Deadly Illusions (16 page)

She stepped inside, the doorbell tinkling. A man in his mid to late thirties with heavy graying sideburns sat behind the counter, making marks upon a finance ledger. He wore no jacket, but his waistcoat was burgundy brocade, a bit out of
fashion, and he had a fine gold watch in the pocket there. He looked up as she entered.

Francesca smiled. “Are you the proprietor of this establishment, sir?” she asked.

The gentleman stood, closing the ledger. “Yes, I am. We can fix the finest clocks, miss, and the most unusual ones, too, I might add.” He smiled, his somewhat weary face brightening, his gaze taking in the fact that she carried no packages and hence no clock. “We also have some fine clocks for sale, and some Swiss watches.”

Francesca had already noted a dazzling display of intriguing clocks in all different sizes and with vastly different hands and faces. “I'm afraid I have no clock or watch to repair and I am not really in need of a new clock or watch,” she said ruefully. “I am a sleuth, sir, and I am looking for your employee, Sam Wilson. I am afraid I must ask him a few questions, if you do not mind.”

The clockmaker started. “I am Samuel Wilson,” he said.

Francesca quickly recovered from her surprise. Wilson had to be fifteen years older than Francis and he was rather plain in his appearance. “You are the fiancé of Francis O'Leary?”

“Yes.” Extreme concern covered his features. “Has something happened to Francis?” he cried, his dark eyes wide.

“No! She is fine. I spoke with her yesterday at the Lord and Taylor store.” Francesca smiled reassuringly. But she wondered how Sam would react if he ever found out the truth about his fiancée—that legally, she remained married.

Wilson sat down, clearly relieved. He had become pale.

“I'm sorry I gave you such a fright,” Francesca said. Now she carefully looked Sam Wilson over. He was on the tall side, but shy of six feet. He clearly wore a suit—she saw the jacket hanging on a wall peg and it matched his trousers. It was not gray but a brown tweed, and not of the best quality. She looked at his hands.

He wore no ring, but his hands were the hands of a craftsman
or an artist. He had almost delicate hands and long, capable fingers. He clearly did not have the blemished hands of an ordinary worker. When she said goodbye and shook his hand, she would determine if he had any calluses. She doubted it. “Is something wrong?” Wilson asked.

“I must ask you some questions about that terrible assault on Francis,” she said.

“I already spoke with the police. You said you are a sleuth?” He was less distressed now and mildly disbelieving.

Francesca handed him a business card. “I am working with the police on this matter,” she said firmly. “How long have you known Francis?”

“We met in March.” He began rubbing his chin.

Was he distressed, she wondered. “How did you both meet?”

He smiled then. “On the street. It was raining and we were running to get inside from the cold. We crashed into one another in the doorway of a small grocery store. She was so pretty… I apologized profusely and somehow we wound up sipping coffee in a small restaurant bar.”

Francesca glanced at the shop again. A handsome rug covered the floor and two upholstered chairs, appearing new, faced one another in front of a wall mirror. He had dozens of fine clocks for sale. A man like Sam Wilson was a step up in the world for Francis. “She is very pretty,” she agreed. “I heard you are now engaged.”

He nodded, but he remained pale. “I never meant to marry again. I have a grown son and a granddaughter. My wife died a few years ago of a colonic cancer. But when Francis was attacked, I realized I could not lose her. I realized how much I love her.” He began to tremble, clearly distraught.

“Did you see her the day of the attack?”

“I walked her home,” he said, hushed. “It was two weeks ago, Monday, April 7. I left her at the front door of that awful building where she lives.” Suddenly his voice rose. “The sooner
we are married the better. The sooner she moves in here, with me, the safer she will be! I own the entire building,” he added proudly. “The two floors above are for living and there's a garden out back. We have roses in the spring.”

“So you left her on the street? You did not walk her up to her flat?” Francesca asked, beginning to take notes.

He blushed. “I didn't want to be that bold. I was trying to be a gentleman. I know Francis truly appreciates my respect.”

“Did you see anyone on the street? Do you remember seeing anyone lurking about?”

“No.”

“Think hard, please, Mr. Wilson. What kind of day was it?”

“It was a cool, windy day. She was cold and her coat wasn't warm enough. The sky was gray, but not the kind of gray that means rain. I wish now I had taken her upstairs!” he cried passionately.

She reached for his hand. As she had thought, it was smooth and uncallused. “You could not have known what would happen. Were there any passersby?”

“Yes, a pair of shopgirls, giggling over some gossip. They were fair and I noticed them.” He looked away as if guilty of a crime.

“What were they wearing?” Francesca asked, hoping to spark his memory. Still, it was interesting he had noticed the shopgirls.

“Gray skirts, I think—no, blue, a grayish blue.” He suddenly smiled at her. “One had on a tweed coat. She had red hair, I think.”

Margaret Cooper had had red hair. “And you saw no one else on the street?”

He suddenly straightened, very somber. “Wait a moment, Miss Cahill.” He blinked, then blinked hard, again and again. “I think…we bumped into someone. We were laughing after the shopgirls had passed—I asked her to supper and we bumped
into someone—no, a man bumped into us—some tall gent—and he begged our pardon. He was English—no, Irish…I'm not sure, but he wasn't American.” He suddenly shrugged. “I'm afraid that's all I can remember, two shopgirls and some gent in a bowler hat.”

Francesca was chilled. Was Sam Wilson a master manipulator and clever liar? Had he just fabricated the story he had told her? Or was he a capable clockmaker in love with a pretty shopgirl almost half his age? Had Sam Wilson assaulted Francis and Kate and then killed Margaret Cooper, or had he just described the Slasher—a gent with an accent in a bowler hat?

Or was neither the case?

“Mr. Wilson? Where did you go after you left Francis?”

He blinked. “Why, I hailed a cab and went home, of course.”

She studied him but he was wide of eye. “I'm afraid I do have to ask you where you were on the evening of Monday, April 14,” she said.

He started. Then he cried, “What is this about, Miss Cahill? You think I am the Slasher?”

“I said no such thing,” she returned calmly, surprised by his outburst. And now, tears filled his eyes.

“I don't recall where I was that night! Why should I? Most evenings I am here, in my repair shop, working on my clocks. Sometimes I have supper at my son's home. But I haven't dined there in some time—not in a good month, I think.”

He was flushed and Francesca could not help but think that the Slasher would make sure he had a solid alibi. Wouldn't he?

Suddenly a clock began to strike and then another one chimed and a cuckoo sounded and another clock rang and another and the shop was resonating with a hundred clocks marking the evening hour.

It was 5:00 p.m.

Hart was going to be at Sarah's at six for the unveiling of her portrait.

Francesca straightened. “I am late!” she cried. She smiled at Sam Wilson but all she could think of now was her fiancé. “Thank you so much for your time.”

He watched her flee in astonishment.

Thursday, April 24, 1902 5:55 p.m.

“H
E'S NOT HERE YET,”
Francesca cried breathlessly. As she had run from the cab to Sarah's front door, she had not seen his six-in-hand.

“No, he's not. It's not quite six, Francesca,” Sarah said with a smile.

Francesca laid her purse and gloves on a small table in the huge entry hall, then began to wring her hands. “What if he
doesn't
like it?”

Sarah took her arm. “Then that only means the theme is too suggestive for a respectable wife.” Her eyes danced with laughter as she spoke.

“I am hardly respectable now, and I doubt that will improve when I am married,” Francesca said. Her pulse raced with worry and anxiety. “Maybe I should hide.”

“Hide?” Sarah clearly had not a clue as to what she meant.

“I know this is vastly immature, but I could hide in your studio to see his reaction and—”

“That
is
immature,” Sarah said, laughing. “Francesca, if he doesn't like it, that doesn't mean he isn't smitten with you. He obviously finds you beautiful. Maybe, though, you should wait here in the hall while I show him the portrait.”

“Maybe you're right,” Francesca whispered when the doorbell rang. Instantly her anxiety heightened. She turned nervously as the Channings' doorman let Calder Hart in.

He handed off a walking stick as he entered, hatless as usual, dressed in black, never looking at the doorman once. His gaze was on both women. “I wondered if you would be here,” he said to Francesca, smiling.

She was so nervous she could not respond.

He took Sarah's hand and he seemed amused. “Good evening. You look rather pleased with yourself, indeed,” he said, before glancing at Francesca, rather curious now.

“I am very pleased with the portrait, Calder. I only hope you like it as much as I do,” Sarah said eagerly.

“I have little doubt,” he remarked, but he was already standing before Francesca, his gaze mild on hers. “Have you had a difficult day, darling?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “I mean, it has been a very good day, we have a small lead, Kate Sullivan swears that the Slasher is a tall gentleman and Francis O'Leary's fiancé might fit the bill,” she cried, aware that she was nearly babbling.

He tucked her arm in his rather firmly. “I actually understood all of that,” he said with good humor. “What's wrong? Why are you ready to jump out of your skin?”

She met his gaze and found it had become dark and intent. She shook her head again, breathlessly.

“Has something else happened?” he asked rather sharply. “Was there another attack? Have you been stalked, threatened, assaulted?”

“No, nothing else significant happened, really,” she said, refusing to admit her insecurities to him now. Then she thought about Brendan Farr. She shivered. “Actually, we learned Farr ordered Inspector Newman to incompletely file a report on the case. We caught the omissions, but Farr doesn't know we are on to his game—whatever it might be. Newman will now report directly to Bragg if he is asked to compromise the investigation again.” She smiled a little at him. Discussing the case felt like firm footing, indeed.

“So you and Rick are already up to your shirtsleeves in this case,” he mused.

“Yes,” she said, and added eagerly, “There's one more de tail, a possible clue. In my interview with Francis, she told me she has been dreaming that the Slasher called her a faithless bitch. She says it is so real, she can't help but wonder if he did speak to her that way.”

He was silent for a moment. “Does Kate Sullivan have any similar recollections?”

“No,” Francesca admitted. “But remark this. Francis's husband abandoned her two years ago and she is engaged now to Sam Wilson. He is a well-off clockmaker, and he has not a clue as to the fact that she remains married.”

He studied her for a moment. “Perhaps he has found out the truth about his fiancée. That would be motive to assault her—and other women like her.”

“I don't think so. The police have been trying to locate Thomas O'Leary but it will be a miracle if they actually do so. He may have gone out West. Bragg thinks he could be dead. Not a soul has heard from him in all this time.”

“What do you plan for tomorrow?” he asked after a brief pause.

“I wish to speak with Father Culhane, as I am running out of clues to pursue. I can ask him what he knows about David Hanrahan.” She sighed, feeling a bit grim. “If Kate is right, and the Slasher is a gentleman, it is not David Hanrahan.”

“He could never pass for a gentleman,” Hart agreed. “But you are suspicious of Wilson?”

“He is a gentleman, firmly middle class, and as much as I hope he is not our killer, I simply cannot rule him out.”

Hart studied her and finally he smiled, tipping up her chin. “I think you will solve this case in record time,” he said softly.

His praise was merely implied, but still, she was thrilled. But she tried to hide her pleasure. “I hope so! We must prevent another attack this coming Monday,” she said as briskly as
possible. But she was terribly aware of him as he removed his hand, and of the portrait Sarah was about to unveil.

“Let me know how I can help,” he said, and then he gestured at Sarah, who stood not far from them, wide-eyed and listening raptly to their every word. “I think our hostess awaits. I am sorry,” he apologized to her. “Francesca's investigations become addictive in no short time.”

“So I can see,” Sarah said, both dark eyebrows raised. Then she beamed. “Do follow me, please!”

Francesca dismissed all thoughts of the case. She stole a glance at Hart, who was darkly devastating, as always. There had been so many beautiful women in his life, in his bed… Did she really expect him to admire her portrait? For her, it was a highly significant moment. Posing had taken courage and commitment. Perhaps, for him it would just be another pretty nude.

“Shall we?” Hart murmured, guiding her forward.

She dared to meet his dark, probing gaze. “Of course,” she said, reminding herself that if she could face killers alone, she could surely withstand some slight criticism from the man she loved.

Her heart lurched as they followed Sarah down the hall. It was becoming harder and harder to deny the feelings growing inside her, she thought. In his arms there was always passion and so much of it, but at times like these, it truly felt like love.

All the lights were on in Sarah's studio. Like the Cahill home and the most modern of the city's residences, the Chandlers had electric lighting, a telephone and hot and cold running water. Sarah paused to let them precede her inside, and then she went to the covered easel in the middle of the room and stood beside it, no longer smiling.

Francesca bit her lip and slipped free of Hart's grasp.

He didn't seem to notice. “Please,” he said to Sarah.

Sarah seemed pale. She pulled the cloth from the easel, revealing the nude.

Francesca did not look at her portrait—not yet. She stared at Hart and saw his eyes widen.

He focused on the canvas, very intent, and she watched his gaze slip over her likeness, in the exact way he had so often looked at her.

Her pulse quickened.

Hart didn't move. His gaze returned to the face in the portrait—
her
face—and moved slowly from feature to feature. His regard slid down her throat and moved even more slowly over the swollen profile of her breast. Then his eyes were drawn down the length of her back, the swell of her buttocks and finally, he gazed at the rest of the portrait and the red dress.

Francesca hugged herself, a roaring in her ears. Her cheeks were warm.

The room was hugely, heavily silent. Hart seemed to have no inclination to speak. It no longer mattered. He was looking at the portrait, but he was as acutely aware of Francesca as she was of him.

Desire, huge and hot, gathered in him, in her, between them, around them.

Her heart felt like a trapped winged bird in the cage that was her chest.

Hart finally turned to Sarah. And while he might have been looking at the artist, Francesca knew his real attention never wavered, not even once, from her as she stood there behind him.

“You have created a beautiful portrait, Sarah. I more than like it. You have captured Francesca exactly as I wished her to be portrayed.”

Sarah beamed. “I am so glad you like it, Calder.”

He turned to the portrait again and stared. A huge silence fell.

Francesca wondered what he was thinking, exactly.

Finally, slowly, Hart turned. Francesca did not move as he faced her. Their gazes instantly locked.

He was imagining her nude, she knew it. And he wanted to take her in his arms—she knew that, too.

Suddenly Sarah said something, something Francesca could not decipher. Hart did not seem to hear her either, as he remained utterly still. Francesca was vaguely aware of Sarah ducking her head and hurrying out. She was vaguely aware of a door closing.

Hart continued to stare at her.

She wet her lips and tried to find her voice. It was as if her tongue had been cut out. “You really like it?” she managed to say.

A faint, faint smile. “Yes. I really like you.”

The gathering heat threatened to erupt. “Do you—” She stopped.

“Do I what?” he asked very softly. “Do I want to see you in the flesh just like that? Yes, I do,” he said, and somehow he was standing before her, his strong hands on her small waist, his breath feathering her ear. He was smiling, so much more seductive than any man had any right to be.

“Do you really think I look like that?” she heard herself ask, desperately wanting him to say yes.

“Oh yes,” he said softly, and she saw him wet his lower lip. “Oh yes, Francesca, I do.”

“Calder,” she whispered, a plea.

His grip tightened. “I don't feel noble tonight, Francesca. I don't feel noble at all,” he warned quietly. And he bent and kissed the lapel of her jacket, folded back directly over the center of her breast.

She cried out, stunned, and not just physically. Did he mean what she thought he did? Was he finally ready to cast all reservation aside and make love to her? Because just then, she wanted nothing more, and her trembling body was the proof.

He smiled at her, just a little, as his palm cupped the side of her face. “Darling,” he whispered, “you look ready to faint.”

She was choking on the ache of need inside of her. “I am ready to do far more than faint, Calder,” she said desperately. “Last night wasn't enough.”

“No, it wasn't, was it?” He pulled her closer and brushed his mouth tenderly over hers.

Francesca gasped with pleasure as their lips brushed. Hart seemed in no hurry and she gripped his shoulders and strained against him, shaking like a leaf. Hart made a sound, beginning to kiss her with some urgency, his own hands tightening on her.

Suddenly he exploded. He pulled her close, crushing her so she lost the ability to breathe, his mouth opening, taking hers, fusing hungrily with hers, and she felt him shuddering with pent-up desire. And then he yanked off her jacket. Francesca glimpsed his face as he did so and saw the dark lust there and was so stunned it was a moment before she realized that she had never seen this side of him before.

He wanted her desperately and for the first time, he was not masking his emotions.

He pulled her close again, kissing her, murmuring her name, and as she opened desperately to accommodate him, as she tried to remain standing, she realized he had already unbuttoned her shirtwaist. She could barely assimilate that fact when it was tossed aside.

And he looked at her.

She saw the hunger in his eyes, the hunger, the warning and even some surprise. And she suddenly knew that tonight he would not be denied—that tonight the courtship was over.

And then she could look no more. His face hardened and he tore open her chemise. Francesca gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple, his teeth tugging and the pleasure rushed through her with deliciously painful force. She clung, moaning, stunned, and he laid her on the floor.

She began to shake, wet heat pooling dangerously now. “Hurry, Calder, hurry,” she begged, stroking her hands down his hard, powerful back.

He held her face in his hands. “Do you know what you are asking?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

He stared, eyes wide, mouth hard. Then, “I am dangerously close to doing as you ask.” He lowered his head, tugging her into his mouth.

Francesca wept with pleasure and pain.

Hart whispered roughly, “You're too beautiful like this, Francesca. I want to rub myself all over you. Would that be too shocking?”

She could barely understand him as she whirled through the maelstrom of desire he had created. His hand was between her thighs, exploring the wet heat there, encouraging her to fly harder, faster, farther. And even as immersed in pleasure as she was, she reached for him. He leaped firmly up against her hand, through his trousers, thrilling her. He quickly kissed her. “How quickly you learn,” he murmured.

She felt a rush of pleasure and she unfastened his trousers. “Tell me what to do.”

He paused, watching now, carefully, and she helped his massive length spring free of the dark wool. “You do nothing, Francesca, nothing except take the pleasure I am about to give you.”

Their gazes met; he kissed her again, long and slow.

And then he moved. She could not smile or even think. He was hot, hard and as smooth as velvet as he brushed between her breasts and over them. The knot of desire in the pit of her being twisted and tightened, oh so precariously. Francesca began to sob as he brushed over each painfully hard nipple and she could no longer stand this, it, him. She cried out, exploding.

He kissed her frantically as she spasmed uncontrollably into what seemed to be infinity, hearing her own wild cries as if
she were someone else, the pleasure simply too much to ever bear. The orgasm seemed to last forever when suddenly she was floating and aware of Calder Hart once again.