Brenda Joyce - Deadly Kisses

“I know one thing,” she said slowly. “Hart needs my trust. It is probably the greatest gift I can give him. So if I have to wait to discover his secret, I will do just that.”

“I happen to agree. No one has ever believed in him before,” Rourke said. He gave her a look. “Patience might be worthwhile in this instance, Francesca.”

“Obviously, we both know that patience is not my strong suit.” She sighed. “I am resolved to be patient now, but I am worried, Rourke. He lied to the police. I can’t imagine why, but obviously he felt it was necessary. And I even lied to the police to cover for him.” And now Alfred would lie, too.

Rourke took her arm in surprise. “You lied to the police—or to Rick?”

Francesca could not believe she had made such a blunder. “It was a very small deception, just until I can find the real killer!”

Rourke was disapproving. “They are both my brothers. You are on a tightrope, as long as you remain friends with Bragg while engaged to Hart.”

She turned away. It was simply too much to ask her to end her friendship with Rick, but friends did not lie to each other. Then she faced Rourke. “Thank you, Rourke. Thank you for being so kind and so caring.”

He grinned, revealing a rakish dimple. “We are almost family, and it’s my duty to look out for you if my stepbrother is too negligent—and foolish—to do so.”

Francesca thanked him again, this time hugging him. He was blushing when she pulled away. She returned to the desk, taking up the note. “Are you going downtown, by any chance? I was hoping to send Hart this note.”

“Actually, I had planned to cross town to the Dakotas. But I have a free day. I think I could manage it,” Rourke said amiably.

Francesca’s brows rose. Most of the city’s residents referred to the distant and rather unpopulated West Side of the city as the Dakotas. She had no doubts as to why Rourke was making such a trip. Trying to be casual, she said, “Send Sarah my regards, will you?”

He glanced away. “I haven’t seen her or Mrs. Channing in some time.”

Francesca gave up and grinned, having wanted to play matchmaker for some time. Sarah Channing had become a dear friend, her best friend after her sister, Connie. Although most people saw Sarah as plain, mousy and reticent, Francesca had come to know her well. Sarah was as bohemian in spirit as Francesca, dancing to the tune of her own drummer and refusing to be cast in the mold of a proper, marriage-mad lady. She was, in fact, a brilliant artist. From their initial introduction, Rourke had been very attentive and kind to her. “We should plan to dine together, the four of us. How long will you be in town?”

Rourke eyed her. As if he had no real interest in such an evening, he shrugged. “I should not mind such a supper. Make the plans.”

Francesca handed him the note, which she had folded in half. “Oh, I will. How about Saturday evening at seven, say at the Sherry Netherland?”

“You can be so transparent, Francesca!”

She batted wide, innocent eyes at him. “Transparent about what? I haven’t seen you in weeks and we haven’t had a social moment since well before my last case, in fact. And I haven’t seen Sarah—I am killing two birds with one stone.”

He smiled and shook his head.

Francesca was about to walk out with Rourke. Then she remembered to take Hart’s stained jacket and she lifted it off the chair. On her way out, she would give it to Alfred for a cleaning.

A white stub fell from one of the pockets.

Francesca retrieved it, realizing it was the stub from a train ticket. She was about to put the stub on his desk when she saw the name of the city next to the punched hole: Philadelphia.

Her good humor vanished. She quickly told herself that the stub was an old one. Hart had not been to Philly since they had become engaged at the end of February. Becoming ill, she glanced at the date on the top of the stub.

June 1.

She inhaled, blinded by the date.

“Francesca?” Rourke asked in concern.

She hardly heard him. Hart had told her that he had gone to Boston. But yesterday he had returned from Philadelphia. She had the proof, right there in her hand.

Hart had lied to her.

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—10:00 a.m.

LEIGH ANNE BRAGG WAS A petite woman with shockingly dark hair, green eyes and fair skin. She had been universally acclaimed as a great beauty her entire life. But now, applying rouge to her lips and cheeks, she saw a gaunt stranger in the mirror, a lackluster woman she did not recognize. Dark circles had been etched beneath her eyes, although she went to bed early, for she could not sleep. Worse, her eyes held a haunted look that matched the despair in her soul.

Leigh Anne sat in her wheeled chair, staring at her reflection, aware that the male nurse her husband had hired was in the hall outside of the bedroom, awaiting her every command. Her daughter, Katie, stood by her side, anxious for her to go downstairs.

Of course, Katie was not her biological daughter. When she and Rick had reconciled, he had been fostering Katie and her little sister Dot. Their mother had been murdered and Francesca Cahill had moved both girls into the house as a temporary measure. Yet months had passed and Leigh Anne had come to love both girls as if they were her own flesh and blood. Rick clearly felt the same way, and they had decided to try to formally adopt them. Leigh Anne couldn’t imagine what the house would be like without the girls—or what her marriage would be like, either.

Once, long ago, she had been so terribly in love. It hadn’t taken much to realize that, despite a four-year separation, she still loved Rick Bragg. How ironic it was to discover that her feelings had remained unchanged, in spite of so much discord, so much misunderstanding and betrayal. But it no longer mattered, because she was no longer suitable for him.

“Mama?” Katie smiled worriedly at her.

Leigh Anne hated the fact that the precious child was so astute. Katie watched her like a hawk, clearly aware of her depression and misery, rushing to fulfill her every whim, as if that might ease the pain. Leigh Anne knew the pain of loss and heartbreak would never go away. She smiled brightly at her child. “Can you call Mr. Mackenzie so we might go downstairs?”

Katie nodded eagerly and rushed out of the dressing room.

Leigh Anne watched the woman in the chair in the mirror, and saw her smile vanish the moment the child was gone. The woman she observed was attractive, though wan, and perfectly attired in lavender silk and amethysts. The woman sat in an odd chair with two huge wheels and handles that made it easier for an attendant to push. The woman was a cripple.

Leigh Anne looked away, but it didn’t matter, because the image remained engraved in her brain. She knew that every time Rick looked at her, that was what he saw: a cripple.

She rubbed her thigh, reminding herself that his pity did not matter. Her right leg ached, but there was no feeling in her left leg and there never would be again. The doctors actually thought that, with time and intensive work, she might regain some use of her right leg, but there had been too much damage to her left leg. So why would she even try to regain some use of the one limb? She would never walk again, never dance, never make love….

Leigh Anne knew she was pathetic, to be feeling so sorry for herself. She reminded herself that she was alive and she had the girls. God, she didn’t know what she would do without them! She wiped her eyes briefly. She only dared to allow herself such self-pity when she was alone. She reminded herself that she didn’t need her legs, not when she had a chair with wheels and a nurse. She reminded herself that she was fortunate, so terribly fortunate, to have suddenly become a mother to two such wonderful girls. But no amount of rationalization would ease the melancholy that weighed her down. It was like being buried alive, she thought dismally, yet death was not an option.