Praise for
BRENDA JOYCE'S
Deadly series
âAs Francesca searches for clues and struggles with her complicated feelings for two different men, readers will follow her from turn-of-the-century New Yorkâs immigrant tenements to its wealthiest mansions. Fans of Joyceâs Deadly romances will find the seventh in the series to be another entertaining blend of danger and desire.â
âBooklist on Deadly Illusions
âJust when you think you have it all figured out, Joyce turns it all around, leaving you with a cliff-hanger, and eager for Francescaâs next adventure.â
âRT Book Reviews on Deadly Illusions
âJoyceâs latest âdeadlyâ romance is truly a pleasure to read, given its involving plot, intriguing characters and the magic that occurs as the reader becomes immersed in another time and place.â
âBooklist on Deadly Kisses
âIf this is your introduction to Francesca Cahill, youâll be just as hooked on the series as longtime fans. Joyce skillfully pulls you into her charactersâ tangled lives as they pursue a killer.
The âDeadliesâ keep you coming back for more because you care about the people and you can sink your teeth into their complicated lives as they twist and turn with mystery.â
âRT Book Reviews on Deadly Kisses
âJoyce excels at creating twists and turns in her charactersâ personal lives.â
âPublishers Weekly
âAn elegant blend of mystery and romance simmering with sexual tension.â
âBooklist on Deadly Promises
âThe steamy revelationsâ¦are genuinely intriguing, and just enough of them are left unresolved at the bookâs end to leave readers waiting eagerly for the seriesâ next installment.â
âPublishers Weekly on Deadly Love
New York City Tuesday, April 22, 1902 5:00 p.m.
THE CRIME SCENE was a gruesomeone, indeed.
Chilled, Francesca Cahill stared at the woman. The victim was clad only in her corset, chemise and drawers, lying in a pool of blood the same dark red-brown color as her hair. Shivers swept up and down Francescaâs spine, shivers that had nothing to do with the temperature of the day, as it was warm and sunny outside, a perfect spring day.
Not that one would ever guess that fact from this tenement flat. The railroad apartment that Francesca had so boldly entered was long and narrow, consisting of a single room. A window at each end let in some light, but not much, as the brick building just a few feet behind this one blocked out much of the daylight. At the flatâs far end was the victimâs bed, where she lay in her underclothes. Francesca stood in the doorway, the dark, dank corridor behind her. Between her and the victim were so many signs of a vital if impoverished lifeâa small sofa, the muddy-hued fabric torn and ripped, a faded and torn throw rug upon which sat a pail of water, as if the victim had been soaking her feet before bed. Beyond the small salon area, there was a rickety square table and two equally despairing chairs, one with a leg tied together. In the kitchenâs area, there was a wood counter covered with some stacked plates and utensils, a wood-burning stove and a sink containing a pot and some other items. In the other direction, behind Francesca, there was a police sawhorse in the doorway of the flat. An officer had placed a Do Not Cross sign upon it.
A man carefully viewed the body. Portly, of medium height, his suit shabby and tweed, Francesca recognized him instantly. She coughed to make her presence known and started forward, her navy blue skirts sweeping around her, tendrils of blond hair escaping her chignon and smart little navy blue hat. In her gloved hands, she clutched a purse.
He whirled. âMiz Cahill!â he cried, clearly surprised to find her there in the apartment.
She smiled warmly, determined not to be ousted from the crime scene although this was not her case, as she had no client requiring her to investigate this murder. âInspector New man, good day. Although from the look of things, this has not been a good day for the victim.â She cast another glance at the dead woman, who appeared, at this closer range, to be in her early twenties. She had been a pretty woman. Newman had closed her eyes.
He met her halfway. Flushing, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, he said, âAre you on this case, Miz Cahill? Is the câmish with you?â
Her heart did a little flip. She hadnât seen the police commissioner in weeks, not really. Passing him in the hall of Bellevue Hospital the times she had planned to visit his wife did not count. âIâm afraid I am alone. Does this appear to be the work of the Slasher?â she asked, her gaze drawn to the victim as a moth is drawn to candlelight.