Deadly Kisses (33 page)

She nodded, thrilled. “You did the right thing, Calder.”

His face changed. Abruptly, a haunted look appeared in his eyes. “Do not award me another prize for nobility,” he said, and suddenly he rubbed his face with his hands.

When he had first come into the room, he had been distressed because of her condition. But Francesca knew him very well now. She saw that he remained upset, but the matter was a different one entirely. “Has something happened that I should know about?” she asked very quietly, reaching for his hand.

He leapt to his feet and away from her. “Nothing has happened. I have to go. It is late.” He forced a smile. It did not reach his eyes. “You need to rest, and I am keeping you.”

She did not want him to leave and not like this. “I am supposed to rest but I am not allowed to fall asleep,” she said softly. “Can't you keep me company for a while? Although, Connie and Neil are going to take shifts to make certain I don't sleep at all tonight.”

His eyes widened. “Rourke is that worried?” Instantly he sat back down. “Of course I'll stay. Damn it, Francesca,” he began.

She knew he was going to complain about the attack and the nature of her work. She touched his lips with her finger. “It was a tap. Rourke is being overly protective. I am
fine.
”

Agony shimmered in his eyes. “I cannot lose you, too. Maybe I have been wrong, to be so supportive of your independence and sleuthing.”

She was startled. “You are not going to lose me.” And she thought then about the child he had just lost.

But he was staring at his knees, rubbing his jaw. “I am sorry. I have to go.” And he stood, unexpectedly starting across the room, his strides long and hard.

Francesca leapt up, racing after him in her bare feet. “Calder, wait!”

He turned as she rushed into his arms. “You need to be resting!” he cried. “You were hurt today, damn it. Why can't you ever listen to anyone?”

She flinched, but his face had cracked into a dozen lines. She could feel how distressed he was. “What is it? This isn't about me.”

“Of course it is,” he said harshly, looking away and releasing her.

She clasped his cheek. “When are you going to grieve?”

His gaze shot to hers. “Don't,” he warned.

Tears filled her eyes. “Don't grieve for your child? I'm sorry, Calder, but even with the trouble she caused, I wish Daisy were alive and I wish we had that little boy or girl to raise!”

Abruptly, his eyes swam with tears. He turned, reaching for the door.

She clasped his shoulder and felt him trembling. “Please don't go.”

He shook his head, and when he spoke, his words were hoarse. “You don't want to see me this way.”

“What way?” She tugged on him but he refused to budge. “Your child deserves your tears.”

He leaned his head against the door.

Francesca suddenly realized he was crying. She did not know what to do. She hesitated, but no rational thought came. There was only her own answering grief and all the compassion she felt for him. So she put her arms around him.

A long moment passed, shudders racking his body. And then the silent sobs were gone. “I am fine.”

She decided not to refute him. “Just come here,” she whispered to his back.

He turned and Francesca took his face in her hands. “It's all right, Calder, to mourn the death of your child.”

He fought the grief and she saw it. “I lied. I would have taken care of that child. I would have never let him or her grow up abandoned, unloved and alone.”

“I know.”

“Would you have really helped me? You wouldn't have left me?”

“Of course I would have helped you,” she said, smiling just a little. “I don't care who the mother was, I would love any child of yours,” she said truthfully.

“What have I done to deserve you?” He tilted up her chin. “Francesca, last Thursday I did shout at Daisy. I was furious. I really don't remember what I said, but when she first told me the truth, I did not want the child. And now I am paying for it.”

“You are not paying for anything.” She hesitated, then decided to be honest. “I told you once that when I give my heart away it is forever.”

He started, his eyes widening. “You said that when you were in love with Rick!”

“But I wasn't in love with him. I think I had confused my admiration and my respect for love. And I will always care about him. But you are the one I have given my heart to. And with my heart comes faith and trust. Forever.”

He stared. Then he reached into the interior pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “I have just read this,” he said seriously.

Francesca had a bad feeling then. “What is it?”

“A letter from Daisy. I only received it today. She wrote it Thursday after our argument. It must have arrived at the house
when I was away. It is fortunate Rick has proved I have been framed, but this letter is damning.”

Francesca trembled. “May I?” she asked, holding out her hand.

“Please.” He handed it to her.

Francesca quickly read the letter, an image of Daisy sitting at the small desk in the study where she had been murdered filling her mind. Every word Daisy had written added to Hart's motive for murder. She finished reading and slowly met his gaze. “The police do not need to see this.”

“You are going to withhold evidence?”

Francesca realized that was exactly what she was doing. “We both know you are innocent. And you are no longer at the top of the suspect list. I'll hold on to this.” While she knew she should destroy the letter, she could not go that far.

Hart was grim. “You don't need to protect me this way, by compromising your honesty and morals yet again.”

“I am not compromising anything,” she retorted. “I am fighting for the man I love!”

A heartbeat passed, and Hart pulled her close. In spite of the slight throbbing in her head, her body responded as he plied her mouth very thoroughly with his. Then he pulled away, keeping one large hand be hind her nape. The matter of the letter must have been settled, because he said, “I need you to understand why I have left you, Francesca.” He was dead serious now.

She tensed. “I do understand.”

“Do you?” His smile seemed fragile and it was brief. “You have become everything to me. No one and nothing is more important. Can you understand that?”

A thrill began coursing through her. “Really?”

“Why else would I have asked you to marry me?” he asked.

“You told me then that you were tired of your philandering ways and that we suited nicely. You were very casual about it.”

His eyes warmed. “You are so naive! I wasn't about to reveal
my hand, Francesca.” He became intent. “But I must reveal it now.”

She nodded, not daring to swallow or breathe.

“I can't hurt you. I won't. And if we went on, you would be hurt by your association with me. Can't you see that?”

She had thought his confession would lead to reconciliation, not a deeper and more entrenched split. “What are you saying?”

“I could not live with myself if we remained together. I am ruined, Francesca. It will be a long, long time before society forgets that I was a suspect in the murder of my ex-mistress and child. I can survive—I have survived all the whispers behind my back thus far. I am, frankly, used to it. Truthfully, I have been indifferent to what others thought since I was a small child. But you are thin-skinned, and do not tell me otherwise! I know you would pretend to manage, that you would pretend indifference, and I also know you would cry in your bed every night, behind my back. I am not going to be the cause of such misery and distress.”

“This isn't fair,” she somehow said, backing away from him. “You love me and I love you! It is my choice to make, not yours!”

“I will always be here to protect you, Francesca—always. And you will always be the most important thing in my life. I am never going to let anyone harm you. I will always help you if you ask for my help. But I will not be the cause of your ruin and disgrace and, worse, real heartbreak.”

She could not speak. If she could, she would tell him that he was the entire cause of her broken heart, and the pain was far greater than any hurt society might ever inflict.

“Darling, tell me you understand. I could not look at myself in the mirror if I did not protect you now. If I went merrily along with our engagement, I would be the selfish cad society accuses me of being.”

Francesca stared at him, her vision blurring. “I do understand,”
she managed to say. “You really think that what you are doing is best for me.”

He nodded, and he pulled her stiff body close. “I know that what I am doing is right. I have respected all of your choices. Can you not respect mine?” He
had
respected her from the first moment they had met. What he was now asking was very reasonable, in fact. But how could she agree? “I want you. Apparently I am the selfish one in this relationship.”

He smiled. “But you have me. You always will.”

His words, uttered in prison, echoed.
It will never be over.
And Francesca suddenly realized that their engagement might be off, but their relationship hadn't ended, not at all. Hart had made his feelings for her terribly clear. Their relationship hadn't ended—it would never end. It had
changed.
In fact, if anything, their love suddenly seemed stronger than ever, although the circumstances were far more complex. “I don't want to agree to your choice,” she finally said, stunned by her own revelations.

His smile faded. “I am asking you to respect my decision, not to agree with it. I have to do this, Francesca.”

“I do respect your decision, Calder. But where does that leave us, precisely?”

“It leaves us in a very strange place,” he admitted softly. “I will not return to our engagement, but I am selfish enough to need you in my life.” He spoke slowly now. “I suppose that leaves us as friends, as genuine friends.” There was a question in his eyes.

Francesca knew she was never going to stop loving Hart. And while he could not say the words, it had never been more evident that he felt the same way. He was not going to revive their engagement but he wasn't really walking away from her, either. Still, could they go back to being friends, when they had been lovers in almost every way?

If the alternative was losing him, she knew that her answer was yes.

Besides, she intended to persuade him to change his mind, even if it took years. “So we will be loyal friends—and nothing more,” she said softly. “Will there be other women now?” And she felt a terrible pang of jealousy.

“I don't want anyone else!” he exclaimed.

“So you will become a monk?” If marriage was not a possibility, why couldn't they become lovers? She had never been like the other young ladies in town. She hardly needed a traditional relationship.

His jaw tightened. “It appears that way. I know what you are thinking, Francesca, but having a love affair with a supposed murderer would be far more scandalous than marrying one.” He flushed. “Remember, I wish to protect your reputation, not ruin it even further.”

“But you just kissed me,” she pointed out.

His color deepened. “As you know by now, I am hardly perfect. But I intend to control my passion for you, if that is what I must do.”

“You are so stubborn,” she whispered. But she cupped his cheek, and unthinkingly, he turned his lips to the inside of her hand.

“I have never cared about you more than I do now.”

Her heart lurched with such intensity it was frightening. She would never stop loving or wanting this man. The territory that lay ahead now was scarily unknown, but when had Hart ever been predictable? When had the map of their future ever been clearly charted? “You do realize that, right now, I desperately want to be in your arms,” she said.

“Yes, I do realize that, but I am trying to keep myself in check.”

Something hot, white and electric leapt between them—
Francesca actually thought she saw the sparks. This would be a huge challenge, she thought.

At that moment, to her relief, Joel burst into the room. “Miz Cahill!”

Francesca faced Joel, and saw that he was hopping from foot to foot in his excitement. “Joel! What is it?” She hurried toward him.

“I beg yer pardon,” he cried. “I didn't mean to barge in.”

“It's all right,” she said, studying him. “What do you wish to tell me?”

He grinned. “I tailed Chief Farr! An' I found him, all right, just like I found you an' Mr. Hart!”

“Joel! I told you not to follow the chief. Did he catch you?” she cried.

“No, ma'am. He never saw me, not once.”

Francesca was relieved. “What did you discover?”

The color in Joel's cheeks increased. He shot a glance at Hart. “He was with Rose, Miz Cahill, just like you and Mr. Hart.”

It took Francesca a moment. “Farr and Rose are lovers?”

Joel nodded.

Friday, June 6, 1902—10:00 a.m.

T
HE BANGING ON HIS
door awoke him. Evan groaned, his head pounding with the force of an anvil, wishing that whoever it was would go away. Then he recalled the prior evening and instantly he was ill.

“Evan! The maid said you haven't left yet. Please, open the door and let me in,” Bartolla Benevente said, sounding quite annoyed.

He did not really listen. He lay very still, recalling every bet he had placed, the roll of every pair of die, the spin of the roulette wheel, and finally, the far too serious game of poker.

How much had he lost last night? He seemed to recall the sum of eighteen thousand dollars, all of it credit, and he already owed Hart fifty thousand, not to mention that he owed more than that to another creditor. He had been so upset last night that after three drinks he had wandered to a club, never mind that he had told himself he would not go inside. But he had. Then he had told himself he would only drink and watch, and he had—for a few hours. And then he had told himself he'd only place one bet—one single bet—and he'd leave. But he had known he was lying to himself. One bet had brought back that familiar rush and he had forgotten everything—Bartolla, the child she claimed was his, Maggie. Gaming was far more addictive than any opiate could ever be, and he was no different from a drug addict.

Damn it.

His father had disowned him because of his gambling. He was deeply in debt—Andrew refused to pay his creditors. Because of his dissolute nature, because of his weak, flawed character, he was living in this goddamned hotel, about to marry a woman he no longer liked and, in fact, could barely stand. Now he would never have a chance to become acquainted with Maggie Kennedy, and discover if his feelings were reciprocated at all.

The key turned in his lock. Evan was too much of a gentleman to curse aloud, but in his mind, a few unsavory words echoed. Bartolla stepped inside, clearly quite outraged.

Evan sat up. He slept in the buff, so he stayed under the bed-covers. Now he recalled why she was so livid. He had failed to meet her for their engagement last night.

“Well, at least you aren't with another woman,” she said, stepping into his suite.

And something inside of him snapped. He stared at her, in her striped burgundy suit, garishly low-cut and far too fitted across the hips. In the past, such a style had inflamed him; now it repulsed him. Suddenly her body, which he had once considered magnificent, seemed overly ripe. It occurred to him that her hair was as distasteful, too, the shade more ruby than red and clearly unnatural. Maggie's soft blue eyes filled his mind, her regard tender, worried, searching.

She always put everyone before herself; never would she put her own needs first.

He held his simmering temper in check, slowly threw off the covers and got up. He ignored Bartolla, aware of her gaze upon him as he went to the love seat at the foot of the bed, where he had left his trousers. He quickly stepped into them, keeping his back to her.

“What happened last night? We had supper plans,” she snapped.

He needed a glass of water, he thought, although he knew
that would not alleviate his throbbing head or his disgust with her—and himself.

“Evan! What is wrong with you? I thought you were going to pick me up, and when you didn't, I went to the Farleys' alone, thinking you were meeting me there. But you never showed up!”

He poured himself a glass of water, his hands shaking. Bartolla marched around him to face him. She grabbed the glass from his hand. “I was humiliated.”

He met her heated eyes. “I am sorry—”

“I should hope so!” she said, cutting him off.

“I am sorry, but I cannot marry you, Bartolla,” he continued.

She turned white. “I know you do not mean what you just said!”

“As for last night, I was gambling.” He turned away from her, ill once again. What was wrong with him? Like a drunkard suffering from the effects of a binge on the next day, he regretted every bet he'd placed.

She seized his arm. “I thought those days were over!”

He gently dislodged her. “I had thought so, too.”

Her face softened. “Evan, I see you have had a bad night. I am sorry. We both know that gambling is a disease for you. I see I have overreacted. How can I help? Oh, I think I know the cure for what ails you,” she said, her tone turning husky. And she grasped the waistband of his trousers, her fingertips pressing against his skin.

He did stir, but only slightly. “I have had a very bad night,” he said, pulling away from her. There was only one woman whose comfort he wanted—whose touch he wanted—and while she might comfort him, he felt rather certain she would never touch him. “I want you to know that I will take care of you and the child. I will be very generous.”

Bartolla cried out. She lost all of her coloring now.

He hoped that would be the end of it. He could not manage a scene right now. “I am going to get dressed.”

But she followed him into the boudoir. “Of course we are marrying—we are eloping, as soon as possible. I am carrying your child!”

“And I said I would take care of you.”

She trembled in anger. “How?” she spat. “You have been disowned and you work for a lawyer. You can't even afford a decent ring! And clearly, you have not recovered from your urge to game. That will certainly tighten your purse strings!”

He was suddenly alert. “Bartolla, I was a penniless clerk when we first agreed to elope. You did not seem to mind then.”

She shook her head. “I have always minded! And I have always assumed it was a temporary aberration on your part.” Suddenly she reached for him. He stepped back, but she managed to place her hands on his chest. “Darling, I am a countess. I would never agree to marriage to a clerk. I intended to encourage you to make amends with your father after we wed. I know you had a rotten night, Evan, but we have to think of the child.”

“I
am
thinking of the child. I am thinking that I will grovel before my father and beg his forgiveness so that I can support you and the child in the manner you deserve. But I am not marrying you.”

She had become still. Her hands slipped from his chest. “You are going to go to your father and patch things up? So you can support me?”

He could not breathe. There did not seem to be enough air in the small chamber for them both and he walked out. Maggie's eyes followed him, sad and somewhat reproachful. She was going to be very disappointed in him, he thought, as she had made it clear that she thought he should marry Bartolla. He hated letting her down. And she would be horrified when he told her how he had slipped back into gambling last night. “I do not lie.” He did not look at her now. “My one redeeming quality, I suppose. You
need not fear for the future, Bartolla. Until my son or daughter comes of age, you will be taken care of.”

Bartolla had followed him back into the bedroom and she sat down, appearing thoughtful. After a moment, she said, “My heart is broken, Evan.”

He wasn't foolish enough to believe her. “And I am also sorry for that.”

“I think I should send my lawyer to meet yours so we can finalize all of the arrangements.”

He shrugged. “Just give me a day or two to speak with Andrew.”

She stood. “Of course.” She hesitated. “I will be here if you change your mind. We are a good match.”

He tried to smile and failed. He wasn't going to change his mind, but he did not tell her that. “I am late for work. That is, if I haven't lost my position.”

“Well, after you speak with Andrew, you won't need your employment, now will you?” She started across the room, reticule in hand.

He suddenly thought of what Maggie had told him. “Bartolla?”

At the door, she paused. “Yes?”

He walked over to her. “My support is conditional upon one thing.”

“What is that?” she asked, unperturbed.

“I want you to stay away from Mrs. Kennedy and her children.”

Her expression changed. “Is that what this is about? Are you breaking it off with me because of
her?
” Disbelief heightened her tone.

“I care for her, but no, that is not the reason I have bro ken things off.”

Bartolla was shaking. “You fool! You jilt me—a
countess
—for a seamstress with four children and callused hands?”

He felt an answering rage sweep through him. “She is a true lady, Bartolla,” he warned. “And she would never have me. So no, I did not jilt you for her.”

“She would not have you?” Bartolla gasped. “Are you mad? Are you in love with that trollop? Are you so in love that you cannot see clearly?”

Evan just stared, her words striking him with the force of a gale wind. He was dumbfounded. Bartolla was precisely right. “It doesn't matter.”

“Oh, it matters,” Bartolla cried. And her cheeks flushed, she stormed out.

 

“I
WAS HOPING YOU
would be in,” Francesca said, from just outside of Bragg's office.

He stood up in surprise, glancing at the clock on his desk. “It's only half past ten.”

Francesca slipped inside and closed his office door. She hurried to him. “I wanted to call you last night. I have learned something very interesting, but out of respect for Leigh Anne and the children, I waited until this morning. And of course, I did not want an operator to overhear us.”

He walked around his desk. “What has you so excited?”

“Joel has been tailing Farr. It appears that he is having an affair with Rose.”

Bragg registered her words. “Are you certain?”

“No. But yesterday, he was leaving Daisy's house when I arrived to speak with Rose. Homer said that they met briefly behind closed doors. Rose claims he was on official police business, but Joel saw them in an embrace last night.”

“You think that she was with Farr the night of the murder, and she is afraid to name him as her alibi?”

“Well, that is my first thought. If Rose was with Farr that night, then she is not our killer. But I have another notion.” Francesca had done nothing but think about Brendan Farr's
involvement in the case and crime last night. When Hart had left her, she had made copious notes, and in the end, she had drawn the same two conclusions. “Either Farr was with Rose and she had a solid alibi, meaning she is no longer a suspect, or he and Rose are involved in the murder together.”

“Francesca!” Bragg exclaimed. “That is a huge accusation to make.”

“I knew you would react that way. But Farr hates me. He has hated me from the moment we met. I have never discovered why. I have no doubt he would love to hurt us both by seeing Calder take the fall for Daisy's murder. And why didn't he come forward to tell us he was with Rose that night?”

“His silence is suspicious, but he might want to avoid a besmirched reputation—just like Gillespie.”

“He isn't married. Who would care if he frequents a prostitute?”

“You know the press would make a cause célèbre out of it. I probably would have to dismiss him,” Bragg said pointedly.

“Are you going to call him in? We need to ask him about this, Rick.”

Bragg studied her and she stared back. “Of course. Do you want to look over that report on the knife while I get him?”

Francesca smiled then. “I would love to.”

He handed her the folder, his gaze suspicious. “You are in very good spirits today, all things considering.”

“Calder was framed, and if Rose is not our killer, then we will merely have to keep looking.”

“That is not what I meant, exactly.” He regarded closely.

“I am feeling much better,” she admitted. She had weathered this latest new development with Hart and intended to embrace the future in any way it chose to come at them.

He stared. “You have reconciled with Hart.”

She met his gaze. “Not exactly. But I realized that he has to do this—he feels compelled to protect me. I can understand that
now. And I also realized that we do not need an official relationship to remain committed to one another.”

Bragg flushed. “I hope you know what you're doing,” he said tersely.

“I think that I do. But I am certainly not abandoning Hart.”

“So what happens now? You will be his lover, with no commitment on his part? How fortunate he must feel!”

“If I am his lover, that is not your concern, Rick. I must tell you, you are misjudging Calder once again. And given that he has just gone out of his way to lend you a significant sum to pay off O'Donnell, I think you owe him the benefit of the doubt.”

Bragg looked apoplectic. “I'd rather see you engaged than carrying on with him. I don't like this.”

“I am sorry you feel that way,” Francesca said. She meant it, but she was disturbed that he was so judgmental. “I think you have crossed the line, Rick. My private life is just that—private.”

“Then do not speak so openly of it!” he snapped. Abruptly, he strode out to get the chief.

Francesca sat down with the file, sighing. How complicated the most important relationships in her life were. Then she opened the file and read exactly what Bragg had already told her.

Bragg entered the office with Farr. His eyes slid over Francesca and he greeted her in a civil tone. “Good morning, Miss Cahill.”

“Chief,” she said coolly, standing and closing the file. She looked at Bragg.

“Chief, take a seat.”

Without any emotion flickering in his blue eyes, Farr bent his long frame into the chair beside Francesca. Bragg went to stand behind his desk but he did not sit. “I have a source that tells me you have been involved with Rose Cooper. Is it true?”

Farr looked at Francesca with real distaste. “Let me guess. Miz Cahill's been snooping?”

Francesca smiled but her temper soared. “You were seen with her in an intimate embrace. Will you deny it?”