angry? "She dared to ask you to remove Calder, didn't she? She hasn't told her husband a word— God forbid he should be the one to commit murder—but you, you she does not hesitate to go to!"

  "Yes, she asked me to remove Craddock." He could not seem to stop studying her.

  "How could she!"

  "Easily. We grew up together, Francesca. We share no blood, but we share a family—and a history. In a way, she is my sister, and there are times when I almost forget that we do not share a single drop of blood."

  Francesca found herself grabbing his hands. "What did you say? Did you tell her you would do it?"

  His hands tightened on hers in return; their gazes held. "Francesca, Lucy is in trouble. Who will help her if I do not? Frankly, she should have told Shoz. He would have ended this little matter before it ever began. But she didn't. And he is in Texas—we are here. If I do not help her, who will?"

  "There is still the police. There is still Bragg. The one thing about him, he will see that there is justice—"

  "Her husband was wrongfully incarcerated once," Hart said, interrupting. "I know you are a supreme romantic, but justice is a rare and capricious thing, Francesca. I am afraid for Shoz as well. I am afraid that, no matter the record of his life these past twelve years, Lucy may be right. If Craddock is blackmailing Lucy, Shoz has something to hide. Are you telling me that you think Rick would sweep this under the rug ... if Shoz is guilty?"

  "I think there would be a way to prove him innocent!"

  "As I said, you are a terrible and hopeless romantic," he said softly.

  His tone was almost tender, but she could hardly remark that now. "So the answer is to murder Craddock?"

  He stared. "That is one answer," he finally said.

  "I am begging you, Hart, begging you not to do this! Please, Hart, please, do not compromise yourself this way! What Lucy is asking of you is wrong. It is that simple. Murder is wrong!" she cried.

  "So that is the extent of your concern? You wish to protect a convicted and violent felon from an illegal fate? A fate which, I might add, he does deserve?" He watched her carefully now.

  "No," she said huskily, watching him as closely, "that is the least of my concerns." And she spoke the truth. Once, not so long ago, she would have been incredulous and disbelieving if anyone had ever suggested she might be thinking in the way that she now was. How strange life was.

  He waited.

  She breathed hard. "What if you can't get away with it? What if you are the one to be tried and convicted in the end?"

  His gaze moved from her eyes, wandered over her face, then came back to her eyes. "I am flattered, Francesca," he said, with no mockery at all.

  "This is not about flattery! Do you wish to be a sacrificial lamb?"

  His gaze narrowed. It was brilliant with intensity now. "Actually, I have no intention of ever standing trial for any crime, my dear. How much do you care, Francesca?"

  "Oh, stop it! Of course I care—or I wouldn't be here! There has to be another way, Calder; there simply has to be!" Oddly, the tears she had refused to allow to well for the past hour suddenly came, blurring her vision. She almost felt as if her own life were at stake.

  He pulled her into his arms. "Don't cry."

  The tears fell freely now, but she refused to make a sound. It crossed her dazed and stricken mind that she was actually in Calder Hart's arms. Her cheek was actually on his chest. ... Her heart lurched and her body stilled. The tears stopped.

  She was afraid to move. With the one eye she was capable of using, as her other eye was pressed shut against his now wet shirt, she could see a large swath of dark skin, dusted with pitch-black hair. She could see the hard and muscular swell of the one side of his chest. She became aware of the firm, strong beat of his heart.

  He had both hands on her back; even so, he held her rather loosely.

  Every fiber of her being was on the highest alert. If she made one movement, she felt like she would snap. Still, she shifted and looked up, slowly pulling away. She saw the notch between his collarbones, the underside of his strong throat, the cleft of his chin.

  His hands tightened, and then he released her.

  He stood up so quickly that she almost fell face first onto his desk.

  Francesca gripped the edge to save herself, for one moment so thoroughly dazed she did not have a coherent thought.

  "Were those tears for me?" he asked.

  She stared at her white knuckles, and she nodded.

  He did not speak and he did not move.

  Francesca dared to straighten and turn. "If you care about . me at all—if you care about Lucy, Shoz, your family, yourself—you will not remove anyone!"

  "I believe you already called in your marker, did you not?"

  She was relieved he had become his callous self. She had—although she could not recall how and when. "This is not about markers," she said, after a pause. "And you know it."

  "Touché." He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. It only strained the fabric more tightly over his groin. "No one has been removed yet; no murder trial is pending."

  "I can't let you do this, Calder," she said heatedly. And she was aware of flushing and forcing her gaze to hold his. "And I mean it."

  "God help the man whom you love enough to marry." His brief smile vanished. "I think the first order of business is to interview Craddock. Thus far, he has been toying with a frightened woman; it is time he dares to toy with me."

  Relief swamped her. "Thank God! But how will you find him? I have put out a reward, and we have yet to locate him."

  He started; then amusement began. "You have offered a reward for him?"

  She nodded. "Don't forget, my sidekick can get around the worst wards downtown."

  He eyed her. "Have you forgotten that is where I also grew up?" he asked softly.

  For a moment, surrounded by his art and his wealth, there alone in his huge house, facing him—a wealthy and powerful man—she had.

  He smiled a little at her. "Leave this to me now, France-sea." His tone was patronizing. "I have already hired one fellow whom I have worked with in the past. I am fully confident that he can locate Craddock. We will find him— although perhaps not by Tuesday at noon."

  She decided to ignore the fact that he had almost patted her on the head and told her to go home. "So you will confront him Tuesday, then, if you have not already done so?"

  "Yes." He nodded approvingly. "That would be step one."

  She froze. Comprehension seared her. She stood unsteadily. "And what is step two?"

  He stared at her and did not answer.

  She did not move. But the words came out, unbidden. "And then you will kill him?"

  "Yes."

  Chapter Fourteenr />
  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1902 —BEFORE 8:00 A.M.

  Bragg was just stepping out the door when Francesca arrived at his town house on Madison Square. He saw her as she stepped out of the cab, his eyes widening with surprise.

  She rushed forward, tripping in her haste. He caught her, steadying her. She didn't think she had ever been happier to see anyone, and she clung to him. He would stop Hart from carrying out his mad scheme.

  "Francesca? What's wrong?"

  She embraced him and, leaning her cheek against the wool of his overcoat, she was aware of how much comfort and relief there was. There was no one she trusted more than this man, and she decided that she was going to make sure she never forgot that—especially around Hart.

  She had intended to go to Bragg last night after leaving Hart's mansion. But Hart had insisted he escort her home personally, and she had been effectively waylaid.

  His hand found her nape. "Francesca?"

  She stepped back a little so their eyes could meet. "There is trouble, Bragg. You have to stop Hart—before he kills."

  Bragg's eyes widened in shock. For one moment he did not respond, and then he released her, his face hardening. "I do not like the sound of this."

  "I am so afraid," she returned.

  "I can see that. I was on my way to headquarters, but let's go inside and you can explain yourself."

  His choice of words took her back, but then she decided she was overwrought. She followed him back into the house and heard a woman's raised voice in the kitchen. It had to be the new nanny, Mrs. Flowers.

  Guilt seized her. She hadn't seen the children since Thursday, when Bragg had brought them both by to visit her.

  "And I have grown tired of your interference. Is that clear, my good man?" the crisp British voice asked.

  Francesca looked at Bragg, imagining a tall, thin woman with a ramrod-straight bearing, spectacles, and the character of a marine sergeant. "Poor Peter," she whispered.

  "Cats and dogs," he said, remaining terribly grim. "Do you wish to see the girls and meet the nanny your mother hired?"

  "Of course," she said, pasting a smile on her face. She moved past him, trying to momentarily shove aside her worries about Hart and what he intended to do. In the light of day, she was very angry at Lucy for placing him in this position, no matter how understanding she tried to be.

  Francesca paused in the kitchen doorway. Dot was on the floor, playing in a mess of cooked cereal. Katie was actually eating the very same oatmeal at the table. Both girls saw .Francesca at the same time. Katie almost dropped her spoon, her brown eyes going wide. Dot clapped her hands and began to scream at the top of her lungs, "Frack! Frack! Frack come!"

  Francesca saw Katie look down and pretend indifference to her arrival. She ate now with care. But at least the six-year-old was eating. The first week with Bragg—which was right after her mother's death—she hadn't eaten at all, and she was as thin as a rail to begin with.

  Francesca swooped down on Dot, lifting her into her arms, taking in the scene by the stove. Mrs. Flowers was hardly tall and mean-looking. She was a tiny woman with curly dark hair and quite pretty features, just slightly plump. She did wear spectacles, but they somehow added to her pretty face. She could not be even five foot tall, Francesca saw, hiding a smile, and it was truly absurd for her to be confronting the Swede, who was six feet, six inches. Still, Mrs. Flowers stood facing Peter, her hands on her curved hips. He, of course, towered over her. His expression was one of resignation; no, he appeared to be suffering greatly and resigned to that.

  "Katie shall go to school today, and that is that. There. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Olsen?"

  Peter looked helplessly at Bragg.

  Francesca hesitated. Was school a good idea? Of course, Katie should be in school, but the school would be a new one, and she had just lost her mother. Her behavior remained sullen and hostile, as well as aloof.

  But before Francesca could speak, Mrs. Flowers faced them. "I have had years of experience, sir. I am fully aware of all that Katie is going through. But she must return to a normal routine. He shows me no respect. I cannot work here if my authority is not absolute, Commissioner."

  Bragg said, "It is absolute, Mrs. Flowers. Peter, do you not agree?"

  Peter grunted and walked to Katie. "Kat? A bit more?"

  Katie shrugged, her gaze darting to Francesca, who was being strangled by Dot. Peter took that as an affirmative, and he took Katie's bowl to the stove to refill it.

  "Hello, Mrs. Flowers," Francesca said as Dot began to tug on her hat and laugh as a flower came off in her hand. "I am Francesca Cahill. I believe my mother hired you."

  Mrs. Flowers hurried over with the energy of a locomotive. "Yes, she did. And I told her I am used to running the household, as far as the children go. My references are impeccable, Miss Cahill. I cannot tolerate interference!" She huffed and she didn't look at Peter, but it was obvious to whom she referred.

  "I am sure Peter has other duties he wishes to attend to," Francesca murmured. Then, "I do think the commissioner and I need to discuss whether Katie should return to school today or perhaps next week."

  Mrs. Flowers did not look pleased.

  "Ow, Dot, you have stabbed me with a hat pin," Francesca scolded gently while Dot cooed happily at her.

  "Frack!" she screamed. It was an ecstatic and ear-splitting sound.

  "School will get her mind off of her ordeal," Mrs. Flowers said. "Please put Dot down. She will hurt herself with that hat pin." Mrs. Flowers took the pin away from the child.

  Francesca was impressed. At least the new nanny would safeguard the children from harm. She handed the struggling toddler over to Mrs. Flowers; Dot screeched in protest. Wincing, Francesca was about to take her back. "She hasn't seen me in a few days."

  "A spoiled child is a troublesome child," Mrs. Flowers said firmly, not releasing Dot. "Dot, do calm down this instant."

  From behind her, Peter gave Mrs. Flowers a glance. Clearly he was not about to miss a thing.

  And to Francesca's amazement, Dot, who had opened her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs, now shut it. She regarded her nanny carefully.

  "That's my sweet, good girl," Mrs. Flowers said, not using baby talk in her tone. "Now, let's get your sister ready for school and after we drop her there, you and I can go for a nice stroll in the park."

  Dot hesitated, then smiled. "Park," she said. Then she beamed angelically at Francesca. "Frack!"

  Francesca understood. "I'm afraid I have business to attend to, Dot. But we shall go to the park another time, when your sister can join us." She glanced at Katie, who was shoving her oatmeal around now with her spoon, clearly listening to their every word, but not looking up. Maybe it would get her mind off of her mother's death if she went to school.

  Francesca paused by the small kitchen table where Katie sat. Katie did not look up. "Good morning, Katie. I'm sorry I haven't been by in a few days, but as you can see, I hurt my hand, and I was ordered to remain in bed."

  Katie looked up. Then she surprised Francesca by speaking directly to her. "What happened?"

  Francesca blinked and saw that Bragg, Peter, and Mrs. Flowers were all as surprised as she was. She quickly recovered and pulled out a chair and sat down beside the dark-haired child. "I burned my hand. Rather badly. I was, ah, trying to remove a log from the fireplace, and it was on fire. I am very lucky I did not set myself on fire. But all is well now, and I do believe the bandages will come off later today."

  Katie looked at her, burst into tears, and ran from the room.

  Francesca jumped up. "What happened?"

  "I don't know, but thank God she is starting to show an interest in her surroundings," Bragg said.

  Francesca hardly heard him. She dashed for the door, to follow Katie, but so did Peter and Mrs. Flowers. The big Swede and the nanny were faster than Francesca, and they collided in the doorway. Francesca halted before ramming into them herself.

  "I will handle this," Mrs. Flo
wers said firmly, setting Dot down.

  The toddler immediately crawled in a beeline to the kitchen table. She sat under it, grinning.

  Peter gave Mrs. Flowers a very dark look, and without a word, he walked out of the kitchen first, using his bulk to do so.

  Mrs. Flowers rushed after him. "Mr. Olsen! Olsen! Ol-sen!"

  Francesca was about to tell them she would handle Katie when Bragg grabbed her arm. "What is going on, Francesca?" he said tersely.

  "Shouldn't I go after Katie?" she asked worriedly.

  "Kay Tee!" Dot shouted, crawling out from under the table. She hugged Bragg around the ankles. "Kaytee."

  "In a minute. I have a nine o'clock meeting with Farr and several inspectors." He looked down and sighed. "Dot? You should be with your new nanny."

  Dot ceased smiling and glared at him while Francesca wondered if Bragg expected Dot to understand his every word and to get up and obey. Dot said slyly, "Pa."

  Although Francesca realized he had to leave immediately if he wished to be on time for his meeting, she blinked.

  "What did she say?" she gasped, smothering the urge to laugh.

  Bragg eyed her. "I have no idea."

  "Pa!" Dot used his legs to haul herself up into a standing position. "Pa! Pa!"

  Francesca clapped her hand over her mouth, helplessly giggling.

  "What is so funny? She is the loudest child I have ever come across, the most demanding, and she piddles where she pleases."

  Francesca nodded and said, "Craddock has demanded five thousand dollars. He has indirectly threatened the children. There has been a note and Lucy showed it to me."

  "Christ," was his equally swift response. His eyes had turned nearly black. "And how is Calder involved?"

  "Lucy went to him for help," she said tersely now. "Knowing his conscience is less than yours, she went to him so he would do her dirty work for her!"

  "I see." Bragg seemed amazingly calm. "And Hart decided to remove Craddock from this life?"

  "Yes, but first he intends to confront Craddock—when he finds him—in order to discover whatever it is that Craddock has on Shoz and Lucy."