by Brenda Joyce
Oh, God. Finally, he was going to kiss her.
His expression changed, tightening. And Francesca saw fee battle he was waging with himself as clearly as if she were standing upon an actual battlefield. Her heart lurched— he was going to walk away from her, again! And she took action.
She leaned forward purposefully, so very frightened now, brushing her mouth against his.
Finally. Finally she could taste and feel his lips.
He did not move.
Francesca breathed, and she had begun to brush her lips over his, repeatedly, softly, when he broke.
Hart moved. Suddenly, hard, taking over the kiss, controlling it.
Francesca sank against the wall, her heart racing impossibly, frighteningly, her sex expanding immediately, completely. His lips were firm, at once very demanding yet oddly coaxing, too, feather-light, then changing, becoming insistent, urgent. Her hands found his chest, beneath his jacket, and through the fine cotton of his shirt she felt rock-hard muscles beneath her palms, and his thickly drumming heartbeat. It was racing with alarming speed.
She needed this man now. And clearly, he needed her, too.
Her hands closed over his powerful shoulders and she was shocked by the power contained there. For one brief moment, he tested the pressure of her lips, not yet invasive—yet she knew there would be more. For one instant, the tip of his tongue slid slowly, deliberately teasingly along her lips—provocative and inflammatory. Francesca heard herself moan.
He seized the moment, thrusting deep. She felt him against the back of her throat. She tasted more scotch, and man. She tasted Calder Hart.
Francesca saw galaxies filled with light, shimmering around her, and she gripped his muscular neck, hanging on tight. Hart was going to take her there....
He pulled away.
She gasped but could not speak—protest. Francesca collapsed against the wall, her heart exploding in her chest, her body shuddering on the brink of climax. She wanted to scream and shout and demand he continue. But she couldn't speak; she couldn't move.
He stared harshly at her face. He knew. And his eyes were smoky gray with his own smoldering lust. She had never received such a look from him before; in fact, she had never been the recipient of such an intense look before— not ever. And she knew, she simply knew, that when he strained over her, inside her, he would be looking at her this way—with purpose and resolve, all of it sexual, a warrior claiming his victory on the battlefield that would be their bed.
His hands fisted on the wall, over each of her shoulders, and he locked her there. "I am not breaking my resolution," he ground out. But his body shifted, and one touch was enough. His arousal brushed against her belly. Instantly their gazes clashed. As instantly, he shifted back, away.
"Not fair," she gasped. "Not fair." Briefly she thought she felt every inch of him. Throbbing heat, slick power...
"Life is never fair," he returned harshly.
Francesca screwed her eyes shut against tears of need.
He cursed viciously. "I am not corrupting you; I am not treating you the way that Rick has. This will not happen again." His eyes blazed with anger.
"No!" The word was out before she could control it. He moved away—she grabbed his lapels. She wasn't sure what she meant to do—drag him behind closed doors, rip off his clothes, or plead with him to ravish her in precisely the same way. He cut her off.
"I may be many things, Francesca, but the one thing I am is a man of my word. If I give it." He was even more furious now than before. She knew he was enraged with himself. "God damn it! We're not even engaged!"
"But you want me," she said pathetically.
His laughter was harsh. "And I shall have you—properly ... or not at all."
She let him go. She felt tears rising and she could not stop them from falling. Because she knew he meant his every word—and she knew he would remain immovable. "But I can't marry you," she whispered, slumping against the wall.
He did not immediately reply, and she opened her eyes to find him staring. She shivered, aroused so quickly again. It took only a single look.
His mouth hardened into a line that might have been a mirthless smile. "My poor darling," he whispered roughly. "Believe me, I know exactly how you are feeling."
She shook her head, her cheeks tear-streaked and wet. "Hardly," she choked. "Because you can go to Daisy, and I have nowhere to go!"
He stared. And his expression softened—his lips started to turn upward; a twinkle appeared in his eyes.
"Don't laugh!" she shouted, striking at his chest.
He caught her fist and kissed it. "Is this a tantrum, darling? Is this what I shall have to look forward to?" His tone was teasing.
"I am not a spoiled child who has temper tantrums!" she cried.
"Hush." He pulled her close, against his solid, sexy chest, and kissed the top of her head. Unfortunately, his member remained rock-hard, without a doubt as to his feelings. "My entire family will hear you shouting to have sex with me."
She landed a useless blow on his chest, as one could not land a punch when pressed against one's adversary, and then she gave up. Why move? Her cheek solidly planted somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. She could hear its powerful yet ragged beat. She could feel his breath on her hair, and she loved having his arms around her. Almost as much as she loved him pressing and throbbing deeply against her belly. Francesca squeezed her eyes shut. Orgiastic images danced in her head, Hart naked and powerful; herself, naked and submissive.
"If I didn't know better," she whispered, "I would think that you are slowly but surely seducing me to your will."
Silence was his reply.
It suddenly struck her like a bolt of dazzling lightning that this was the case. That this was his plan. To torture her with what might be until she yielded to him. And oh, the plan was a good one! She jerked out of his grasp.
He wasn't smiling now. Not really. He was watching her very, very carefully, as if they were opposed to each other and he was waiting to see where and how she would now strike.
"Is that what you intend? To make me insane with wanting your lovemaking ... until I give you what you want— marriage?" she asked furiously.
A long pause ensued. He replied very slowly, "You kissed me, Francesca."
"No! You have been teasing me mercilessly for days!"
Very carefully he said, "You make it sound reprehensible. As if marriage is the ultimate fall from grace."
"In your own way, you are pursuing me the way you have the others!" she cried. "Ruthlessly ... seductively... selfishly! The only difference is that your goal with them was to bed them once or twice, and with me, it is to enslave me as your wife!"
He stiffened.
She saw the dangerous look on his face and in his eyes and knew she had gone too far.
"Enslave? I have no wish to enslave you, my dear."
"I didn't quite mean that," she retracted as quickly as possible.
"You meant it. You are a woman of passion and you always speak what is in your heart. Francesca, good night." He wheeled away.
"And you are always running away from our fights!" she shouted after him. If she'd had a dinner plate in her hand, she would have thrown it at his head—and not missed.
He whirled back. "Because you provoke me beyond all reason and I do not trust myself," he ground out, striding toward her now.
Fear assailed her—she shrank back from him, against the wall.
But he didn't stop until he was pressing her against it. "I am tempted to do as you wish—to make love to you until you can't even walk! And do you know what?" he demanded unpleasantly, furiously.
She was afraid. She was afraid of his next words, for she sensed a cruel blow.
And she was right. "I have not a single doubt that if I seduced you tonight, you would be begging me tomorrow to be my wife."
She gasped.
"And that would make my life a lot easier now, wouldn't it? But I happen to be taking the high road. Th
e difficult road. Only you refuse to see it or believe it." He turned and walked out. "Think what you want. You always do," he said, not looking over his shoulder.
She didn't respond. There was no response she could make.
Thursday, February 20, 1902—10:00 p.m.
She heard an odd nose, almost a gasp, from the adjacent bedroom.
Catherine Holmes strained to hear, suddenly wide awake. But now silence filled her small, dark bedroom.
It didn't matter. She was terrified.
Because she had lied to the lady investigator and the police. She spent half of her waking moments in that rocking chair, looking wistfully out the window onto the street. Watching her neighbors and friends, watching strangers and thieves. How often had her mother chastised her for yearning for the outside world? Too late, she knew her mother was right. For she had seen what she should not see, what she must not see, she had seen a man, and she had seen his face.
For one split second, when he had torn the odd transparent mask from his face.
On Monday night, at seven o'clock.
Catherine Holmes sat up, trembling. She reminded herself that the door to the apartment was bolted from inside. The windows were locked. No one could get in. She strained to see through the shadows filling up her small bedroom. She kept her door open, in case her mother called out to her in the middle of the night, but she could not even see the threshold.
But he had looked back and he had seen her, sitting with her nose pressed to the window glass. She didn't simply know it. Their gazes had met, locked.
"Mother?" Catherine tried nervously. She reached for the small domed candle at her bedside. She fumbled for matches, lifted the dome. She could not light the candle. "Mother?" she called out, loudly now.
There was no answer.
She struck the match a third time, but her trembling hands refused to allow her to light the candle. There had been dark comprehension in his eyes.
Catherine heard a creaking, a familiar sound, from the oak floorboards in the parlor. She tensed. This time, she did not call for her mother.
No one was in the apartment. It was a mouse.
She slipped from the bed, wearing only a cotton nightgown, her long auburn hair in a single braid. Now she regretted not telling Miss Cahill and the commissioner what she had seen—and who it was.
Because she had recognized him instantly.
Just as he had recognized her.
And there was only one explanation for the mask he had been wearing as he came out of the building. He was Grace Conway's killer. It was too shocking for words.
She had asked herself time and again, But why? What possible reason could there have been? For she knew he was not mad. Or was he?
Her mouth was dry. Catherine paused to take a sip of water from the chipped mug that she kept beside her narrow bed. In doing so, she turned away from her bedroom doorway.
His hands went around her throat. "Screaming is useless," he said.
She gasped, as he was choking her, and she knew, in that instant, that he intended to strangle her as he had Miss Con-way. "No," she choked.
His hand clamped over her mouth, he pushed her against the wall, somehow, with one hand, keeping an unbearable pressure on her throat. She couldn't breathe. He was choking her to death. And then she stiffened, a harsh sound escaping her, as he shoved his male hardness up against her buttocks. He started rubbing himself slowly there.
She was terrified now of rape. Rape, then death ... Dear God, she would rather die first!
"Is it good?" he said thickly, shoving against her harder, faster now. "You like it, don't you, whore? You're all whores."
Silently, as she could not breathe, much less speak, she begged him for pity, for mercy, for life.
He began to tell her what he would like to do to her— except that she wasn't worth it. But blackness was descending like a curtain over her mind, and she could not make out his every word. She begged God now for her life.
Silk whispered around her throat.
For one instant, she thought her prayers had been answered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, February 20, 1902—10:00 p.m.
Francesca was tired. It had been a long, even difficult day. Hart had loaned her a carriage and driver with which to whisk her and Ellie home, and Francesca had actually considered going directly to the Cahill mansion. She had quickly negated the idea. It was late, but she had been at Bragg's when it was later, and he still didn't know about her interview with Bertrand Hoeltz and that Melinda Neville was his lover. Bragg lived at Number Eleven Madison Square, just a stone's throw from Madison Park. Francesca had just asked Ellie to wait for her, telling her that she would not be very long, but the woman had fallen asleep on the seat beside her, wrapped up in a heavy cloak borrowed from Grace Bragg.
Francesca smiled a little, pleased that she could do a good deed and help someone in difficulty, and she climbed down from the carriage. The man sitting in the driver's box was awaiting her orders, and she said, "I suspect I shall be about twenty minutes."
Francesca hurried up the short brick walk to Bragg's brownstone. The building had been built several decades ago and was typically Victorian—the roof was gabled, the facade brick, the rooms within small, the stairwell narrow. Her knock was answered instantly by Peter, Bragg's man.
Francesca smiled at him. He was a huge Swede, perhaps six inches over six feet tall and quite wide with brawn and muscle. Francesca knew he was a jack-of-all-trades—at times a butler, a valet, a cook, or a housekeeper. Once Bragg had thought to foist him on her as a bodyguard.
Peter hardly ever smiled and he hardly ever spoke. He nodded. "Good evening, Miss Cahill." If he was surprised to see her at this hour, he gave no sign.
Francesca stepped inside a small, poorly lit foyer, as only one small lamp was on, sitting upon a side table against the wall, beneath a mirror. The steep, narrow staircase was just ahead and to her left, a dark runner there. Directly down the hall was the parlor, and the door was open, but the room was also dark. To its right was Bragg's office. His door, she saw, was shut.
Light, however, came from the dining room's open doorway on her right, beyond which was the kitchen.
Francesca had stopped by earlier that day. Bragg was fostering two young girls whose mother had been murdered by the Cross Killer. Francesca had arranged it, and her mother had arranged for their nanny, Mrs. Flowers. Not a day went by that Francesca did not spend an hour or two with Dot, who was two, and Katie, who was six. Permanent arrangements had yet to be made for the pair.
"Did Katie eat her supper?" she asked. Katie had been very distressed when she had first come to Bragg's, and not eating had been her way of evincing it.
Peter smiled. It was a rare sight indeed. "Every morsel."
Francesca was impressed. "And has Dot behaved herself?"
"Always," he said, with a straight face now and laughter in his eyes.
Francesca did not even try to imagine what mischief the vivacious toddler had got into. "Is Bragg in his office?" she asked.
"I am afraid he is out for the evening," Peter said.
Francesca blinked. "Do you know when he will be back, Peter? There really is a lead I wish to discuss with him."
"He said ten or eleven, Miss Cahill."
Francesca hesitated. "Do you mind if I wait? Perhaps I can sneak upstairs and kiss the girls."
He didn't look pleased with that.
"I do promise not to wake them," she added, smiling.
He nodded. "Should I bring you a tea or a sherry or a glass of wine?"
"No. I am fine. Thank you." Francesca started for the stairs and tripped over an object upon the floor.
Peter quickly gripped her arm. Francesca saw that she had stumbled over a small valise. Now she realized a large trunk and another valise, medium-sized, were all lined up beside the stairs. Her heart skipped. "Bragg is going out of town?" she asked quickly.
"He did not say," Peter commented.
Francesca was disturbed. Every hair on her nape prickled with warning and alarm. She bent down. The small valise was a dark red, she saw, and it was definitely a woman's bag.
There was a name tag encased in leather on the trunk. She seized it. It read: MRS. RICK BRAGG.
She inhaled. Her mind scrambled for excuses. Leigh Anne was leaving town—which was why her bags were there, in Bragg's house, at the bottom of the stairs. Perhaps he was taking her to the Boston train first thing in the morning!
But why weren't her bags at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where she was staying?
Francesca was grim. She turned and stared at Peter. It was a moment before she could speak. "Do you know why Mrs. Bragg has her trunks here?"
"I'm afraid not," he said impassively. "The commissioner did not say."
She wet her lips. "When did these bags arrive?"
"Around six this evening, Miss Cahill."
She reached for and gripped the newel post on the smooth wooden banister of the stairs. So it had finally happened. Bragg had reconciled with his wife. She reminded herself that this had been inevitable—that it was right. She had no cause to be upset or to feel betrayed.
The front door opened. As it did, a woman's voice sounded, distinct, cultured, soft... pretty. There was a teasing note in her tone.
Francesca turned as Bragg's familiar slightly rough and terse voice responded, "I do not know what Mrs. Lowe intends, Leigh Anne."
Francesca held on harder to the banister. But she was upset. Because she could not turn off her feelings as simply as one did a water faucet. Why hadn't he told her?
"Francesca!" Bragg halted in his tracks.
She meant to smile. But she could not, so she stared instead.
They made a striking couple. He was tall and golden; she was small and dark.
"Miss Cahill!" his beautiful wife cried, hurrying forward. "Is everything all right? Are you all right, my dear?"
