by Brenda Joyce
“C’mish?”
Rourke turned and realized the officer who had approached had mistaken him for his brother. That was not an infrequent occurrence. “I am the commissioner’s brother, Rourke Bragg. Is his office upstairs?”
When he was directed to the third floor, he proceeded to the stairs, forgoing the elevator. Rourke took the steps two at a time. Rick’s door was open, his office vacant, but he knew he was in the right place. Family photographs covered the mantel over the small fireplace. There was only one photograph of Leigh Anne—a bridal portrait. There were no pictures of Rick and Leigh Anne together and he wondered what the absence meant. It worried him. How could it not? He was aware of his brother’s unhappiness.
Then he heard voices coming from another room. Recognizing Rick’s calm tones, Rourke didn’t hesitate. He walked over to a closed door with an opaque glass window. A woman was screaming shrilly from within.
He heard his brother say, “This is a one-time offer, Mary. I will not make it again. Tell me where the portrait is and I will make certain you are housed like a princess when you return to Bellevue.”
“Go to hell!” she shouted. “Even if I knew where it was, I wouldn’t tell you, you bastard!”
He heard a glass crash and he winced. Bragg said, “I am not done with her. Find her a chair, put her in a corner and cuff her. Maybe a night without sleep will do wonders for her temper.” The door to the interrogation room swung open.
Rourke smiled as he came face-to-face with his brother. “Sometimes, it is prudent for Mohammed to go to the mountain.”
Rick blinked. “I am very busy.”
“You are always busy. It is a tiresome excuse.”
Rick flushed. “I suppose I can spare you a few moments.”
Rourke glanced past him and saw Mary Randall standing with a policeman and Chief Farr, her white face blotched red, her eyes ablaze with anger. She was a tiny, shrewish-looking woman, too small to hurt anyone—or at least one would think so. She was so clearly unbalanced that he shivered. He saw a broken drinking glass on the floor.
“She claims she doesn’t know where the portrait is,” Rick said, leading Rourke into his office.
Rourke closed the door and took a bottle of very fine, very old scotch whiskey from the paper sack. “Do you believe her?”
“Unfortunately, I do.” Bragg sat down, sighing, but he looked with interest at the bottle of scotch.
Rourke could feel how tired his brother was. “Is it worth it?” He uncapped the scotch, took a swig and handed the bottle to his brother.
Rick took a long draft, like a very thirsty man. “Is what worth it?”
“This job.” Rick carried the burdens of law enforcement for an entire city upon his shoulders. It might as well have been the burdens of an entire planet.
Rick made a harsh, mirthless sound. “Someone has to fight crime and corruption.”
“Yes, someone does. So is it worth it?”
Rick got up, walked to a small bureau and returned with two glasses. Rourke poured. Rick said, “There are good days and bad days. There are days of victory—and days of immense frustration and defeat. Even worse, there are days of terrible tragedy.” He stared, pausing. “You heard Mary. What did you think?”
Rourke sipped the scotch, thinking about how heroic his older brother was. “She is insane, Rick. She might very well believe her own lies—or she might be telling the truth.”
He absorbed that. “How is Francesca?”
That hadn’t taken very long, Rourke thought. “She suffered a graze. It is truly nothing.”
Not looking at him, Rick drank from his scotch, asking quietly, “Is she at Hart’s or at her home?”
“She is at Hart’s.”
There was silence. Rick finished his scotch swiftly and Rourke refilled it. Rourke said, “They will probably reconcile sooner or later. Hart is beside himself with worry for her. He remains in love with her.”
Rick looked up coldly. “He is destroying her bit by bit, piece by piece, day by day.”
“That is unfair. I happen to think that she is the best thing to have ever happened to him.”
Rick drank and said harshly, “I agree.” He stared down at one of his yellow pads darkly.
Rourke said quietly, “Are you still in love with her?”
Rick slowly looked up, his expression unhappy. “I am a married man, in case you have forgotten.”
“Married men are quite capable of falling in love with other women.”
“I have a duty toward my wife—my invalid wife.”
“Rick.”
“Fine! I care deeply—and I always will. There is no one I respect or admire more than Francesca.” He did not look at Rourke, sipping his scotch and clearly lost in a great many dark thoughts.
Rourke grimaced. This was exactly as he had suspected. “Once upon a time, you admired and loved your wife.”
Rick looked up. “I was a boy, and I was infatuated as only a boy can be.” Then he added, refilling his glass, “Why are you doing this? I don’t want to have this discussion.”
“I am doing this because I am your brother and you are so terribly unhappy.” Rourke cradled his glass and stared. “I want to help—I just don’t know how.”
Rick met his gaze unflinchingly. He spoke thoughtfully, after a pause. “You’re a doctor, so maybe you can help. Leigh Anne is unhappy, Rourke. She is filled with melancholy. I am worried. This accident has changed her entirely. She is drinking, and dosing herself with laudanum. I don’t know what to do. She refuses to discuss anything with me—in fact, she does her best to avoid me.”
Rourke said gently, “It might take some time for her to adjust to losing the ability to walk. Or she might never adjust. Unfortunately, some people rebound from tragedy, others do not.”
Rick leaned back in his chair. He made a harsh sound. “I already know she will not recover. Do not tell me to think otherwise, to have hope. She isn’t a very strong woman…she has never fought for anything. And the truth is, I am doing my best to avoid her, as well.” He suddenly covered his face with his hands.
His brother was crushed, not by the burdens of law enforcement, but by the burden of his marriage, and possibly, the loss of Francesca Cahill. “Why do you feel that you must avoid her? She is your wife.”
“She has made it very clear that I am intruding whenever I set a foot in my own home.” Rick looked up and stared. “In truth, I have never forgiven her for leaving me and I couldn’t forgive her for returning to me! Did you know that she bribed me into reconciliation?”
“No, I did not.” Rourke was surprised. “I do not know Leigh Anne well. She did walk out on you shortly after you were married. No one can blame you for your anger. But she did return, and she returned to fight Francesca for you.”
Rick stared. “That is unfortunate.”
Rourke said gently, “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Rick drained the rest of his glass and set it down hard on his desk. “Do you want to know the worst part?”
“Yes, I do,” Rourke said seriously.
“Sometimes, when I look at her, I feel nothing but guilt.”
“Why on earth would you feel guilty?”
It was a long moment before he spoke. “I was furious that she had returned. I was cruel. I tried to chase her away. I knew exactly what I was doing. In a way, I am responsible for her accident.”
Rourke gasped. “She was run over by a coach! You were hardly involved, much less responsible. My God, you are the most rational man I know, yet logic has completely escaped you.”
“Has it?” Rick turned away. A long silence fell.
Rourke’s mind raced. How could this impasse be solved? If Rick was right, Leigh Anne would remain a changed woman, for the worse. He was afraid she did not have the strength to fight for her marriage now. He was even more afraid of where that left his brother.
“None of it matters, though, does it?” Rick interrupted his thoughts. “I am
her husband, until death do us part, whether I hate her, love her, desire her or dread looking at her…it doesn’t matter. I have to take care of her. If I don’t, who will?”
Rourke was grim. “Could I suggest a stay in a sanitarium or hospital? If Leigh Anne is becoming dependent on alcohol and laudanum, she needs medical attention. And she can hardly be a proper mother under such circumstances.”
Rick started. “I could never do such a thing.”
“Hospitalization might be in her best interests,” Rourke tried, meaning it. “And I suggest that you seriously consider it, at least as an option.”
Abruptly Rick stood. “I could never live with such a decision.”
Rourke was grim. “Then you are stuck.”
“Yes, I am.”
Rourke wanted to tell him that no man could live this way, in such a state of distress and conflict. But he knew his brother would not listen. His brother’s next words confirmed it.
“There is no point in dwelling on what might have been. There is no point in bemoaning the present. We are married, and she isn’t well. We are fostering two little girls. I have a family to provide for, and I intend to do just that.”
FRANCESCA FELT HART’S heart pounding beneath her hand, its beat becoming more rapid. He finally said, “Forever is a long time.”
“Yes, it is.”
His heated gaze held hers. A pulse throbbed in his throat. “You are very sure of yourself tonight.”
She smiled, briefly. “Yes, I am.”
“I openly confess that I was terrified for you.”
“I know,” she whispered, thrilling. She slid her hand across the rock-hard slabs of his chest, across his taut nipples.
He seized her wrist. “I should send you home.”
Although he held her hand still, she rubbed her thumb across his warm skin. “Why?”
He inhaled. “Because Julia will murder me, Francesca. Because…we are estranged.”
“No, she won’t. She adores you, and she will be thrilled if we spend the evening together.” She added, “And are we truly estranged?”
His face hardened. “Did it ever cross your mind that you might die tonight?”
“Of course it did. I was terribly frightened—and I was so relieved when I saw you behind Mary.” She meant her every word. “I am not a foolish woman, Hart. I am well aware of my mortality.”
“Damn it,” he whispered, leaning closer to her. “You are so damn reckless!”
Inches separated their lips. Francesca lifted her face and feathered his hard mouth with her softer one. He did not move. “I almost died tonight,” she whispered, aware of exactly what she was doing.
“Now you play me?” He was incredulous, but his tone was thick and he did not move away.
“But you love me,” she said. “So, yes, I dare to play you a bit.”
He stared, breathing hard. “Yes, Francesca, if it makes you happy to hear my ultimate confession, I do love you. But that doesn’t mean we are suited—”
Even though it hurt to use her left hand, she caught his face with both her hands and kissed him deeply. He opened immediately, kissing her back while pushing her down on the sofa. His huge body settled atop her as their mouths fused. He was already aroused; she thrilled. And then he broke the kiss.
“Am I hurting you?” he demanded.
She caught his nape. “You can’t hurt me, not like this. I want you, Hart.”
For one moment he stared, desire searing his eyes, but she saw despair and anguish, too. He had been so afraid for her! And she saw the moment the internal battle was won. Hart claimed her mouth, hard.
The possession was absolute—and it told her everything she needed to know. But his urgency stunned her. Francesca opened and their tongues mated greedily. She reached for his shirt; he reached for hers. And as he rained hot, wet kisses and bites down her bare breasts and torso, she lay back, writhing and incoherent now, her nails raking his back. One thing was clear: Hart wanted her as never before.
On the floor now, he reared up over her. Their gazes met. Francesca reached up to touch his face. She desperately wanted him to say those three magical words again.
“Don’t speak,” he said harshly. “I am never giving you up.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thursday, July 3, 1902
5:30 a.m.
THE MOMENT HE stepped inside the small, dark front hall of his home, he knew that the children were asleep. The Victorian house was achingly silent. Or was it his heart that ached?
Rick Bragg walked quietly inside, shutting the front door, as some birds began their morning songs outside. He had actually caught a few hours of sleep in his office, in his desk chair. He supposed that, if his marital situation did not improve, he should get a sofa for his office.
He felt old beyond his years as he slowly went upstairs, trying not to awaken anyone, feeling like an intruder. Who was he fooling? He and Leigh Anne were at an impasse. She did not want to fight for their marriage, and he was losing interest in waging the battle by himself.
But he had meant his every word when he had shared that bottle of scotch with Rourke last night. He would never abandon Leigh Anne, not in any way. He wouldn’t give her a divorce, and he would never send her to an institution. This was her home.
No, he corrected silently, it was their home. And his heart ached even more strongly.
The door to their bedroom was on his left; he ignored it. The door to the girls’ room was on his right. It was open, and he paused on the threshold there.
He stared at the sleeping children, his heart swelling with affection. He had become so fond of them, and they deserved a good home.
Leigh Anne was desperate to adopt the girls. He was grim. How could they go forward and adopt the girls when their marriage was in such a shambles? Katie and Dot deserved a mother who was not stricken with self-pity and prone to taking brandy in her morning tea. They needed a mother capable of nurturing them in every possible way. Every time he saw Katie, she was filled with anxiety and tension. She worried day in and day out about Leigh Anne. No child should have to bear such a burden.
But his wife’s intentions were the very best. She doted on the girls and she needed them.
He would never send them to another foster home. But it didn’t seem right to continue with the adoption. He stared at the girls, simply not knowing what to do, feeling utterly helpless—the way he felt about his wife.
He walked into the bedroom then. He kissed Dot, who was smiling in her sleep. He hoped she was dreaming about fat ponies, happy clowns and red-and-white candy canes. Katie was moving about restlessly, her small face set in frown lines. He sighed and kissed her, too, stroking her dark hair. Instantly, her eyes opened and she was wide-awake.
“Everything will be all right,” he said in his most reassuring voice.
She smiled sleepily at him.
Katie was fond of him now, too, and she loved Leigh Anne. At least he could put a roof over their heads, food on the table and some security into their lives. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered.
Her eyes drifted closed, and he saw that the frown was gone from her expression. Maybe he could somehow make the girls comfortable, secure and happy, in spite of the discord in his marriage. Maybe it was best that he was absent from the house as much as possible, since that satisfied Leigh Anne.
Tension stiffened every fiber of his being as he entered the master suite. He tried not to look at Leigh Anne as he walked past her as she slept, taking off his shirt as he did so. But twisted images flashed, mocking him—haunting him. Would he always remember the first time they had met—when she was so breathtakingly beautiful? Did he have to remember the first time they had danced—the first time they had kissed? Did he have to recall his most wild, youthful yearnings? She had destroyed far more than their marriage when she had fled to Europe; she had destroyed his hopes and dreams.
More memories came, recent ones—of their intense, fiercely sexual battles, and then her withdrawal
, her drinking, her sorrow.
He looked at her. The woman he had fallen in love with had never existed. What had existed were his hopes and dreams and the utter naiveté of a young, optimistic man.
Sex had been the foundation of their reconciliation. There had never been love, affection, shared interests and values. So when tragedy finally struck, it meant that they were left with nothing.
And in that instant, he realized that nothing could heal their marriage, because she had already decided that it was over. And why was he at all surprised? She had left them when they were newlyweds. Selfishly, she had walked out, making the decision to end things without even a discussion. As selfishly, she had decided now that she would not participate in their marriage anymore.
He felt as if he was having an epiphany as he stood there. It was over—in fact, his marriage had never even begun.
He had never loved her; she had never loved him.
There was only one woman he loved, and she was hell-bent on marrying his brother.
He strode to a bureau and undressed, feeling vicious now. He was strong, he would manage—he would do what was best for everyone—care for everyone—provide for everyone—whether Leigh Anne wanted it or not.
His bedside telephone rang.
Naked, he leaped into his drawers as it rang again. The sound was a loud jangle, yet Leigh Anne never stirred, and he wondered how much laudanum she had taken. When he reached the phone, she hadn’t moved. It was the chief.
“We got him, boss,” Farr said, his tone smug. “My boys got Randall as he was trying to get into his house about an hour ago.”
“Perfect,” Bragg said, feeling savage. “I’ll be right down.” He hung up, wanting to call Francesca. But it was only six in the morning. Still, servants would be up. He’d leave a message.
