Brenda Joyce - Deadly Illusions

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.

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.

She realized he was standing there, staring, and she looked up, slowly putting the magazine aside.

He somehow smiled. He was perspiring now. So many emotions ran riot that he had more trouble breathing, thinking. The most dominant feelings were vast relief and crushing guilt.

“Good morning,” he heard himself say.

She carefully returned his smile. “Good morning.” Leigh Anne was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, with the face of a china doll. Her perfect features—large green eyes, tiny nose and rosebud mouth—were accentuated by a delicate ivory complexion. Her hair was thick, silken, straight and black. No man could enter a room where she was present and not look twice and then stare.

He noticed several new flower arrangements on the window-sill.

She followed his gaze. “Rourke came last night.”

“In the middle of the week?” His half brother was attending medical school in Philadelphia.

“Apparently he has applied for a transfer to the Bellevue Medical College and he has an interview this afternoon.”

Rick nodded, unable to focus on his half brother’s plans. “How are you today?” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting by her side.

She never looked directly at him anymore, it seemed. Her gaze on Rourke’s yellow hothouse roses, she said, “Fine.”

He wanted to reach over and take her tiny hands in his. And in spite of all the passion they had once shared, he did not dare touch her. He was afraid that she would reject him—as she should. “You must be so pleased to be going home today.”

She seemed to smile but she did not answer, her gaze now wandering to the magazine on the bed. Idly, she pulled it closer to her hip.

Ever since the accident, it had become like this, an utter failure of communication, utter awkwardness. He was sweating now. He wanted to pull her against his chest and stroke her hair and beg her for forgiveness, but of course he did not. At least, thank God, she was coming home. “I will come by at four or five, if that suits you,” he said.

She slowly looked up, her expression very hard to read.

“The girls are terribly excited,” he added, trying to smile. But he was a policeman, and before that a lawyer, and he knew when something was wrong.

“You didn’t bring them this morning,” she said softly, clearly dismayed.

Katie and Dot were two orphans who were fostering with them, and whom he intended to adopt. He had brought them to visit Leigh Anne every day. “You will see them this afternoon,” he said, smiling with an effort.

She turned her head away.

Alarm mingled with dread.

Then, not looking at him, she said, “I’m afraid it’s far too soon for me to go home.”

He started. Then, in an uncharacteristic rush, “The doctors think it would be best. I’ve hired two nurses to attend you round the clock. The girls are expecting you. I am expecting you!” he heard himself cry.

Her jaw hardened visibly and she looked him in the eye and repeated, “I’m afraid it’s too soon for me to go home, Rick.”

“ARE YOU CERTAIN THAT you don’t want to go inside?” Francesca asked, teasing.

She stood with Joel on Mulberry Street just outside of police headquarters. Joel was slouched with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, which had holes at both knees. He had plopped a black felt cap on his head, and he scowled at the two front doors of the station house. Roundsmen in their blue wool uniforms and leather helmets were coming and going, a police wagon was parked not far from where they stood and Bragg’s Daimler was being surreptitiously watched by another patrolman. All of this was in the midst of one of the city’s worst slums.