Deadly Vows (3 page)

She looked at the block facing her. Once, the buildings had been fashionable, single-family Georgian homes. There were daffodils growing about the elm trees on the sidewalks, and she saw more flowers in the window boxes. Washington Square was a tired and old neighborhood, but it remained middle-class. Another hansom was passing by and she decided it was safe to let the cabdriver go.

She was in such a rush that she stumbled from the cab. Slamming the door, she turned to face the gallery. Her heart thundered.

Everyone seemed to be in the square; the city block was deserted.

She paused to take her small pistol from her purse. It was loaded. Whoever had stolen her portrait, he or she was, at the least, a thief. And she would certainly not be surprised if that thief was also a blackmailer or an enemy, seeking revenge upon her. She would be a fool to deny her fear.

Her stolen portrait could be inside. She prayed that it was.

There were wide stone steps on her right, leading to the
apartments above the gallery. The gallery itself was on the basement level, meaning she had to go down several steps to get to the front door. As she did, the first thing she saw was the white sign hanging on the door. Its bold black letters read Closed.

She paused, clutching the small gun. The door was glass, but set in iron and barred with it. She glanced at the windows on each side, which were similarly barred. Most galleries had large windows, to allow in natural light. She imagined that it was dark and gloomy inside this space.

A smaller sign was in the right-hand window. She went closer to read it.

Summer Hours: Monday-Friday, 12:00–5:00 p.m.

The gallery was closed to the public. Francesca felt her heart leap with relief, but that did not dim her anxiety. A small doorbell was beside the door, and there was a heavy iron knocker on it. Francesca reached for the doorknob.

It gave instantly as she turned it, and the front door swung open.

Clearly, someone was waiting for her.

In that moment, she wished that Hart had been at home, or that Bragg had still been present when she had gotten the invitation. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the gloom inside. No lights were on, so the gallery was filled with shadow.

Francesca stepped in and closed the door behind her very, very quietly. To her satisfaction, she did not hear even the scrape of iron on the floor.

She could see well enough now and she turned, her skin beginning to prickle, certain she was not alone. She almost gasped.

Her portrait faced her.

She trembled. She had forgotten how stunning the painting was—and how provocative. In it, she wore nothing but a pearl choker. Her hair was up and perfectly coiffed. She sat with her back to the viewer, but she was partially turned. Not only were most of her buttocks visible, so was the entire profile of one of her breasts.

There was no mistaking her identity—and to make matters worse, she wore an expression of naked sensuality and raw hunger.

When she had posed for that painting, all she could think about was Hart.

Her instinct was to rush forward and yank the picture from the wall and destroy it. But there would be time for that later. She fought for composure. What did the thief want? Why surface now? Did he or she want money? Did he or she want to ruin her?

Was she being watched?

She felt as if eyes were upon her—and she did not like it, not one damn bit. She had her back to the door. She looked outside through the bars and glass, but the small concrete space beyond the front door was vacant.

Francesca started forward, gun in hand. If the thief was watching her, there was no point in remaining silent. Now she saw the other paintings on the walls. None were Sarah Channing's work. Her style, somewhat classical yet impressionistic, too, was very distinct. “Where are you?” she called out loudly, turning the corner behind the center wall. The area there boasted nothing but blank gray walls. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Her words seemed to echo slightly in this smaller back chamber. She saw an open doorway, but hesitated. “Come out. I know you're here.” She swallowed, straining to listen. All she could hear was her own thundering heartbeat and her rapid, shallow breathing.

She was afraid. Why wouldn't she be? Someone had
lured her to that gallery. She needed to take possession of that painting. “I will pay you handsomely for my portrait!” she cried.

There was no answer.

Standing in the back room, facing a dark, open doorway, she knew a moment of despair. What kind of game was this?

She hated releasing her gun, but she tucked it in the waistband of her skirt, only so she could remove matches and a candle from her purse. Months ago, she had learned to carry a large bag in order to keep the necessities of her trade with her. She lit the candle and realized the small doorway belonged to a single room, which consisted of a desk, a chair and file cabinets.

Francesca walked inside and saw nothing but receipts and notes on the desk. She looked carefully at the notes, but they were scribbles. Neither her name nor Hart's jumped out at her. She looked at the saucer, which contained business cards.

She rummaged through the drawers quickly, but there was simply too much paperwork to go through when the clock was ticking.
The time.
She froze, then reached for her purse, which she had laid on the desk. It was almost half past two.

Her temples throbbed. She did not have time to investigate now. But Bragg would be at her wedding and she would tell him everything before the ceremony, and send him downtown to retrieve the painting. But how could she leave the portrait now?

What did the damn thief truly want?

Francesca snuffed out the candle with her fingertips and left it on the desk—she had others in her purse. She took her gun from the waistband of her skirt. Purse in hand, in the darkness, she left the small office.

She thought she heard a small scraping sound coming from the front of the gallery.

She raced through the empty back chamber. “Who is there?”

There was no answer.

Frustration arose. She turned, jamming the gun into her waistband again, reaching with both hands for the oil painting. To her shock, it did not budge.

It wasn't hanging on the wall by a wire; it was nailed.

She jerked on it again. It did not move.

And that was when she heard a lock clicking loudly in the dark.

She whirled to face the front door, expecting to see someone standing there, grinning at her. Instead, she saw a flash of movement outside of the gallery as someone ran up the steps to the sidewalk.

She cried out. Francesca ran to the door and seized it—but it was locked from outside as she had expected.

She cried out again, furiously, and tugged on the doorknob again. It did not budge.

Stunned, she stood there, the knob in her hands, the horror beginning.

She had just been locked in.

How was she going to get out? How was she going to get to her wedding?

 

C
ALDER
H
ART STARED OUT
of the window of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church's second-floor lounge, feeling very pleased. He was already in his tuxedo, although
he had yet to don his tie. Fifth Avenue was deserted. Everyone who was anyone had left town for the summer—except, of course, for those at the uppermost crust of New York society who lived in awe—or fear—of Julia Van Wyck Cahill.

The avenue was terribly attractive this way, in such a state of splendid desolation, with only a single carriage and two black hansoms traversing its paved streets. Stately mansions, elegant townhomes, exclusive shops and clubs lined the thoroughfare. Only three coaches were parked outside the church; it was far too early for guests to arrive. He glanced at a grandfather clock in one corner of the dressing room. It was a few minutes past 3:00 p.m. His gaze wandered back outside. Surely he wasn't looking for his bride—he was not superstitious, but he had no wish to see her before the wedding, just in case. He smiled to himself. He had little doubt that Francesca was already in the church with her sister and mother, frantically applying the finishing touches to her toilette, as if she could possibly be made any more beautiful.

A few months ago, if someone had told him he would be at a wedding as the groom, he would have been very amused—and he would have considered that person an absolute fool. Yet there he was, with a racing heart and a touch of nerves.

“Hey, Calder,” Rourke Bragg said, laughter in his quiet tone. “Are you planning a mad dash for the exit yet?”

He took one last look at the quiet avenue. Two roundsmen in blue serge, carrying billy sticks, were standing on the street corner, chatting. Hart suspected they would soon be directing traffic.

He slowly turned to face the young man who had spoken. Rourke took after his father, Rathe Bragg. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with golden hair, amber eyes and a sun-kissed, almost swarthy, complexion. He
also had Rathe's inherently sunny, optimistic nature. He was actually Rick's half brother, but having been taken in by the Bragg family at the age of nine, when their mother died, Hart considered him a relation, if not a sibling of sorts.

He also happened to like Rourke, who was in medical school and was devoted to his profession. He had not one hypocritical bone in his body.

Speaking of hypocrites, Rick Bragg had yet to arrive. He had only spent a half an hour last night with them at the private room they had taken in the Sherry Netherland to celebrate the last of Hart's bachelor days. Hart smiled grimly. He rarely bested his perfect brother. He had surely bested him now.

He would never forget that once, months ago, Rick had been smitten with his bride. But Francesca was marrying
him.

The satisfaction welled. It was savage.

“He must be sweating bullets,” Rourke's younger brother, Gregory, said. He was twenty years old to Rourke's twenty-four, and currently clerking in San Francisco for his uncle, Brett D'Archand, a shipping magnate. Upon learning of the wedding, he had taken a train to New York. Hart had asked Rourke, Gregory and their younger brother, Hugh, to stand up with him, along with young Nick D'Archand. Gregory's grin was smug. “My God, Hart, it's all over after today. No more wild women, no more fantastic orgies, just shackles and chains. You must be mad.”

Hart slowly smiled. “If you are asking me if I have doubts, the answer is no.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. The only male in the wedding party who was not present was the father of the bride. Andrew Cahill was downstairs, pacing in the front hall. Hart knew he would meet every single
guest personally. “It must be love,” Hugh Bragg snickered. He'd arrived from Texas two days earlier.

Hart was adept at ignoring conversations he wished to ignore, and he said, unperturbed, “I am marrying the most interesting woman on this planet. Need I say more?”

Francesca's brother, Evan Cahill, smiled. “Even the mighty fall,” he murmured.

“Like I said…” Hugh laughed, reaching for a flute of champagne.

He was only fifteen, and his father adroitly removed the flute before he could take a sip. Scowling, Hugh accepted a root beer from Alfred instead.

Hart meant his every word. He had no doubts. He had realized, within days of meeting Francesca, that she was the most extraordinary of women. She was as brave as she was beautiful. Her intellect was astounding and she had more ambition than most men he knew. She was all that was good, pure and honest in the world, and he worried, because she was so trusting. He had never known anyone more selfless or more generous. She had shown him, time and again, that she could not turn her back on anyone in need.

She was also independent. Most men would hate her refusal to be subservient and obedient; he admired her willful, libertarian nature.

Of course, she was reckless and impulsive; no one had less common sense. But now that he knew how easily she leaped in front of runaway trains, he would be there to restrain her from her poor judgment. She had already caused him to grow a gray hair or two—and they had only known one another for five months.

He had first glimpsed her in Rick's office on January 25, but he hadn't spoken to her until an outrageous party on the rooftop of Madison Square Garden on January 31. By February 23, he had known that she was the one
woman in this world who would never bore him. He had looked at her, realizing how much her friendship had come to mean to him, his heart lurching oddly. She had changed his world in a handful of days, and while he thought the human aspiration to acquire happiness incredibly trite, she had warmed his entire life. The decision made in an instant, he had abruptly informed her that he intended to take her to wife. Needless to say, Francesca had been in shock.

She had accepted his suit five days later.

It was almost impossible to believe that they had come this far. But he wanted to marry Francesca Cahill, and he always got what he wanted. No one acquired the wealth and assets that he had, coming from such stark and impoverished beginnings, without sheer will and unholy ambition.

He was even eager for their wedding night, although he tried to feign indifference, even nonchalance. He was so used to casually seducing the beautiful women that crossed his path that it had become a game of sorts. He hadn't wanted to treat her like the others. Francesca, he intended to treat with respect. He had decided that he would not take her innocence until they had said their vows.

He had a moment of hesitation, almost a frisson of fear.

She thought him noble. That was her most astounding feature—her unshakable faith in him. She simply did not understand that he was motivated by self-interest—always. If he were truly noble, he'd tell her to find someone worthy of her—someone like Rick. But he would never do such a thing. She was his first and only friend. His best friend. Of course, he must have her entirely for himself.