by Brenda Joyce
Bragg seemed to relax, and he shook his head. "So now it is Daisy. I wonder if he will ever find happiness. He flits from woman to woman, buys more art than a museum, consumes himself with work, but clearly, he is not content."
"No. He is not. I feel sorry for him." She meant it, too, or at least, she wanted to. But it was hard to pity someone who was so arrogant.
He smiled a little at her. "Just don't feel too sorry for him."
"You don't have to worry. He is so annoying; I should never become a victim of his charms. Besides, he wants my sister, and the more I think about him and Daisy, the more angry I get that he thinks to win Connie, too." It was actually insufferable.
"He is very selfish," Bragg said. "But I intend to set him straight about your sister. I like Lady Montrose, and I would hate to see her do something she will later regret."
Francesca could imagine the kind of reception Bragg would get if he told Hart to stay away from Connie. They would come to blows; of that she had no doubt. "Let me speak to Hart about Connie. I think he will be more amenable to my pleas." She winced. "I have meant to call on Neil and gently pry into their situation. Connie claims things are now fine."
"Francesca, do not pry," he said. "Let them sort their private affairs out in privacy, please."
"But I am worried, Bragg. And I hate Hart chasing after Connie." The passion in her tone surprised her.
He stared. "Maybe you are the jealous one?" he said after a moment.
"Jealous? Of what? Of... Connie and... Hart?" She could hardly get the words out, they were so absurd.
He took another sip of scotch, rather grimly.
"I am not jealous, Bragg," she said, more softly but insistently.
He smiled a little at her.
Someone bumped into her. Francesca slipped against Bragg, and instantly he slid his arm around her; she forgot what they were discussing. His frame felt so hard and masculine and she thought about the end of the night and wished, desperately, that it would be the kind of ending she kept envisioning in her treacherous mind.
Yet she knew it would not.
And for one moment he held her that way, and then, reluctantly, he removed his arm and put a small space between them. They exchanged a very long glance. There was no doubt in Francesca's mind that he was feeling the same stirrings as she was.
Bragg said, "There has been no luck finding Carter."
This was a much safer topic indeed. She felt relief. "And have you spoken with Mike O'Donnell?"
"Yes. He would not give me anything, Francesca. He hates all policemen. As I am one of them, he refused to speak with me in anything other than monosyllables." He shook his head.
She had to smile. "I suspected your interview would be a difficult one."
"You have been extremely helpful, once again." His gaze was warm, but then it slipped to her mouth. He seemed to tear his gaze away with an effort. "I am highly suspicious of him." He cleared his throat again.
"Because he is the link between the two women?" she asked, her heart thundering now. How would they get through the evening when all she could think about was being in his arms? Would she even hear the musical numbers?
"That and because I learned from several dockworkers that he did not think kindly of his wife. He has had nothing but disparaging things to say about her, apparently, and he did not even go to her funeral." His gaze held hers, the look highly significant.
Francesca started, finally diverted from her shameless thoughts. "He did not go to Kathleen's funeral? Bragg, what if he is our man!"
He took her arm. "We do not know that. Tomorrow I am returning to the Jadvics'. I am wondering now how he really felt about Mary."
"He said he loved her. But now I am wondering, too!" Excitement filled her.
"Words are very cheap," Bragg remarked.
Francesca absorbed that. "Can I join you tomorrow?" she asked, almost holding her breath until he replied.
"Yes."
Her eyes widened; she was thrilled. "I cannot believe you have changed your mind about allowing me on this case!" she exclaimed.
"It is so much easier when you ask the questions. I want this case solved, Francesca. Which means I need real answers, now."
She put her sherry down. "Are you afraid there might be a third victim?"
"I pray not. I have no reason to believe so. But I want the killer nabbed, so he does not have the chance to kill again. I also wish to speak with O'Donnell's confessor."
Francesca's eyes widened. "But... anything said in the confessional is—"
"I know. But this is different. His priest may well know if O'Donnell is sane or not."
"Are you thinking of bringing him in?"
"It is too early to charge him with either murder, but if I get an inkling that he might be involved, I shall drag him downtown on drunk and disorderly charges."
"And keep him off the streets."
"Yes." He smiled at her. "And how is your case going?" He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.
The gesture was so intimate that Francesca just looked at him. He dropped his hand, and his color seemed to heighten. "Well." She recovered. "I am about to lose a client." She took a breath. "I have totally neglected Lydia Stuart's complaint. But tomorrow night I intend to discover whether or not her husband is seeing Rebecca Hop-per."
"Please, do not climb any trees." He was laughing a little now.
Francesca flushed, and in a very unladylike way she poked him in the ribs. "Bragg! Do not remind me of that fiasco. I shall enlist Joel to do such dirty work. Although he is too young to see that sort of thing." She felt her color increase.
His amusement vanished. "You are the one who should not view a pair of lovers in an intimate moment."
"Do you think to guard my innocence?"
"I am trying."
"I saw Montrose with Eliza, Bragg. You know that."
His color was high, there was no mistaking his flush. "You should have never been sneaking about her house, no matter the circumstance. Surely that taught you a lesson!"
It most certainly had. She had seen the two lovers in acts she had never dreamed existed. Worse, she had seen Montrose in all of his virile glory. She blushed at the memory.
"Francesca?"
"I have certainly learned my lesson," she said demurely, looking at the floor.
"Somehow, I do not think so," Bragg muttered.
She had to smile at him.
"You are the most enchanting woman," he suddenly said. "I know of no woman with the zest for life that you have. Your eyes sparkle, Francesca, like gems, when you are laughing or excited."
She could only blink at him in amazement. "Bragg, that is the nicest—"
"I am not trying to be nice, and I am not trying to flatter you."
She did not know what to say or do. She plucked his sleeve. "But you are—"
"I am thirsty," he said, cutting her off before she could tell him how she admired him, too. He faced the bar, asking for a glass of water, and breathlessly Francesca stood behind him, gazing at his back.
He received his glass of water and turned back to her, now composed. "Perhaps we should go to our seats?" he asked. "They are running late, and the curtain goes up in a few minutes."
"That would be fine," Francesca said.
Bragg set his glass down and she smiled at him, allowing him to loop her arm tightly in his. They turned, their hips brushing, and came face-to-face with Julia's close friend Cecilia Thornton of the Boston Thorntons. She was a small but heavy woman wearing far too many jewels, and she smiled widely at them both.
"Francesca!" she cried. "How wonderful to run into you like this. And you are with the police commissioner. How splendid," she said.
But her gaze went back and forth between them both, and it lingered on their linked arms.
"We have made it just in time," Evan announced.
Francesca sat beside Bragg, three seats vacant on her left. She turned as Bragg stood up. Evan smiled at her, and she w
as surprised, because he seemed in quite the good mood. He allowed the ladies to go past Bragg and Francesca first. As always, Evan was so handsome with his curly black hair and vivid blue eyes, his complexion rather fair. He was just shy of six feet tall, and as he enjoyed tennis, golfing, and football, not to mention skiing and his yacht, he was a well-built young man.
And every time Francesca saw him, she prayed that he would fall in love with his fiancée, or that Andrew would change his mind about forcing Evan to wed her. The amount of his gaming debt was staggering. Andrew had refused to pay the bills unless Evan married Miss Channing.
Sarah Channing was a small, slender woman with big brown eyes and chocolate brown hair. Her face was small, her features rather ordinary, except when she smiled. She nodded at Bragg, but as she stepped past Francesca she smiled and it filled her eyes with warmth. "Francesca, hello." She spoke somewhat shyly.
Francesca smiled in return, although inwardly she winced. She knew Sarah gave not one whit about fashion and that her mother pushed her into her clothes. It was hardly surprising to find her in a dark red gown, one that was entirely wrong for her. Every detail of it was too large for Sarah's petite frame, and the color was overwhelming. It was too bold for a demure and soft-spoken young woman like Sarah. "I'm sorry I haven't had time to call," Francesca said, taking the other woman's hands and squeezing them.
Sarah gave her a significant look. "But you have been very busy, Francesca. I read all about your latest crime-solving efforts. How wonderful for you, to have apprehended Randall's killer all by yourself." Her eyes shone with admiration.
"Thank you. But I had little choice, as the situation was a bit risky."
"I should imagine." They exchanged conspiratorial glances. Sarah was very much like Francesca, although one would never think so upon first meeting her. But Francesca had learned Sarah's secret—she was an artist and passionate about her work. Francesca thought her portraits especially brilliant. Evan had yet to visit her studio; he had no clue as to the talent his fiancée possessed.
"May I introduce my cousin, Contessa Benevente?" Sarah asked.
Francesca looked past Sarah and saw a stunning woman she instantly recognized in a quiet but animated conversation with Evan. He was grinning at her as she gestured and spoke; Francesca narrowed her eyes and watched Evan laugh at something the countess said. Oh ho! He clearly found Bartolla Benevente beautiful, which she was.
Francesca recognized the auburn-haired widow because she had seen her portrait in Sarah's studio. Apparently the countess was something of a black sheep in the Channing family.
"Bartolla? I do want you to meet our city's police commissioner and my dear new friend, Francesca Cahill."
Bartolla turned away from Evan, already smiling. Her long dark red hair spilled in a wild manner about her bare shoulders, and she wore a low-cut red dress that, on her, was perfect—at once elegant and alluring. She was tall, her figure gorgeous. Francesca guessed her age to be about twenty-five. A necklace of diamonds that had to be worth a small ransom covered an expanse of her bare chest, and black gloves ended above her elbows.
Francesca noticed that she wore a chunky diamond-and-ruby bracelet on top of one gloved wrist. The effect was rather exciting—Francesca had never seen anyone wear a bracelet over her glove before.
Bartolla extended her hand, and Bragg took it. Francesca saw his gaze skim over her figure, and although his expression remained impassive, she was instantly jealous— she felt like kicking him ... hard. He murmured a polite greeting. Bartolla said, "I am so excited to meet you, Commissioner. I have been in the city only three days, but already I have read so much about you!" Her smile was unusually wide and very infectious. "You are as handsome as the sketches in the New York Magazine."
"It is my pleasure to meet you," Bragg said with a slight smile. "I hope that thus far your stay has been an enjoyable one?"
She gripped his wrist. "Very much so." She leaned close. The cleavage between her breasts became more obvious. "So tell me, is it difficult to run such a department? What is it like to be in charge of so many police officers? I would love to go round with you one day and see all that you do. How interesting it seems to me!"
Francesca bristled. Was this woman thinking to seduce Bragg? She felt like ripping her magnificent hair right off of her head!
Bragg smiled. "I should be delighted to give you a tour of headquarters, at your convenience, Countess."
She beamed and clapped her gloved hands together. Then she sidled past him. Although Bragg stepped back against his seat as far as he could, she didn't make much of an effort to get by him, and her body brushed his rather thoroughly.
Francesca despised her.
"Miss Cahill! You are the one I have been waiting to meet! Sarah speaks so highly of you. She admires you no end, and I have found myself doing the same," Bartolla cried, with her wide, engaging smile. She had green eyes, and they sparkled.
Francesca did not want to believe her to be genuine. She refused to succumb to her charms. "I am pleased to meet you," she said tersely.
"A woman who dares to aid the police in their work." Bartolla's eyes snapped with excitement. "That is fabulous. There should be more women like you and my cousin, more women who dare to do as they choose!" She spoke with extreme passion.
Francesca refused to be enticed; still, she felt herself softening. "Yes, I am in complete agreement with that." And keep away from Rick Bragg, she added silently.
"Although I have lived in Firenze for almost eight years, I refused to follow the European traditions. There, women must never take the initiative; they must remain at home; they cannot follow their passions." Bartolla shook her head. Then she burst into a grin. "Unless, of course, it is their passion for love, as everyone engages in affairs there."
Francesca could only blink in amazement—for what did one say to that?
Bartolla took her hand briefly. "It is true. It is a different way of life! My husband, may he rest his soul, adored my boldness, but most of his family did not." She gave Francesca a sly look. "As if I cared."
"I am sorry about your loss," Francesca said, trying not to wonder if this woman was a kindred spirit.
"Oh, do not feel badly." She shrugged elaborately. "He was sixty-five when he died; that was two years ago. He lived a long and happy life; he had five children from his first marriage. What more could any man ask?" And she rolled her eyes and Francesca had to smile. Then she leaned close and whispered, "And he had me for his last six years." She grinned.
That was it. Francesca liked her, but if she flirted with Bragg one more time, she would step on her toes—or pull her aside and stake her claim. "How long will you stay in the city?" she asked.
"I do not know. For I do love Italy, and I have been in Paris since last summer. I feel Firenze calling to me! But this return home is long overdue. However," and she laughed with a very European shrug, "my family has decided to ignore my return, except for Sarah and her mother."
Francesca did not know what to say. "I am sorry."
"Don't be. They are stuck-up bores. And more important, they want me to dole out my husband's wealth, which I shall not do."
"Oh," Francesca said, and now she was intrigued.
Bartolla Benevente grinned at her again. "At least my life is never dull. Dullness should be a crime, don't you think?"
Francesca had to laugh. "Yes, it most certainly should."
Bartolla joined her in her laughter and moved past, to take a seat between Francesca and Sarah. As Evan moved past, he whispered to Francesca, "Have you ever seen such an enchanting creature?"
Francesca sighed. She refused to answer him, at least not now, but later she would set him straight. The countess was full of life and quite enchanting, but clearly she was a flirt—and Sarah Channing's cousin.
Sarah leaned past Bartolla and smiled a little at Francesca. "I knew the two of you would instantly become friends," she said.
They had a late supper reservation at Delmonico's, o
ne of the city's best restaurants. The table they were seated at could seat six, and it was a rectangular one; somehow, Bartolla wound up at its head, with Evan and Sarah on either side. Francesca faced Bragg, seated beside her brother. While Evan and Bragg discussed the wine list, the three women discussed the musical, which had been thoroughly enjoyable, and then the party the Channings were giving for Bartolla on Tuesday.
"I am simply stunned by your family's kindness to me," Bartolla told Sarah, reaching for her hand and clasping it on top of the table. "Of course, my family will not come."
Sarah smiled at her. "We love you. We always have. And even though people mistake Mother for being a bit of a goose, she is actually quite clever. And she thinks only as she chooses, not as others expect her to."
"Yes, I know."
"I have ordered a new dress for the affair," Francesca said. "I never order new gowns."
"My, whatever has gotten into you?" Sarah asked teasingly, and then she looked at Bragg with significance.
Unfortunately, Bartolla followed her gaze and then quickly looked back at Francesca. "Have you known Rick for long?" she asked.
Francesca felt that the other woman was far too astute, and carefully, she replied, "Only since he has come to the city to take up his appointment. But we have worked together on two cases, and in the course of our investigative work, we have become friends."
Bartolla was smiling, but her eyes had inexplicably changed. "I know his wife."
Francesca almost fell off her chair. She was so stunned that she could only stare.
Sarah said, eyes wide, "Oh! I did not know he was married." And she looked at Francesca with mortification.
Francesca forced a smile to her face. "Really?"
"She lived in Firenze for some time, and last summer we became friends while she was in Paris." Bartolla spoke lightly, with a Gallic shrug. "She, too, enjoys life to the fullest. She is an unusual woman."
"I am sure," Francesca managed.
"We have agreed upon a wine, a burgundy," Evan announced, but he was looking at Francesca oddly and she knew he had heard the exchange. Evan had not known that Bragg was married, either, and had already figured out that there were feelings between Francesca and him. He seemed incredulous.
