Deadly Caress

by Brenda Joyce

  Sarah nodded, her eyes huge, mostly dilated black pupils. "He said he would. He said many horrible and obscene things to me." She suddenly retched, vomiting on the floor.

  Francesca held her as she retched again, several times. Her heart broke for Sarah Channing.

  "I am sorry," Sarah wept now. "Look at what I have done!"

  Francesca held her in her arms. "It hardly matters. I shall catch this beast, Sarah, and when we are through, he shall never ever see the light of day again!"

  When Sarah had stopped crying, Francesca stood. "Let me clean this up."

  "No! I'll do it!" Sarah stood unsteadily.

  "Sarah—"

  "I don't want to be alone here, not at night."

  "All right," Francesca said, taking her arm. They started through the huge dark house. Francesca quickly became anxious. It crossed her mind that the killer could be lying in wait for them. She told herself that was absurd, but nevertheless, the house was so silent and so dark. Sarah was as tense. She started at every shadow. "It's all right," Francesca tried, not quite believing it. Their killer had an agenda now, and Sarah Channing's murder was on it.

  "I just remembered something," she whispered as they entered the pitch-black dining room.

  Francesca fumbled for a light on the table. When it came on she breathed in relief. "What is that?"

  "He said that he hadn't forgotten me, and he called me a little whore."

  Francesca stared, her mind racing. "Can you recall his exact words?"

  Sarah shook her head, her nose red now, her eyes tearing again. "I'm sorry. I can't. But I will never forget the sound of his voice," she whispered.

  Francesca took her hand and they left the dining room. A moment later they were in the huge vaulted kitchen, which was fully lit. Rourke stood at the stove, boiling water, for tea, Francesca supposed. He saw them and started. "What the hell are you two doing wandering around this house by yourselves?"

  Francesca let Sarah sink down into a chair at the dining table used by the staff. "Sarah had an accident, and we came for rags to clean it up."

  "I'll do that," the housekeeper said, appearing in her gray dress, her hair still in one long gray braid. "Miss Charming, thank God you are all right!"

  Sarah nodded but did not speak.

  "Mrs. Brown," Rourke said, "bring us a nice glass of port."

  The housekeeper nodded and hurried off.

  Rourke came over and laid his palm on Sarah's forehead. She flinched but met his gaze. "You are warm," he said.

  "I am sick," she returned. "Why, Francesca? Why has this man accused me of being a whore? Why does he wish to murder me? Why?" she cried.

  Francesca sat down beside her. "I simply do not know. Yet," she added.

  Rourke pulled something out of his pocket. "Here," he said. "Here is some evidence for you."

  Francesca realized he had handed her a lady's silk stocking. It was torn. "What is this?"

  "He was using this to strangle Sarah," Rourke said. "But considering the marks on her throat, he was using his hands, first."

  Sarah closed her eyes, trembling. "Yes, he was using his hands. And when I was sure I was about to die, he tied the stocking there and tightened it." She covered her face with her hands, which were shaking uncontrollably.

  Francesca quickly held her. But she looked up at Rourke. "Did you see him?" she demanded.

  He was grim. "He was masked, Francesca. In fact, he was wearing a lady's stocking over his head," he said. Then, "If you do not catch this killer, I shall."

  But Francesca hardly heard. A monster, no eyes, no mouth. Ellie had been right.

  Bragg strode in, followed by Hart. Rick looked very grim; in fact, he appeared to be on the verge of anger. Francesca could guess why and knew it had nothing to do with the strangler in their midst.

  Less than a half an hour had passed by; Hart must have galloped his coach through the city streets. Sarah had calmed considerably, probably due to the port Rourke had insisted she drink, sip by sip. Francesca leaped to her feet the moment Bragg entered the room.

  She raced to him. "Thank God you are here," she said urgently.

  His gaze skidded over her elegant turquoise evening gown and its low bodice, then shot to Sarah, still seated at the kitchen table, but now with Rourke, who had his hand clasped over one of her hands. "How is she?" Bragg asked flatly.

  "She is a bit better. She has terrible bruises on her throat, Bragg," Francesca said, keeping her tone low.

  "It was the same man?" he asked in a similar tone.

  "Apparently so." She held his gaze. "Can we discuss the case outside?"

  He nodded. Francesca left the room with him, aware of Hart's black gaze following her. In the hall, she faced Bragg. "Look at this," she said, whispering.

  She showed him the stocking. "He wore one as a mask, and used this to try to strangle Sarah. Apparently he began with his hands. She cannot recall his words, but he did call her a little whore and said something to the effect that he had not forgotten her."

  Bragg's expression darkened. "I am getting a dreadful feeling, Francesca. Our madman is just that, mad, and he hates women."

  "This has nothing to do with Evan, I fear," she whispered back. "It gets worse. Sarah thought he might think to rape her."

  Bragg started. "Did he say something to that effect?"

  Francesca shook her head. "He was aroused."

  For a moment Bragg stared, and she added, "He also was profane. Sarah said he used many obscenities."

  Bragg was grim. "Neither Miss Conway nor Miss Holmes was raped, Francesca."

  Francesca started. "What?!"

  "Both victims were thoroughly examined. Neither one was raped," Bragg said. "I did not tell you about the physical examinations because I wished to spare you."

  She stared at him, remaining stunned that he had ordered such examinations on Grace Conway and Catherine Holmes.

  "Our killer has very perverted appetites, Francesca."

  She regrouped. "Yes, he does."

  "You are Sarah's friend. You need to sit down with her and record everything that madman said."

  "She doesn't remember everything. And as far as the first attack goes, she was trying to forget it completely, Bragg— almost the way a child might deny reality in order to pretend that it did not happen. That is why she did not tell us about it."

  He nodded, accepting her explanation of Sarah's odd behavior. "What did happen?"

  "She interrupted him as he was leaving her studio—they struggled briefly, he tripped, and she got away. He was obscene then, too—Sarah said she completely forgot everything until he attacked her again tonight."

  Bragg absorbed this and said, "There are no police on duty outside the house."

  "I assumed that, for some reason, you dismissed them."

  "No such order ever came from me. If Newman issued such a directive, he had better have a good reason."

  "Is he on his way?"

  "I would imagine so. Where did the attack take place?"

  "Her studio," Francesca said, and of the same mind, they started through the house in that direction. "Bragg, I saw Bertrand Hoeltz tonight at an art exhibition. He lied. He told me the other day that he did not know Sarah, but Sarah knows him very well."

  Bragg gave her a grim look and said nothing.

  "What is it?"

  He pushed open the door to Sarah's studio. It had been completely cleaned up, the floors washed and waxed, the canvases stacked up, the easels set upright. Which was why the blood-red words dripping down one pristine white wall were so shocking:

  KILL THE BITCH DIES

  Francesca gasped.

  Bragg said grimly, "Now we know what the B stands for."

  Francesca stood outside the studio, her mind spinning very uselessly, as Hickey and an officer began a search within for more clues. Bragg and Newman stood a few feet from her.

  "Sir, I never dismissed the men! I have no idea why they left their posts! I would never do such a thing wit
hout your orders, sir!"

  Bragg nodded, clasping his shoulder. "All right. Let's find out why they left their posts. If they did so out of negligence, they are both to be suspended. Why don't you put two men on it? Find them and bring them to headquarters. In the meantime, I want two men posted at the Channing house, one inside, one out, at all times, night or day."

  "Yes, sir," Newman said, nearly saluting. He was flushed with anxiety and he raced down the hall to do as Bragg had demanded.

  They were dealing with a madman, Francesca thought. Someone who hated women and found the act of strangulation sexually exciting. She shivered, then realized Hart stood at the corner of the corridor, regarding her closely. She straightened, hoping he hadn't seen how tired and worried she was.

  He approached. "It's almost three in the morning, Francesca. By now, your mother must be hysterical."

  "She's asleep. I can't leave yet, Calder." She tried a winning smile on him, but she was far too exhausted to succeed.

  He brushed a wisp of hair away from her cheek. "I sent Raoul some time ago with a message, so at least they know you are safe and sound. But it is time to go. I am taking you home." His words were a statement and held no hint of compromise.

  Francesca tensed. "You can't order me about as if I am a child. This is serious business, Hart. This is the business of murder!"

  "I am well aware of the business you are involved in, and it is far more than murder; it is also the business of hate and sex," he said coldly.

  "You do not miss a trick," she grumbled.

  His gaze moved past her. "Anyone can see that writing on the wall. Besides, Rourke told me what Sarah told you. This is an ugly crime. You should leave it alone, leave it to Rick."

  She felt assailed with guilt then, and she half-turned. Bragg was in the studio with his men, but he was keeping an eye on her and Hart. His face was carved in stone. She had no doubt he was also listening to their every word. She faced Hart. "I have to stay and help with the investigation. Mama will understand. As you have her twisted about your little finger, you shall be back in her good graces in no time."

  "I took you out and I shall bring you back. If you need some more time, then I shall wait." His jaw was hard, his eyes black.

  Bragg strode over to them. "Calder's right. There's nothing more that can be done tonight. If he took you out for the evening, he should bring you home. By now, your parents must be frantic."

  Francesca looked from Bragg to Hart and grumbled, "I despise it when the two of you take sides against me."

  "It would not be necessary if you used some common sense," Hart said.

  She felt like kicking his shin. Instead, she ignored him and faced Bragg. "We need to find out why Hoeltz lied. We need to interview both Neville and LeFarge again. Someone has to crack, Bragg, before there is another murder."

  "I agree. And you need to interview Sarah and get her to remember every word this madman said to her," he said grimly.

  Francesca hesitated. "I can do that first thing tomorrow. I want to spend the night here, with her," she decided.

  "No," both Hart and Bragg said at once.

  "Why not?" She looked from Hart to Bragg again. "She needs me!"

  "Rourke is staying, in case she needs laudanum," Hart said flatly. "You must get home."

  Francesca met his gaze and knew he was thinking about his relationship with her parents. "Coward," she said.

  He gave her a dark look and then turned to his half brother. "Is there any way I can help your investigation?" he asked, surprising Francesca.

  Bragg was ice-cold. "Yes. Stay the hell away from Francesca."

  Hart made a mocking sound, saluted him as sarcastically, and walked out.

  "He wanted to help!" Francesca cried.

  "When the hell were you going to tell me that he thinks to marry you?" Bragg demanded.

  She froze.

  He was furious. His golden eyes were ice. "Or were you going to tell me ever, at all?" he demanded.

  She somehow found her voice. "I had hoped to spare you, Bragg."

  Bragg made a sound and whirled away.

  Francesca ran after him, grabbing his shoulder, but he did not stop. "Wait!"

  He now froze.

  She ran around to face him. "I am not marrying him. We are not engaged. I have made myself clear. It is not my fault that he is as stubborn as a mule!" she cried.

  "Then why the hell did you spend the evening with him tonight?" he asked coldly.

  "What? Why wouldn't I? I enjoy his company! And we were hardly alone—Rourke and Sarah were with us!" She began to shake with anger. "It's not as if you asked me out tonight, now is it? Oh ... may I ask what you did tonight?" She felt certain he had escorted his wife to some damnable affair. "You have reconciled, Bragg. I am entitled to my evenings, just as you are to yours."

  "I stayed at my office until eleven, Francesca," he said, "so as to avoid going home to a situation I do not wish to be in. And I told you—there is no reconciliation."

  That silenced her. She was disbelieving. She finally said, "I am sorry. But as far as I am concerned, you and Leigh Anne have reconciled. Which is as it should be."

  "No, it's not," he said, more angrily. "I spent half of every moment thinking about you tonight, foolishly hoping you might appear on the pretext of discussing the investigation."

  Guilt pricked at her. He had been working, and she had been on the town with Hart. But she was also saddened. "If I had appeared, that is exactly what it would have been—a pretext."

  His eyes darkened, and she interrupted before he could rebut. "Let's not battle one another. Please. It's too painful. What if I tell you that first thing tomorrow I will be at your office so we can plan our strategy?" She attempted a small smile. "We must find this killer, Bragg. Immediately."

  He sighed and his entire face softened, as did his eyes. "I know. I am sorry I lost my temper. I almost had heart failure when Hart told me he thinks to marry you."

  "He told you," she said slowly, stunned. But of course he would do such a thing. Doing so would be entirely in character. He loved besting his half brother. He loved taunting him.

  "He is using you," Bragg said quietly. "And you are falling for it, hook, line, and sinker. I am afraid for you, Francesca."

  She stiffened with dread. "No. We really are friends and—"

  "How can you be so fooled! He threw his plans in my face! He was gloating at stealing you away from me— especially as he knows my hands are tied for the next six months! There is nothing he enjoys more than to see me squirm in discomfort—or worse. It has always been that way. He is my worst rival and you know it, as you have seen it for yourself."

  She hugged herself. She knew Hart was fond of her— and she also knew how jealous he was of Bragg, and vice versa. She knew they had fought bitterly their entire lives. Yet she knew Hart wanted her. She also knew he would never steal the woman Bragg loved away from him.

  She closed her eyes, shaken. But did she really know that? And so what if Hart wanted to take her to bed? His passion meant nothing. He had been with hundreds of other women. She wasn't half as beautiful as Daisy, to mention one. Yet she was the one he so suddenly wished to marry.

  "Francesca," Bragg said urgently, pulling her close. "I am not trying to hurt you—I am trying to protect you from a very ruthless man."

  She smiled bravely at him. "First of all," she choked, "Hart knows I am not marrying anyone. So you need not worry about me so."

  He brushed hair away from her eyes, her cheek. "I will always worry about you. It's like breathing the air. It is something I simply must do."

  She hesitated, because the one thing she had with Bragg—that she did not have with Hart—was trust. Then she thought about the fact that it had taken Bragg some time to mention the fact that he had a wife whom he was separated from. Oddly, she did trust him, in spite of that, because trusting him was as natural to her as breathing the air he had spoken of. She relented. She closed her eyes and let him pull her even c
loser. There was more than comfort in the circle of his embrace, there was also safety, and it was huge.

  If only there was a way to know how Hart really felt, and if he was such a bastard as to be using her.

  Francesca was appalled with her thoughts. She was an optimist by nature. She believed in Hart's goodness. She had never thought, for a moment, that Hart might be using her to get back at his brother.

  Until now.

  "You should go home," Bragg said roughly, releasing her. His gaze had warmed and she knew what the look meant.

  But she was too shaken to have more than a vague longing for the man whose arms she had just been in. She did not look away. At least with Bragg she knew where she stood—and she felt as if she always would.

  His wife might remain in his home forever, but he would always care about her, and if there was ever danger, he would be the first to rush to her side.

  "Let's go, Francesca," Hart drawled from behind her.

  She flinched and turned and saw him regarding them with cool, dark eyes, his arms folded across his chest. He looked very annoyed. His jaw was flexing repeatedly.

  Her heart lurched hard, painfully.

  "I'll see you in the morning, then," Bragg said softly.

  Francesca nodded, but not happily. She was acutely aware of the man standing before her—of the fact that he had a wife waiting for him at his home, no matter how he dreaded going there—and the man glowering at her from behind, and the fact that he was the most complicated person she had ever met. "I'll try to speak with Sarah first," she said.

  Bragg nodded and walked back into Sarah's studio.

  Francesca turned.

  "Shall we?" Hart asked, not pleasantly. He reached for her arm.

  Francesca dodged him, wondering then if she was a complete fool, the same kind of fool that hundreds of other women had been where Calder Hart was concerned. Her mind had never become more set. She would never marry him, no matter how much she might wish to leap into his bed.

  "Sometimes," Hart remarked unpleasantly, "I wish I were a strangler—and then I would strangle my brother and it would truly be good riddance, once and for all."