Deadly Vows by Brenda Joyce Page B

shocked.
    To hell with them all.
    As he stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he heard the crowd erupting behind him into frenzied conversation.
    He did not care.
    Â 
    F RANCESCA DIDN’T CARE how bruised she was. For the third time, she climbed unsteadily onto the cabinet on top of the desk. Now, though, tears filled her eyes.
    Twice she had tried to leap up onto the windowsill. Both times she had fallen to the floor. It had hurt terribly.
    She was losing her strength and her will. She had to make it onto that ledge this time.
    Panting, half crying, Hart’s image assailing her, she gripped the concrete ledge.
    Then she heard a child’s cries.
    She froze, afraid she was imagining the sound, when she heard a second child’s laughter.
    There were children outside!
    â€œHelp!” she screamed. “Help me! I am locked in the gallery.… Help!”
    A moment later a boy’s tiny freckled face peered through the window opening. His blue eyes met hers and he gaped.
    â€œCan you help me get out of here? I’m in the Gallery Moore! It has been locked from outside!” Francesca cried frantically.
    His eyes popping, he nodded. “I’ll get me dad.”
    Francesca was overcome with relief as he ran off, apparently another child with him. She swallowed hard, praying for help. A moment or two later—which felt like an eternity—a man’s face appeared in the window opening. Perhaps in his thirties, he was cleanly shaven, with graying temples. He was incredulous. “I didn’t believe Bobby! Are you all right, miss?”
    â€œNot really!” Francesca quickly explained that she was locked in. Remaining calm, the gentleman told her to go to the front door, and that he would find a way to get her out.
    Francesca slowly climbed off the cabinet and the desk, every bone in her body aching. She picked up her purse and shoes, aware that her gun was outside, and realized that her nails were broken, her fingers scratched andbleeding slightly. She pulled out the pocket watch. It was half past four.
    Frightened, she left the office, hurrying through the gallery. She glanced at her portrait, wishing she had thought to destroy it. She was afraid to leave it behind. The moment she saw Hart, she would tell him what had happened and he would send someone to retrieve it.
    At the front door she found the gentleman who had offered to help her with a roundsman, who was busy trying to pick the lock. There were far more shadows inside now. Her portrait was lost in the darkness, one small relief.
    The lock clicked about ten minutes later.
    Now in her shoes, Francesca rushed outside. “Thank you!”
    â€œAre you all right, miss?” the uniformed policeman asked her, his gaze taking in her untidy appearance.
    Francesca imagined that she looked like a bedchamber sneak. She nodded, about to move past him. “I am very late,” she began, but he barred her way.
    â€œAre you a relation of Mr. Moore?” the roundsman asked pointedly.
    He thought her a burglar or thief! She froze. “No, I am not. Sir, my wedding is today.” She flushed, beyond all dismay. “In fact, I was to be married by now. I must go!” Surely Hart would understand. Surely he would be waiting for her.
    â€œThe gallery is closed. It says so right there, on the door sign. I’m going to have to take you in, miss, on suspicion of breaking and entering these premises.”
    Francesca cried out. “I was invited here!”
    As if he hadn’t heard her—or didn’t care—the officer held up her gun. “Is this yours?”
    She nodded. “It most certainly is.” She dug into her purse and handed him her calling card. It read:
    Francesca Cahill
Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue
New York City
No Crime Too Great or Small
    As he read it, his eyes widened. She snapped, “I am Francesca Cahill, sir. Surely you have heard of me. I work very closely with