Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (8 page)

Captain Shea was approaching in the hallway; behind him, the door to Bragg’s office was open. He nodded at her. “He’ll see you—not that I had any doubt.”

Francesca thanked him as Bragg appeared in the doorway of his office, staring. Her strides faltered.

He was more than grim; he seemed tired and unkempt. Francesca saw circles beneath his eyes and lines around his mouth. Their gazes met.

Her heart beat hard. Could she really marry his half brother? For Rick Bragg, married or not, would always be a dark shadow standing between them.

He didn’t nod and he didn’t greet her. He turned and walked back into his office. Francesca followed.

Nothing had changed. His desk was a huge affair, covered with files and folder. A rattan-backed chair was behind it, a window overlooking Mulberry Street behind that. On the mantel above the fireplace were numerous family photographs, as well as other, more impressive ones, including one of Bragg with both the mayor and Theodore Roosevelt. Francesca searched for a photograph of Bragg’s wife, but she was not to be found amid the ones of his father and adopted mother, his half brothers and sisters, his cousins, nieces, and nephews.

And there was no photograph of Calder Hart, either. But Francesca hadn’t expected there to be one.

Francesca removed her coat, hanging it carefully on a wall hook by Bragg’s greatcoat, while he went behind his desk, where he sat. She turned with dread. He had steepled his hands and bridged his nose upon them, not looking at her.

“I’m sorry.”

He made a disparaging sound.

“Can we speak? Please?” she asked. And she had forgotten now about Emily. All she could think about was how unhappy this man was and that she was the cause.

And he didn’t deserve unhappiness or pain. No one deserved a life of joy more than he. Bragg had earned it by a lifetime spent helping others.

He stood, went to the door, and closed it. Then he faced her. “Do you love him?”

She stiffened. And she could not find an answer to his question.

“Well? If you are marrying him, you must love him!” Bragg was angry now.

“I don’t know if I love him. I only know that my world was turned upside down the day you told me that you were married!” she cried, and it was the truth. “Nothing has been the same since.”

“So your marrying him is my fault.”

“I hardly said that.” She couldn’t believe they had come to this—it was as if they were foes and in the midst of a bitter battle.

“It is my fault and we both know it. Because a month ago you were in my arms, Francesca, vowing eternal love to me, and now you are engaged to him!”

She backed up. Because he was right. “A month ago Leigh Anne was in Europe, a wicked witch of a woman whom you despised, a woman with lovers, a woman who was never coming back!”

“You know I wish she never came back,” he said almost viciously. “You know I despise her!”

For one moment she could not speak. “I know no such thing.”

“You also know that I don’t lie,” he said harshly. “Or has your plan to marry him led you to doubt my word, my integrity?”

“I would never doubt your word or your integrity, and that wasn’t fair!” she cried, shaken.

“And is your marrying Hart
fair?”
he asked bitterly.

She fought for composure and could not find it. “You
are with Leigh Anne. I have every right to marry someone else.”

“But it is temporary!”

“Is it? And don’t jump on me and say I am doubting you.”

“If you are not doubting me, then what are you doing?” he demanded.

She took a breath. “I think,” she said carefully, “that you have very complicated feelings for your wife, and you refuse to be honest with yourself. I know you’d never lie to me deliberately, Bragg.”

He stared. “Why are you doing this?” he finally asked. And it was a plea.

His tone held anguish, and Francesca started forward, about to rush to him—to comfort him was automatic. But she stopped herself. “I am genuinely fond of Hart,” she heard herself say. “I enjoy being with him. He wants to marry me. I cannot seem to resist.” She didn’t add that she no longer wanted to resist.

Bragg laughed, the sound harsh and unpleasant. “He hates me. He has hated me for as long as I can remember—and I remember the day our mother died, the day I tried to hold him in my arms and comfort him. He was only a small frightened and angry boy of ten. I had just turned twelve and I was every bit as frightened as he. Of course, I dared not reveal how I really felt. He pushed me away then and has done so ever since—and worse. He only wants you, Francesca, because I do. He only wants you to get at me.”

She hugged herself. “That is not true. He is as genuinely fond of me.”

Bragg rolled his eyes and stalked away, his back stiff with anger. Then he whirled. “You didn’t find the timing of his announcement a bit odd?”

She became uncomfortable. “Yes, I did, actually. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to learn the way that you did. I wish I had told you privately, first.”

“How can you even be thinking of marrying him?” he cried. “If you are in love with him, he will break your
heart—immediately, I believe. What are you doing? Are you, in some way that you do not realize, trying to punish me for allowing Leigh Anne to move into my home? How often must I repeat the fact that it is only temporary? You know we have agreed to divorce in six months—five, actually, now.”

“I am not trying not punish you,” she gasped. “How can you say that? And will you stop sleeping with her, too, in five months’ time?”

He jerked, eyes wide.

She wished she had not uttered what was really on her mind. She knew the blow was a cruel one—just as she suspected he would sleep with his wife time and again, should the opportunity present itself.

He flushed. “It’s not what you are thinking.”

“You still love her. Why can’t you admit it?”

“I despise her. And Francesca, you are worldly enough to know that a man can sleep with a woman and it has nothing to do with love.”

She did know that, at least intellectually, but after seeing Leigh Anne—and seeing Bragg with her—it was different. Francesca could not believe that he slept with her and no love was involved.

Francesca turned away, recomposed herself, and faced him again. “I know I promised you my heart, and Rick—you still have it. But my feelings for you have nothing to do with my feelings for Calder.”

Suddenly he crossed the room and gripped her shoulders. “Francesca, how can you say that? You deserve a wonderful husband—I want you to be happy. But I am afraid! This really isn’t about me. I love you and I do not want to see you destroyed by him. Please. Rethink what you are about to do. Please.”

Being in his arms was awkward—and Calder Hart was the one who had made it so. She eased away, and in spite of herself, he had managed to feed her small, niggling doubts about Hart. “I am a grown woman, and I can think for myself—just as I am quite good at taking care of myself,”
she said briskly, to hide how she was really feeling.

“And what will you do when you find him in bed with a lover? Take a fry pan to his head?” Bragg asked sharply.

She stiffened, for he had just verbalized her worst and most secret fears. “I will cross that bridge when I get to it,” she said. She would not tell him Calder had promised fidelity. He would laugh at her—he wouldn’t believe it.

And a part of her refused to believe it—or trust Hart—either.

And what kind of marriage was that?

“So that’s it? You are blindly allowing him to lead you to the altar? You will go through with this? I am in shock!”

A part of her was ready to throw in the towel, to back out and end the engagement. “We are hardly at the altar, yet,” she said through stiff lips. “We intend to marry in six months.” It suddenly occurred to her that now their wedding would take place in five months, as that date had been set a month ago when she had accepted Hart’s proposal.

And Bragg kept insisting that he and Leigh Anne would be divorced in five months, as well. What if he meant it?

Francesca closed her eyes, fighting for air, the office suddenly claustrophobic.
She didn’t believe he would ever walk away from Leigh Anne. There was simply too much there, between them
.

Did that make Hart a second choice?

It did.

But was that so terrible? He already knew it and didn’t care. She also knew it and didn’t care.

Whom was she fooling? Hart might not love her, but he cared very much that she had first chosen Bragg and that he was second fiddle. And she cared, too.

“You look about to faint. I’m sorry.” His arm slid around her waist, and her eyes flew open. How familiar his touch was. “I’m sorry that I still care so much, and I’m sorry I ever put you in this position in the first place.” His gaze met and held hers. “But I will always care where you are concerned, Francesca.”

“I know you will,” she whispered, turning to face him,
and suddenly, briefly, she found herself in the circle of his arms. Her bosom met his chest. His thighs were hard against hers. She glanced at his mouth. She knew what he tasted like. She knew how his tongue felt in her mouth. Instantly, quickly, she lifted her gaze and met his yet again. His arms tightened around her. His golden eyes warmed impossibly.

The air seemed to disappear from the room.

He leaned toward her, his mouth parting. A fraction of an inch separated their lips. She smelled coffee and cologne, a blend of the woods and the earth.

An image of Hart’s sardonic face quickly came to mind, followed by an image of Leigh Anne, tiny and gorgeous.

Francesca pushed him away. “Don’t.” She leaped out of his embrace, shaking.

He flushed. “I’m sorry. It just happened. Or it almost did. I can’t think clearly now, it seems!”

“Nothing happened,” she said, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. But it was a lie. For one moment, one single, small moment, the desire had returned and the future had beckoned, an impossible dream once more.

But she thought she had burned the bridge to that dream; she thought she had buried it and left it far behind. She wet her lips. “I am on a case, Bragg, and that is why I came here to speak with you today,” she said briskly. “I need your help.”

He stared for a long moment, then turned and slowly walked behind his desk. There he opened the window, then faced her. He was flushed. “I will always help you, Francesca, in any way, be it as police commissioner or as friend.”

She smiled a little, because she knew he meant his every word. “A child is missing,” she said.

“Tell me what I can do.”

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
28, 1902—10:00
A.M
.

“J
ULIA
!” A
NDREW
C
AHILL LOOKED
up in real surprise at his wife. She stood in the doorway of his study, fully and fashionably dressed in a fitted ensemble in hunter green. While Julia arose every morning at eight, she never left her suite until noon, as she was busy with household management and her social correspondence. His wife was a very beautiful woman, with rich blond hair and bright blue eyes, her figure still pleasingly trim in spite of her middle years. Andrew both respected and admired her. Now, however, he knew why she was in his den, and his knowledge had nothing to do with her serious expression and everything to do with how well he knew his wife.

“Good morning, Andrew. May I come in?” Julia smiled briefly.

“Please do,” he said, standing.

She swept forward and came to stand before the large mahogany desk where he worked. He had been born the
son of an honest, hard-working, and generally poor farmer and had not risen to the top ranks of society by luck. Sheer fortitude coupled with organization and discipline had made him a millionaire. His desk was clean of clutter, several business files stacked neatly in the top left corner, his business correspondence in the right top corner, personal correspondence below that.

“May I assume you have come down at this unusual hour to discuss my afternoon appointment with Calder Hart?”

She planted herself firmly in front of his desk. “I want Francesca to marry Calder Hart, Andrew,” she said warningly.

He did not want to battle with her—they had fought too often of late, mostly over their son, Evan, whom Andrew had threatened to disown, but hadn’t been able to go through with it. Not that it mattered. His errant son had quit the firm, moved out of the house, broken off his engagement to Miss Sarah Channing, and continued to gamble and incur monstrous debt. Worse, every time Andrew heard of him he was told that the scandalous Countess Benevente was on his arm. “Julia, please sit down,” Andrew said evenly.

“He will be here at any moment!” Her tone rose. She did not sit. “He is the best thing that has ever happened to Francesca! A man like that! Andrew, he is one of the wealthiest men in this city, and the most eligible bachelor as well.”

“The man keeps company with divorcées and widows, and you know as well as I do that they are his lovers, Julia. He keeps a mistress. He has no social grace. He mocks social rules. For example, it was absolutely unacceptable for him to announce an engagement to Francesca! I have not approved and you know as well as I do that he should have spoken with me first. We would have held an affair and made the announcement then. And did I forget to mention his art collection? Everyone knows he has a shocking life-size nude sculpture in his front hall and some frankly anti-Christian paintings.”

Julia folded her arms across his chest. “I think he adores our daughter, Andrew. I have seen it in his eyes. As for his behavior, well, I do believe his wealth allows him to do as he pleases.”

“And you condone his behavior?”

“I like him, Andrew,” she warned again.

“I do not. You say he adores Francesca. He may—for a moment. But what about a year from now? Or two, or three? One does not teach an old dog new tricks. Do excuse me, Julia, but this man is oversexed. He changes lovers the way you change your gowns. He will never remain faithful to Francesca, and while she may act like a sensible bluestocking, these past few weeks have proven her to be a passionate and hopeless romantic. Besides, she is in love with Rick Bragg.”