Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (20 page)

“Go on.”

“She went over to investigate, was seized from behind, a knife to her throat.” He watched his brother pale. There had never been any question in Hart’s mind that Rick truly loved Francesca. It was just a more cerebral affair than a sensual one. Because she was a crusader whom he admired with all of his heart—because she was, in a way, a reflection of his own dreams and desires. Unfortunately, Hart also knew they would have made a successful match had Rick been available. It was very obvious.

“How badly was she hurt?” Bragg asked, utterly pale now.

“Her throat was scratched. It won’t scar,” he added, relieved that it would not. “He warned her to drop the case she is on.”

“What did he say—specifically?” Bragg asked sharply.

Hart did hand it to him: his brother was a fine investigator—and an even better police commissioner. He sighed. “Something to the effect of ‘Forget about the children.’ You’ll have to ask Francesca.”

“Where is she?”

“Home.” He was mildly surprised. “I took her home some time ago. And, Rick—she is not about to reveal what happened to anyone in her family. She would appreciate it if you did not make a fuss in front of Andrew or Julia.”

Bragg paced over to him, staring. “And just why are you so involved in this case, Calder? Do you think to truly win Francesca’s heart if you help her solve this latest crime?”

He was angry—he hid it behind annoyance. “I don’t like her being in danger any more than you do.”

A silence fell. “Did she get a look at him?”

“No.”

“Can she identify the weapon?”

He was surprised—he had overlooked this question. “I don’t know. I would imagine so.”

“And the wound is superficial?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“At what time did the attack take place?”

“Around seven. A bit before.”

“And how is it, if the attack was outside of her house, that her parents do not know about it? She came here, to you?” He stared.

“Is that a personal question?”

“Just answer it,” he said coldly.

He sighed. “I was leaving the house. The timing was pure coincidence. She saw me and called out.” He was grim, remembering. “It was rather terrifying, actually. She was wearing a white shirtwaist beneath her suit and coat, and there was blood all over it.”

Bragg stared.

Hart looked up. He smiled grimly. “But you know Francesca. She cannot be on a case without attracting the worst criminal elements.”

“I am glad you were there,” Bragg said.

Hart blinked.

Bragg nodded. “I mean it. All right, then. I will speak with Francesca first thing in the morning. If you happen to recall anything else, even the most minor and insignificant detail, let me know. You know where to reach me,” he added with mockery.

Hart sipped his drink, debated a mocking response, and decided not to bait him any further.

Bragg left.

The house was dark, except for the single lamp burning on the table in the entry hall. The unpleasant interview with Hart had rankled the entire way home, as had the fact that it had been Hart with Francesca in her time of need, not him. Now Hart’s image receded. Francesca’s faded. He turned off the light, starting slowly up the stairs, pulling off his bow tie.

An image of Leigh Anne assailed him.

He refused to entertain it. He thought about the attacker.
He had used a knife, had held it to Francesca’s throat. That was undoubtedly why Francesca assumed it to be Tom Smith’s killer. The other links were obvious—Smith was somehow involved, as he had lied about his missing daughter, and the assailant had warned Francesca off the case. Bragg entered the master bedroom.

She had left one small lamp on, in a far corner of the room, on her secretaire. From the corner of the eye he saw the bed—he saw her small, sleeping form. He ignored it, her. He walked into the dressing room, stripping off his clothes, his movements hard now, angry.

If only he had taken Francesca home that night. But he had instead attended Harris’s political affair. And Hart had been there to rescue her. He seized his nightshirt from a hanger, suddenly furious. How had his life come to this?

Leigh Anne’s image came to mind, naked, lush, her eyes seductive and glazing over as they did when she climaxed. He cursed. He threw aside the nightshirt. He went and stood on the threshold of the bedroom, staring at the bed.

The covers hid her from view.

He looked up at the night-darkened ceiling. Francesca was engaged to Hart. It was unbelievable.

Was she somehow thinking to punish him?

No, he thought rigidly, she was falling under Hart’s spell; he had seen it himself.

He looked at the bed. And it was all because of Leigh Anne. If she hadn’t decided to return to New York, to their marriage, to their life, perhaps things would have stayed the way they were. And now he refused to think of how impossible that had been, as well.

Leigh Anne shifted in her sleep.

He froze, afraid she would wake up—a part of him wanting her to. And he stiffened—he would not give up. He turned, shrugged on the nightshirt, and allowed himself to recognize how exhausted he was. If he let the anger go, he could probably be asleep in minutes.

He went to the bed, refusing to look at her, but her breathing was soft and deep. He slid under the covers,
keeping a good distance between them. He rolled over, his back to her.

Exhaustion vanished. His manhood taunted him, as stiff as a baseball bat. Francesca had undoubtedly been in Hart’s arms tonight. If Hart had his way, she would become his wife, sooner or later.

Why hadn’t Leigh Anne stayed in Europe? Why had she returned? Why did she have to be so seductive? So utterly sensual in bed? So loving with the children? So dutiful as a wife? God, he hated her! He had hated her for four years, and now she stood between him and Francesca; worse, because of her, Francesca was running to Hart.

He turned over abruptly, his arousal brushing her buttocks. It was like being struck by lightning. No, it was worse.

He moved closer. The nightshirt just covered his thighs, was entangled, in the way; he lifted it aside.

She was wearing a scrap of sheer silk he instantly recognized, by feel, not sight. He closed his eyes, moved closer, down the cleft of her buttocks, prodding her silk-covered thighs. She sighed.

The red haze of lust consumed him. He lifted her nightgown, briefly caressed her soft behind, knew the moment she was awake. He pushed between her thighs, silently coaxing her to open for him. She did not breathe. Nor did she spread her legs.

Annoyed, his body racked with a terrible urgency, he nipped her neck.

She whimpered—the bite had been a dangerously real one.

“Open for me,” he said roughly, prodding harder now. He reached down and found her sex. He touched the small nub there with his finger and then began to stroke.

“Rick,” she began—a protest.

He palmed her hard, then began to rotate her entire mound, nuzzling her neck now. He couldn’t breathe—he heard himself panting. He felt insane—insane with desire, with lust. She opened her thighs, reaching behind, for him,
touching his mouth. He sucked down her fingertip.

And from behind, through her thighs, he slowly began rubbing himself over her vagina, up against her lips.

She made a sound—sheer sexual capitulation.

And she hooked her calf over his, the invitation unmistakable.

He laughed in her ear, triumph spilling over him the way her wetness was spilling over his hand. “Come for me,” he said, a command. He tongued her ear.

“Hurry,” she gasped.

He thrust hard and deep, all the way into her.

She cried out.

S
ATURDAY
, M
ARCH
29, 1902—9:00
A.M.

B
RIDGET
O’N
EIL WISHED THEY
hadn’t come to America. Trembling, afraid, she stared at the carts and wagons moving past her on the street and then at the pedestrians swarming every which way on the sidewalk. She could hear the roar of one of those funny trains, the kind that traveled high up in the air, and, unlike in County Clare, the air was thick and stinking and gray. She missed home, dear Lord, she did.

“Bridget O’Neil! Get that sack o’ pots, me girl, gawkin’ won’t move us in!”

Bridget started at the sound of her mother’s scolding voice. She rushed to the wagon that was stopped in front of the building that was to be their new home. Fortunately, the wharves had been so busy that morning and Mama had hired the carter to bring their belongings first thing upon disembarking from the ship that had brought them all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to this odd and frightening new land.

Bridget petted the donkey hitched to the cart, grateful that at least one thing was familiar. God, the building where they had a small flat was enormous, like the castles kept by Lord Randolph, the English earl who until recently had been their landlord and Bridget’s mother’s employer. But something terrible had happened at the big house, and Mama wouldn’t speak of it. She and Papa had fought until she cried and he stormed out, not even coming home in the wee hours. And then the handsome young earl had stopped by with a present for Mama, the prettiest glass Bridget had ever seen. Someone had shaped it into a pretty fawn, and Mama had been about to hide it when Papa returned. A terrible argument had ensued, with Mama crying some more and Papa breaking the fawn, all the while shouting how he’d kill the handsome earl. The next time Lord Randolph had come calling, Bridget had met him at the door and told him that Mama was ill.

Now Papa was in jail, charged with the terrible crime of trying to murder an English aristocrat, and Mama and Papa were not speaking. Papa hadn’t even tried to ask Mama not to leave the country. In fact, he had told her to go, as if he hated her. And Mama had spent the whole voyage staring at a newspaper clipping, one that had a pencil sketch of the earl, his likeness so real it was as if he were smiling at Mama.

It was all the earl’s fault. Bridget hated him; she hated the English and she hated this new land.

“Bridget! We need to get settled and you’re gawkin’ still!” her mother cried, pausing beside her, a small box filled with their valuables in her hands. Everyone said Mama was a beautiful woman, and Bridget thought so, too. She had dark red-brown hair that curled wildly when let down and stunning green eyes with long black lashes. She was only twenty-six, and she always reminded Bridget to be a good girl or she’d have a baby at fifteen, too. Bridget knew she meant it, but she was only eleven even if she did look a lot older, so she didn’t really have to worry about boys yet. But she would always nod solemnly and swear
to behave. Mama liked to worry. She worried about everything, constantly, and Bridget knew she still worried about the handsome earl—but not about Papa.

“I’m sorry,” Bridget breathed, swinging her long dark red braid out of the way and hefting up the heavy sack. As she straightened, a gent paused before her and sent her a wink.

She blinked, meeting the pale blue gaze of a middle-aged man who was dressed the way Lord Randolph dressed, which meant he had riches and estates. He was short, though, and very thin, his skin as white as a baby’s. His stare made her uncomfortable, and flushing, she turned and hurried away.

Mama was standing in the doorway of the building where their flat was, and she had seen. She gripped Bridget’s shoulder, staring at the street. Bridget turned and saw the rich gentleman stepping into a fancy coach. “You don’t speak to anybody, you hear?” Mama said. “Especially not strange men!”

“He didn’t say anything,” Bridget said. “Not even hello.”

“You’re too pretty for your own good, and you look fifteen, not eleven. That’s what got me into trouble, and I want to spare you that.”

Bridget looked up at her beautiful mother and saw how worried she was. “I won’t get into trouble, Mama. I promise.”

Gwen O’Neil bent and hugged her daughter, never mind the small box poking them both. “Still, you are the best thing that ever happened to me.” She straightened and smiled. “Now let’s go up and get unpacked so we can do some grocery shopping.”

Francesca said, “How many?!”

Joel was equally dismayed. “Forty-one, Miz Cahill. I got forty-one here on my list say they know what happened to Emily O’Hare.”

Francesca and Joel stood on the street in front of Schmitt’s Grocery, her first stop of the morning. She took the list from Joel. He had made each man—and woman—sign his or her name, and as many of those who had responded to her reward poster were illiterate, a good many signatures consisted of slashes and
Xs
. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Calder was right. Every unscrupulous lout seeking easy money has come forward to claim the reward. But maybe, Joel, just maybe, one of these informants really has seen something.”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I said you’d be here on the corner tomorrow at noon and that everyone should come back then.”

Francesca was pleased. “That is an excellent idea! I’ll bring a small table and a chair and interview everyone on the spot!”

Joel beamed. “Yeah, it is a good idea, ain’t it?”

She patted his shoulder when she saw his gaze wander and fixate on an object behind her. His cheeks colored, so she turned and saw a tall, striking auburn-haired woman with a small cardboard box in her arms standing outside of the building where the Kennedys lived. “What is it?” she asked, now noticing the equally striking girl standing beside the woman. Clearly, the child was her daughter.

Joel shrugged, his cheeks pink. “New folk. They’re taking the flat above ours. Guess they just come over from Ireland.”

Francesca looked at him and had a suspicion. “The girl is very pretty.”

Joel shrugged, beet-red now. “She is? Didn’t notice. All look the same to me.”

Francesca hid her smile. “I have a job for you while I go interview Mr. Schmitt again—as I am convinced he knows something he is not telling us. See if anyone knows where the Wirklers or the Coopers live. We must speak with Rachael Wirkler’s and Bonnie Cooper’s parents, and their school records are missing, so we don’t know where they live.”