Deadly Kisses (26 page)

He almost smiled. “Do you really want the truth?”

She was afraid, and she hesitated. “Yes.”

“You are my only accomplishment.”

“Calder, that is hardly true. You left home at sixteen with nothing—and look at the fortune you have made for yourself! Look at the collection of art you have amassed. Look at the companies you manage and own. Your accomplishments are vast.”

“Persuading you to agree to marry me is my only genuine accomplishment.”

Did he have any idea, she wondered, that his words were terribly romantic? “I recall very little persuasion,” she said tartly, but she did recall his heated kisses and she felt herself blush.

He knew, because he gave her a look. “The attraction between us did make persuasion rather easy,” he said.

“It wasn't that,” she said, very serious now. “You showed me that beneath that dark reputation you seem to cherish and even flaunt, you are a very good, noble man.”

“When will you doubt me?” he exclaimed.

“Never,” she said firmly. “Nothing has changed, Calder. You are the most powerful man I know. Even now, in handcuffs, in a prison cell, you are a dominating force, someone to be reckoned with.”

He raised his dark gaze to hers. “Everything has changed, has it not?” He said slowly. “Daisy is dead. My child is dead. I am charged with murder. And we are no longer engaged.”

After a hurtful, sinking moment, she said, “That was your choice, not mine. It will never be mine. My feelings haven't changed—and I know yours haven't, either.”

He did not look away. “My feelings will never change,” he said very quietly. “I don't want you here with me, like this. But you remain the sunshine in my life, Francesca. Even now, you brighten up this miserable place and my entire existence.”

His words thrilled her, but she remained uncertain. She felt as if they were at a dangerous crossroads, and that he might choose to stay on his lonely, isolated path, without her, even after she had solved this case. “I want to be the sunshine in your life,” she whispered unsteadily. “You never have to be alone again. But if you shut the windows, if you close the drapes, how will I ever get back in?”

His expression twisted with grief, misery, and perhaps confusion and doubt. She did not look away, even though she felt foolish tears rising. She tried to smile at him, hoping he would not see.

But he did. He wiped a drop of moisture from her cheek, having to raise both cuffed wrists to do so. Instantly her body tightened and her eyes drifted closed.

“I don't know,” he whispered, and he leaned close.

She felt his hands on her face. Her heart filled with hope. He tensed and his mouth took hers, brushing, until his lips firmed in the most urgent, uncompromising manner. Francesca reached for his shoulders and held on, wishing she might never let go. The kiss raged, openmouthed and deep. Finally he pulled away.

She looked into his eyes and smiled at him. “It will never be over, will it? No matter what.”

“No, it will never be over,” he said. He stepped away from her. “You should go.”

He was right. She started to leave, when she realized she hadn't asked him about the money Bragg needed to pay off Mike O'Donnell. She hesitated.

“What is it?”

She faced him. “Rick is also in trouble, Calder.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes. “If you mean his head is about to roll over this investigation, I have no intention of blaming myself. His job has been on the line for some time.”

“No, it's not about his job. It's about his family,” she said.

Thursday, June 5, 1902—3:00 p.m.

H
ART SEEMED TAKEN ABACK.
“What are you trying to say?”

“A man named Mike O'Donnell has come forward,” Francesca said. “He is the girls' uncle, and a lowlife thug with questionable morals, although he claims to have had a religious awakening. I don't know if you are aware of it, but Rick and Leigh Anne are trying to adopt the girls. He has
suggested
that he could raise the girls himself.”

“Why doesn't Rick arrest him for extortion?”

“He never actually asked for money directly. Rick is afraid for Leigh Anne, Calder. She is very fragile now and he doesn't know if she can withstand a prolonged crisis. I suggested that he pay O'Donnell to leave the city.”

A moment passed as he considered her words. “I know what you are after, Francesca. But he would never take any money from me.”

She was grim. Was Hart refusing to help his own brother? “How do you know that, if you do not ask him if you can help? Would you help, if he let you?”

His eyes flashed. “Of course I would help! I would gladly give him the funds. But I am telling you, he would die before ever being beholden to me.”

She was relieved Hart would come to his brother's aid in an emergency. “Rathe and Grace went to New port for the week.
Who else can he ask? Can I tell him that you have offered him the funds?”

He gave her a look. “He's going to be angry with you for interfering, Francesca. He will be angry with you for approaching me behind his back.”

“What do you want to do, then? Wait for him to ask you himself?”

Hart was thoughtful. “He will never come to me in a million years. Go ahead. Offer him the money. But be prepared—he isn't going to be grateful.”

“I don't care. I think this is the best solution, considering all that Leigh Anne has been through. We need to pay off O'Donnell and get rid of him,” she declared. “It's best for O'Donnell and it is best for the girls.”

Hart made a sound, shaking his head as he did so. “You are loyal to the very end.”

“I will always be there for your brother, just as I will always be there for you.”

“Then we are both fortunate, are we not? That you care so much for us
both.
” He was mocking.

She closed her eyes in dismay. Hart was never going to forget her brief romantic interlude with Bragg. “Do we have to argue over my friendship with Rick now? When we are arguing about everything else?”

He studied her, his gaze ominously dark. “Our fifteen minutes are up, Francesca.”

Her heart tightened. “Calder…”

“You should go.”

 

M
AGGIE BENT OVER THE
only table in the one-bedroom flat she leased, sewing industriously by the light from a kerosene lamp. She had lost her job at the Moe Levy factory, due to the excessive number of days she had missed, the manager had said. No amount of explanation had convinced the manager to change his mind. She had four children to support, but before she had been
able to spend one single day looking for new employment, Lady Montrose had appeared at her door with Francesca, ordering six new gowns and as many underclothes. Francesca had ordered an evening dress, as well, although Maggie knew she did not need another one, as she had recently finished a large order for her. Then Joel, who was Francesca's assistant, had received a raise in his wages. And just when she had finished the Montrose order, Mrs. Bragg had ordered an entire new wardrobe for Mary's children, Katie and Dot.

Maggie paused in her sewing. Mary O'Shaunessy had been her friend and her death continued to sadden her, but it was a blessing in disguise. Katie and Dot had been taken in by the Braggs, and clearly, they were thriving in such a wonderful family. It was obvious that Leigh Anne thought of herself as their mother. Maggie shuddered, recalling how brave she had been confronting that awful Mike O'Donnell. While she had never met Mary's brother, Maggie knew Mary had been afraid of him, especially when he was drunk.

She smoothed down the bright yellow fabric she was working on. Maybe losing her job at the factory was a blessing in disguise, as well. At first, she had thought that Francesca had maneuvered her sister into ordering so many dresses as an act of kindness and charity. But in the several fittings she had had with Lady Montrose, they had become rather friendly. Francesca's sister was terribly elegant, but she was as kind, as warm and as considerate as her sister. Maggie had come to realize that Lady Montrose had genuinely wanted several new dresses, and that she had admired the two evening gowns Maggie had made for her sister.

Now, with the order Leigh Anne Bragg had just placed, Maggie was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she could make ends meet as a seamstress. Maybe she would not need another factory job. Before her husband had died, many years ago, she'd had a foolish but wonderful dream. She had
dreamed of one day having her own dress shop. It would be in some fabulous location—perhaps Union Square or the Ladies' Mile. All of the most fashionable uptown ladies would frequent her shop, begging for her services. She would have to turn away customers, for she would be one of the city's most sought-after dressmakers. Her husband had shared her dream. He had sworn that one day she would have her own shop.

It was impossible, though, and she'd never shared her thoughts with anyone else, knowing that it was just a foolish hope. It would be enough to sew for the up town ladies out of her home, in the darkest hours of the night, barely making ends meet, while she worked by day as a housemaid or candle maker. Still, the possibility now loomed that she might not need the daytime job. She would be happy if she had enough food on the table for her children, four little beds and a roof over their heads. What else did she need?

An image came to mind of a dark and handsome man, a thought she did not want to entertain. Maggie quickly picked up her needle and thread, blinking back unwanted tears—tears she refused to identify. She began to sew, her fingers swift.

A knock sounded on the door.

Paddy and Matt walked together the few blocks to and from the public school they attended, but they never knocked; they shouted and screamed. Her toddler, Lizzie, was on the floor, examining her most precious possessions—two stuffed animals—a spotted horse and a shaggy dog, both gifts from Evan Cahill. But then, the gifts he had given her children were all over the flat. “I'm coming,” she said softly, unable to ignore the ache in her heart as she went to get the door.

I told you all along, Maggie girl, he's not for you.

Although her husband had died three years ago, when she was pregnant with Lizzie, he was with her still. Months might go by without a word, and then suddenly he was there in her mind, offering her all kinds of advice and his particular brand of wisdom.

Ye got to move on, me girl. There's someone else out there for you, someone as kind, just not as rich or handsome, someone who will do right by ye and the girl and boys.

Maggie had not a doubt that he was right. She had never expected anything from Evan Cahill. She had never understood his interest in her children, his warmth, his smiles or his visits. But those visits were over anyway. He was marrying the countess.

Maggie opened the door and went into shock. For standing there was none other than the stunning countess herself.

The auburn-haired woman smiled. “Hello. You are Mrs. Kennedy, are you not? The seamstress?”

Maggie realized then that the woman had come to place an order. Somehow she nodded and smiled, but her gaze veered to the woman's waist.

Evan had told her the countess was carrying his child. He had seemed so terribly unhappy when he had spoken, yet she had known that one day, he would be thrilled. One day, the child Bartolla Benevente carried would be the greatest joy in his life. She had told him just that, but he clearly hadn't been able to believe her.

The countess wore a resplendent royal-blue gown that hugged her lush figure and was cut low enough that the dress should only be worn in the evening. It was an expensive, stiff satin, trimmed with equally expensive lace. She wore matching sapphires. Maggie saw that her belly was slightly curved, but still in perfect proportion to the rest of her figure. Maggie did not know how far along she was, but she wasn't showing yet.

Realizing she had been staring in the most inappropriate manner, she jerked her gaze upward. “Do come in, Countess,” she stammered in haste, and with the same confusion, she curtsied.

The countess was a head taller than Maggie and she looked down at her with a mixture of amusement and condescension. “Thank you.” She swept into the two-room flat, glancing curiously around. “I don't believe we have ever met, although I have heard
all
about you.”

Her tone dripped with smug superiority. Maggie was taken aback, but then, perhaps she had become too accustomed to being treated as an equal by the Cahills and Lady Montrose.

Yer a hardworkin', God-fearin' Irish woman, me girl. Ye can be proud of who you are, but you ain't one of them an' you never will be—no matter that he kissed you.

“I have also heard about you,” Maggie said, blushing now. She had done her best to forget that Evan Cahill had kissed her, just once. It had been an impulse on his part, obviously, but she had secretly dreamed of his kisses for months afterward. “I am very pleased to meet you, Countess.”

“Really?” She glanced at the table where Maggie was working on Katie's canary-yellow dress. “And how would you know about me?” She faced her, a beaded blue purse in her hands.

Maggie was disconcerted. The other woman did not seem pleasantly disposed toward her. “I…I…I am a friend of Francesca Cahill's,” she managed to say. “And a friend of the family's.” Her cheeks were even hotter now and Evan's image loomed in her mind when she did not want him there, not ever, and especially not now. “Have you come to order a gown?” she asked in some desperation.

The countess raised her eyebrows. “My modiste is in Paris, my dear,” she said coolly. “I would hardly order a dress from you.”

Maggie was shocked by her rudeness.

Bartolla spoke again. “And I do think you meant that you are a friend of Evan Cahill's?”

Maggie felt cornered, trapped. She did not want to entertain the other woman now. Worse, she had an idea of why Bartolla Benevente had come.

“What is wrong? Do I frighten you?” Bartolla mocked.

In that instant, Maggie realized that this woman hated her. The countess wasn't the lady she had thought her to be. She was too terribly nasty. Had Evan told her about the kiss? There could be no other explanation! “I don't know why you are here,” Maggie whispered. “Would you like some tea?”

“I am not sitting down at
your
table with
you
to sip tea,” Bartolla said, her tone vicious. “I am a countess! My home in Italy is a palace! I live uptown in a mansion! I did not come here to be a friend to you, Mrs. Kennedy!”

Maggie backed up. The apartment was small and she hit the edge of the kitchen table, where she had been working. “He told you,” she whispered, her heart racing with alarm and fear. “It was a mistake—it is my entire fault—I am sorry!”

Bartolla's eyes widened. There was outrage in them. “He told me what?” she demanded. “You little whore, what have you done? Do I even have to guess? You jumped into his bed, didn't you?”

Maggie gasped in shock at being called such a name and at the suggestion that she had behaved so shamefully. “No! I would never do such a thing. It was only a kiss! Just one single kiss! And I know you are marrying him. I am happy for you both. It will never happen again, Countess!”

Bartolla was still, and she lifted both dark, plucked brows. “A kiss,” she repeated. “One single kiss?”

Maggie nodded, biting her lip. “It should have never happened.”

Bartolla took two steps and loomed over her. “You are damn right it should have never happened. He is not for the likes of you, Mrs. Kennedy, but you already know that, don't you? Gentlemen only use trollops like you as a diversion, as entertainment, on a cold, lonely night. They
marry
women like me.”

Maggie stiffened. “I am not a trollop. I work very hard to feed my—”

“Yes, you work,” Bartolla said low. “You are a
seam stress.
He is a
Cahill.
I am a
countess.
I am sure that even your befuddled brain can do the arithmetic.”

Maggie somehow drew herself up. “You do not need to be so insulting.”

“How dare you tell me anything!” Bartolla exclaimed. “He is
not
for you. So turn those blue eyes else where—or you will be very sorry, indeed.”

Maggie held her head high. No one had ever spoken to her in such a manner before. “I know we come from different worlds. You do not need to threaten me. The kiss was a mistake. It will never happen again.”

“I will do more than threaten you, Mrs. Kennedy. Do you not have four children?”

Maggie felt the world stop turning. The flat had be come still.

“You have four small children,” the countess said again with a smirk. “It would be a shame if anything were to happen to any one of them—like that sweet little girl on the floor?”

Maggie ran to Lizzie and picked her up so abruptly that the toddler wailed in protest. Holding her tightly to her breast, she faced the countess, shaking with fear and outrage. “You would threaten my children?”

“Stay away from Mr. Cahill. He is not for your kind,” she said, marching to the door. She paused, glancing back at Maggie with visible anger. “I strongly suggest you send him away if he ever calls here again. Good day, Mrs. Kennedy.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Maggie moved. She put Lizzie down and ran to the door, throwing the bolt home. Then she stood there, aware that she was panting. She could not seem to get enough air.