by Brenda Joyce
“Wait,” Francesca gasped, still sitting in the middle of the street as three reporters and half a dozen bystanders rushed to her. “Are you all right, Miss?” someone asked.
“Miss Cahill! Who was that?” This from Isaacson.
A crowd had gathered around her. “Did you see that? The woman must have been mad, to run in front of a coach like that!”
“Maybe a lunatic, from the looks of her.”
Someone was shoving through the crowd. Francesca felt him before she saw him, and she turned and looked up, meeting his eyes. Bragg knelt. “Are you all right?” he demanded.
She nodded, her wind having returned, and he helped her to her feet. She leaned into him, shaking a bit from the close encounter. “There’s a woman in danger, Bragg. She wanted to approach me, I am certain of it, but then she ran away, and was almost run over!”
He held her upper arms. His gaze was concerned and grim. “You don’t know that, Francesca. I was just coming out of the hotel to speak with you again, and I saw you chasing her into the street. You have no facts.”
“I am certain she wished to speak with me!” Francesca cried, as he released her. Suddenly she realized just what was happening. She blinked at him, and in spite of the danger the mysterious woman was undoubtedly in, she did smile, just a bit.
“Oh, no,” Bragg said, with a soft groan. “I know exactly what you are thinking.”
“There is another crime to solve,” she said sweetly.
“Francesca! You were almost killed last night—”
“Balderdash,” she said.
He stared.
She grinned.
