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Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (30 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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“I may not run for the Senate ever,” he said.
She shrugged. “I am not giving you a divorce. Not now, not ever. I am sorry you have fallen in love with someone else, but now I am doing what I have to do,” she said. “For it would ruin me, too, or have you so coldly forgotten that a divorced woman is a social pariah?”
His heart beat hard. He could see Francesca so clearly now in his mind’s eye, smart, beautiful, impossibly determined—mulishly
so. When he had thought about her after they had first met, while they were falling in love but blissfully ignorant of it, his thoughts had made him smile, and they had made him want to cheer and laugh. Now, he thought of her and felt like weeping.
He could not let Leigh Anne stand in their way, but hadn’t he known, on some level, that Leigh Anne would never complacently let him leave? And hadn’t he also known that the pull of his political future was simply irresistible and not to be denied? Because he had so much to achieve; so much remained to do! Cleaning out the hornets in the corrupt nest that was New York’s police department was only a beginning.
He gripped the back of a chair. “You will never campaign at my side. We are separated, and that is not going to change.”
She smiled, a soft, secret sensual smile, and did not say a word.
His knuckles turned white. “This isn’t about my future, is it? This is your way of punishing me. Why? It’s been four years. We’ve both moved on with our lives. Why? Why stand in my way? Why did you really come back?”
Her beautiful green eyes became moist. “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked.
“Nothing about you is obvious,” he said harshly.
“I still love you, Rick,” she said. “And I will not let another woman have you.”
 
Francesca could not concentrate. Her cab had arrived and now sat in the driveway before Calder Hart’s huge home. She did not move. She couldn’t move. Leigh Anne Bragg’s lovely face was engraved on her mind, as was Bragg’s furious one.
Grief weighed her down. The sense of loss was acute. The fear was even greater—it felt like panic. Nothing was ever going to be the same again, she thought in terror. Leigh Anne had returned, and her every instinct told Francesca that she meant to stay.
You can let him divorce her,
a small voice inside of her head said.
That option remains.
Francesca covered her face with her hands. They were shaking. She wanted to cry. She would not. And divorce was not an option, because she could not steal him away from his destiny.
But there will not be a happy ending, Francesca.
I will tell you about women like Mrs. Rick Bragg … . She didn’t want him—but you cannot have him.
Hart’s voice was so strong and resonant that she blinked and opened her eyes, expecting to find him standing outside the cab, peering inside. But he wasn’t there, of course; no one was there. There was only the bleak and dreary day, the wind and the snow.
It was coming down fast and furious now.
“Miss? That’s seventy-five cents,” the cabbie said, staring at her over his shoulder.
Francesca tried to smile and handed him a silver dollar. She shook her head when he tried to offer her change, already pushing open her door. How was she going to survive? And what did Leigh Anne really want? Why had she really come to New York?
She wants Bragg, you fool,
she heard her mind answer her. What woman would not?
More despondent now, Francesca crossed the drive to Hart’s house. The huge stag on the roof seemed to be gazing knowingly down at her. It said,
I told you so!
As she rang the door’s bell, she told herself to forget about Leigh Anne now. There was work to do, a criminal to apprehend. Besides, she was his
wife.
To her shock, Hart thrust open the door himself. He was in his shirtsleeves and an open vest, looking as if he had just gotten out of bed. He saw her and his eyes widened—and then his face hardened into a barely controlled mask of anger. “Where is my brother?” he demanded.
Francesca had never been greeted so rudely. But the words were hardly out when she knew something was terribly amiss. “I don’t know,” she began.
Hart grabbed her arm and dragged her inside, slamming the door closed behind her. “I already know he went to Fort Kendall, Francesca,” he said dangerously, his black eyes flashing.
She inhaled, hard. She was ready to become undone now, and this was not the time or the place.
“And you have been crying.” Now he gripped her by both shoulders. “What’s wrong? Didn’t the two of you enjoy the night you spent together on that train all by yourselves?”
She could not move. She could hardly speak. Hart was furious—and he was furious with her. “We didn’t,” she began breathlessly.
He released her. “I hardly care. So spare me the sordid details of your little love affair,” he said harshly. But he was looking at her mouth, her hair. His gaze moved into the opening of her coat and over the front of her tightly buttoned jacket. She knew he was searching for signs of recent lovemaking.
Francesca swallowed. “Leigh Anne is here.”
He stiffened. And his expression changed.
She would not bawl like a cow. “She met us at the train,” she whispered unsteadily. The urge to cry was overwhelming; she choked on a sob instead.
“Poor Francesca,” Hart murmured, and he pulled her against his chest. There was no mockery in his tone.
She buried her face there on one hard plane and wept.
He held her, stroking her back. She heard him say, “I am sorry, my dear. I am very, very sorry for you.”
She thought that he meant it. She gripped his vest until her knuckles turned numb. She felt his shirt growing wet beneath her cheek. She also felt him stroking her nape beneath her hat.
The tears ceased. Where he was stroking her, her skin tingled. Instantly grief was replaced by something else, something she did not want, something she truly feared. That was when she became acutely aware of his heart, pounding in a rhythm that was strong and insistent, but not at all slow.
His hands moved to her upper arms, holding her in such
a manner that she could not move. For one instant, she felt every inch of his body, a body of strength and power. And then he pushed her an inch, no two, away.
He was staring searchingly at her now, looking so terribly grim. She felt her cheeks flush. How could she deny that she felt a terrible attraction to him? After last night, she had never been more in tune with her body. This man merely had to walk into the room to make her breathless.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked quietly, never moving his gaze from hers.
“Yes.” She tried to breathe normally, and failed. “I fear you have been right. Hart! She is so beautiful.”
“She is not as beautiful as you,” he said quietly.
Francesca stiffened. “You are being kind—”
“I am not a kind man. Wipe your tears. Unless you wish for the entire family to know what has happened in the past twenty-four hours.” He seemed about to go. He turned back to her. “Oh. Your mother is furious. Apparently I was not supposed to miss the train.”
She flushed.
His gaze remained even. “I covered for you, Francesca. I told Julia a meeting caused me to miss the train and that I was planning to accompany you and Rick.”
“Thank you,” she managed.
“I shall collect another time. Now where the hell is Rick?” Suddenly his expression changed. “No. I see. He must be with Leigh Anne. Damn it!”
“Hart, what happened?” She grabbed his wrist.
“What happened?” His brows slashed upward; he was incredulous. “One of the twins was abducted, Francesca, right out of her nanny’s hands, this morning after breakfast.”
Francesca gasped.
“That is right,” Hart said grimly. “The nanny takes the twins for a walk every morning after breakfast. She left at nine. She was back before half past. Craddock walked right up to her, grabbed Chrissy from the baby carriage, and leapt into a waiting vehicle.”
“Oh, my God.” Francesca grabbed him. “Lucy?”
“Is in hysterics,” he said. He started down the corridor and Francesca followed, running to keep up with him.
“What about his note? I thought he intended to collect more money, today at noon!” she cried.
“Apparently he changed his mind. The good news is that he wanted money, and I can only assume he still wants money and that murder is the last thing on his mind.”
“Calder!” She grabbed the back of his vest.
He whirled so quickly that her nose crashed into the wall of his chest. She backed up. “There was a gruesome murder at Fort Kendall in 1890. It was never solved. Shoz escaped a week later, while Craddock took over this murdered man’s position among the inmates. Craddock is extremely dangerous,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.
“He will not be dangerous for very much longer,” Hart told her. “My private detective is on his tail—we learned where he has been staying until last week. Have no fear—I shall dispose of him the moment he is found—one way or the other.”
Their gazes locked and she knew he meant his every word. Somehow, now, she could not blame him. She thought
about the beautiful blond twin, and then she thought about Lucy. Anguish filled her.
“What do we do now? Wait for word from your detective? From Craddock himself? Surely there will be a ransom note,” Francesca said.
“I guarantee it,” Hart said harshly. “The only thing we can do is wait. But we do need Rick now. The one thing he is, is astute.”
As he spoke, his front doorbell rang. He stared at her. “That must be my oh-so-virtuous brother.” The look he gave her was a dark one, filled with innuendos, and she knew he was thinking about the night she had just spent with Bragg on the train. He whirled and rushed back down the hall.
Francesca set chase and saw Alfred admitting Bragg. Hart did not slow as he entered the front hall; Francesca halted by the reclining nude with the dove, at the hall’s far threshold. She trembled and could barely breathe as she set her eyes upon him.
Bragg looked extremely upset. No, he looked grim, horribly so. Whatever had happened after she had left Grand Central Depot, it had not been a pleasant experience. What
had
happened?
“Did you enjoy your journey upstate?” Hart purred.
“Don’t even think to begin,” Bragg warned unpleasantly. “I am in no mood to spar with you.”
“Craddock abducted Chrissy this morning,” Hart returned coldly.
Bragg turned white.
“Why else would I leave a message of such urgency with your clerk?” Hart asked.
“Give me all the details. Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Hart said, “Considering the bottom line, which is our brother-in-law, I decided this should be kept unofficial. It is a family matter, not a police matter, Rick.”
“What happened? Where is Lucy? How is she holding up?” Bragg demanded.
“The nanny took the twins for a stroll at nine this morning.
Craddock got out of a waiting coach, snatched Chrissy from her baby carriage, got back in the coach, and drove off. Actually, he had an accomplice, as the coach had a driver. There has been no ransom note, but it had been less than three hours since he took her. I have already hired a private detective to locate him, and the entire family is with Lucy in the library. She is crying,” Hart added with a downturn to his mouth.
“I need your phone,” Bragg said tersely.
“I will not have the police involved,” Hart warned.
“Generally, you are not a foolish man. So why start now?” Bragg asked coolly. “And I am the police, Calder, or have you forgotten? So the police are involved.”
Hart clenched his fists, his expression hardening with anger. He looked ready to strike a blow; Bragg also clenched his fists, but he was smiling, extremely unpleasantly now.
“Calder, don’t!” Francesca cried.
Bragg started. He looked across the huge hall for the first time and she stepped out from behind the reclining statue. Their gazes met, held, locked.
What had Leigh Anne said to him? What had happened when they were alone? Had he admitted to his wife that he loved Francesca? Had her name even come up?
Bragg dragged his gaze back to his half brother, who had been watching them both. “I have more resources at my beck and call than the entire Pinkerton Agency,” he said, very softly. “And I do not suggest we sit around here twiddling our thumbs while waiting for a ransom note—which may or may not come. I intend to locate Craddock before he ever sends that note.”
“He wants money,” Hart said coldly. “There will be a note, before nightfall, if I do not miss my guess.”
“He is a murderer,” Bragg snapped. “And I do not trust him with my niece.”
Hart’s mouth twisted upward, without any mirth at all. “Ah yes, shove my face in the fact that Chrissy is not really my niece. And when your little investigation gets out of
hand? Then what? If Cooper was murdered by Shoz, will you cover it up?”
Bragg looked murderous. “First things first. First we must get Chrissy back—alive. Now get the fuck out of my way, Calder.”
“Losing your balls, Rick? Could it be that this is a bad memory come back to life? Jonny Burton was found, alive. We can find Chrissy alive and not send her father to the scaffold. This isn’t about Chrissy; this is about you.”
“You are the coldest man I know. Chrissy’s life is at stake,” Bragg said softly, dangerously. “And I am through arguing with you.”
She could no longer stand it. She hurried forward, between them. She grasped Hart’s fist. “Calder, for now, we could use the resources of the police. I think it is wise to bring the department into what is a criminal act. We can worry about the Cooper murder at another time!”
His eyes turned to her, and they were livid. She recoiled instantly; he shook off her hand. “The two of you deserve each other,” he said, and the venom in his tone was a blow.
“Calder!” she began.
As if he had not heard her—which he had—he strode out of the hall with long, hard strides.
Francesca watched him go, unable to move, unable to breathe. It felt like déjà vu. Had it only been a few days ago that he had walked out on her in the exact same manner? And why did it frighten her so?
She wanted to run after him and reassure him, but of what? She did not move.
When he had disappeared into the corridor, she faced Bragg, only to find him staring at her so closely that she stiffened. It was hard now to look him in the eye. She bit her lip and looked down, then dared to meet his gaze. “You’re right. Of that I have no doubt. We must find Craddock and get Chrissy back and worry about everything else later.” She smiled, but it felt horribly weak and fragile.
“He knows we went to Fort Kendall together, doesn’t he?” Bragg asked.
She nodded. “I didn’t tell him. He was looking for you—”
“My staff knew where I was. It was hardly a secret.”
She gazed in the direction he had disappeared. “He’s so
angry,“she whispered.”And he’s angry with me, not you.”
“He’s jealous,” Bragg said flatly.
She faced him, stunned. “No, I think you are very wrong. Why would he be jealous?”
Bragg made a sound. It was disbelieving and disparaging all at once. “You are a beautiful woman, and he wants you. But you do not want him.” He stared.
She flushed and could not think of a reply. But her mind went haywire. Could Bragg be right? But Calder was always so cool, so composed! He had admitted he wanted her in his bed, but the way he had said it, it had been as if it was easy for him to ignore any desire he felt. Still, she had seen his jealousy of Bragg in other matters.
“Do you?” Bragg asked abruptly, coolly.
She started. “Do I what?”
“Do you want him?”
She felt her cheeks heating dangerously. She opened her mouth to deny everything, but not a single word came out.
“Are you falling in love with him?”
She was breathing shallowly now. “No! Of course not!” It was hard to speak. It was as if a huge ball of fur were there in her chest. “How can you—after last night—how can you even ask such a thing?” she managed to gasp.
“Very easily.” His gaze was hard. “If you are, he will break your heart a hundred times over. Where does he keep the telephone?”
But she already knew that. He was infamous for loving and leaving women. Except he didn’t even love them; he only made love to them. “I know,” she whispered.
“The phone?”
“The library,” she said tightly.
Bragg hurried past her and disappeared down the hall.
Francesca sank down onto a settee against one wall and between two classical busts of Roman emperors. She
was so dazed now that she could not think. How could Bragg have asked her such a thing after last night?
He was the brother she loved.
She covered her face with her hands.
Think,
she told herself.
Concentrate! A child’s life is at stake!
“Miss Cahill?” The intonation was kind; it was Alfred.
She looked up and tried to smile. Fortunately, she had wept so hard on Hart’s chest that she had no tears left.
“May I somehow be of help?”
She shook her head no.
“Might I offer an opinion?”
She hesitated. They had a crime to solve, a child to find. “Yes, of course, Alfred.”
“Do not hold Mr. Hart’s harsh words against him. I do believe he cares greatly for this family, and he blames himself for the little girl’s disappearance, as she was here in his safekeeping.”
Francesca straightened, comprehension searing her. Of course Hart would blame himself; she knew him well enough to know he set high standards and always achieved them.
He was feeling responsible for Chrissy’s abduction.
But it was not his fault.
“And I do believe he is rather jealous of Mr. Bragg,” Alfred added as someone pounded on the door.
Francesca nodded again. “Thank you, Alfred. I think you are right.”
He smiled at her and went to answer the door.
Francesca stood as a tall, dark man stepped into the house. She took one look at his high cheekbones, his bronzed skin, and his jet-black hair, which reached his shoulders, and knew she was looking at Lucy’s husband. He had a dangerous uncivilized look about him, and it was not because of the hair, and his expensive custom-made suit did not cloak the man in civility one bit. He looked hard, rough, lawless. He was also extremely attractive, but in a dark and even disturbing way. Then she saw his bright blue lizard cowboy boots with their silver snakeskin tips. Oddly, they were not incongruous with his dark charcoal gray suit.
“Sir?”
“I have been told my wife is here,” he said. His gaze moved over Francesca and dismissed her. “Lucy Savage.”
“She is in the library, sir,” Alfred said.
 
Francesca followed Shoz down the corridor. The library doors were open. Francesca saw at a glance that the entire family was present.
Grace sat with her arm around Lucy on the large sofa in the middle of the room. Bragg was on the telephone, standing by the desk; Hart, Rathe, Rourke, and a very handsome young man of about eighteen were all clustered a few feet from him, speaking in low tones.
Lucy saw her husband and stiffened. She was eerily pale and red-eyed from weeping. “Shoz? What … what are you doing here?”
He took in the scene and rushed forward. “I left for New York last week. I decided to join you and the children. What is it? What’s happened?” he demanded, lifting her to her feet.
“Someone’s taken Chrissy!” Lucy cried, clinging to the lapels of his jacket.
His silver eyes went wide.
“It’s all my fault,” Lucy said, bursting into tears. “This is all my fault!”
“It’s not your fault,” he said firmly, pulling her into his arms. He held her there, stroking her hair, which was loose and rioting down her back. His gaze moved to Rathe. “What the hell happened?”
“Lucy has been blackmailed,” Rathe said, moving to Shoz and clasping his shoulder. “And at nine this morning Chrissy was seized while on her way to the park. There has been no ransom note since then.”
Shoz’s face was a mask of darkly controlled anger. Francesca shivered, because she had never seen any man look so hard and so dangerous. It crossed her mind that this man was capable of hanging a man and then torturing him slowly until he died, given the right reason.
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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