Deadly Illusions

The concept was stunning.

He chuckled softly. “You are usually a step ahead of the game, Francesca. I see how surprised you are, and how pleased.” He added, “I am glad that is not the reason you are marrying me. It isn’t my wealth you are after and it isn’t posi tion and power. Hmm. It must be my kisses. Now, tell me about this latest case.”

She became aware of his powerful body and snuggled closer. “It is definitely your kisses, Hart, that have so ensnared me.” She laughed softly as the notion of marrying any man merely from desire was so absurd, but then her smile faded. Hadn’t she been worrying about that very possibility just that afternoon? The notion was far too frightening. She quickly changed the subject. “Did you read about the Slasher in Chicago?”

His gaze as intent but far different, he shook his head. “No.”

Francesca quickly told him about the first two victims. “Do you remember little Bridget O’Neil?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, I do. Of course. We rescued her from that child-prostitution ring.”

“Her mother found a woman murdered next door to their flat. And from the look of it, it was also the work of the Slasher. At least, that is what we think.” She thought about the trip she must make to police headquarters that next morning. It was her first order of business, actually. She needed to know if the police had surmised that the Slasher had indeed been the murderer. Afterward she would call on Francis O’Leary.

Then Francesca realized that Hart had tensed, and she knew what was coming. She wished she had chosen her words with more care.

“We?” he asked, his gaze direct, his tone sharp.

She winced to herself and sighed. “Bragg was at the crime scene. He was as concerned as I was for Maggie Kennedy’s safety. We happened to be there at the same time and apparently we are both on the case.” She avoided his eyes, wondering if there would be a jealous eruption. With Hart, she never knew what to expect. He was entirely unpredictable, at times arrogant and secure, at others, jealous and enraged.

His jaw flexed. “Of course, your latest investigation involves my dear, so noble half brother.”

She met his gaze and sensed the storm clouds, but did not see them. “He is the commissioner of police!”

“He has more to do than investigate common crimes—he has a detective force for that.” Hart walked away from her. His shoulders seemed rigid now.

She followed. “You have no reason to be jealous,” she said, and the moment she spoke she regretted it.

He turned. “I never said I was jealous. The last thing I am is jealous of Rick.” His eyes had turned dark.

“If he wishes to pursue an investigation, I can hardly stop him.”

“Of course not. But the question is, do you welcome his attention?” And his tone was mocking.

She tensed. “Hart, we are engaged. I have made my choice and a sincere commitment. Good God, a moment ago I was fainting from passion in your arms! I don’t want Bragg to be between us, especially not when my profession will constantly bring me into contact with him.”

He sighed. “You are right. I am jealous. I have been gone for two weeks, and every day I have been acutely aware of the fact that at any moment, you could change your mind and take him back.”

She was stunned. “He is married. Leigh Anne almost died. In fact, she is going home tomorrow. He would never leave her, especially not now.”

Hart stared at her, clearly not accepting her every word.

Francesca did not like it. She was being sincere. She wanted to marry Calder Hart, never mind that there would be no white picket fence, never mind his reputation and his ex-lovers. The only thing she could not get past was how much courage was involved in being with such a man.

“And if he did leave her? Then what?” he asked softly.

She felt chilled. “You already know my answer.”

“Do I?” He was grim.

Francesca felt real despair. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she loved him, but she knew that everyone whose opinion she held dear would advise her against it. And even a woman of no previous experience knew better than to tell the city’s most notorious womanizer that she was in love. Besides, her emotions were so turbulent she wasn’t sure it was love. “Hart, you do know.” She hurried to him and took his hands in hers. “I want to be with you. I think I have been clear.”

He just looked at her and she wished that she could read his mind, but at times like this, it was impossible to know what he might be thinking. And then he spoke. “I am your second choice, Francesca, and there are times when it is crystal clear.”

And in that moment, she had a terrible premonition that he would never forgive her for wanting Rick Bragg first, for once thinking him her true love. Uneasy, she stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss him. As she feathered his unmoving mouth with hers, she said, “Please believe me. Remember, there have never been any lies between us. I will never lie to you, Calder. Not ever. It is you I want.”

He made a disparaging sound, but his arms went around her, tightening. “You want me in bed, darling. And while I do not mind, we both know neither one of us would be here like this if Leigh Anne had stayed in Europe.”

Francesca stiffened. For once she was at a loss and could not think of a good reply.

HIS GAZE WAS FIXED on the candle shining in the apartment window across the dully lit street. A single passing carriage, too fine for the ward, could not distract his eyes. He did not blink, not even once, but simply stared and stared.

He waited for a glimpse of her, moving about her flat, and he shivered, but not from the cold. He was used to damp and cold far more bitter than this. No, he shivered from excitement.

He stared unblinking at the hint of shadows moving inside the flat. And suddenly he saw her. The trembling ceased.

He was sick of them all.

Every single one, all of them whores, just like her.

Rage filled him—rage and need. Bloodlust.

He had made a terrible mistake and he knew it, but soon, very soon, his knife would cut, and this time, it would not be a tragic mistake, oh no. This time, the faithless bitch would die.

He smiled and his fingers twitched and then he found the hilt of the knife and he gripped it with great care. And watching her, he slowly stroked the blade.

CHAPTER THREE

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 9:00 a.m.

HE HAD COME to hate the city’s most renowned hospital. Now, instead of getting out of his roadster, Rick Bragg stared at the entrance of the pavilion in which his wife was being treated, gripping the Daimler’s steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached, dread forming in his chest.

The hospital took up several city blocks, from Twenty-third to Twenty-eighth Streets, from the East River to Second Avenue. The many buildings that comprised it had been erected independently of one another, so that some of the pavilions were narrow and tall, others broad, whitewashed and squat. Just to his left, there was new construction under way for the tuberculosis clinic that would open early next year. A crane was lifting huge blocks of granite, the workers in their flannel shirts shouting encouragement to the operator.

He knew he was a coward. He had been sitting in his motorcar for twenty or thirty minutes, delaying the inevitable moment of alighting from the vehicle, of entering the accident ward, of walking down the sterile corridor, of crossing the threshold of the room that contained his wife.

It was not that he did not want to see her. It was that being with her took every ounce of his strength.

But she was alive, he reminded himself, fiercely relieved. Alive, conscious, with no apparent impairment to her brain. He didn’t care that her left leg was useless, that she would never walk again. Not when weeks ago it had seemed as if she might never wake up.

The guilt crushed him.

And for one moment, it was as if one of the granite blocks being carried to the new construction site had landed on him, making it impossible to breathe.

Decisively, Bragg got out of the Daimler. He laid his gloves and goggles on the front seat. Two passing male nurses nod ded at him. He tried to recall their names and failed.

His duster over his arm, he strode up the concrete path to the Accident Pavilion and pushed through the wood-and-glass door. Nurses, both male and female, and doctors stood around the reception desk. Someone saw him and waved him on through.

Her door was open. He paused, his heart beginning to race, and as he looked inside the sterile whitewashed room with several beds, all unoccupied except for hers, he saw that she was sitting up against her pillows, flipping through Harper’s Weekly. His heart quickened impossibly. She wore one of her own peignoirs, lavender silk and cream lace, and even crippled, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.