"See? He is good for something other than seducing ladies," Rourke said, dimpling.

Francesca laughed in sheer relief.

Bragg handed Nicholas the bullet. "I have never seen that," he said.

Chapter Twenty-one.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1902 - 6:00 P.M.

Their door was ajar, and as he stood outside it, he softened, for the scene inside was such a domestic one.

Lucy sat on the floor with her back against the sofa, her beautiful red hair loose and flowing about her shoulders, her feet in stockings. Chrissy was in her lap, playing with two miniature horses; Jack sat a few feet away, busying himself with crayons and a coloring book. Shoz lay on the sofa, taking up most of it, gazing at his wife and the twins, his hands behind his head, in a pair of dungarees and a plaid flannel shirt. Roberto sat curled up by his feet, immersed in a novel. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth.

His heart tightened. He would do whatever he had to do to protect his family, he realized, when a movement behind him made him start. He turned and met Hart's dark eyes.

"Blood does tell," Hart murmured. "I was going to ask Shoz a few questions." He lifted both brows questioningly.

Bragg backed away from the door. "So was I." He smiled a little, and so did his half brother.

Then, impulsively, the afternoon's events flashing through Bragg's mind, he touched Hart's white shirtsleeve. "Thank you for your help this afternoon," he said.

Hart was startled.

"I could not have rescued Francesca without you," Bragg added.

Hart leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. Although he had discarded his suit jacket, he remained in a silver brocade vest. "I doubt that," Hart said quietly. "The one thing you are is a d.a.m.n good police commissioner."

Bragg was startled by the sincerity with which he uttered his praise. The urge was sudden and overwhelming and accompanied by far too many childhood memories to count, but in each and every one of them Hart was a small, dark, angry child, gripping his older brother's hand. Why were they constantly at odds? Why did they dislike each other so? Wasn't it time to bury the hatchet and heal old wounds?

"You are staring," Hart murmured. "Have I grown horns?"

An image of Francesca in Hart's arms came to mind and it was simply unbearable. Bragg straightened. "I imagine you grew horns a long time ago, Calder."

"Thank you."

"But horns or no, in a crisis I would want you at my side anytime."

Hart's eyes widened. "You are getting soft, Rick," he said. Then, indicating the peaceful scene in the room beyond, "Shall we?"

Bragg nodded. Hart pushed open the door with a small knock on the wall. "May we?"

Shoz regarded them impa.s.sively from the couch, unmoving, except for the small turn of his head. Lucy moved Chrissy aside and leaped to her feet with a small, glad shriek. She rushed to them and hugged first Bragg and then Hart. "I love you both!" she cried. "Thank you!"

"I was merely along for the ride. Rick ran the show," Hart said.

"Rick!"

Bragg looked down and smiled at his niece, who was using his trousers to haul herself into a standing position. He swooped her up into his arms, then watched Jack's expression turn to grim determination. He somehow stood and began swaying aggressively toward his uncle and sister. He could not speak a single word yet, but his mood was clear; he was filled with jealousy and h.e.l.l-bent on reaching his uncle.

Chrissy grasped his face. "Uncle! Uncle!" she cried happily.

Jack fell and howled with rage.

Lucy lifted him up and kissed Bragg's cheek. "I love you."

He was taken aback. While so much love ran so freely in his family, it wasn't spoken of. "Are you all right now?"

She glanced at Shoz, who was finally sitting up with a yawn-as if he did not know why they were there. "My husband is home, safe and sound, and he has forgiven me my utter stupidity." Then she grinned wickedly. "More than forgiven, I must say."

He had the uncomfortable feeling that they had already made love and he didn't really want to know about it. "Shoz? Can you step outside for a moment? Hart and I would like to clear up a few matters," he said as casually as possible.

Lucy's face fell. "What matters!" she cried.

"There is nothing for you to worry about," Bragg said soothingly.

She stared in dismay, clearly not believing him.

Shoz strolled the short distance from the sitting area to the door, barefoot. His dungarees were so old that they were faded to a grayish white. He laid his hand on the small of Lucy's back. "One moment," he told her, looking into her eyes.

Bragg watched them and saw far more than the silent communication; he saw the flow of love and trust, and it was disturbing-it was what he had always wanted for himself. It was what he had, foolishly, expected to have on his wedding day and every day after that.

The three men walked into the hall, closing the door behind them. Shoz leaned on the wall, apparently unconcerned and indifferent. Bragg glanced at Hart-their eyes connected in silent agreement. Shoz's composure was simply astounding.

"Well?" he drawled. Then, with a glance at Hart, "I owe you a rifle."

Bragg started. "Where is it?"

"The river."

Relief flooded him. He did not ask which river, either, as he had no wish to know. Shoz had not been caught fleeing the scene, the gun would never be recovered, and Nicholas had the bullet-or, by now, had gotten rid of it. "How many lives is this?" he asked. It was hard to be stern with a man who was not merely twelve years older than he was, but strong-willed, intelligent, and dedicated to his family life.

Shoz's mouth twisted into what might be an expression of mirth. "Number seven," he said softly. "But as I am not a cat, I don't know if I have two more coming."

"Don't you think it might be wise to change your ways?" Hart asked.

"I have changed my ways," Shoz said, coming off of the wall. "I changed my ways the day I got married. But I do have a past. I guess I always knew it would catch up with me one day."

Suddenly his composure was gone. And fear appeared in his silver eyes. "If anything had happened to my daughter or Lucy or the other children, I would have never been able to live

with myself," he whispered roughly.

Bragg gripped his arm and their eyes held. "But it didn't. And it's over. Craddock is dead."

Shoz smiled, without mirth.

He kept his hand on Shoz's shoulder. "Did you kill Cooper?" Bragg asked.

"Yes," Shoz said evenly, "and just about the whole world knows it."

Bragg stared into his brother-in-law's unflinching gray eyes and knew that there was far more here than met the eye. Clearly Hart did, too, because Calder said, "What happened?"

Shoz sighed. "Craddock and a few of his boys hung Cooper up and tortured him. One of the boys was half-Comanche and they knew how to make a man die as slow as can be. The whole prison was enjoying the show, even the guards and the warden. It got pretty ugly; even though Cooper deserved to die, no one deserved to die the way they were making him die."

He stared at them both. "I put him out of his misery. It was a mercy killing," he said.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19TH, 1902 - 6:00 P.M.

Francesca smiled as Bragg was escorted into the small pink-and-gold salon where she was pacing. She hadn't seen him since the evening before, when she had been dropped off at home after Craddock's murder. He returned her smile, but he was very somber for a man who had just gotten his brother-in-law off of a blackmailer's hook.

But then, her own smile was fragile and tentative. She could not escape a feeling of dread.

She quickly crossed the salon and closed both doors so that they were utterly alone. What she had to say-and do-could only be said and done in the utmost privacy. And acutely aware of the intimacy now prevailing in the room, she returned, leaning breathlessly against one mahogany door. She had not slept at all last night.

Could she really go through with this?

Her pulse raced. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours, she thought grimly.

Not the least of which was Leigh Anne calling upon her.

We have a bond that can never be severed, Miss Cahill...

I am staying. And I am going to help Rick achieve all of his dreams. Every single one.

Francesca wished, desperately, that she had never laid eyes on Leigh Anne, that the other woman had remained in Europe forever.

"What is it?" Bragg asked softly. He walked up to her and grasped her gently by both arms, his gaze searching hers.

"Leigh Anne came here yesterday."

His grip tightened, and then he released her, his eyes wide, unhappy.

She laid her palm on his cheek. "Has the Craddock investigation been laid to rest?" she asked unsteadily.

He gave her a look and paced. "It is closed. Farr could not find the rifle or the bullet and the shooter escaped."

"Thank G.o.d," Francesca said.

He paused, facing her. "Actually, we have Nicholas and Shoz to thank."

"I thought as much," she said. Clearly Shoz had disposed of the rifle. She was glad. "And Cooper?"

"It was a mercy killing, but you were right! Shoz was the one to put him out of his misery,"

Bragg said harshly. "I shall have a long private conversation with Warden Timbull early next week. As he allowed a prisoner to be tortured and murdered, we can easily sweep this one under the rug."

Francesca was relieved. While Shoz Savage seemed like an extremely hard and difficult man, clearly he loved his wife and children and clearly Lucy adored him and was impervious to his darker side. "Will they stay in the city for a while?"

"As they are all here, yes, they'll stay about a month," he said. "We have to talk, don't we?"

She nodded, refusing to allow any tears to well up in her eyes.

He walked to her and pulled her close and she snuggled in his arms, against his chest. In that moment, she knew that the bond they shared was not going to change simply because his wife had decided to return to his side. And then the moment changed: a recollection flashed through her mind, more tactile than anything else. For one instant, she recalled being in Hart's arms outside the Thirty-second Street saloon, with her cheek on his chest, his heart beating powerfully beneath it. She stiffened and Bragg felt it immediately, as he let her go. She put a few steps between them. "I don't know what to do," she finally whispered, and it was a lie. Because deep within herself, she knew what to do. You are his Achilles' heel. . . you are the one who can destroy him. Connie's words had been echoing in her mind all night. You are the problem here, Miss Cahill, you, not I.... If you really love him you would never think to put him in such a dangerous position. If only Leigh Anne were in Europe! "What did she say? What did she want?" he asked tersely, taking her hands in his. Then he said, "Is your right hand fully healed?" And he turned it over, glancing at her pink-and-white palm. "Yes, Finney looked at it this morning. The scars may eventually fade a bit," she added with desperation. A tear finally shimmered in her eyes. "Don't cry. The one thing you will always have is my heart, Francesca," Bragg said, taking her face in his hands. His words could not thrill her. She closed her eyes and felt his mouth brushing hers, at first soft and gently, then repeatedly, and suddenly urgency and need flared in her loins, in the delta of her s.e.x. She opened and strained against him, and what had begun as a chaste kiss meant to comfort became a monster of pa.s.sion and grief. He jerked away, breathing hard. She was also breathless. "She is your wife. She has every right; I have none," she whispered hoa.r.s.ely. She had thought of nothing else all night. He held her hands tightly. "Did I not make a choice? Did I not choose you over her-and over my political future?" "And did I not tell you that I could never live with myself if you did not follow your destiny? You have a destiny, Rick, a huge and great destiny," she whispered, meaning it. "Just like this country!" "You never call me Rick," he said with real surprise. She was also surprised; his given name had just slipped out. And she had the awful feeling that it was an indication of the changes they must now make. "If I were truly brave, truly selfless, I would find a way to stop loving you." His jaw flexed. "And if I were truly selfless, I would wish that you could do just that. But a part of me refuses to let you go," he said unsteadily. "I have that same part, inside of me," Francesca returned. A tear finally trickled down her cheek. "I have thought about us all night. I have come to a conclusion." He paled. "I pray now, suddenly, that it is not the very same conclusion I have been tormented with." She shook her head. "No, I think not. The one thing I can't do, Bragg, is lose you as a friend. But I can stand aside and support you in your quest for justice and reform. I can also stand aside and support your marriage," she somehow said. He stared. "You are the bravest, most amazing woman I have ever known," he finally said roughly. "Don't you understand? It is moments like this that make me love you even more." She smiled through her tears. "And I have no real marriage for you to support," he added with a flash of black anger. "Leigh Anne is staying, and as she has pointed out, I am the problem now, not her." "Have you so quickly forgotten that we have been separated for four years? That she left me? That I despise her? Has it not occurred to you that she sees my star rising and so now she has come forward, for G.o.d forbid she should not rise with me on my way to prominence and power?" Francesca was shaken. "I think she loves you," she heard herself say. "She loves no one but herself!" he almost shouted. "Do not let her fool you, too!" She recoiled. Would it always be this way? Would the mere subject of his wife be enough to inflame him? Surely this was a sign of the bond Leigh Anne had spoken of; surely this was a sign of some kind of peculiar but intractable love. "I do not love her," he said, as always in tune with her thoughts, her mind. "I love you. And if she chooses to remain in the city, I cannot stop her. But I intend to do my best to negotiate a pact between us, one that will satisfy her, one that will send her back to Boston, if not Europe." Oddly, hope did not flare. "Even if she leaves the city, she is hardly dead, and you are hardly unwed." His eyes softened. "I am so sorry for doing this to you." "Never tell me you are sorry for anything!" she cried, moving into his arms. They clung for a long breathless and hurtful moment. "Bragg? She has held the threat of informing the press about us over my head. Not directly, but I am no fool. I cannot be the one to destroy you. I must stand back now, and somehow, we must deny our real feelings and try to be true friends, and nothing more." He was grim. "Isn't that what we have been doing? Hasn't it been far too difficult to achieve? Every time I am with you, I want you in my arms!" he cried. "We must try harder," she said. "The truth is, until I met her myself, it was almost as if I was pretending that she did not exist. But she does exist. Before yesterday, I did not want to deny anything; before yesterday, I was convinced that because we loved each other, our love would prevail." She looked down. "But this is not a fairy tale, now is it?" she whispered, acutely aware of using Hart's words. "Now, this is hardly a fairy tale where the hero and the heroine are a.s.sured a happy-ever-after ending. Let's navigate through this day by day. As I said, I need to sit down and negotiate a compromise with her, as her being here, intending to resume her position as my wife, is simply unacceptable." His eyes were chilling now. "But what can you offer her?" She knew she wasn't being tactful, but he did not have any disposable wealth-although his family certainly did. "Leave that to me," he said. She nodded uncertainly. Another tear crept into her eyes. She knew with her entire being that Leigh Anne no longer wanted money, and while she could not be sure that she had not been lured back by Bragg's new position and power, she felt certain that she still loved him. Which meant she was staying, as she had claimed she intended to do. "I have never seen you so glum!" he exclaimed. "I have never before come face-to-face with the wife of the man I love," she said simply. "You were right and I was wrong. I am ashamed, and I am filled with guilt, but we never intended to fall in love!" she cried. He swept her into his arms for a fierce moment's embrace. "I know. This is my fault, not yours. I was aware of my feelings instantly; I should have avoided you like the plague." He released her, but she remained in his arms, loosely. She attempted a smile. "Bragg? At least we can solve crimes together." He smiled a bit at her. And she was stunned to see moisture in his amber gaze. She dared to use her fingertip to catch a tear. He looked dismayed, but before she could say that it did not matter, she heard a movement from the other side of the salon door. She tensed, turning. "I cannot imagine investigative work without you at my side," he said. "But we should avoid being alone like this," he said, "as it is too difficult and dangerous. And I am thinking about your welfare, Francesca, not my own. I am afraid I no longer trust myself when I am around you." His expression changed. "What is it?"

She gave him a warning look and rushed over to the door and flung it open. Her mother wa.s.standing there, clearly eavesdropping. "How long have you been spying upon us?" Francesca cried. Julia looked extremely grim. "Long enough." She nodded at Bragg. "Your wife calledyesterday, Commissioner. I can't imagine what she and my daughter talked about." Shelooked at Francesca. "Calder Hart is here. I suggest the commissioner leave." She walkedaway, and suddenly Hart was striding down the hallway toward Francesca. Anxiety filled her. Tension stiffened her. He had the worst timing, always. And what did hewant? She had last seen him yesterday, too, when she had been dropped off at the house. "Francesca?" Bragg said from behind her, his tone low. She turned. "I had better go." He hesitated. "May I call you later?" Speaking on the telephone was hardly the same as being with him, but she noddedunhappily. Bragg was now persona non grata in the house; she felt certain of it. "Why do I have the distinct impression that I am intruding?" Hart drawled. "I take it love's littlemelodrama is not going well?" His dark gaze moved between them. Francesca gave him a dark look. Bragg confronted him. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" "The same thing as you, I believe," Hart replied, unruffled. "I am calling on Francesca." Helooked directly at her and her heart skipped numerous beats. "How is your hand?" "Fine," she managed. "Has Finney looked at it?" "Yes." "And in his opinion it is healing well?" "Yes," she cried. He nodded, satisfied, and faced Bragg. "How is Leigh Anne?" His smile did not reach hiseyes. "I know what you are about!" Bragg exploded. "As always, you wish to cause trouble-youwish to come between me and Francesca." "I had not realized there was a 'you and Francesca,' " he murmured. "Except in a particularfairy tale." He gave her a look. She folded her arms tightly across her chest. "Don't start now, please." Her tone had been pleading; his expression softened. "I want you to stay away from her," Bragg said harshly. "She is too good for the likes ofyou-and you d.a.m.n well know it." Hart looked at his half brother as if he were an annoying mosquito that had dared to appearwithin his mosquito netting. Francesca moved closer to them. "Please, stop it. Not now, not today." More tearsthreatened to rise. "Today I cannot watch the two of you carry on like small jealous boys." They both ignored her, of course. Hart smiled, more coldly than before, at his brother. "I amwell aware of the fact that I am hardly fit for Francesca to wipe her boots upon," he saidsoftly. "But fortunately, she is somewhat fond of me, and we are friends-whether you like itor not." Bragg became still. He was furious. "And what do you think to gain from your friendship withFrancesca?" he demanded. "Far more than you think to gain from your friendship," he said. Bragg took a swing. Hart ducked. Francesca shouted at them both, "What do the two of youthink you are doing?" "I think you heard him; he hardly has friendship in mind," Bragg gritted. Hart appeared amused. "I find it interesting, the interpretation you put upon my words." Francesca touched him; he sighed and backed off. She turned to Bragg. "You should go.Mother is very upset." She gave him a significant we-will-speak-later look. "And don't worryabout Calder. We are friends, truly."

Bragg managed to tear his gaze from Hart. He was incredulous. "When will you see thetruth? When you let go of your utter naivete? Hart has no scruples, none. And he does nothave friends, Francesca." He turned coldly to Hart. "Correct me if I am wrong, Calder?" Hart was as calm as Bragg was not. "Francesca is the first." Bragg faced her with an I-told-you-so look. "You are deceiving yourself if you think it isfriendship which he wants from you," he said very softly. Francesca simply could not argue over this subject now. She took his hand and kissed hischeek, her lips lingering and firm. And she gripped his palm tightly, as if it were the line to alife preserver and she were floundering in a tempestuous sea. But then again, that was.e.xactly how she felt. "Don't worry," she said as softly. "Not about Calder." He softened, understanding her completely-they had their own relationship to unravel, andthe advent of his wife into their lives. She knew he was an instant from pulling her close, buthe glanced at the door, as did she. It remained wide open. Hart made a disparaging sound. Bragg gave him a hard glance. "Stay away from her," he said again. "And if you ever toucha hair on her head, you will be very sorry indeed." He gave Francesca another look andstrode out, rather angrily. Francesca felt all of her strength draining away. She took a deep breath, looked up, andfound Hart studying her intently. "I take it that your tragic love affair is not going well?" he asked simply, with no mockery andno cruelty. She shook her head. "You were right. I was wrong. Please do not say I told you so, andplease, do not smirk." "I am too fond of you to gloat," he said, and he reached out with a rueful smile and touchedher cheek. Then he dropped his hand. Her skin tingled where his fingers had grazed it. She walked quickly away. "You can run, but you cannot hide," he said softly. "Not from me." She whirled. "What does that mean?" she cried with real panic. "It means I have not forgotten our discussion of a few days ago, even if you have. It meanswe both know that there is more here than meets the eye." "I am not up to this!" she cried. And she had never meant her words more earnestly. "I take it your love story is taking an unexpected and unscripted turn for the worse?" Hisbrows arched. She sat down hard on an ottoman. "Leigh Anne, came here." "I see." He strolled closer but did not sit. She hated it when he chose to loom over her, atower of male strength and power. "Care to talk about it? I am sorry," he added. "I do not want your pity," she said firmly. "And you do not have it!" he exclaimed. "Why would anyone, least of all I, pity you?" She had to smile, just a little. "You know, Calder, sometimes you actually say the rightthing." He grinned. "But not often." "No, not often," she said, her smile slipping. She looked up at him, careful not to inventoryhis body. "And that is why we are friends. I can always count on the truth from you, evenwhen it is unpleasant." He stared. She felt herself beginning to flush. "What is it?" His jaw flexed visibly. "Rick is right," he said. And the color above his cheekbones began tochange; Francesca thought he might be blushing, but surely, she was mistaken. But a pink cast now colored his cheeks. She stood. "Calder?" He gave her a look that she could not decipher, one so grim and determined that his eyeshad turned to forged steel, and he turned and paced back and forth across the salon, twice. She watched him warily. He reminded her of a wild animal, locked up for far too long in a cage. "Calder? What do you mean?"

He came to stand before her. He made her feel five feet tall. "Rick is right. My intentions are not platonic ones."

His meaning was a blow; her heart stopped; she gasped. "What?"

"I do believe you heard my every word," he said, but he was not wry. His gaze was brilliant with resolve and intensity, and he was frightening her.

Yet every inch of her body was painfully alive. She wet her lips. "You intend to seduce me?"

His gaze widened; he laughed, the sound incredulous but harsh. "I intend to marry you," he said.

She thought she had misheard. "What? "

"I intend to marry you." He gave her a strange look. "I intend to make you my wife."

TWO HOURS LATER.

There was a knock on the door, but she did not hear it. She was faint. She sat on the sofa, unmoving, although her mind was racing at impossible speeds. The salon was all darkness and shadow except for the single lamp that had been on when she had first walked in, earlier in the evening. How could this be happening? Calder, is this a jest?