Deadly Vows by Brenda Joyce

Hart.” She managed to tear her gaze from Bragg’s. Where was Leigh Anne?
    â€œWhat happened? Why are there scratches and cuts on your face and hands?” He took her arm and guided her into his study, a small dark room with a desk and two chairs. The fireplace was unlit. Joel followed them to the door, but lingered in the hallway.
    She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder, but his wife was not in the parlor at the end of the hall, although the door was open, the lights on. “Am I intruding?”
    â€œOf course not!” he cried. “Everyone is worried about you!”
    She tensed. Hart wasn’t worried, not at all. Her heart broke all over again, but she decided to ignore it. “I received this by hand this morning, shortly after you left,” Francesca said, taking the envelope marked Urgent out of her purse. She handed it to him, the invitation inside.
    He quickly read it and paled. “The portrait?”
    She nodded, glad to be back on the firm ground of the investigation now. “When I got there, the gallery was closed for summer hours but unlocked. I went in and I saw the portrait. It is nailed to one wall. I felt that I was not alone and I began to explore. Perhaps a half hour later, someone locked me in from outside.”
    Bragg made a harsh sound—she knew he was angry. “Go on.”
    She wet her lips. “I called for help, but no one heard me. Then I tried to climb out a very small window in the back office. I had to break the pane. That is how I got cut on my face.”
    He took her hands in his, not looking down. “How did you hurt your hands?”
    â€œClawing the wall as I tried to get up to that window.”
    His expression, already tight, hardened even more.
    She couldn’t help comparing his reactions to Hart’s. Had Calder even noticed her cuts and scratches? “Eventually two children heard me. Their father and a roundsman let me out.”
    For one more moment he held her hands, and she had the impression that all would be right in the world again. As she thought that, she recalled Hart’s cold black gaze, his deliberate cruelty and his words “It is over.” She flinched. It could not be over.
    Bragg released her, picking up the receiver from the telephone on his desk. Shockingly, he actually had two phones in his house—the other was upstairs in his bedroom. That was truly scandalous, but he claimed it waspractical. “It’s Bragg. I want Gallery Moore, at No. 69 Waverly Place, cordoned off as the scene of an attempted abduction. No one is to get in or get out, and that includes Moore, the gallery owner. It also includes the police. Let me be clear. You are to cordon off the gallery—I repeat, no one is to go inside. I will be there in thirty minutes.” He listened for another moment and hung up. Then he faced her. “You do not have to come downtown, Francesca. I can manage the case now.”
    Her eyes widened. “Of course I am coming with you!”
    He smiled then. “Somehow, I thought you might say that.”
    She smiled back at him. Very shortly, the gallery would be secured by his men, and no one would be able to get inside to view her portrait. They had to get downtown, but there was less urgency now. She touched his arm briefly. “Have I ruined your evening?”
    â€œNo.”
    His tone was so hard and decisive that she started. Was something wrong? But he then added more quietly, “We agreed to investigate the theft of your portrait privately, but after the events of this day, I do not see how I cannot use the resources at my disposal.”
    She hesitated. “Hart did not make any headway with his investigators.”
    â€œNo, he did not—and they visited every single gallery in Manhattan and Brooklyn. No one had seen or heard of your portrait.” He said grimly, “Obviously no one can ever see that painting. Let us hope that tonight we