Deadly Kisses (27 page)

It had only been a kiss.

And then she could no longer deny the truth. She was desperately in love with Evan Cahill, a man who was so far above her he might as well have been the king of Great Britain. Somehow, the countess had guessed.

Maggie wiped her eyes; only then realizing she was crying. She had thought the countess a great lady, like Francesca or her sister. But she wasn't a lady, never mind her wealth or her breeding. She was horrid and nasty, she was evil. Maggie had genuinely wanted Evan to have a life of happiness and love. Now she was appalled. But the countess was pregnant. It was his duty to marry her, no matter her real nature. Maggie hurt for Evan now, but there was no helping it—there was no helping him.

Bartolla Benevente had no right to threaten the children.
But Maggie had the terrible feeling that the countess had meant her every word. She tried to tell herself that she need not worry. After all, she did not expect to see Evan Cahill ever again.

 

H
ART STEPPED OUTSIDE OF THE
court building with his lawyer. He rubbed his wrists, feeling the cold steel of the manacles he no longer wore against his skin. He wasn't sure he would ever stop feeling it. It was a gray day that looked as if it might rain, but he did not notice the cloudy sky or the buildings lining the street. He kept seeing the dark gray walls of his cell, the single narrow mattress, the dirty sink, the iron bars and the hostile but avid stares of the other prisoners. He kept seeing Francesca, whom he had ruthlessly hurt—and who would never give up on him, or so she claimed.

There had never been any doubt that he would be released immediately on bail, but beneath the clothing he wore, his skin was damp and clammy.

“
Calder, don't you dare throw that rock.”

The boy ignored his brother, grinned, and threw the rock—hard. They had just arrived at his brother's father's house. His brother had a father—a real father—and a pretty, kind stepmother and a bunch of other brothers and even a little sister, too. The boy saw that he had missed the window by an inch. He laughed at his older brother, running away, outside.

But Rick followed, seizing him and dragging him back. You need to apologize! Why did you have to do that? Did you want to break the window? Do you want them to send us away? Do you want them to send
you
away?

The little boy had apologized, carefully watching the pretty red-haired lady, wary and waiting to see what she would do. But she hadn't beaten him or yelled at him. She hadn't said a word about the rock. She had asked him to sit down at the kitchen table, where she had given him a cookie and a glass of milk.

“Calder stole my notebook!”

The entire family turned to stare at the little boy.

“Calder, did you take Rourke's notebook?”

Of course he had, because the boy was a spoiled prince and he loved his stupid notebook, which was filled with really stupid notes so he could achieve stupid high grades, making his parents love him even more than they already did.

“It's only a stupid notebook,” he protested stubbornly. He already knew that they whispered about his incorrigible behavior at night when they thought they were alone—and now he could see their disappointment. He was glad—he didn't care—he didn't need this big, fake family that wasn't even his.

His brother's father trapped him in the bedroom he shared with his brother and one of the man's other sons. “You can't do whatever you feel like doing! You know better—I know you know better. You have to apologize to Rourke.

The little boy watched the man closely, waiting for the real punishment. But he sighed and came closer, clasping his shoulder. I know this is hard for you. I know you miss your mother. Losing someone is hard, and it's hard fitting into a new family. Just try, please? I know you know the difference between right and wrong.”

Hart shut off his thoughts abruptly. He hated thinking about that pathetic child. He had desperately wanted to belong—no matter how badly he might be have. He had desperately wanted any kind of attention, and he had been as desperate to push and test the Braggs, to see if they might love him no matter how he behaved. But it had been a losing battle. That child had not belonged, certainly not in the Bragg family. He hadn't even belonged in his own mother's family. Remembering that hurt.

His mother, Lily, had given her love to her firstborn, Rick. Not that he could blame Lily. She had been too tired and then too ill to deal with his wild antics. It had been easier for her to let her older son manage the young, recalcitrant one. And that had only led to more mischief and disobedience. It was almost
as if Lily had stopped caring, as if he could do anything and she would merely smile at him and collapse in her bed. And then, of course, she had died.

The Braggs had been stronger. By the time he'd moved into their home, doing whatever he wanted had become a part of his nature. He had even known that he was testing them, waiting for them to grow tired of it all and just send him far away. But they had not ignored his behavior. Not a single incident had ever passed that he was not reprimanded or punished. They refused to give up on him, but by then it didn't matter. He was not a Bragg. They had five other children that they obviously and openly loved. He was the outsider. They could be kind, they could feed him, put a roof over his head and chastise him for being rude and mean, but it didn't change anything.

Hart felt sorry for that child who had never been able to fit in, who had never been wanted, who had only been tolerated, first in Lily's sordid home, and then in the Bragg mansion.

That child was a painful and constant reminder of far too much. And now, with Daisy and his child murdered, with his relationship with Francesca formally over, Calder felt alone. He reminded himself that the boy he was had died a long time ago— Hart had buried him with no small amount of satisfaction. But the reminder did not work. This time, there was a strong chance that he was really going to be sent away—to prison.

“Things went well, as expected,” he said quietly to Gray, as if his fears were not lurking.

“Things went very well, and you should not worry about anything. The police will find the real killer and this case will be closed,” Gray said firmly. He was a tall, thin man with a deep, resonant voice that would serve any Shakespearean actor well. It had served him well in court, time and again. “I know you have ended your engagement to Miss Cahill, Hart, but her reputation as a sleuth precedes her. I should be very pleased if she were to stay on this case.”

He did not want to think about Francesca. She had been the light in his life. Now his world had turned gray, like the skies overhead. “I'm not worried,” Hart said flatly. It was a lie, of course, but Gray could not know it. “And frankly, Miss Cahill is an independent woman. I could never dissuade her from pursuing an investigation.” His mouth softened as he spoke. Maybe that was why Francesca was so hauntingly beautiful to him, more beautiful than any other woman he had ever known. If he dared feel, it hurt so much to be without her now. But he'd had no choice. Besides, eventually she would have seen the light and left him.

Before Gray could respond, the reporters who had been present during the hearing raced out of the court building, calling his name. A dozen questions were shouted at him, all at once.

“Mr. Hart! Can you comment on what it was like to spend the night in jail?”

“Mr. Hart! Do you have any regrets regarding the death of your mistress?”

“Mr. Hart! Is it true that Miss Jones is really the daughter of Judge Gillespie? Did you know, sir?”

“Mr. Hart! Are you worried about being charged with the murder?”

Gray faced the reporters, whispering to Hart, “I suggest you leave, sir. I will take care of the newsmen.”

“Thank you,” Hart said, very surprised that the press had already learned about Daisy's real identity. That would work to his advantage, and he had the inkling then that Francesca might have leaked the news. As he turned to go down the courthouse steps, he glimpsed his brother coming out of the building behind him. Rick had been present during the bail hearing, although he had not been called to the stand.

Hart had nothing to say to him and he started down the wide limestone steps. His six-in-hand was waiting at the curb.

“Calder.” Bragg caught up to him.

Hart did not pause. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

Bragg took his arm, forcing him to pause. “Why not? In spite of our differences, we are brothers. I came to show my support.”

Hart saw with surprise that his half brother was being sincere. But then, it would be easy for Rick to be supportive now, as he had gotten what he really wanted. Francesca was now free. “Really? And what is it that you want now? My thanks? My undying gratitude?” It had been a hellish twenty-four hours and he lost his temper then. “Oh, wait! You need funds, and you need them from me.” He smiled coldly.

Bragg turned white.

But Hart could not stop himself, and he felt savagely satisfied that in spite of being a murder suspect, in spite of losing Francesca, in this brief moment he had all the power. “You are welcome to the money—I already told Francesca that. Just tell me how much. But I want some thing in return. I want Daisy's killer found. I have no intention of going back to jail.”

Bragg was turning red. “She asked you for the funds?” He was incredulous now. “I don't want a damn thing from you—and I haven't, not in years!”

“I was under the impression you were desperate,” Hart said, aware that he was lashing out at his brother, when his brother had nothing to do with the deaths of Daisy and his child, or the loss of Francesca. He was the one who had wished his own child into nonexistence; he was the one who had terminated the engagement with Francesca.

“If I decide to pay that thug off, I will go to the banks,” Bragg said curtly. “But thank you for so kindly offering me the money!” He turned to go.

Hart seized his arm. “Wait. Stop.”

Bragg turned in disbelief.

Hart took a moment to gather his composure. He was angry and frustrated, but Rick was in trouble. “I am more than happy to
give you the funds, Rick.” He spoke seriously now. “It has been a rough night. I am sorry for be having like a boor. Francesca told me all about O'Donnell. You need to think of the girls and not our rivalry.”

“You are hardly a rival,” Bragg said tersely. “And do not dare tell me how to prioritize! I have always put family first.” His meaning was clear—that Hart would only put himself first.

“Of course you have, because virtue and family devotion go hand in hand. Tell me something I don't already know, Rick, such as what you will do, now that Francesca and I are no longer engaged?”

Bragg shook his head. “You know, Calder, you haven't changed. You love to provoke! I will always care about Francesca, and I am very happy that you two are apart. She is too good for you. She deserves more than you can ever give her.”

“I happen to agree,” he said tightly. “But oddly, she accepted my proposal. I never really thought she would.”

“How could she refuse, when you could not restrain yourself from seducing her?” Bragg asked with scathing bitterness.

“I haven't seduced her.” His anger instantly imploded. “I would never sink so low, not with Francesca.” He saw that Rick was startled. “But as we are being so honest with each other, what about your wife? Will you really remain wed to her now that she is paralyzed? Wait, I asked the wrong question! Now that Francesca is free, will you finally do what you really want to do, will you pursue her?”

Bragg's expression quickly became one of disgust. “I should have known that you could not understand duty, devotion and love. I am not going to deny that I care deeply about Francesca, and I always will. But I would never turn my back on Leigh Anne now, when she needs me the most.”

Hart laughed. “You and Francesca are exactly alike. What a shame the timing has always been off for you both!”

“Why are you doing this now?” Bragg was incredulous.

Hart wondered the same thing. It made him ill to think of Francesca returning to his brother, but he could not ignore the dreadful certainty consuming him. Now that he had walked away, sooner or later, Bragg and Francesca would find their way back to each other. He was certain.

Bragg said quietly, “You did the right thing, Calder. Francesca has a good name. She doesn't need to be a part of this scandal. I have come to realize that you really care for her. I know this wasn't easy for you. You put her first. It was a noble act.”

He stared at his brother. “I cannot believe you are flattering me.”

Bragg shrugged. “You have protected her from an ugly scandal. No one could deny your actions were heroic.”

Such praise and candor from his brother left him speechless. It was a moment before he spoke. “For once, we are agreed— Francesca doesn't need to be associated with me now.” Then he met his brother's gaze. “Actually, when it comes to Francesca, we usually agree.”

“I hate to admit it,” Bragg said, “but you are right.”

“Then admit I am right once more,” Hart said.

“I don't understand.”

“I want you to have the funds you need. I want the girls to be safe with you and Leigh Anne,” Hart said, meaning it. “You don't have to pay me back. Consider the money a gift—an overdue Christmas present, if you wish.”

“I can't accept.”

“You would put your pride first?” Hart was incredulous. “For God's sake, the money isn't dirty!”

“I will get the money, if I have to, but I am not taking it from you,” Bragg said harshly.

The brief amicability they had shared had vanished into thin air. “I knew you would die before taking one red cent from me.” He reached for the door to his carriage.