"I am glad you are pleased. I suggest you enjoy your summer holiday, and I will keep an eye on Francesca, to make certain she does not climb any telephone poles."

"Very well." Julia squeezed his hand. As she left, she called, "And do write us when you have decided on a new date."

Hart smiled as she left. Then his smile faded. He didn't want to think about Francesca running about the city with Rick, but the image was now engraved in his mind. Well, at least she was safe. And didn't he want to encourage the liaison?

Even if it killed him?

"HELLO, DAWN," Francesca said.

The brunette had just come down the stairs of the Georgian mansion, which was between Madison and Fifth Avenues, where the brothel was housed. A tall, pretty young woman, she faltered, her gaze widening. "Emerald?"

Francesca had come alone. Joel was with his family at Coney Island and she doubted she would get any information from Dawn if Bragg or another police officer was present. He hadn't been all that pleased about her interviewing the prostitute alone, but Francesca had pointed out that it was early afternoon; the brothel would most likely be closed to customers, and very little could go wrong in the light of day. She had compromised by agreeing that a pair of roundsmen would lurk as discreetly as possible outside. Meanwhile, Inspector Newman was bringing Daniel Moore in for further questioning.

Francesca remained astonished over the discovery that Mary Randall had somehow "vanished" from Bellevue. Apparently the staff, including the doctors treating her, were in a state of utter confusion. One nurse thought that she had been transferred to the asylum at Blackwell's Island. Dr. Jones, who hadn't treated Mary in weeks, finally found a note to that effect in her file. But the paperwork ordering such a transfer had not yet been found. Meanwhile, other staff seemed to think she had been released-an impossibility, of course. In fact, no one seemed to know exactly when she had been transferred-or if she had simply disappeared-or escaped.

Bragg meant to check it out immediately. As calm as always, he had reminded her that, in all likelihood, she was at Blackwell's Island. Francesca genuinely hoped he was right.

"It is Francesca, remember?" She smiled at Dawn, handing her one of her calling cards. She had used the alias of Emerald while posing as a prostitute in the spring, during their investigation into a child prostitution ring. She couldn't help recalling Hart's shock and disbelief when he had found her in that establishment, after he had decided to do some sleuthing on his own. He had been so very angry with her.

She let the warm remembrance go. "A maid let me in, Dawn. I expected it to be harder to get inside to see you."

Dawn looked at her card, still surprised. "I didn't think I would ever see you again, Em-Francesca. And they are not strict here, not as long as we mind our manners-and our customers-after the doors open to the public at six."

"I didn't imagine our paths would cross again, either. However, I am on a new investigation."

Dawn began to smile. "How are those little girls we rescued?"

"They are all doing very well, thank you." Francesca smiled back. "I don't think I ever thanked you enough for helping us round up that horrid gang."

"You thanked me. And it was the right thing to do." She hesitated. "I believe in Jesus, Francesca, in spite of what I do for a living. But what investigation would bring you here?"

Francesca hesitated. "It is actually personal. I am in some trouble, frankly."

"Oh, no!"

"I am being blackmailed. Someone has the ability to ruin me, Dawn. I was wondering if you could help me at all?"

"I don't know what you are talking about. How could I possibly help?" Dawn seemed genuinely perplexed.

"For starters, it would be a vast help if you knew where Solange Marceaux is."

The warmth in her eyes vanished. "What does she have to do with this?" she asked.

"Perhaps nothing. But I would like to speak with her."

Dawn shook her head. "That is not a good idea. She hates you. And how do I know that you wouldn't call the flies? She would be arrested, wouldn't she? She was trafficking those children!"

"I am not interested in arresting Solange, not at this time," Francesca said. It was partly the truth. Eventually, she would love to see the other woman behind bars. But that was not her priority. While it certainly appeared that Bill Randall was their man, Solange must be ruled out. "I need to talk to her. I want to make certain she isn't involved in the blackmail."

Dawn stared. Francesca could tell she was thinking madly. She finally said, "I don't know where she is. But you should stay away from her." Then she added, "I am very sorry that you are being blackmailed. You are a nice lady."

"How would you know that Solange hates me, Dawn?" Francesca asked softly.

Dawn started. "I was there during the bust! Her hatred was all over her face. Because of you, her beautiful establishment was destroyed. Of course she hates you, with a vengeance! She is a strong and cold woman, Francesca."

Francesca believed that Dawn had spoken with Solange since the raid on the brothel. How else would she be so certain of the madam's feelings for Francesca? "Could she hate me enough to want to destroy me?"

Dawn's eyes popped. "I don't know. Maybe."

Francesca took twenty dollars from her purse and handed it to the other woman. "Are you certain you don't know where she is?"

"I haven't seen her since the bust." Dawn shoved the bills in her bodice, flushing. "Francesca, stay away from her. Please. For your sake, not mine."

Francesca hesitated. Dawn had most definitely been in touch with the madam-or even remained in touch with her now. "Thank you for your help. If you recall anything else, could you send a note? You can send it to the commissioner at police headquarters, if that is more convenient than sending it to me."

"I won't recall anything," Dawn said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Tuesday, July 1, 1902

5:00 p.m.

MAGGIE SLOWLY CLOSED the door to her one-bedroom flat. She was ready to pinch herself to make certain that she was not dreaming. She watched Evan and Joel carry groceries into the kitchen area of her apartment. Although small, it was neat, basically furnished and clean. The boys slept in the back of the parlor-she had sewn yellow-and-green-floral curtains to partition their sleeping quarters off from the rest of the room. There was a small vase with three daisies on the table in front of the sofa; a rug with red roses, rescued from the common garbage, covered the worn wooden floors. There were pansies on the windowsill outside the kitchen, petunias in the single box outside the parlor window. She kept a sunflower-yellow cloth on the kitchen table, and she had made seat covers for the chairs in a pretty yellow gingham. Still, the apartment was shabby and dark. The contrast with Evan's Fifth Avenue home was glaring.

"My vote is that we fry the steaks, what do you say?" Evan asked, grinning at Joel. He removed his suit jacket and glanced at Maggie, smiling, as he began rolling up his shirtsleeves.

"Yum!" Paddy cried, careening over. "Fried steaks! Can I help cook 'em?"

No one was hungry-they had gorged on frankfurters, sauerkraut, pickles, ice-cream soda, root beer, sarsaparilla and popped corn while exhausting the children on ride after ride. Still, Evan had insisted that he was famished, and on their way home, they had stopped at the farmer's market not far from the ferry terminal, and then at her local butcher. He had bought far more groceries than they could ever use in a single meal, including staples she simply couldn't afford. She knew what he was doing-he meant to buy enough groceries to feed her and the children for a week.

And he had held her close to his side on Coney Island's most infamous ride-the frightening roller coaster.

She stared at his bare forearms, recalling the thrill of the ride-and the even greater thrill of being pressed against his body. Why did he have to be so kind?

Joel and Evan were rattling pots and pans, discussing how they planned to fry the sirloin steaks Evan had purchased. Paddy and Matt were chasing one another about the apartment, pretending they were still aboard the roller coaster. Lizzie tried to join them, but they ignored her. Maggie bit her lip, watching as Evan turned to unpack the groceries. When would he realize that she was just a simple Irishwoman who sewed for a living, who could barely support her large family, while he was the Cahill heir, destined for someone far more beautiful, accomplished and well-bred than she was?

He glanced up at her, his smile gone. This was not the first time he had looked at her very seriously.

Desire erupted in her breast. This was an infatuation, she reminded herself. Not a romance.

But for one moment, their stares locked, and all she could think of was that she wanted his kiss. She reminded herself that he was leaving for the summer. He would join his wealthy friends on Fire Island. There, he would soon forget her. He would meet someone else, someone far more appropriate than she was.

He turned to Joel. "I need someone to peel the potatoes."

Joel wrinkled up his nose. "We can skip potatoes. I thought we were having a loaf of bread."

"We are. But we are also having potatoes. I'm going to fry them up with the steaks, Joel. Fried potatoes are very, very good-I promise you." Evan grinned, clearly aware that half their diet consisted of potatoes.

Maggie wondered if he had any idea of how to make a meal-she doubted it. She shook herself free of her longing-and fears-and came forward. "Joel, take the boys outside and peel the potatoes."

Joel looked at her and then he looked at Evan. Slowly, he grinned. "Sure, Ma."

She was afraid he sensed the attraction between them. She did not want him to get his hopes up. She knew how fond of Evan he was. She would have to speak seriously with him tomorrow, and explain that their relationship was one of friendship-that it was not a romance. As Joel rounded up his brothers, Lizzie rushing to join them, she turned to look at Evan, her heart simply rioting. She thought she was flushing, too. "This is too much, Evan."

"It is hardly too much." He watched the children trooping out of the flat. "Joel, make certain no one runs off. It will be dark soon," he called.

He would make such a wonderful father! She sobered. He was going to be a father-to his own child-not to her children.

"You are spoiling us so."

"Good." He faced her squarely. He was a tall, lean man, and when they were alone like this, she felt tiny and petite, although she was of average height for a woman.

"The children had such a wonderful time today. I doubt they will ever forget it."

Very softly, he reached out and cupped her jaw. She trembled, almost swaying against him. "What I want to know is, did you have a wonderful time?"

She slowly nodded. "Yes."

He stared. Finally, he said, "I want to do so much more, Maggie. You deserve so much more."

"You don't have to do anything else," she managed to say, trembling. He continued to cup her cheek. She pulled away, when she wanted to move closer to him.

"Don't," he said, taking her hand. "Don't run from me."

She inhaled. "This isn't right."

"Why not?"

"You're a gentleman. I'm a seamstress."

"I don't care." His gaze widened. "You know me well enough by now to realize I would never toy with you."

She wet her lips, well aware that Evan had been quite a ladies' man. "I think you would never deliberately pursue me with the wrong intentions."

He hesitated. "What does that mean?"

"It means you are mistaking your interest in me, surely!" she cried, about to pull away. But his grasp on her hand tightened.

"The only thing I know is that I have never met a woman as kind and generous as you. I have never known anyone with such a heart. And you are so beautiful," he exclaimed roughly.

She was a faded redhead, worn beyond her years, and she knew it. "This isn't real," she whispered. "It can't be."

"Why not?" His eyes blazed. And the moment they did, Maggie knew what he meant to do and she gasped. But his arms were already around her and he was bending toward her. "Why the hell not, Maggie?"

She so desperately wanted this moment to be real-to be based on love, not lust; on friendship, not gratitude. She knew she should protest, just as she knew she would not. His mouth gently covered hers. Maggie closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation of being in Evan's arms, his mouth plying hers.

She had never been in a man's arms before like this. He was strong and powerful-and he was the kindest, most considerate man she had ever known. As she opened her mouth to take in more of his kiss, she suddenly realized that no haven could be as safe as that offered by Evan Cahill. And she realized that she more than loved him-she trusted him, too.

"Are you all right?" he asked huskily, his mouth still on hers.

She somehow nodded, tears arising, joy bursting through her heart. She lifted her face and kissed him wildly, passion erupting inside her.

He cried out, his embrace tightening, and then he kissed her back as deeply. But she sensed his restraint. A moment later he broke the kiss, his chest rising and falling swiftly against hers.

She didn't want him to stop. But she buried her face against his silky cotton shirt. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," he said roughly. Then, "I am falling in love with you."

She froze. Had she really heard him say that?

He made a harsh, self-deprecatory sound and stepped back so he could look down at her. She stared up at him, amazed. "I wish you could see yourself the way that I do," he said.

She was speechless. Vaguely, she heard one of the children racing up the stairs outside her apartment. It was Paddy, she thought. She knew the sound of each of her children's footsteps.

Evan smiled at her. Did she dare tell him that she was already in love with him?

"Ma!" Paddy screamed.

Maggie leaped out of Evan's arms in alarm. "Paddy? What's wrong?" she cried, fear engulfing her.

"Lizzie's gone! Some thug took her!"

FRANCESCA HURRIED INTO the reception hall at police headquarters, hoping that Bragg hadn't begun his interrogation of Daniel Moore without her. Because of the hour, she hadn't seen any newsmen in the building across the street, where they often sipped coffee and conversed while waiting for a scoop. Everyone, she thought, was keeping summer hours. And that was just fine with her.

She beelined for the elevator, thinking about Dawn, who clearly was in contact with Solange Marceaux. Her mind turning over all the facts and clues discovered thus far, she reached for the door to the cage. But before she could grasp the lever, someone caught her arm from behind. She tensed, turning, and came face-to-face with Arthur Kurland of the Sun.

She sighed impatiently, while anxiety began. "And to think that I thought myself reprieved when I saw that your newsroom across the street was vacant."

Kurland grinned. "This is my lucky day. I was about to leave and catch a bite to eat. Ever been to Joe's Fish House? It's on Broadway. I'm happy to treat, Miss Cahill."

"I am very busy, Mr. Kurland," she said coolly.