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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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For one moment, a moment of pure panic, she stared at his full, chiseled mouth, at the cleft in his chin, at the damp olive-colored skin and black hair in the vee of his shirt. His chest was extremely hard and solid against her breasts. She yanked away from him. “I have to go,” she managed, but before she could turn—and her intention was to run—he took her wrist, detaining her.
Their gazes locked.
“I think it is time that we were brutally honest with each other,” he said harshly.
She tried to back away, but his grip was uncompromising. She did not want to hear this, oh no. For with Hart she never knew what would come next. “Let’s not,” she gasped.
“I am sick of the hypocrisy here,” he said warningly.
“I … I do not understand!”
“No? I think you do! You go on and on about my brother—whom you have told yourself that you
love
, as he is a man of virtue and a perfectly respectable choice, except for the fact that he is unhappily married. But you come here, to me, staring at me as if I am a freak show—but we both know that that is not it, now is it, Francesca?”
She cried out, “Let me go!”
“I have had it! You want Rick as your husband, but I am the man you want in your bed. Admit it,” he ground out.
“No, that’s not it!” she cried, terrified of what might happen next.
“Afraid, Francesca? Afraid of the real woman inside of yourself?” he purred.
“I am afraid of you!” she snapped.
“I don’t think so. It is not me you are afraid of. I think you are afraid of the truth; I think you are afraid of yourself.” He finally released her. He was panting, and the artery in his neck was pulsing.
She backed away. “You’re mad. Vain. Conceited. Arrogant!”
“Do I not get the chance to finish?” Both eyebrows slashed upward, and somehow he looked as innocent as a lamb.
“No, you do not—for I am leaving.” She whirled—and his next words stopped her in her tracks.
“You are drawn to me, my dear, the way a woman is drawn to a man.”
She trembled. “Please stop,” she said desperately.
He stalked around her so that he was facing her. “And it frightens you. I frighten you. What you feel frightens you. Real lust frightens you!”
“I am in love with Bragg.”
The most controlled rage she had ever seen crossed his face, but only for a half a second, and then it was gone. “I think you are a storyteller, Francesca, an impossibly adept storyteller.”
“Leave me alone,” she pleaded.
“No, I will not leave this alone. You came to
me
, my dear. I did not seek you out.”
He was right—again. “Let’s just leave this be, Hart. We are friends, remember?”
His gaze moved over her features, one by one. To his credit, it never slipped lower. “Yes. We are friends. But there is more, and it is sheer hypocrisy not to admit it.”
She shook her head. She would die before admitting that to him.
“What’s wrong, Francesca? Are you afraid that the story you have told yourself will blow up in your face?”
She gasped, because his meaning was far crueler than his words or his tone.
He tilted up her chin. When she tried to move, he caught her face in one hand. “You have told yourself that you have found your knight in shining armor, my brother Rick. Isn’t that the truth? You met him and he fit the bill, so you have told yourself a wonderful story and, stubborn brat that you are, you have been clinging to it ever since. After all, what could be more appropriate than for Francesca Cahill, reformer extraordinaire, to fall in love with my reform-minded Republican brother? But wait! Being as this is a love story, there has to be an unhappy middle and, lo and behold, the perfect hero isn’t quite so perfect after all. For he is
married
.
Oh, wait! It isn’t that bad, after all, for as it turns out he is a man of virtue, and he really loves you, while he despises his wife! And did I forget to mention that she is vile and evil? So the story can limp along, and true love might survive after all! Does this sound at all familiar, Francesca?”
“I almost hate you,” she whispered. And she felt a tear sliding down her cheek.
He froze, having just seen the tear. For one moment he hesitated; then he said coldly, “And in your fairy tale there is no room for real lust, now is there? There is no room for me.”
“No. There is not,” she managed harshly.
He released her. “You are drawn to me, but you refuse to admit it, because it doesn’t fit your worldview to want a man like myself. Wanting my brother works, doesn’t it? Wanting me is simply appalling.”
“No,” she tried, beginning to understand. “No, Calder—”
“So cling to your damn fairy tale! But there will not be a happy ending, Francesca! Even if you become his lover, there will only be ruin, guilt, and shame. And you may trust me on that!” He was shouting. He seemed to realize it, and he seemed surprised and upset. He gave her a pained and disgusted look and turned away.
She watched him pour two whiskeys with a hand that shook.
She felt paralyzed. “You’re wrong,” she finally said. “I do love Bragg. I really do. Even you have said we are perfect for each other,” she managed to his back.
He did not turn. “Yes, you are. And I am sorry for the both of you, that you cannot marry, have children, and ride your white steeds off into the sunset together.” He turned and gave her a toast. “I am sorry I will not be at your wedding, the first one to toast the police commissioner and his new, second wife.”
Francesca hugged herself. More tears came to her eyes.
The expression on his face—and in his eyes—was extremely hard to decipher. But it was more than pained and
more than angry and it was not simple disgust. “Now you shall cry?” He was incredulous.
“No.” She took a deep and fortifying breath.
“The truth is often brutal and hurtful,” he said, watching her.
“You do not know the truth.”
He set his glass down and walked over to her. Somehow, she stood her ground. “I am your friend, Francesca, and never forget it.”
“Then, wish me well.”
“I already do. I’ve told you this before; I do not wish to see you hurt.”
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
His entire expression tightened. “You are a mule.”
She made a sound. It was choked.
He took her good hand in his. “Listen closely. I will only discuss this once.”
She found herself nodding.
“I have never given my friendship to anyone,” he said, his gaze upon her face. “You are the first.”
She stared, and she began to shake. “I don’t understand.”
He leaned close. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
“No.” She wet her lips, her heart thundering in her breast. What did this mean? She was too overcome to understand it now. “But what about Lucy? Her brothers—”
“It’s not friendship. I am the foster brother, and that is different.”
She stared, trying to comprehend him. It was simply impossible, he was far too complicated to ever understand, she thought.
“And now I will tell you why I am angry. I am angry because my brother will only bring you ruin—oh yes, I see the writing on the wall. And I must stand by and watch it all unfold, knowing how the story will end, and as I have already told you, the ending will not be a happy one.”
“No, Hart. You are wrong! If you care about me, truly, then—”
“I do! Let me finish. I am angry because you are breathless
in my presence and we both know why, but you will not admit it.”
She froze. “Please don’t.”
“Because it ruins the story you have been telling yourself. Am I correct, Francesca?” His grip tightened. “Am I?”
She could not nod. She did not dare.
“But mostly, I am angry because you do not value what I have given you, for if you did, you would trust me and you would not flit about me like some nervous ninny.”
She didn’t know what to think, say, or do. “What?”
His face darkened and he leaned even closer to her. And when he spoke, his words were so low and soft she had to strain to hear. “I told you once that I never touch, or pursue, innocent virgins like yourself. I meant my every word. I’ll never touch you, Francesca. I might want to, I do want to; in fact, I want to take you to my bed very much. But I do not dabble with innocence, as I am not a marrying man. And I am a man who can control himself.” He hesitated, then said, “Your friendship is more important to me than sex. Is that clear? Should I be clearer?”
Stunned, she shook her head no.
“And that is the end of this subject. Stare as you will. Pretend my brother is the only man for you—the only man whom you lust for—but do not do so around me.” He slammed down his glass. To her amazement, it did not break. “Because, my dear, I am sick of
it, him, the two of you!
”
She wanted to tell him that she was sorry. But she was at a huge loss for words.
“And do
not
play the horrified virgin around me. I will
never
compromise you! He might—but I will not!” With that, his arm lashed out and the empty glass went flying across the room. As it shattered against a small table not far from where she stood, he strode past her, heading out of the room.
She could hardly believe what had just happened. She was reeling; she could not think clearly, much less coherently. And why was he so angry? Hadn’t they just resolved everything? And why did she wish to bury her head in a pillow
and cry? Somehow, she was running after him. “Calder, wait!”
He did not stop. “Good day, Francesca.”
She ran faster. “Please, wait! You are so angry … . I treasure our friendship, too!”
He halted and faced her. She almost slammed into him again. “Do you? Somehow, I do not think so. I think you treasure your little fairy tale. You may see yourself out.” He bowed his head and disappeared around the corner of the hall.
She collapsed against the wall. She felt as if a hurricane had just passed by, one she had barely survived. No, she felt as if it had passed by but had not yet left. As if she remained in the storm’s eye and, somehow, the worst was about to come.
A polite cough sounded behind her.
Horror overcame her. Francesca turned.
“I’ll escort you out,” Rathe Bragg said kindly.
Francesca wanted to die.
Francesca felt as if she had been run over by a lorry. She wondered how she might navigate an evening when Hart would be present—and when Bragg would also be present. Of course, unlike Hart, Bragg did not sulk like a spoiled child and did not hold a grudge. His nature was a sunny one, just as his character was optimistic. He would undoubtedly have forgotten about their argument or realized the cause—Hart’s commission—was hardly worth it. Still, his father had seen Hart storming away. How much had he heard and what did he think?
She had so wanted to make a good impression. By now, Rathe had already told Grace about her and Hart. Francesca could not even smile at Jonathon, the young and handsome doorman, as she handed him her coat. “Have you seen my disreputable brother?” she asked. In spite of her own personal feelings, she did have a case to solve.
“I do believe Mr. Cahill is with your father, Miss Cahill. They adjourned to the library some time ago.”
Francesca was about to head down the hall, for she wished to speak with Evan about her second theory, that a rejected debutante was insane enough and vicious enough to vandalize Sarah’s studio. But before she could do so, she heard two very familiar voices coming from the stairwell. Francesca saw her mother and Maggie Kennedy descending slowly, her mother magnificently dressed in a crimson ball gown, with rubies about her throat and diamond earbobs. The gown was a Poiret. Maggie wore a plain navy blue skirt and a shirtwaist. She was using a cane, which she leaned heavily upon.
The redhead was pale and clearly still weak from the stab wound she had suffered earlier in the week.
Francesca reversed direction and rushed toward the wide alabaster staircase. “Mrs. Kennedy! Should you be up and about?”
“I have asked her the exact same question,” Julia said, pulling on elbow-length black gloves. Her hair had been waved with hot tongs, and she was a very elegant and beautiful older woman. Francesca was fully aware that her mother still turned heads.
“I am much better, thank you,” Maggie said, rather out of breath. “Dr. Finney said I should walk about a bit now, to gain back my strength.”
“But going up and down stairs is another matter indeed,” Francesca said bluntly.
Maggie smiled at her. “I do need to get my strength back, Miss Cahill. You see, I was just explaining to Mrs. Cahill that I will go home tomorrow.”
Francesca stared in surprise. Maggie Kennedy was the mother of her sidekick, Joel. She was a seamstress who worked at the Moe Levy factory by day while sewing custom garments for private clients at night. Francesca had liked her the first moment they had met, about a month ago. Then, in her last investigation, she had realized that Mrs. Kennedy might be the Cross Murderer’s last victim.
Francesca and Bragg had persuaded the pretty seamstress to move into the Cahill mansion with her four young children. And after being stabbed on Tuesday night, she had remained there in order to recuperate.
“That is nonsense,” Julia said firmly, now. “My dear Maggie, you are clearly not able to return to your home. You cannot even navigate these stairs!”
“My mother is right,” Francesca began, dismayed and concerned.
“I have imposed quite enough,” Maggie said, a pink flush now marring her porcelain and perfectly flawless skin. She had been invited to stay at the Cahill mansion when it had become obvious that her life was in dire danger. Francesca
had been the one to invite her and her four children to stay with them. Julia had graciously risen to the occasion. “I think your brother has had quite enough of my four little rascals,” Maggie said with a slight smile, “and I shall lose my job at Moe Levy if I do not return to the factory on Monday.”
“Has Evan said something about the children?” Julia asked with her slender brows arched.
“Evan adores your children,” Francesca said. He had been squiring them about the park and to the zoo and even to an indoor bowling lane ever since they had become guests at the house.
“It isn’t fair,” Maggie said softly. Then she flushed. “I am so worried about my employment, Miss Cahill.”
“But Francesca,” she said automatically, “the police commissioner spoke to your manager, explaining the circumstances. You will not lose your work.”
Maggie simply looked at her. “Are you certain? Because I do not think Mr. Wentz cares whether or not the police commissioner wishes me to be employed.”
Francesca hesitated. “Mrs. Kennedy? Let me be singularly bold. Bragg can cause trouble for the factory if you are dismissed.”
She stared. Then, “I do not think he would ever do such a thing, Miss Cahill. Not on my account.”
“Yes, he would. If I insisted,” Francesca said, and then she realized what she had said and how it sounded and turned to face her mother.
Julia wasn’t pleased. Her blue eyes said,
We shall talk, and soon, Francesca
, and clearly there would be a lecture involved.
Francesca sighed.
Julia said, surprising everyone, “Maggie, you are not well enough to go back to work, I shall not allow it, but on Monday I shall go down to the factory and speak to your manager myself.”
Maggie paled. “Oh, I could not let you do such a thing!”
“Nonsense. And not only shall I go myself; I shall make it clear that I am ordering new uniforms for my entire staff
and for the Montrose household as well.” She smiled.
Maggie gaped.
Francesca whooped and embraced her mother in a bear hug. “Mama!”
“Francesca, what are you doing?” Julia said sternly, trying to disengage her daughter, but her eyes were smiling, even if her expression remained firm.
“You never cease to surprise me,” Francesca said, giving her another huge squeeze. “Now, I am off to speak briefly with Evan, and then I am to supper at the Plaza with the Braggs.” She started back down the hall.
“We will speak more later, Maggie,” Julia said. Then, “Francesca!”
She turned. “Yes, Mama?”
Julia approached. “We need to speak,” she said.
Dismay filled her. “Can’t it wait? I must be at the Plaza at seven and I am already going to be late.”
“No, this is about your sister,” Julia said, her voice low so she could not be overheard. “She and Neil were supposed to join us this evening, but apparently she is in her bed with some kind of migraine—yet she refuses to see Dr. Finney.”
Francesca stared. “I saw her this morning.”
“I know. What is wrong? Is she ill?”
Francesca hesitated. “The only thing wrong with her is that she has a broken heart. But perhaps she does have a migraine, Mama.”
“Since when does your sister have migraines?” Their gazes locked. “I feel like I don’t know my own daughter anymore.”
Francesca took her hand. “She seemed quite normal this morning. Except for the fact that it was well after nine and she was in her nightgown. Maybe Connie is changing a bit? Maybe she does have a migraine.”
“I don’t know whether to hope her excuse is truthful or not,” Julia said. “You know I have never interfered in your sister’s marriage. But I am tempted to do so, now.”
Inwardly, Francesca cringed. “She will get through this. I suppose she needs time. She has always loved Neil. I feel
certain that has not changed. And … Neil truly loves her. He regrets all that he has done. Give them some time, Mama, to sort out things.”
A look of anger appeared briefly in Julia’s eyes, and then it was gone. “It is a bit late for him to cry over spilled milk,” she said.
Francesca was taken aback. Her mother adored Montrose. In the past, he could do no wrong. But there had been no mistaking the anger she had just seen.
“I am going to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with your sister,” Julia decided flatly. “The two of them have been at odds for too long. I shall put my two cents in.”
Francesca hesitated. She did not know if this was a good idea or not. Her entire life, Connie had been pushed and prodded by Julia to be a perfect child, a perfect debutante, and now the perfect wife, mother, and socialite. On the other hand, if Julia could help Connie regain her happiness, if her relationship could just go back to the way it had been before his affair, it would be wonderful. “Well, tread gently, then.”
Julia gazed at her in surprise. “That is extremely good advice, Francesca.”
Francesca was thrilled with her mother’s praise. It was so rare. “Thank you, Mama.”
Julia patted her shoulder. “So why have you been running about the city all day when you are supposed to rest? And what is this about a dinner with the Braggs?”
Francesca froze.
Julia sighed. “I am entirely suspicious, Francesca. But even you would not be involved in police affairs so soon after your brush with a fiery death.”
“Of course not,” she managed.
“And I am delighted you shall be dining in such good company.” She kissed her cheek. “Wear your new turquoise gown. I am sure it will be a wonderful evening.”
 
The door to her father’s library was wide open. The room was Francesca’s favorite in the entire house, as it was a warm room with wood paneling and soft gold tapestry cloth covering
the walls. The windowpanes were stained glass and the same rich, dark oak wood that formed ribs across the ceiling. Her father’s desk was also dark oak, but with a leather-inlaid top. They kept their telephone there.
Now there was nothing warm about the library, in spite of a fire that roared in the hearth. Because Evan’s face was flushed with fury and he was saying angrily, “And if you do not change your mind, you are the one who shall pay the consequences!”
Andrew was as flushed. “You threaten me?” he gasped.
“Yes, I do,” Evan said coldly. He was six foot tall, with the fair Cahill complexion but raven-black hair. His blue eyes were murderous. “After all, it is a tit for a tat, is it not, Father? Doesn’t blackmail deserve threats?”
Francesca was aghast. She rushed into the room. “Stop! What is happening! What is this?” she cried, reeling from the utter hatred on her brother’s handsome face.
“He dares to threaten me!” Andrew cried, a distinct and unflattering shade of crimson. He was a portly man with a benevolent face and thick whiskers.
“I am simply stating my case. He wishes to ruin the rest of my life by forcing me to marry a woman I will never love—or even like. If he does not change his mind, then rest assured, our relationship as a father and son is over.”
Francesca felt as if she had been struck. Clearly Andrew felt the blow as well, for he seemed to be reeling. She ran to his side and grabbed his arm, as if to steady him. “Evan, you do not mean that.”
“I mean it. In four months he will have me exchanging vows with Sarah Charming. In four months my life becomes one of manacles and chains, of unhappiness and anguish. And I will not take it.” His blue eyes were nearly black.
Andrew Cahill shook Francesca off. “You haven’t spoken to me in almost a month. Now you dare to come in here and tell me that you will cease being my son if I do not call off this wedding?”
“Yes. I dare.” Evan did not back down.
“I am doing this precisely because you are my son! I am
doing this because you are almost twenty-five and you have no direction in your life except for gambling halls and dens! And cheap women!”
Evan folded his arms across his chest. “We cannot all be like you, Father. We can’t all grow up impoverished and illiterate but with such a burning ambition that we shake off those shackles with sheer fortitude and wit. I am truly sorry I have not grown up on a farm, milking cows and plowing fields the way that you have done. I am sorry that I did not go to work for a butcher at the age of twelve and that I did not spend the rest of my childhood working myself to the bone and saving every penny earned so I could buy that damned butcher shop! I am sorry I did not do so, and then continue on to buy my competitors out, one by one, until Cahill Meatpacking was born! I am not you! And I never will be you!” he shouted.
“No one expects you to be exactly like Father,” Francesca began.
“You do not have to grow up on a farm on a diet of milk, butter, and bread in order to have some kind of ambition, some sense of direction, and some glimmer of responsibility,” Andrew snapped. “Or have you forgotten that the reason you are so currently
shackled
is because you have gaming debts which total almost two hundred thousand dollars?”
Evan’s flush increased.
“Papa, don’t,” Francesca whispered. “He regrets those debts; he truly does!”
“Does he?” Andrew moved behind his desk and almost tore a drawer from it. He held up a handful of papers. “These debts are new and they have just come to my attention. Last week you incurred another eighteen thousand dollars of damned debt!” he shouted.
Francesca turned huge eyes upon her brother. Had he been gambling again? But he had promised that he would never do so again. How could he?
He met her gaze and looked away, with clear guilt. Then he looked up at Andrew. “Do not make me marry this
woman. I will pay off my debts, somehow. Over time. But do not shackle me to Sarah Channing.”
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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