Deadly Illusions by Brenda Joyce

shoved past him.
    He quickly caught up. “Hmm, compromise. An interesting word. So, Miss Cahill, there are some things you will not compromise?”
    Aghast, she faced him, feeling all the color drain from her face. She had been compromised more than once when alone with Rick Bragg and this man knew it. “That was unbearably rude. What do you want from me?”
    â€œDoes your fiancé know you are here and working with the man he hates more than anyone else?”
    She stiffened. How did Kurland know that? “Calder doesn’t hate Rick Bragg. Calder and Rick are half brothers. They are close.” And, as she lied so baldy, she felt her cheeks turn red.
    He laughed. “If you say so! But isn’t it difficult, spending the day with one man—and the evening with the other?”
    She could barely respond, she was so livid. “You have the social grace of an ape, Mr. Kurland.” And she stalked away.
    He followed. “It’s why I’m such a good reporter. Sure you don’t have a lead for me? Anything?”
    She halted in her tracks and whirled and he crashed into her. They leaped apart. Panting, she said, “Are you attempting to blackmail me?”
    â€œMoi?” He was incredulous. “Never, Miss Cahill.”
    â€œA wise decision.” She wondered if she dared tell Hart about how dangerous this man was becoming. But then she would have to reveal the extent of her prior relationship with Bragg to him. And that would be dangerous, indeed. “Good day.” Her tone was final and she hurried up the stairs.
    He stood at the bottom landing and called up, “And to answer your previous question, Miss Cahill, I haven’t decided what it is that I want from you.”
    She glanced down and met his cool gaze and stumbled. As she righted herself, he tipped his hat in the most disrespectful manner and walked away. Filled with unease, she stared after him.
    She knew she must warn Bragg. Quickly she turned and hurried up the hall to his office. His door was ajar but not open, solid wood on the bottom, the glass opaque on the top. She knocked and it swung wide.
    His desk faced the door, a window that looked out over Mulberry Street behind him. She expected to find him up to his elbows in work—his desk was always stacked high with files—but instead, she found him sitting there, staring off into space, looking impossibly sad. She froze.
    This was not the time, she realized, to burden him with Arthur Kurland. But what was wrong?
    He started as he realized that she was present and jumped to his feet, smiling slightly, but Francesca knew him well enoughto know the expression was forced. He was preoccupied and disturbed. And she had not mistaken the sadness in his eyes.
    â€œGood morning,” he said, coming forward. There was a fireplace on the other side of his desk with numerous photographs on the mantel, mostly of his vast family, although several were of him with President Roosevelt or with the mayor. But there had never been a picture there of Hart, his half brother, or of Leigh Anne, his wife. Now the first thing she saw was a huge portrait of Leigh Anne in an oval silver frame. It dominated the mantel and every other photograph placed there.
    She quickly tore her gaze from the photograph, managing a smile. “Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting.”
    And suddenly his facade vanished. His smile gone, he took her arm, guiding her to one of the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. “You could never be an interruption,” he said.
    She did not sit. “What’s wrong, Rick?”
    Instantly he turned away. “Nothing.”
    She didn’t move, staring at his back until he sat down be hind his desk, facing her once again. He lifted a file. “Heinreich is almost certain that the same knife was used on all three victims.”
    She did not want to discuss the case now. Something was terribly amiss. “Has something