She moaned, moving his own coat out of the way, running her hands up and down inside his white dinner jacket, exploring the hard planes and angles of his torso and chest. His mouth moved to her throat. Fiery sensation trailed in the wake of his lips, his tongue. Francesca gripped his head, encouraging him to go lower.

He did.

He rained kisses on her bare chest, and when he reached the edge of her bodice he paused.

"Don't stop," she whispered frantically.

He rubbed his cheek over her breast until the silk of her gown raised her nipple.

Francesca pushed her bodice down.

He inhaled, hard, his lips inches from her nipple, and then she heard herself beg, "Please,"

and he touched it with his tongue, slowly, deliberately, again and again, until she began to writhe, wildly, on the cab seat.

He sucked it into his mouth.

Francesca cried out, then felt his hand beneath her skirts, sliding up her stockinged knee, her bare thigh. She froze.

He lifted his head and looked at her and she saw pa.s.sion straining his face. And then she felt his fingers move up her thigh, finally brushing her s.e.x.

She collapsed against the seat, moaning, mindless. He began to kiss her again-her mouth, her face-but his fingers stroked over her and then she felt what had to be an electrical current or a bolt of lightning. Her body arched wildly, stars exploded inside the cab, not once, but many times, and as they began to flutter down through the night sky she began to drift with them, lower and lower still, weightless.

Until suddenly there was a hard piece of wood beneath her neck, a solid seat beneath her back, one leg dangling off, awkwardly, and Bragg's solid body was moving off, away. She looked up at the ceiling of the cab, which was torn, and then she started to sit and she looked at him, stunned.

He stared, his eyes still dark and heated. "Are you all right?"

She realized she was not quite dressed; she pulled up her bodice and rearranged her skirts.

"Are you all right?" she asked cautiously.

He made a sound. "Yes. And no. I lost control, Francesca. I didn't mean to ravage you in the cab."

She wanted to touch him but, oddly, was afraid to. "I'm glad that you did."

"I'm not."

His words were a blow. "What?"

"This is too hard."

Fear paralyzed her. It was a moment before she could speak. "I am an independent woman.

I am glad we love each other, no matter the circ.u.mstances! Bragg, I have no regrets!" "Are you certain?" "Yes!" He suddenly flopped back fully in the seat, his eyes closed, his face upturned to the torncanopy. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it," he said. She stared at his taut neck, his strained profile, and dared to glimpse the rigid outlines of hisentire body. Dismayed, she sank back in her seat. Why couldn't he say to h.e.l.l witheverything and take her as his lover? But then, that was why she loved him so. "I don't care,Bragg, about my virginity," she said somewhat bitterly. "I wish gladly to give it to you." His eyes flew open. "Don't talk like that!" "But it's the truth. I have thought about it. You are the one. Nothing will ever change myfeelings." He turned his head to stare but otherwise did not move. The cab continued to rumblethrough the city. "We've had this conversation before. I am not going to ruin you, Francesca. Ilove you too much." "But I don't care!" she cried. "I am never going to marry anyone else, so what differencedoes it make?" "You don't know that," he said, sounding bitter now. He faced her more fully, his gaze nowoddly intent. And instantly she became rigid and fearful. "What is it? Why do you want to speak to me?" "On Thursday I told you I intended to divorce Leigh Anne. Yet you haven't said a word about.i.t, not then, not since then. Granted, we have not really had a moment alone together. But Iknow you. You would find that moment to discuss our future. Yet you have not," he saidgrimly. "I know you very well. You aren't happy, are you? Something's changed. Yet I don'tknow what." She was so stiff with tension she could hardly breathe. "I know you would never say such athing on a whim." "A whim? A man only marries once. This is not about a whim, Francesca." She found it hard to breathe properly now. A man only marries once. He was giving himselfaway. And this was what she wanted, but not this way. Not over the carca.s.s of his wife andcareer. She would never let him destroy himself-she would never be the cause of hisdestruction. "I haven't changed my mind. I wrote Leigh Anne a letter telling her that I have decided upon adivorce," he said stiffly. "Have you really thought this through?" she asked with dread. How had the evening boileddown to this? Just a moment ago they had been in the throes of ecstasy. Now they were onthe verge of anger and argument. "The words-and expression-of an ecstatic woman. I have thought of nothing else in thedark hours between midnight and dawn." He seemed angry now. "But I cannot tell her in aletter. That would be unfair. Later this week I will go up to Boston and tell her in person,myself." She thought of the note, which she had left at home. "My dear Miss Cahill, . . . I wish to meetyou at your convenience."Then she recalled Lucy's furious outburst. "I hate her. After all shedid to Rick..." "What did she do?" "Do you have to even ask? She broke my brother's heart." Francesca began to perspire. She knew she should not raise this topic now, but she hadto-she had to know. "Lucy said that she broke your heart." "What?" He was startled. She wet her lips. A little voice inside her head said, Don't do this. He loves you, he hasproven it; he just made love to you. "Lucy said Leigh Anne broke your heart." His jaw tightened. His face hardened. "I don't want you gossiping with her about mymarriage."

She flinched as if struck. "Did she break your heart?" "No." "Then why would Lucy say such a thing?" "How would I know?" he exploded. "Stop." She seized his arm. "Why are you shouting at me? What have I done? I am asking asimple question." He was furious. "I was young. Naive. I trusted her. And more significantly, the woman I loveddid not exist. Did she break my heart? It took me some time to recover from the fact that Ihad married a wh.o.r.e. Now. Does that answer your question?" "She broke your heart," Francesca whispered, shocked. And something inside her ownheart broke, and while it was only a small spoke, while the other spokes remained intact, theentire wheel was forever changed. It would always wobble now. "I did not grieve, Francesca," he warned. "You just said 'the woman I loved,' You loved her." She was reeling. He slammed his hands down on the seat. "I was in love, yes, but not with Leigh Anne. I wasin love with the most beautiful and perfect little angel to set foot on the earth. Except thewoman I loved was an illusion. Now-have you finished your interrogation?" he askedtersely. "You told me it was l.u.s.t. You lied-to me," she whispered. "It was l.u.s.t. Because you can't love a figment of your imagination," he said. Francesca turned her back to him to stare out her window, gripping the edges of the seat.The most beautiful and perfect little angel.... how his words hurt. She wanted to vanish, todie. "Francesca? I am sorry," he said softly now. "But the mere mention of my wife still has thepower to upset me. I did not mean to shout at you." "I think you are still in love with her," Francesca heard herself say slowly. How she hated herown words, but now, oh G.o.d, she knew that they were true. He gripped her arm. "I love you," he said flatly. His eyes seemed black. "She is the worstthing to ever have happened to me. You are the best thing to ever have happened to me. Iam going to ask her for a divorce. I will give her the shirt off of my back if she will agree, andif not, I will fight her, for as long as it takes. And then I am going to marry you," he said."Francesca, will you marry me?" She looked at him and shook her head slowly. "No. I cannot," she said.

Chapter Nine.

SAt.u.r.dAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902- MIDNIGHT.

His eyes widened. "What?"

She inhaled and reached for his hand. "I can't let you divorce her," she said.

He pulled his hand away. "Why not?"

"Because your career in politics would be over," she said, frightened now. His face was so hard.

"I see."

"No, I don't think that you do! I can't let you divorce Leigh Anne because it would destroy everything you have dreamed of and worked for your entire life! I could not live with myself, Bragg, if I were so selfish!"

His jaw was tight. "Isn't it my decision to make?"

"I would never forgive myself, and maybe there would come a time when you would hate me!" she cried.

"I could never hate you." He stared at her so intently she wanted to squirm. His gaze narrowed. "Is there someone else you wish to marry?"

"No! The question is absurd!" But she grew uneasy, because she knew exactly where their conversation was now heading. "Is it? I do believe a very infamous art collector is desperate for your portrait," he said coldly. "Do not bring Hart into this," she warned. "He has nothing to do with how much I love you." "Do you love me? You would not be the first woman to marry a divorced man." "It is because I love you that I cannot accept your offer," Francesca said, feeling ill. The world seemed to be spinning-but in the wrong direction. She was refusing a marriage proposal from the man she loved. How had her life come to this? He was silent for a moment. "Stay away from Calder," he said coolly. Francesca could hardly believe her ears. "What?" Then, "What does Calder have to do with anything?" "He has been coming between us ever since his father was murdered," Bragg said flatly. "Which was when you first met him." She stared, stunned that he had injected Hart into their conversation, now. She was about to tell him that he was wrong and that Hart had not come between them, but she could not speak. Not after the horrible encounter she had had with him earlier that day. Not after he had told her that he wished to take her to bed but would never do so, because he so treasured her as a friend. "He is only a friend," she finally said, and was aghast, because her tone sounded pitifully weak to her own ears. "Stop. You can tell yourself until you are blue in the face that his intentions are merely platonic. Lie then if you will. But not to me." "I am not lying," she managed. "Do not accuse me of lying!" He inhaled. "I am sorry. Clearly you have convinced yourself that that is the truth. I don't want to fight with you, Francesca. But I do not trust my half brother, not one whit. He would love nothing more than to stab me in the back- and steal the woman I love out from under my nose." "That's not true." "No? So now you are an expert on Calder?" He gave her a sidelong look. "As always, you defend him blindly. When will you ever learn? He is not to be trusted, Francesca. Not even by you." Francesca did not answer now. Bragg was wrong. Oddly, she did trust Calder, and she realized now that he had been right-it was herself that she did not trust when they were together. It was a horrible realization to have, especially in that moment. "Again, will you stay away from him?" Bragg was demanding. She was, to her amazement, torn. "This is not fair." "Why can't you simply agree? Sit for that d.a.m.ned portrait if you must, but otherwise, avoid Calder at all costs." Somehow she knew he was not giving her a choice. "You are strong-arming me." "Yes, I am." She closed her eyes, and Hart's image blazed there in her mind, darkly amused yet oddly tender. She sighed and looked at Bragg, then almost recoiled at the fierce and intent look in his eyes. This would be for the best. "I will avoid him socially," she said. "But considering that I have promised to uncover the ruffian responsible for the vandalism of Sarah's studio, I may need Hart's insights into the art world." "I can accept that," he said flatly. "If I asked you to reconsider my proposal, would you?" She stiffened, surprised at his rapid reversal back to his marriage proposal. She met his dark, disturbed, and even angry eyes. Her mind was made up, but she could not refuse him now. "Of course." His face hardened. "You are being glib. Do not tell me you will think this over when your mind is firmly set." "Sometimes it feels like you are inside of my mind," Francesca whispered, shaken and tearful now.

"It is because we are so alike," he said flatly, but the anger remained there in his eyes, flashing and black. She hesitated. "But how can you be so certain that you would really give up your career for me? How, Bragg?" And he hesitated. "I don't want to lose you to someone else. I cannot bear the notion," he finally said. She trembled, wondering if he somehow thought he might lose her to Hart, which was preposterous. And he had hesitated before answering, and somehow his answer did not seem like the right one. Yet she knew that he loved her. What had just happened in the cab proved that, as did all the moments they had shared on the past three criminal investigations they had solved. But she also felt that he still loved his wife-and she felt it very strongly. That love might be perverse, and it might be odd and angry. But somehow, it still was love. She touched his arm. "Tell me the real truth. Do you really want to give up everything you have worked your entire life for?" He turned and stared at her. "Bragg?" she prompted. "What if I never married another man? What if I devoted myself to crime-solving and reform, growing old as a spinster? What would your choice be then?" It was hard to tell in the darkness of the cab, but he seemed to flush. He inhaled harshly. "I do not want to end my own career. How could I? There is so much to be done! The police department in this city is just the beginning. If I lived to be a hundred, I could not accomplish all that I must." He was excessively grim. "But this is not a perfect world, Francesca. One must compromise and make choices. Your scenario is absurd. You are an amazing and unique woman. Perhaps I am the only man to fully understand and appreciate you, but did you not see how many men wished to make your acquaintance at the Channing ball? If I do not come forward, and soon, one of them will. I have made my choice, Francesca." She looked at him and now he looked away. She sensed then that his choice was not as absolute and firm as he had made it out to be. He was a great man, a natural leader, and a true reformer. He did not want to really give it all up. But he did not want to lose her, either. How could she solve this dilemma? "I am going to make you a promise, Bragg," she said thoughtfully. His gaze met hers. She smiled just a little and took his hand in her left one, squeezing it hard. "I will never give my heart to another man. My heart will always belong to you," she said. His face softened. "This is why I love you so." He swept her up into his arms, hard, and held her that way briefly. When he released her, he said, "You are twenty years old. I refuse to accept such a pledge. For G.o.d forbid there might come a day when you regret it." "I will never regret it, and you have it, now," she whispered. "I am the kind of woman to only love once, Bragg." "I hate to tell you, Francesca, there are many different ways to love. Life's paths are surprising. You might be surprised, one day, when you find yourself on a road you never dreamed of." He was very serious now. He simply did not understand. "Does this mean you have realized a divorce is not a good idea?" she asked. He hesitated. "No." "You are still going to approach Leigh Anne?" she asked, alarmed. "Not immediately. Perhaps I am rushing things." He smiled just a little and pulled her against his side. "Maybe if you and I continue this discussion, we can come to terms that satisfy us both." She blinked. "What does that mean?" He smiled. "You realize you cannot live without me and agree to become my wife while supporting my decision to divorce." His tone was light now, so she smiled. But she began to tremble, with fear. He remained set in his decision, too. There was, however, one solution to this terrible impa.s.se. It was a long moment before she could speak.

"There is another solution, here," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "A way to navigate through the waters of the present before we must face the seas of the future."

He met her gaze, mildly perplexed. "Is there?"

"Yes," she cried. "Make me your mistress, Bragg."

His answer was instantaneous. "Absolutely not."

The cab had halted in the snow-dusted driveway before the front steps of the Cahillmansion. Neither one of them moved. Francesca sat in the far corner of the backseat, angryand upset. Bragg was staring out his own window. The driver coughed. "One moment," Bragg said. "I wish you to wait for me." He pushed open his door then and jumped out, slipping a little on the frozen, icy snow. Heturned and looked into the cab. Francesca finally met his gaze. "Why not?" she asked, choked up with tears. "I have thoughtabout this very carefully." "No, you haven't thought about this at all. Either that, or you do not know me at all," he saidgrimly. He held out his hand. She took it reluctantly and allowed him to help her down from the cab. His hand touched thesmall of her back. It felt so right-it felt so wrong. They started carefully up the short stonewalkway to the front steps of the imposing limestone house. "I know you the way I knowmyself," she said. "Sometimes we think the exact same thoughts, or it is as if you read mymind." "No. You do not know my thoughts." He clasped her hand hard and pulled her about to facehim. "You deserve more than being a man's plaything, Francesca. You deserve to be aman's wife, his partner, the mother of his children. I would be afflicted with guilt every time Ilooked at you if I took you as a mistress. Do you know how corrosive guilt is?" Tears began to moisten her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "And I also know that sooner or later you would have many conflicting emotions. Mostimportant, sooner or later there would be shame. Because our secret would not last long."He touched her cheek. "How long would you remain in love with me, while filled withshame?" She pulled away from him and crossed her arms tightly, so tightly it was hard to breathe. Ormaybe the air had changed, becoming thick and unpalatable, or maybe it was somethingelse. "And how would you feel if the day ever came when you came face-to-face with my wife,while you were my mistress?" he asked simply. "Stop!" His words felt like a knife now, inside her heart. "I told you once I respect you far too much to treat you the way other men treat women likeGeorgette de Labouche and Daisy Jones," he said softly. "Don't cry. My respect for you isno less than what you deserve. And what about Andrew? Good G.o.d, he is my friend. Irespect and admire your father, Francesca. I could never betray him by using his daughter insuch a manner." Everything he said was right, which was why it hurt so much. "So where does that leave us?"she asked. "Where, Bragg? If I cannot let you divorce your wife and you will not make meyour lover, then where do we go from here? And how do we get there?" He stared, dropping her hand. And something impossibly sad crossed his face, filled hiseyes. "I don't know. Our friendship is becoming an impossible one." "No." It was a gasp, a horrified one. He held her gaze, not speaking. "Do not even think it!" He had not been about to suggest they end their friendship. "The onething I refuse to do is lose you as a friend. It is simply not a possibility, Bragg!" she crieddesperately.

"We shouldn't be alone," he said bluntly. "And you know it."

She stared, but he was not in focus. She realized that her vision was blurred from all her tears. "I had better go inside," she said stiffly. "Thank you for seeing me home."

He nodded and walked her to the front door, this time not touching her.

And when he was gone, Francesca stared blindly out a window at the deserted and snowy avenue, in the throes of sheer fear.

This could not be happening.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 - 9:00 A.M.

"Nuthin's changed," Joel Kennedy said with a scowl. "Ain't been no flood or hurricane."

They had just alighted from a cab and now stood in front of police headquarters, a squat brownstone building that Joel was clearly unhappy to see still standing. Mulberry Street was eerily deserted, but then, it was quite early on a Sunday morning and Francesca suspected that most hooks and crooks had been up into the wee hours of the morning the night before.

Bragg's motorcar was not parked in front of the brownstone building. She was relieved.

What had happened between them the night before was terrifying. She could not face him just yet. It was still hard to think clearly; she only knew that she did love him and they would, somehow, find a solution to the terrible impa.s.se they now found themselves in.

It was cold. Last night the temperature had apparently dropped to eight degrees above zero; today it remained about the same. "Let's get inside," Francesca said, shivering. "How do you like your new gloves and hat?" she asked.

As they walked past two uniformed policemen who seemed oblivious to them, Joel grinned.

"Real leather an' lined with wool. I like 'em a lot, Miz Cahill. Thanks."

She smiled at him. "They're lined with cashmere," she said. Joel had been wearing rags on his hands. She'd sent one of the hous.e.m.e.n out to buy him the hat and gloves.

"Cashmere?" His eyes widened to impossible dimensions. "No kiddin'? I thought cashmere was only for rich folk!"

"There's no law that I know of which bars you from wearing cashmere," Francesca said, smiling.

Inside the precinct station, it was as quiet as outside. Captain Shea was at the front desk, but he was reading a newspaper and sipping a mug of steaming coffee. Another officer whom she recognized but did not know was actually snoring as he dozed, sitting in a chair behind the front desk. Francesca realized she had never been down to headquarters this early on a Sunday. It was so quiet. Not only were no complaints being lodged, but there were no fisticuffs or disgruntled felons about, and the constant pinging of the telegraph was absent. She realized she had come to like the sound.

Shea saw her and put down his paper. "G'morning, Miz Cahill. What brings you downtown this early?" He was a black-haired fellow with graying temples and a pleasant smile.

Francesca knew from her conversations with Bragg that Shea was actually honest. At one point, Bragg had considered promoting him-and appointing him chief of police. That would have been unheard of. In the end, he hadn't done so, admitting that Shea was just not strong enough for the job.

"I am on a case," Francesca said, walking up to the front desk. Actually, she was on two cases-Lucy's and Sarah's. Lucy's predicament seemed the more pressing, however, and that was where she would start. She wanted to dispatch the character who had accosted her as swiftly as possible, before any real harm was done.

"I thought so. Hey, Tom! Sleepyhead, wake up! C'mish's friend is here." He jabbed Tom in the ribs but smiled at Francesca. "Police c'missioner isn't here, Miz Cahill. But can we help?"

"I do hope so," she said, disappointed in spite of herself. An image of Bragg's hard expression the night before swept through her mind. She shoved it aside, as she simply had too much to do.

Besides, some people went to their graves without ever having found what she had found-which was the other half of her soul, a man who could complete her and make her whole.

"Is there any chance I can take at look at the Rogues' Gallery?" she asked, referring to the infamous mug book begun by an even more infamous-and crooked-earlier police chief, Thomas Byrnes. "I am afraid I can't divulge any information, as the relationship between myself and my client is a confidential one, but Bragg has said that he does not mind." She added for effect, "I had dinner with him and his entire family last night."

"Why don't I set you up somewhere nice an' private, say the conference room? An' you can take all the time you need to look at the book."

Francesca thanked him, then winked at Joel when Shea wasn't looking. Thank G.o.d there was a case to solve; otherwise she might be in bed, brooding.

A few moments later, Francesca and Joel were seated at a long conference table in the room opposite Bragg's office. His door was solidly closed. The upper half was a heavy frosted gla.s.s. Francesca knew he wasn't there; still, she found herself staring at his door, as if expecting him to walk out at any moment.

Shea entered, the mug book in his hands. "Here it is," he said cheerfully. "Hope this helps.

You need anything, just holler."

"Thank you," Francesca said. When he was gone, she opened the book, Joel standing by her shoulder.

"What did you say he looked like?" Joel asked. Francesca had already filled him in on most, but not all, of the details of what had happened. He did not know, however, that Lucy Savage had been accosted and that she was Bragg's sister.

"He is of medium build, but quite husky. His hair is dark and long; his eyes are blue. And there is a small scar on his right cheek." Small, but it had been ugly.

"Don't ring no bells," Joel remarked cheerfully, for he was also happy to be back at work again. They began carefully studying each page of the book. Each photograph was accompanied by the culprit's name and a brief description of his or her vice. There were cutpurses and sandbaggers, cracksmen and moll buzzers, and almost every woman identified by the book was a shoplifter. They were all shady characters indeed. Francesca turned the page-and froze.

There he was.

" 'Joseph Craddock, rowdy, sharper, and rounder,' " Francesca read aloud on a long breath.

"That's him? That's the thug?" Joel asked with excitement.

"It most certainly is, only here he does not have his scar," Francesca said, equally excited.

"Should I put the word out on the streets?"

"Absolutely." Francesca faced him, leaving the book open. "Let's offer a small reward for anyone who has information as to where he can be located. Say fifty dollars?"

Joel's eyes widened. "That ain't no small reward!" he exclaimed.

She patted his dark head. "I do want results. I must speak with this crook, sooner rather than later. I am sure he will approach my client again, Joel, but what if it isn't for a few days? Then we shall lose valuable time."

He shook his head, grimacing. "I can't let you throw away good money like that. Offer twenty, lady. It'll do just as good."

"Just as fine," she corrected gently. Still, she remained thrilled. Then she sobered. "Joel, what exactly is a rowdy, sharper, and rounder?"

He laughed. "A rowdy's lots of trouble. Probably been busted for fightin', drinkin', bullyin', an'

all that. Sharper is a real crook, someone good at the swindle and the con. As for a rounder, that just means he's been at it again and again."