Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (39 page)

Hart stiffened, but just as he began rubbing his face lower over her breasts, Rourke demanded, “How is she?”

Hart straightened instantly and their gazes met. “Calder, stand back,” Rourke said briskly.

Their gazes remained locked. An aeon seemed to pass. So much had happened and so quickly that now Francesca was aware of one stunning comprehension—that Calder Hart truly cared about her. She smiled through her tears. He would always take care of her, she thought. It was a stunning and wonderfully profound comprehension, a revelation that filled her with pleasure and joy.

Hart stepped back.

Rourke came forward. “Please sit down,” he said firmly but kindly.

Francesca obeyed, but she could not look away from Hart. He continued to stare, Alfred behind him, a tray with a decanter of Scotch whiskey and two glasses in his hands. Rourke was inspecting her face, and then he tilted her head up and back, looking at her throat and neck. He smiled reassuringly at her. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

She realized for the first time that her palms were also scraped. She turned them over and showed them to him.

“How is she?” Hart asked, not having looked away, not even to blink.

“So far, so good. She has some cuts and scrapes on her face, but I doubt there will be any scars. Is your throat sore?” he asked gently.

“Terribly,” Francesca whispered. She could hardly focus on Rourke. Hart now ran his hand through his short, thick, curly hair, appearing at once grim and explosive. Now his passions were bent on apprehending the strangler. Francesca thought about how she had begged Hart to make love. She wondered if they might have actually done so if Rourke had not appeared. She felt certain that Hart had not had any self-control left then.

Hart suddenly turned and accepted a scotch from Alfred, came over, and handed it to Francesca, who took a sip immediately. The whiskey burned her throat, but she knew that in a moment she would feel soft and warm and pleasant, and she took another sip, feeling that man again, thrusting against her and telling her what he was going to do. She quickly opened her eyes and realized she had downed most of the glass. That day had turned into a nightmare.

Hart was staring grimly at her. Not turning, he said, “Alfred. Send Raoul to fetch my half brother.”

Francesca froze.

“Then ready a guest bedroom. Miss Cahill will spend the night under Rourke’s care.” He faced her. “I will bring your parents, Francesca. They must be told.”

She clutched the empty glass. “No.”

“Francesca.” He softened. “Darling, you are only slightly the worse for wear, and I will wait until Rourke has made you presentable, but your mother and father will be frantic when you do not come home. I must go over and gently explain to them . . . something.” He darkened as he uttered that last word.

“I might twist the truth a bit,” Rourke said quietly.

“No,” Francesca said again, barely able to breathe. “Do not get Bragg, Calder.”

He started, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Please,” she added.

And he stared, his gaze narrowing now with speculation.

Francesca remained on the sofa. She was sipping her second scotch, having finished giving Inspector Newman a detailed report of the attack. Hart stood protectively a few feet from her, where he had positioned himself well over a half an hour ago. He didn’t drink or speak, but he had listened to her every word. There were no secrets between them now.

The doors to the small salon were solidly closed. Francesca knew, though, that most of the Bragg family had gathered in the hall outside. When Newman had been escorted
inside, she had glimpsed Rathe and Grace, Nick D’Archand, their handsome nephew, and Lucy and her husband, Shoz, all huddled in whispered conversation. She could imagine the train of their thoughts. And the absence of the city’s police commissioner was now glaring.

Francesca refused to think about Bragg now. Hart had deferred to her wishes not to summon him, and Chief Farr had been called instead. The city’s chief of police stood beside Newman. Farr had arrived within minutes of the inspector but had allowed the detective to do all of the questioning.

“Well, I think we have it covered, Miss Cahill,” Newman said. His brown eyes were gentle and kind. “I’m sorry you had to go through such an ordeal.”

“Thank you. Will you pick up LeFarge and Neville for further questioning?” Francesca looked at Brendan Farr as she spoke, tensing instinctively as she did so. She knew he did not like her, as he never had, not from the moment they had first met. But then, he was a part of the old guard of the Department and would not care for any civilian’s interference in police affairs, much less that of a woman.

“Why don’t you let us worry about the details of this investigation, Miss Cahill?” Farr replied with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I think this evening’s events have proven that criminal investigations are best left to my men.”

Francesca smiled stiffly at him. It was reasonable now to conclude that LeFarge or Neville had been the assailant. Unless Hoeltz had been released earlier—and he had followed her to the Royal. But the time of his release would be easy enough to discover.

Farr continued to smile at her. “I must request that you stay out of police affairs from this point on.” He faced Hart. “Mr. Hart, it is best for everyone involved if Miss Cahill gives up her sleuthing until the strangler is found.”

Francesca wished Farr would disappear off the face of the planet. She smiled, felt that it was more a bristling, and said, demure, “Whatever you wish, Chief.”

“He is right,” Hart said, giving her a look that said that
he knew she was lying to Farr’s face. “This case is beyond your scope, Francesca.”

Francesca smiled at Hart in a similar manner and finished her second glass of scotch. She was more than ready to throw in the towel—for that evening. But tomorrow, why, tomorrow was another day, and she had had enough. If Farr did not make an arrest, she must take matters into her own hands. But how?

Suddenly an intriguing notion struck her.

The strangler had meant to murder her and he had failed. What if she set a trap for the killer?

He clearly wished for her to be his next victim. What if a trap was set with her as the
bait
?

She stood, excited now, and came face-to-face with Hart and Farr. And in that instant, she realized she had been expecting Bragg to be there, so she could eagerly share her new idea, so they could debate it, so they could begin to formulate a plan to entice the strangler into a foolproof trap.

“What is it, Francesca?” Hart said, too sharply.

She looked at him and hesitated. Would Hart agree to her idea? She doubted it. Bragg would be hard enough to persuade, yet she knew she could do so. With Hart, she knew no such thing. She decided to remain mute. Nothing could be done that evening anyway. She smiled. “Nothing. I’ve had too much to drink, I fear. I had a notion, but it’s absurd.” She smiled again, brightly.

Hart stared, filled with suspicion now.

“We may have more questions for you tomorrow,” Farr said. “Newman, let’s go.” He nodded at Hart. “Thank you for your help. And, Miss Cahill? It is a fortunate instance, indeed, that you were not seriously hurt tonight, or worse.”

Francesca kept her smile plastered on her face until he left.

“Just what are you up to, Francesca?” Hart asked, reaching for her.

She was surprised to be pulled against his side. A delicious warmth unfurled within her. “I am not up to anything, as you put it.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he said. But his face softened and he smiled at her as they stepped into the hall.

Instantly the Bragg family descended upon them. From the corner of her eye, Francesca watched Farr and Newman speaking in the foyer, waiting for their coats.

“Are you all right, Francesca?” Grace Bragg asked. She was the foster mother of both Hart and Bragg, and now her blue eyes were filled with concern.

Francesca smiled at the red-haired woman, who, although middle-aged, remained beautiful, even with the spectacles she wore. “I have certainly had better days,” she said.

“Calder says you are spending the night here,” Grace returned as Lucy, her equally red-haired daughter, paused beside them. “How would you feel if I saw you up to your rooms?” She smiled warmly then.

Francesca had so wanted to be liked by this woman. She smiled back. “Female company is just what the doctor ordered,” she said. Looking past both women, she saw that Farr and Newman had their coats on and were about to leave. But Brendan Farr had paused in front of a sculpture of a reclining nude and he was staring at it. Francesca had seen the somewhat sensational nude before. Now, however, something tugged at her. She stared.

Farr turned away, his expression impossible to read.

“Excuse me,” Francesca said quickly to Grace and Lucy, and she started through the front hall toward the two police officers.

“Never saw anything like that,” Newman was saying to his superior, his cheeks beet red. “Rich gents are odd, aren’t they, Chief?”

“Everyone knows Calder Hart enjoys his whores,” Farr returned evenly.

Francesca stopped short, a dozen feet from the front door.

Alfred ran up to the policemen, murmuring, “Good night,” as the doorman opened the door.

Newman stepped outside, but Farr suddenly glanced over his shoulder and instantly his iron gray gaze met Francesca’s.

Her stomach heaved.

He nodded politely and walked out.

Francesca could not move. Her heart was thundering explosively in her breast. She could feel his hardness against her buttocks, brick against her cheek, hear the rasped obscenities in her ears.
Ever take it in your mouth
? . . .
I heard dying in ecstasy is the ultimate climax
.

Francesca cried out, clinging to the wall.

“Francesca!” Hart reached her in a stride. He seized her arms, turning her to face him. “What is it?”

Everyone knows Calder Hart enjoys his whores
.

“Oh, God.” She trembled violently, knew she was about to become ill. “It’s Farr.”

Hart stared at her.

Francesca wrenched free and ran for the closest water closet.

S
ATURDAY
, F
EBRUARY
22, 1902—11:00
P.M
.

F
RANCESCA CAME OUT OF
the bathing room in a peignoir borrowed from Lucy. The redhead, who was just a few years older than she, had settled herself on the foot of the canopied bed in Hart’s guest room. Grace had disappeared, declaring she would have Cook arrange some refreshments for Francesca. Hart had also left, to impart the news of Francesca’s whereabouts to Julia and Andrew. Now Francesca walked barefoot across the huge bedroom suite, the Aubusson rug underfoot exquisite. A fire crackled in the hearth beneath a white marble mantel veined with gold. The walls were painted the softest shade of pastel green, and the ceiling above had been scalloped with pink and gold. Several beautiful paintings adorned the walls—a mother serenely bathing her child, a brooding seascape, fisherwomen on the beach with baskets on their heads. The room was as dramatic as the rest of Hart’s home. Yet it was also elegant, sublimely so.

Francesca settled down in the bed, and the moment her
shoulders and back touched the six down pillows stacked at its head, she realized how exhausted she was. Briefly she closed her eyes.

But she did not want to think about Brendan Farr now—and his image assailed her strongly. But was she right? Francesca knew she was extremely distraught—and she knew she had no proof that Farr was the City Strangler. But God, for one instant, when their eyes had met in Hart’s front hall, she had felt certain it was he. Now she did not know what to think—and she was filled with doubt. He might be a crooked police officer and he might hate her, but that hardly made him a killer. And now, with actual physical distance and some time placed between them, she felt that she had been too quick to accuse him. Hart had told her she was too distressed to be able to think clearly. He had told her to get some rest. She shivered, deciding she was, in all likelihood, wrong, and then felt Lucy take her hand.

“You are so brave,” Lucy said quietly. “When your parents come, you had better button the collar of the wrapper, Fran.”

Francesca smiled at her and buttoned up the collar. Her mother would have apoplexy if she ever saw the darkening bruises on Francesca’s neck. “I wasn’t brave tonight. I was terrified, Lucy. In fact, I have never been so afraid.” She thought about Brendan Farr again. Why would he vandalize Sarah’s studio and then kill Grace Conway? It made no sense, none!

Lucy leaned forward to hug her. “This time, Hart is right. This case is too dangerous!”

Francesca hated to admit that Hart might be right.

Lucy settled back on the foot of the bed, studying her. Then she said, “Where is Rick?”

Francesca flushed.

“I mean, the two of you work together solving crimes. I don’t understand why he isn’t here.”

Francesca looked away, recalling how lovely and sensual Leigh Anne was. “He reconciled with his wife,” she began. She wanted to tell Lucy that she hadn’t wanted to disturb
him, but she did not want to lie to her new friend.

“I know!” Lucy cried, at once angry and upset. “He has always had a fatal weakness for that horrid tramp! I cannot even begin to tell you how I wish she would vanish into thin air! But no, she has come back, to wreck his life once again!”

Francesca drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. “But they are married, and I think his fatal weakness has something to do with love.”

Lucy blinked. “You defend their reconciliation?”

Francesca shrugged. The sadness remained, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had once been. In fact, it was more of a faint ache that she could ignore. “There is no one I admire more than your brother, Lucy. And while I believe he is terribly fond of me, I think a bond remains between him and his wife, a very strong bond, one that will never go away.”

“So you blithely support his marriage?” Lucy was aghast.