Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (27 page)

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Authors: Deadly Desire

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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She slammed shut her compartment in a fit of anger, and
it crossed her mind that Calder Hart would never abandon her like this. He’d go to the club car, fetch a pair of whiskeys, and they’d spend the next few hours discussing the world—and his jaded view of it.
Francesca sat down hard on the lower bunk, whacking her head as she did so. Tears filled her eyes.
She was losing him
.
She stood, because sitting was impossible without craning her neck in a hurtful position. She told herself that she was not losing him. He was trying to be virtuous. He was trying to protect her virtue—because he loved her. And because being alone with her was simply too difficult, now.
Francesca moved carefully to the chair beside the folding tabletop, and sat down on it. What should she do?
Hart’s image came to mind.
Unless you come to your senses and forget this absurd notion that you love my brother, this is war.
She did not want to think about Leigh Anne now.
Rick is married; Calder is not.
Grace’s words dared to echo next. Francesca wanted to clap her hands over her ears. Neither of them knew that Bragg was prepared to divorce his wife for her. Perhaps she was wrong to refuse his marriage proposal. Perhaps their personal happiness was more important than his political future; besides, they could still reform the world even if he wasn’t in politics. There were hundreds of causes they could take up, hundreds of societies and unions to join and support, and countless charities to raise money for.
But he was a natural-born leader. His place was in government.
Francesca rubbed her eyes. Suddenly she was exhausted. Nothing was going the way she had hoped, and now, too late, she realized she had packed her sheer, lacy nightgown for a reason, so he could admire her in it—worse—to break his self-control.
But he was stronger than she was. He wasn’t going to compromise her, and she loved him even more for it.
But where, dear God, could they go from here?
The answer was chilling. It whispered through her tiny sleeping compartment like a sigh coming from the train’s chugging wheels.
Nowhere
.
Francesca left the stool abruptly, curling up on the lower bunk, hugging her pillow. The weight of worry coupled with grief settled upon her like a hundred-pound rock. Perhaps Bragg wasn’t her destiny after all; perhaps they were doomed.
Tears moistened her eyes, blurring her vision. The train chugged on, but there was no comfort in the rocking motion or the steady sound. The small light from the lantern danced before her eyes. She saw Bragg and Leigh Anne; she saw Hart.
Suddenly Francesca was awake. The lantern continued to burn brightly, and she realized she had fallen asleep, but obviously not for very long. She strained to hear, for something had awoken her, and then she was rewarded by the sound of his compartment door sliding closed with a loud and resounding click.
She sat up, whacking her head as she did so.
“Ow.” Holding her throbbing head, she slipped out from under the top bunk, breathless now. What time was it? Did it matter? She stood unsteadily and fell against one wall as the train veered around a curve. She unlatched the shade to peek outside—it remained pitch-black. She didn’t have a clue as to whether she’d been sleeping for an hour or hours.
Her gaze fell upon her small valise. An image danced in her mind, and while she knew she should not, she snatched the valise, opening it. She quickly dug out her lace nightgown and a silk robe trimmed with the same ivory lace.
The garments were nearly weightless and silken in her hands.
Did she dare?
And why was she so afraid?
If they made love now, there was no going back. It would solve their problems—seal their love. And that was what she wanted. That was what she had wanted from the moment they had met.
She refused to entertain doubts now. Francesca unbuttoned and shrugged out of her shirtwaist and camisole. Her nipples hardened from the cold, but she ignored the chill. She slipped off her skirt, petticoat, and drawers. Then she stepped into the nightgown, a sheer sheath held up by two tiny lace straps. Lace trimmed the low bodice and the hem. A small rosebud was in the center of the bodice, which was enticingly sheer.
Her teeth were chattering now. It was probably five below in the compartment, too, she thought, and it was easier dwelling on that notion than on what she intended to do—and what might or might not happen. She slipped on the robe, belting it tightly; then she realized that was not helpful, and she loosened the sash.
She hesitated, then unpinned her hair, shaking out the golden waves. Her hair fell to her shoulder blades.
Rouge
.
She dug into the valise, found the pot, and applied a dab to her lips and cheeks. It was hard to feel now. She just knew she could not turn back, as if, in doing so, she might never get back on track.
She had a small hand mirror tucked inside the valise, and she paused to check her reflection. She started, because her eyes were wide with apprehension and anxiety and perhaps even fear.
What could she possibly be afraid of?
Bragg
was
her destiny.
She looked again, but the fear remained in her wide cornflower blue eyes. The rouge, however, was fine. She lowered the glass and hesitated. Her ensemble hid nothing. Her every curve was obvious, the outline of her breasts, her aureoles and nipples, her ribs, her navel, her sex. She could hardly breathe. Could she really do this?
I am throwing myself at a man,
she thought, suddenly grim.
A married man.
She was about to sit back down on the bunk, but in the nick of time she recalled hitting her head twice. Instead, she
held onto the wall with one hand. But she loved Bragg. And he loved her. He despised his wife, and he’d been separated for four years.
She wasn’t soothed. She could hardly breathe.
Just do it,
she thought.
But what if it did not solve all of their problems?
Even if you become his lover, there will only be ruin, guilt, and shame.
Are you afraid that the story you have told yourself will blow up in your face?
She refused to heed her fear or Hart’s terrible words. Filled with determination, Francesca slid open her compartment door just enough to peek out and make sure that no one was in the corridor. It was empty. She stepped out and knocked on his door. “Bragg!” she cried, almost desperate now.
There was no answer.
She banged again. “Bragg! I’m locked out of my compartment!”
A moment passed, in which she wondered if he had heard her and was being obstinate, or if he was sound asleep. But then his door slid open. “Why don’t you call the—” he began, and he stopped.
His gaze slammed to her breasts, her hips, her thighs, and the hot delta in between.
Francesca managed a smile and darted past him, into his compartment. She was trembling now.
He turned slowly. “Your compartment door is open, Francesca,” he said calmly.
“I lied. I can’t sleep,” she said in a rush. Oh, God. What was she doing?
So cling to your damn fairy tale! But there will not be a happy ending, Francesca
. And with his words, Hart’s dark, intense, and angry image came to mind.
She did not want to think about him now! Not now!
“You cannot stay here,” Bragg said, unmoving.
She met his gaze and stilled. The panic and the fear stilled. The voices in her head stilled. And something else came to life, deep within her, and she recognized it instantly.
She was alone in a tiny sleeping compartment with a gorgeous man, a man she loved, and there was no mistaking the way he was looking at her now. This was what she wanted—wasn’t it?
Francesca did not understand herself now. She remained afraid, and there was dread, too, but with her ambivalence there were other sensations that were not ambivalent at all. Her loins were swelling, an involuntary reaction to the man she was with and the night. She recognized the tightening there, the budding urgency, the need.
“You are trying to seduce me,” Bragg said roughly.
She nodded. “Yes.”
He leaned back against the compartment door, which he’d left ajar. He stared up at the ceiling. She could see his pulse throbbing in his throat.
Her thoughts began to simmer down, to calm. The night was no longer cold, it was warm and vital, alive, and she was on a train, hundreds of miles from the city, with Bragg.
They were alone.
Entirely, completely alone. No one would walk in on them now. No one would ever know what happened in his sleeping compartment, other than her and him.
Her breasts felt swollen, too. Heavy, full. And he was looking at them. Staring at her low bodice, her erect nipples, which were barely covered by the French lace.
“Francesca.” Bragg’s tone was low, husky … seductive. He looked up now, his golden eyes heated. “Please go.”
And she hesitated.
Your friendship is more important to me than sex,
Hart’s voice purred in her mind.
Oh yes, I see the writing on the wall. And I must stand by and watch it all unfold …
Francesca almost hated Hart then. How dare he predict her future? And he was wrong! Wasn’t he?
“Last chance,” Bragg said so softly she could hardly hear him, and she saw him tremble.
It crossed her mind that she could go, that she should go, that Hart was right. “I’m staying,” she heard herself whisper, but not without a terrible accompanying pang of anxiety.
After this moment, there would be no going back.
Bragg’s arm whipped out before she had even finished her words, and he caught her, his grip so hard that she gasped. But he did not loosen it, and their gazes collided, locked.
Hunger consumed his eyes, his face.
What was she doing?
He pulled her against him, his mouth covering hers. He was all muscle and bone, a man of steel. And the moment she was against him, her body seemed to explode in greed and pleasure; the moment she was wrapped in his arms, she knew it was right. Francesca wrapped her arms around him as their mouths fused, as his tongue thrust against hers, mating wildly within her mouth. She felt him reach out behind her, abruptly sliding the door closed.
Anxiety stabbed at her again. Should she go through with this?
What if Hart was right?
And then she felt his hands on her buttocks, caressing them, molding them, spreading them wide. Her thighs opened for him instantly as her knees buckled, as intense desire flooded her.
He shoved the weight of his arousal against her sex and she cried out, shocked by his weight, his heat, his hardness. There were no thoughts now. His sex burned; her sex answered, yearned.
He cupped her face with his hands. “I love you. I want you. This is how badly I want you, that I am doing what I have sworn I would not do. I can’t even think right now!” he cried urgently.
She could hardly speak; she was insane with the throbbing member between her thighs. “Bragg,” she gasped.
He caught her by her buttocks again, lifting her harder, higher, on the ridge of his manhood. Francesca felt the delicious friction and the sparks going off, one by one, quickly, and as he rubbed himself over her, again and again, rhythmically, a masculine demand, the sparks caught fire. He moved harder, faster, sensing where she was going, carrying her there. The explosion took her by surprise. She cried out frantically, he was banging against her, and she was swept
up, away, far away, into a black void shattered by a zillion stars, each and every one exploding, fire and light.
When she drifted back to earth, she was in his arms and on the bunk, on her back. His hand was splayed dangerously low on her belly, just inches above her wet, swollen sex. She blinked her eyes open and was met by golden fire. He bent and kissed her long and hard, his tongue thrusting into her mouth.
And when he straightened, he smiled just a little, at her.
Francesca could not smile back. Reality hit her, hard. She was flat on her back on his bunk, in his sleeping compartment, and they had come precariously close to consummating their relationship.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
She must not think now. She loved him and, more important, she trusted him—he would never hurt her.
“Francesca?”
She nodded and looked down at his hand.
He inched it lower. Her silk robe and gown clung damply to her pubis, and she might as well have been naked. His middle finger had reached the top of her cleft. It pressed there, strong and long, unmoving.
Her body became limp. Lax. His finger pressed lower. If he went just a bit farther, she was going to die all over again, finding God and heaven and release. “Bragg,” she whispered. But she had moaned his name, and the moan shocked her. It was a sexual plea, long, low, and deep.

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