Deadly Kisses (10 page)

“Where did you meet?”

Rose sniffed. “On the street.” She looked at Francesca. “Can you believe it? Daisy was standing on the street corner, here in the city. She was so beautiful, Francesca, I can't even describe it.” She bit her lip. “I had never been in love, not with anyone, but I was stunned by her beauty, even then. I could tell she was lost—she was bewildered—and she seemed so sad. I had been shopping with one of the other girls. I made an excuse—somehow I didn't want my friend to meet Daisy, to know about her. And then I went over to try to help.” Rose hugged herself.

“What happened?”

“She was near tears. I saw that she was trying to sell her body to the gentlemen passing by, and that she had not a clue as to how to do it. She was so innocent. And obviously, she was desperate for funds. I couldn't understand—she was beautifully dressed.”

“Had she run away?”

“Yes. She told me that much later. I couldn't stand to see her trying to sell herself like that, when she was so upset and inexperienced. I bought her a sandwich. We chatted a little and I could see she was frightened, and so relieved to be having a meal and not on the street, soliciting men. I told her she could come stay with me, and she did. I tried to hide her from the madam, Francesca. And I did, for about a week. I hid her in my room. When I had a john, she hid in the closet—or beneath the bed.
We became friends that week, until she was discovered. And then I couldn't protect her anymore.”

Francesca was moved. How could she not be? “And the madam forced her into that life?”

Rose nodded. “But it didn't matter that much. We had each other now. I was already in love with her, Francesca. I fell in love with her right away.”

Francesca paused to reflect on Rose's and Daisy's life. What could have caused a young lady to run from home and choose a life of prostitution over a genteel existence? She simply could not imagine. It was heartbreaking. “And she never told you where she had come from or why she was running away?”

“No! She refused to discuss her past, and do you know what? I was glad! Because I was terrified that one day she would come to her senses, go home and leave me.”

“But she never did.”

“No, she never did.” Rose stared tearfully at her. “Daisy liked you,” she said abruptly. “Before she got involved with Hart.” And the tears began to fall.

Francesca tensed. She had come to believe that Daisy had developed actual feelings for Calder. Handing Rose her handkerchief, she said, “Daisy came to care for Hart, didn't she? That is why you hated him so much.”

“I hate him because he took her away from me!” Rose cried.

Francesca studied Rose, who was wiping away more tears with her kerchief. Very quietly, she asked, “You were jealous, weren't you?”

Rose gave her a hard look. “What do you think? Daisy made you jealous, didn't she?”

Francesca intended to ignore that dig. “Did you fight about Hart?”

Rose became wary. “Daisy never stopped loving me,” she said hoarsely. “But I admit that I was jealous—that I hated her
being here, that I hated his keeping her. But you already know that. What are you getting at?”

“So you and Daisy fought when she was Hart's mistress.”

Rose stared, breathing hard. “Yes. We fought.”

Finally they were getting somewhere, Francesca thought. “Did you continue your relationship while she was with Hart?”

“What does it matter?” Rose asked hotly.

Francesca decided to press her. “Why don't you admit it? For a time, Daisy left you. She left you for Hart,” Francesca said.

“She never left me!” Tears began to track down Rose's cheeks. “He refused to allow her to see me—he was that jealous, that controlling. How can you stand him?” she cried.

Francesca tried not to show her feelings. Hart could be very jealous, and she had not a doubt he could be controlling, but he had never tried to control her. “Rose, did you and Daisy reconcile?”

Rose turned away, crying. “She loved me,” she wept. “And I loved her.”

Francesca felt terrible, but she continued, “I know she loved you. I know you loved her. But your relationship changed, didn't it, the moment she became Hart's mistress? From that moment, it changed irrevocably, and it never returned to the way it was. According to Homer, your visits were once or twice a week. You didn't reconcile, did you?”

Rose covered her face with her hands.

Francesca clasped her shoulder, feeling very sorry for the other woman. But now she had to really consider the unthinkable. Until that moment, she had wanted Rose to be on the list of suspects simply to keep attention away from Hart. Now Francesca had to carefully think about the other woman's state of mind. Rose had been Daisy's lover, and she remained deeply in love with her. She was furiously angry with Hart, for supposedly stealing Daisy from her. And while she was blaming Hart for
everything, she had been first at the scene of the crime—or so it appeared.

Rose was an angry, jealous and jilted lover. Could she have murdered Daisy? Had she done so? She would not be the first woman to resort to murder, either contemplated or not, in such an instance.

Rose turned her teary gaze on Francesca. “We did reconcile, Francesca. But it wasn't the same. As always, you are right,” she cried bitterly.

Francesca dropped her hand, standing. She had to know the truth. “Was Daisy in love with Calder?”

Rose looked up. “Daisy wanted the life Hart could give her. She did not want to go back to being a whore, and she was determined to wait him out and get that life back.”

Francesca was shaken. It was impossible not to feel some relief now that Daisy was out of their lives forever. She was instantly ashamed and guilty for feeling that way, even the slightest bit.

Rose's expression changed. “How can you be so calm about all of this? We are talking about the woman I love and the man you claim to love. Doesn't it hurt you that he once slept here? That he bought Daisy so he could use her as he willed?”

“Yes, it does hurt me, it actually hurts me very much,” Francesca said sharply, finally admitting to her feelings. “But I wasn't with Calder when he and Daisy were having their affair, and I continue to remind my self of that. And no one forced Daisy to be Hart's mistress. She wanted to be here.”

“Oh, that's right—at that time, you were in love with his brother, Rick Bragg!”

“That was a lifetime ago,” Francesca said far more calmly than she felt. She understood Rose's pain, and that she was lashing out wherever and however she could. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, astonished with the twists and turns my life has taken, but there is no going back. I love Calder, Rose. And I know how much you loved Daisy. I know you are grieving,
and that you are angry. But the more you tell me, the faster I can get to the bottom of this case.”

“How can you be so blind?” Rose accused. “Daisy wasn't murdered because of her past. You heard the maid! Hart was furious with her, so furious he broke down a door! He was furious because she had been trying to get him back. He was furious with her for trying to hurt you, for trying to interfere in your engagement, for refusing to leave this house. No one wanted her out of the way more than he did.”

Everything Rose had said was the truth, but it was also crystal clear that Rose was enraged with Hart. Francesca wondered how angry she had been with
Daisy.
“Is this what you told the police?”

Rose lifted her chin. “Of course. I told them
everything.
”

Francesca's heart lurched with dread. “What does that mean?”

Rose smiled and it was vicious. “I was at Kate Sullivan's funeral. I heard him, Francesca, as clear as day—I was standing behind you both.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Francesca lied.

Rose stood. “He told you he would take care of Daisy, and his meaning was clear. He would do anything,
anything,
to stop her. And last night, that is exactly what he did.”

 

R
OURKE LOITERED IN THE
large front hall of the Channing home, the large trophy head of a white wolf snarling down at him. A servant had gone to inform both Sarah and her mother of his call and he was oddly anxious, as if he were a suitor. He reminded himself that he was merely a friend of Sarah's, although they had certainly been through quite a bit together. Francesca had provided the close connection. Once, Sarah had been engaged to Evan Cahill in a terrible mismatch that had made them both miserable. Rourke had never understood how either family had thought to match such a reckless rogue with
someone as sincere and privately ambitious as Sarah Channing. The world thought her to be as eccentric as her father had been, and labeled her a recluse, but it was clear to Rourke that the world was wrong—she was a committed and brilliant artist. Her art was her passion and he understood completely, as he was privately driven, too. His intention was to heal the world's least fortunate, if he could.

They had both become involved in several of Francesca's cases, which was how their friendship had formed. Sarah had even been attacked in the course of one investigation, an incident Rourke did not like recalling, as he had been there and Sarah had been hurt. But that had been last February, and it had been well over two months since he had paid the Channings a visit. But his behavior was excusable enough—after all, he was at tending medical school in Philadelphia, and like all med students, his schedule was hectic, allowing almost no personal time.

Still, given the time that had lapsed since he last called, he wasn't really sure of his reception. Rourke decided that was the cause of his anxiety. He paced, ignoring the other trophies alternately staring, grinning or growling down at him from the salon. Sarah's late father, Richard Wyeth Channing, had been an avid big-game hunter, and he had spent most of his life in the wilds across the world. Rourke wondered whether his widow would ever redecorate their huge West Side home. He tried not to be judgmental, but all of society seemed to delight in Mrs. Channing's extreme lack of good taste—behind her back, of course.

He heard a rustle of movement and felt his heart skip. Slowly, smiling pleasantly, he turned.

Sarah had just entered the hall from its far end, and her brown eyes were huge in her small oval face. She came forward, clad in a simple skirt and shirtwaist, her curly brown hair swept up very haphazardly. He noticed a smudge of paint on her white blouse and his smile became genuine. He crossed the hall to meet her.
“Good day, Sarah. I hope I am not interrupting, but I have the feeling that I am.”

She did not smile back, her eyes searching his. “This is quite a surprise, Rourke,” she said as if filled with tension.

His pleasure began to fade. “
Am
I interrupting?” he asked somberly.

She sighed. “I was in my studio, but I am afraid I have been blocked for some time. And how could you interrupt? You saved my life.”

He hesitated, trying to read her, but all he could discern was that she seemed troubled—and that she did not seem eager to see him. Oddly, he was somewhat hurt. “That was a long time ago, and you hardly owe me.”

She gave him a look, then smiled slightly. “I certainly owe you, Rourke. Come into the salon and sit down.” She led the way. “I am afraid Mother is already out for the day. How have you been?”

He waited until they had entered the other room. “I have been very busy. I applied for a transfer to Bellevue Medical College, and I feel certain I will receive it. I expect to be moving any day now.”

She turned away before he could see what she was thinking. “I had heard,” she finally said, glancing up at him.

He heard himself say, “I had hoped to be the one to tell you.”

She just stared, and he wondered if he saw hurt in her eyes. But that was impossible, wasn't it? “Sarah, I sense something is wrong. Have I offended you in any way?”

She seemed surprised. “Rourke, how could you have possibly offended me?”

Without thinking twice, he reached for her hand. She stiffened, but he clasped it, anyway. “I hope that is never the case!” he exclaimed. “I treasure our friendship, Sarah.”

She blushed and tugged her hand away, avoiding his eyes. “When will you know if you have been accepted at Bellevue?”

“Any day now,” he said, studying her profile. She was a petite woman, and while he clinically recognized the fact that she was somewhat plain in appearance, from the first time they had met he had been drawn to her in an unfathomable way. He had heard other young ladies calling her mousy behind her back, but she wasn't, really. She had a small, upturned nose, a sweet rosebud mouth, and those huge dark eyes, which could undo any man. And he had seen her hair down once. Sarah had the hair of a Greek goddess, waist-length, wild and curly.

She finally smiled fully at him. “And shall I be the first or last to know?”

He grinned back. “If I tell you first, will I be redeemed in your eyes?”

“Rourke, I meant what I said before. You saved my life—I will always owe you. There is no need for redemption.”

He became aware of his heart pounding, slow and strong but almost aching, the hunger deep and quiet. “Do you want to tell me what is wrong? I should like to know. If I can, I should like to help.”

She met his gaze, hers filled with worry. “No one has told you?”

“No one has told me what?”

She wet her lips. “You remember, don't you, that Hart commissioned a portrait of Francesca from me?”

He could not imagine where she was leading. “Of course I do. You were so wildly excited to do it.”

Sarah bit her lip. “I finished it, Rourke, in April. Hart was pleased.”

He did not understand. If Hart, a world-renowned art collector, had been pleased with the portrait, why was Sarah so upset? “I'm glad. Do I get to glimpse the work of art, as well?”