Deadly Vows (23 page)

Dawn stared. Francesca could tell she was thinking madly. She finally said, “I don't know where she is. But you should stay away from her.” Then she added, “I am very sorry that you are being blackmailed. You are a nice lady.”

“How would you know that Solange hates me, Dawn?” Francesca asked softly.

Dawn started. “I was there during the bust! Her hatred was all over her face. Because of you, her beautiful establishment was destroyed. Of course she hates you, with a vengeance! She is a strong and cold woman, Francesca.”

Francesca believed that Dawn had spoken with Solange since the raid on the brothel. How else would she be so certain of the madam's feelings for Francesca? “Could she hate me enough to want to destroy me?”

Dawn's eyes popped. “I don't know. Maybe.”

Francesca took twenty dollars from her purse and handed it to the other woman. “Are you certain you don't know where she is?”

“I haven't seen her since the bust.” Dawn shoved the bills in her bodice, flushing. “Francesca, stay away from her. Please. For your sake, not mine.”

Francesca hesitated. Dawn had most definitely been in touch with the madam—or even remained in touch with her now. “Thank you for your help. If you recall anything else, could you send a note? You can send it to the commissioner at police headquarters, if that is more convenient than sending it to me.”

“I won't recall anything,” Dawn said.

Tuesday, July 1, 1902
5:00 p.m.

M
AGGIE SLOWLY CLOSED
the door to her one-bedroom flat. She was ready to pinch herself to make certain that she was not dreaming. She watched Evan and Joel carry groceries into the kitchen area of her apartment. Although small, it was neat, basically furnished and clean. The boys slept in the back of the parlor—she had sewn yellow-and-green-floral curtains to partition their sleeping quarters off from the rest of the room. There was a small vase with three daisies on the table in front of the sofa; a rug with red roses, rescued from the common garbage, covered the worn wooden floors. There were pansies on the windowsill outside the kitchen, petunias in the single box outside the parlor window. She kept a sunflower-yellow cloth on the kitchen table, and she had made seat covers for the chairs in a pretty yellow gingham. Still, the apartment was shabby and dark. The contrast with Evan's Fifth Avenue home was glaring.

“My vote is that we fry the steaks, what do you say?” Evan asked, grinning at Joel. He removed his suit jacket and glanced at Maggie, smiling, as he began rolling up his shirtsleeves.

“Yum!” Paddy cried, careening over. “Fried steaks! Can I help cook 'em?”

No one was hungry—they had gorged on frankfurters,
sauerkraut, pickles, ice-cream soda, root beer, sarsaparilla and popped corn while exhausting the children on ride after ride. Still, Evan had insisted that he was famished, and on their way home, they had stopped at the farmer's market not far from the ferry terminal, and then at her local butcher. He had bought far more groceries than they could ever use in a single meal, including staples she simply couldn't afford. She knew what he was doing—he meant to buy enough groceries to feed her and the children for a week.

And he had held her close to his side on Coney Island's most infamous ride—the frightening roller coaster.

She stared at his bare forearms, recalling the thrill of the ride—and the even greater thrill of being pressed against his body. Why did he have to be so kind?

Joel and Evan were rattling pots and pans, discussing how they planned to fry the sirloin steaks Evan had purchased. Paddy and Matt were chasing one another about the apartment, pretending they were still aboard the roller coaster. Lizzie tried to join them, but they ignored her. Maggie bit her lip, watching as Evan turned to unpack the groceries. When would he realize that she was just a simple Irishwoman who sewed for a living, who could barely support her large family, while he was the Cahill heir, destined for someone far more beautiful, accomplished and well-bred than she was?

He glanced up at her, his smile gone. This was not the first time he had looked at her very seriously.

Desire erupted in her breast. This was an infatuation, she reminded herself. Not a romance.

But for one moment, their stares locked, and all she could think of was that she wanted his kiss. She reminded herself that he was leaving for the summer. He would join his wealthy friends on Fire Island. There, he would
soon forget her. He would meet someone else, someone far more appropriate than she was.

He turned to Joel. “I need someone to peel the potatoes.”

Joel wrinkled up his nose. “We can skip potatoes. I thought we were having a loaf of bread.”

“We are. But we are also having potatoes. I'm going to fry them up with the steaks, Joel. Fried potatoes are very, very good—I promise you.” Evan grinned, clearly aware that half their diet consisted of potatoes.

Maggie wondered if he had any idea of how to make a meal—she doubted it. She shook herself free of her longing—and fears—and came forward. “Joel, take the boys outside and peel the potatoes.”

Joel looked at her and then he looked at Evan. Slowly, he grinned. “Sure, Ma.”

She was afraid he sensed the attraction between them. She did not want him to get his hopes up. She knew how fond of Evan he was. She would have to speak seriously with him tomorrow, and explain that their relationship was one of friendship—that it was not a romance. As Joel rounded up his brothers, Lizzie rushing to join them, she turned to look at Evan, her heart simply rioting. She thought she was flushing, too. “This is too much, Evan.”

“It is hardly too much.” He watched the children trooping out of the flat. “Joel, make certain no one runs off. It will be dark soon,” he called.

He would make such a wonderful father! She sobered. He was going to be a father—to his own child—not to her children.

“You are spoiling us so.”

“Good.” He faced her squarely. He was a tall, lean man, and when they were alone like this, she felt tiny and petite, although she was of average height for a woman.

“The children had such a wonderful time today. I doubt they will ever forget it.”

Very softly, he reached out and cupped her jaw. She trembled, almost swaying against him. “What I want to know is, did
you
have a wonderful time?”

She slowly nodded. “Yes.”

He stared. Finally, he said, “I want to do so much more, Maggie. You deserve so much more.”

“You don't have to do anything else,” she managed to say, trembling. He continued to cup her cheek. She pulled away, when she wanted to move closer to him.

“Don't,” he said, taking her hand. “Don't run from me.”

She inhaled. “This isn't right.”

“Why not?”

“You're a gentleman. I'm a seamstress.”

“I don't care.” His gaze widened. “You know me well enough by now to realize I would never toy with you.”

She wet her lips, well aware that Evan had been quite a ladies' man. “I think you would never deliberately pursue me with the wrong intentions.”

He hesitated. “What does that mean?”

“It means you are mistaking your interest in me, surely!” she cried, about to pull away. But his grasp on her hand tightened.

“The only thing I know is that I have never met a woman as kind and generous as you. I have never known anyone with such a heart. And you are so beautiful,” he exclaimed roughly.

She was a faded redhead, worn beyond her years, and she knew it. “This isn't real,” she whispered. “It can't be.”

“Why not?” His eyes blazed. And the moment they did, Maggie knew what he meant to do and she gasped.
But his arms were already around her and he was bending toward her. “Why the hell not, Maggie?”

She so desperately wanted this moment to be real—to be based on love, not lust; on friendship, not gratitude. She knew she should protest, just as she knew she would not. His mouth gently covered hers. Maggie closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation of being in Evan's arms, his mouth plying hers.

She had never been in a man's arms before like this. He was strong and powerful—and he was the kindest, most considerate man she had ever known. As she opened her mouth to take in more of his kiss, she suddenly realized that no haven could be as safe as that offered by Evan Cahill. And she realized that she more than loved him—she trusted him, too.

“Are you all right?” he asked huskily, his mouth still on hers.

She somehow nodded, tears arising, joy bursting through her heart. She lifted her face and kissed him wildly, passion erupting inside her.

He cried out, his embrace tightening, and then he kissed her back as deeply. But she sensed his restraint. A moment later he broke the kiss, his chest rising and falling swiftly against hers.

She didn't want him to stop. But she buried her face against his silky cotton shirt. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he said roughly. Then, “I am falling in love with you.”

She froze. Had she really heard him say that?

He made a harsh, self-deprecatory sound and stepped back so he could look down at her. She stared up at him, amazed. “I wish you could see yourself the way that I do,” he said.

She was speechless. Vaguely, she heard one of the
children racing up the stairs outside her apartment. It was Paddy, she thought. She knew the sound of each of her children's footsteps.

Evan smiled at her. Did she dare tell him that she was already in love with him?

“Ma!” Paddy screamed.

Maggie leaped out of Evan's arms in alarm. “Paddy? What's wrong?” she cried, fear engulfing her.

“Lizzie's gone! Some thug took her!”

 

F
RANCESCA HURRIED INTO
the reception hall at police headquarters, hoping that Bragg hadn't begun his interrogation of Daniel Moore without her. Because of the hour, she hadn't seen any newsmen in the building across the street, where they often sipped coffee and conversed while waiting for a scoop. Everyone, she thought, was keeping summer hours. And that was just fine with her.

She beelined for the elevator, thinking about Dawn, who clearly was in contact with Solange Marceaux. Her mind turning over all the facts and clues discovered thus far, she reached for the door to the cage. But before she could grasp the lever, someone caught her arm from behind. She tensed, turning, and came face-to-face with Arthur Kurland of the
Sun.

She sighed impatiently, while anxiety began. “And to think that I thought myself reprieved when I saw that your newsroom across the street was vacant.”

Kurland grinned. “This is my lucky day. I was about to leave and catch a bite to eat. Ever been to Joe's Fish House? It's on Broadway. I'm happy to treat, Miss Cahill.”

“I am very busy, Mr. Kurland,” she said coolly.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. What are you and the c'mish working on? Heard you went to see someone on Blackwell's Island yesterday. Everyone is being so closemouthed.”

Francesca stared coldly. Undoubtedly Kurland had bribed an officer and knew far more than he was letting on. “If we wished for you to know something, there would be a news conference. Good day.”

She turned away, but he leaped between her and the elevator. “What happened at Gallery Moore? Why is Daniel Moore upstairs? An' how come I heard this gossip that you missed your wedding because of Moore?” He grinned then. “I also heard that Calder Hart isn't in a forgiving mood. Guess the wedding's off, huh?”

She stared unhappily at him. She wondered if any of Hart's staff would dare to speak to a newsman.

“I even heard you're not a welcome guest over there,” he said.

Sometimes, the truth was the best policy. This was not one of those times. “Then you have heard wrong. Now, if you will excuse me?”

Kurland stepped aside and Francesca hurried into the elevator. She hit the button for the third floor, trying to appear indifferent and even nonchalant. As the elevator began its ascent, Kurland grinned at her. “You should really try Joe's,” he said. “Dinner's on me. Anytime.”

Francesca ignored him, but she felt flushed. He was an annoying man. She hoped she hadn't made a mistake by insinuating that she and Hart remained closer than they actually were.

A moment later she stepped out of the cage and saw Bragg standing in the corridor, speaking with Chief Farr. Her tension was instantaneous. She had no reason to suspect Farr of any foul play, even if he had been investigating the theft of her portrait when the police had not known about it. But it still bothered her that he had been on the scene with his men before she and Bragg had arrived at the gallery Saturday night. Once again, she couldn't help thinking that he was such a big, striking man.

Then she shook herself free of any suspicion. She believed that the thief had removed the portrait shortly after her escape from the gallery—before she had seen Bragg and revealed all that had happened.

Both men fell silent as she approached. Farr nodded politely. Francesca tried not to bristle and managed a smile in return. She was very glad that Rose was not seeing this man as a client. “Is Mr. Moore here?”

“He is in the conference room. Mrs. Moore is in my office,” Bragg said.

Francesca was surprised that Moore's wife had been brought downtown, but Farr said, “She insisted on coming with him.”

Francesca hesitated. She wished a word with Bragg alone. He glanced at the chief and said, “We'll be right in, Chief.”

Farr grunted and walked off toward the conference room, which was just down the hall. “Well?” Bragg asked.

“Did Marsha Moore recognize the chief?” she asked.

“No, Francesca, she did not even blink upon first seeing him.”

She turned to him. Farr was now out of sight. “Marsha Moore said that a big, dark man was loitering outside their flat that night, waiting for Daniel. She also saw him at the gallery a few days before. Farr isn't dark, although he is big. But it was not Farr, as Marsha did not recognize him. However, Bill Randall is tall and he is dark.”

“You are slipping,” Bragg said, smiling warmly now. “She described the loiterer as big and dangerous.”

She had slipped. “It wasn't Farr. But I don't trust him at all. I don't like his involvement in this case.”

“Neither do I, but it is too late to get him off the case. Let's hope that Randall is the one who paid off Moore to
use his gallery on Saturday, and let's assume he returned for the stolen portrait after you escaped.” He took her arm, lowering his voice. “There has been no activity at the Randall home this afternoon, Francesca. I have asked the detail that is watching the house to gather up the family photographs.”

That was an excellent idea, she thought. “We can show his photograph to Mrs. Moore.”

“Yes, we can.”

How she hoped there would be a positive identification! Then Francesca quickly told him about her conversation with Dawn. Bragg said, “Finding Marceaux might be moot, Francesca. Hopefully, Randall is our man and we will soon apprehend him. I look forward to receiving the visitors' logs from Warden Coakley.”

“So do I,” Francesca said.

Bragg guided her to the conference room door, which was ajar, but paused once more outside it. “There is news. It isn't good. I just got a wire from the warden of the Blackwell's Island Asylum. Mary wasn't transferred there.”