Deadly Illusions by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online

clear.”
    And in that moment, she had a terrible premonition that he would never forgive her for wanting Rick Bragg first, for once thinking him her true love. Uneasy, she stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss him. As she feathered his unmoving mouth with hers, she said, “Please believe me. Remember, there have never been any lies between us. I will never lie to you, Calder. Not ever. It is you I want.”
    He made a disparaging sound, but his arms went around her, tightening. “You want me in bed, darling. And while I do not mind, we both know neither one of us would be here like this if Leigh Anne had stayed in Europe.”
    Francesca stiffened. For once she was at a loss and could not think of a good reply.
    Â 
    H IS GAZE WAS FIXED on the candle shining in the apartment window across the dully lit street. A single passing carriage, too fine for the ward, could not distract his eyes. He did not blink, not even once, but simply stared and stared.
    He waited for a glimpse of her, moving about her flat, and he shivered, but not from the cold. He was used to damp and cold far more bitter than this. No, he shivered from excitement.
    He stared unblinking at the hint of shadows moving inside the flat. And suddenly he saw her. The trembling ceased.
    He was sick of them all.
    Every single one, all of them whores, just like her.
    Rage filled him—rage and need. Bloodlust.
    He had made a terrible mistake and he knew it, but soon, very soon, his knife would cut, and this time, it would not be a tragic mistake, oh no. This time, the faithless bitch would die.
    He smiled and his fingers twitched and then he found the hilt of the knife and he gripped it with great care. And watching her, he slowly stroked the blade.

CHAPTER THREE
    Wednesday, April 23, 1902 9:00 a.m.
    H E HAD COME to hate the city’s most renowned hospital. Now, instead of getting out of his roadster, Rick Bragg stared at the entrance of the pavilion in which his wife was being treated, gripping the Daimler’s steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached, dread forming in his chest.
    The hospital took up several city blocks, from Twenty-third to Twenty-eighth Streets, from the East River to Second Avenue. The many buildings that comprised it had been erected independently of one another, so that some of the pavilions were narrow and tall, others broad, whitewashed and squat. Just to his left, there was new construction under way for the tuberculosis clinic that would open early next year. A crane was lifting huge blocks of granite, the workers in their flannel shirts shouting encouragement to the operator.
    He knew he was a coward. He had been sitting in his motorcar for twenty or thirty minutes, delaying the inevitable moment of alighting from the vehicle, of entering the accident ward, of walking down the sterile corridor, of crossing the threshold of the room that contained his wife.
    It was not that he did not want to see her. It was that being with her took every ounce of his strength.
    But she was alive, he reminded himself, fiercely relieved. Alive, conscious, with no apparent impairment to her brain. Hedidn’t care that her left leg was useless, that she would never walk again. Not when weeks ago it had seemed as if she might never wake up.
    The guilt crushed him.
    And for one moment, it was as if one of the granite blocks being carried to the new construction site had landed on him, making it impossible to breathe.
    Decisively, Bragg got out of the Daimler. He laid his gloves and goggles on the front seat. Two passing male nurses nod ded at him. He tried to recall their names and failed.
    His duster over his arm, he strode up the concrete path to the Accident Pavilion and pushed through the wood-and-glass door. Nurses, both male and female, and doctors stood around the reception desk. Someone saw him and waved him on through.
    Her door was open. He paused, his heart beginning to race, and as he looked inside the sterile whitewashed