Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  “Tell me you are not here on police business, as Farr suggested,” Bragg whispered.

  It was hard to shove Connie’s words far away, to a place where she would not hear them, echoing with a horrible and fatal insistence. Francesca laid her hands on his hard chest. His suit jacket was open, and through his cotton shirt she felt muscle and bone and the pounding of his heart.

  “I am guilty as charged,” she whispered. And she felt his heart beat faster, harder.

  “Why am I not surprised?” he asked in a husky tone. He cupped her face with one large palm. Their gazes locked.

  And a little voice inside her head said, You had better tell him about the note or there will be hell to pay.

  Of course, it was hard to listen to that inner voice, when he held her face and she felt his heart beating beneath her palm. She knew what its acceleration meant.

  “What is it? You look so unhappy,” he murmured.

  She inhaled. This was her chance to tell him that Leigh Anne knew about their feelings and that she was on her way to New York. Francesca opened her mouth to begin but somehow could not get a word out.

  For she had the most awful sense that when she did, it would change everything. That the entire world as she had known it since he had stepped into her house on January 18 would crumble and vanish forever. Suddenly she was gripping his shirt. “It’s nothing,” she began.

  His eyes told her that he did not believe her, but before she could reaffirm what she had said his arm slid behind her and before she could take a breath she was in his arms, against his chest, and his mouth was on hers.

  They hadn’t kissed since the Channing ball. Francesca had forgotten how much she wanted to be with this man. But not this way, oh no. She wanted to be in his bed; she wanted to be unclothed; she wanted to consummate their relationship. She wanted to be his lover, desperately so.

  You are his Achilles’ heel … You are the one who can destroy him.

  Their hearts thundered as one. His entire hard body fused with hers; his hands moved up and down her back, her bottom; her hands slid over his chest, his abdomen. His arousal ground against her hip. Somehow she was turned so her back was against the wall. He leaned all of his weight against her and she strained back against him. She almost hated her sister in that moment. Connie was wrong.

  He suddenly ended the kiss, briefly hugging her, hard. In his arms she felt small, safe, and secure, in spite of the blood that continued to run like hot, bubbling lava in her veins. His face was buried against hers. His beard was merely a few hours old, but it was scratchy and delicious.

  “I like your beard,” she whispered.

  “I love you,” he returned.

  And the echo began. You are his Achilles’ heel …

  “What is it?” he asked sharply.

  Francesca had stiffened; now she pulled away. “Nothing.”

  He stared intently. “Something is bothering you.”

  She had never lied to him. She never would. “Sarah Channing is in trouble, Bragg.” That was the truth. Still, there was nagging guilt.

  For one moment he was surprised, and then, all business, he said, “What happened?”

  Francesca felt a surge of relief. “Someone broke into her studio and went on a rampage. Her work has been destroyed, and in general, the studio is quite unusable now.”

  His gaze remained on hers. “Is she all right? Was anyone hurt? Has it been reported to the police?”

  “Sarah is extremely upset, as is Mrs. Channing. No one was hurt, and Mrs. Channing did report the crime.” She hesitated. “An Inspector O’Connor is in charge. Actually, it happened between midnight Thursday and yesterday morning at five-fifteen.”

  He absorbed that. “So that is why you came by yesterday?”

  She nodded.

  Then, “Dare I ask how it is that you are involved when you have been told to remain at home and preferably in bed for an entire week?”

  “She is my friend! My brother’s fiancee!” she exclaimed. “Of course I am involved!”

  “Francesca,” he began firmly.

  “Bragg, stop. You know Sarah. Her life is her work. She is the victim of a strange crime—a strange and angry attack! I cannot sit by and do nothing! The real question is, Why? Why would anyone harbor a grudge or be angry with Sarah Channing?”

  Bragg sighed. “It seems very odd, I agree.”

  “I do have one theory,” Francesca added.

  He smiled, briefly and reluctantly. “Please.”

  She told him about the fact that Sarah had become engaged to her brother and that perhaps a jealous young woman had struck out at her.

  He gave her an interested and thoughtful look, started to pace toward his desk, and then whirled.

  Francesca turned to see what had so captured his interest. The door was now open and Lucy Savage stood there, wide-eyed and intent.

  She smiled quickly, but she was looking from the one to the other. “I knocked, but no one heard me, so I came in.” Her glance moved between them again.

  Which brother do you love?

  That was not a question Francesca wished to recall, not ever and especially not now. But surely Lucy had not been outside that door when Bragg had been kissing her as if it were the end of the world. How much had she seen? How much had she heard?

  “Do knock and come in,” Bragg remarked calmly.

  Lucy flushed and entered. “I did knock, Rick. Aren’t you happy to see me?” She moved to him and tugged his arm into hers and kissed his cheek. “I miss you and I thought to drag you to lunch.” She smiled at Francesca. “Hello, Fran. So, the two of you are on a new case?” she asked with open eagerness.

  Bragg said flatly, “Francesca is not on a case.”

  Francesca turned to him. “Actually, Mrs. Channing has hired me to find the ruffian who did this, Bragg.”

  “Do not tell me you are taking this case! You do not even have the use of both hands!”

  “I already have, Bragg,” Francesca said calmly. “How could I not? Sarah is miserably upset. This is her life and she is a friend of mine! Besides”—she softened and touched his sleeve—“how dangerous could this be? Someone attacked her studio, not her. For all we know, other artists have suffered the same violation. In fact, I think we should find out if there have been any other similar attacks in the city.”

  “I do not want you on any case, especially not now,” Bragg said dangerously.

  “I could not refuse. I know I can help. I promise to stay out of harm’s way!” Francesca cried.

  He stared at her; she stared back.

  “I want to help,” Lucy said, apparently fascinated.

  “Absolutely not.” Bragg whirled. Then he glared at Francesca. “She is worse than you. Trouble is her middle name. Besides, her husband would kill me—Apache style—should anything happen to her.”

  Lucy grinned. “That means a very slow death with lots of torture,” she said happily.

  Francesca smiled back at Lucy, although secretly she was intrigued with the notion of having her as a sidekick. “I actually have an assistant. He is a cutpurse who is eleven years old and he has been invaluable to me thus far, as he knows every inch of the city. His name is Joel.”

  Lucy was wide-eyed. “So you have really made this your work?”

  Francesca smiled and opened her purse. Her smile vanished as she stared at the carefully folded white note that was tucked inside beside her tiny derringer, a candle, matches, a notepad, a lead pencil, some cash, and her calling cards.

  “Fran?”

  She inhaled and reached inside for a calling card. As she handed it to Lucy, she glanced at Bragg, consumed with fresh guilt.

  Why was she so afraid to tell him about the note? He was the most understanding man she knew.

  “Oh my,” Lucy said on a breath. She looked up. “What a wonderful calling card. I should be intrigued if I did not know you! I would hire you instantly, too.”

  “Thank you,” Francesca said, pleased.

&n
bsp; Bragg made a sound very much like a groan. “Francesca, I cannot prevent you from taking on Mrs. Channing as a client. But I can ask you not to do so.”

  She stared. The world seemed to have stopped turning in that moment. “Please do not.”

  He hesitated. “If I did, what would you say?”

  Her heart hurt her now. “I could not turn my back on a friend in need,” she managed, stricken. She added silently, Please, do not make me choose.

  “I see.” He turned away from her, but there was no mistaking his expression. It was resigned, hurt, angry, and somehow he had made her make a choice.

  She stared. How had their happiness dissolved so quickly? Should she turn down Sarah and Mrs. Channing? But how could she! Sarah was grief-stricken. Someone, clearly, wanted to hurt her—someone was so angry! “This isn’t fair, Bragg,” she whispered, agonized, to his back.

  “Is life fair?” he asked darkly, whirling to stare at her.

  She thought about his wife. “No.”

  “You must do as you will, Francesca. I do not control you, nor do I wish to,” he said.

  But he was angry, displeased. Francesca did not know what to do now. “I cannot bear it when I have so upset you,” she said softly, in that moment forgetting that they were not alone.

  He then sighed as if resigned to the inevitable and looked at his sister. “I have appointments all afternoon. And as you can see, a matter has cropped up which I should personally attend. I am afraid that lunch is not a possibility.”

  “I understand,” Lucy said softly. Then, “Do not be too hard on Fran, Rick. She is an extraordinary woman. You should be proud of her.”

  His jaw flexed. Clearly he felt that the cat was out of the bag with his sister, for he said, “I am proud of her.” He turned to Francesca, and he remained unsmiling. “I am going over there now, but in an unofficial capacity. I do not have time right now for another investigation, unless the situation is dire.” Their eyes held and she knew he was thinking about the Cross Murders. That had been dire indeed. “Then I shall speak with Inspector O’Connor.”

  Francesca wasn’t pleased with the sound of that. She so wanted to work with Bragg again on this investigation. “Shall I tell you what I have thus far learned?”

  He finally smiled, taking his greatcoat off of a wall peg. “Actually, I was going to offer you a lift to wherever it is that you are going. You can tell me what you have discovered as we ride uptown.” His regard was once again affectionate. “For I have little doubt you already have a lead or two.”

  She moved to him and touched his hand. “Thank you, Bragg.” Then she turned. “I will accept your lunch invitation,” she said.

  Their eyes met. Lucy understood, and her expression was amazingly innocent. “How wonderful,” she said.

  “Where is Peter?” Francesca asked as Bragg drove carefully through the traffic heading uptown on Sixth Avenue. An elevated train thundered past one avenue over as they crept forward, jammed between two omnibuses and a trolley.

  “At the house.” Bragg looked at her. “The nanny whom your mother found is Mrs. Flowers, and unfortunately, she wears the most absurd and oversize flowers on her hat. That gave me the instant impression that she is rather silly and would be generally ineffective and useless. I asked Peter to remain behind today as I had the feeling he would be very much in demand.” He sighed. “I was also afraid to leave Mrs. Flowers alone with the children.”

  Francesca winced and looked back at Lucy, who rode in the backseat of the Daimler, and had she been a horse, her ears would have been pricked forward. “Bragg is fostering two orphans. Their mother was murdered by a lunatic. My mother just found him a nanny,” she explained.

  Lucy said, “This is amazing.”

  Bragg glanced briefly back at her. “Not a word. They are pure mischief, a constant headache, and it is a temporary situation.”

  “I see,” Lucy said, her fine red brows arched. “My brother loves children,” she remarked.

  “I would have never guessed,” Francesca quipped.

  Bragg shot her a look. “I was expecting to have my own children in the house, not two orphans, one of whom piddles wherever she pleases, the other who refuses to eat.”

  “Oh my,” Lucy said, smothering a laugh. “How ever did you arrange this?”

  “I begged,” Francesca said, but she was not smiling, because Bragg was grim and she just knew he was thinking about the fact that he would never have children now. He had told her so himself. He despised his wife that much.

  “How did you determine when the attack on Sarah’s studio took place?” Bragg asked, finally driving past the trolley and quite obviously changing the topic. Now two horsedrawn carriages blocked their way. Traffic was heavy for a Saturday.

  “They returned at half past ten on Thursday from an evening out,” Francesca said quickly. “Sarah went back to her studio until ten past midnight.” She grimaced a little, thinking about the fact that Sarah had been arranging the composition of her portrait for Calder Hart. “Sarah discovered the disaster this morning at five-fifteen, which is the time she usually begins work. The staff sleep on the fourth floor; a single doorman was on. I have already spoken to Harris, the doorman, who has been with the Channings for six years. He did not fall asleep, and he did not see or hear anything.”

  “Have you spoken to the rest of the staff?” Bragg asked. The park had appeared on their right. It was brilliantly white with snow, and numerous sleds could be seen on a distant hill where both children and adults were enjoying the afternoon. Two riders were cantering across the Great Lawn, and numerous pedestrians were strolling on the track.

  “There was no time,” Francesca said. “I thought I should go to you directly.”

  “Does Sarah have any suspicions as to who the culprit might be?”

  “No. She says she has no enemies. There is one other idea I have had.”

  “Do tell.”

  “She says she doesn’t know the names of most of the staff, as she is always either in her studio or wandering about thinking about her work. Perhaps a servant misinterpreted her manner as being insulting and rude; perhaps a servant was deranged enough to decide to vandalize her studio.”

  “A servant would certainly have easy access,” Lucy remarked.

  Bragg and Francesca turned to look at her. She smiled at them both.

  Then Lucy said, “But what about a jilted debutante? If your brother is a catch, I would not be surprised if we found out that some spoiled young woman had become furiously angry over such a lost opportunity, enough so to attack Sarah’s studio.”

  He raised a brow at her. “If we found out?”

  Lucy grinned. “If the two of you found out.”

  “You and Evan should put your heads together and see what comes up,” Bragg said to Francesca. “Evan could prove very helpful in this instance.”

  She smiled at him. “I think we shall do just that.”

  “Perhaps there is a displeased client,” Bragg remarked.

  Francesca stiffened.

  He looked at her, pausing for a group of gay, laughing pedestrians, young men and women, all with skates slung over their shoulders. “Well?”

  She hesitated and, oddly, gave Lucy a nervous glance.

  “What is it?” he asked, driving forward.

  “She really has no clients. Sarah has not sold her art.” She wet her lips. “Yet.”

  He gave her a long look.

  She faced him. “Do not be angry!” she cried.

  “I shall try not to be. What is it that you are not telling me?”

  “I had nothing to do with this,” she warned.

  Suddenly he pulled over to the curb, a bit forceful on the brake. “Oh, ho. Let me guess. Hart is involved in this!”

  Her heart lurched and fell. Then it beat like a drum. “Bragg, he isn’t really involved.”

  “Why are you white?” he demanded.

  “All right! He is Sarah’s client. Her only one. Recently, he commissioned a
painting from her!” she cried, praying he would not ask about the commission, yet knowing he would find out, sooner or later, and she had better tell him the truth.

  Bragg stared at her. “That’s it?”

  She hesitated, licked her lips, and nodded. “Not exactly.”

  He waited.

  She closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear, at least for a moment or two. But then, none of this was her fault. She turned and looked at him. “I had nothing to do with this—really.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  “The painting Hart commissioned? It is a portrait.” She swallowed. “Of me.”

  Francesca trailed behind Bragg as he strode into the same large, overdecorated salon that she had been in earlier. Lucy was at her side. Bragg hadn’t said another word since he had learned of Hart’s commission, much to Francesca’s dismay. He was clearly angry. Lucy had tried to engage him in conversation, and his replies had consisted of monosyllables.

  Now Francesca tore her gaze from his rigid shoulders and glanced at Lucy. The redhead gave her a soft, sympathetic smile, then leaned close and whispered, “Don’t worry. I am sure things will work out. He is jealous.”

  Francesca tried to smile back and failed. Bragg had whipped around to glare at them, so she could not tell Lucy that he had nothing to be jealous of.

  Mrs. Channing had led the way into the parlor, and now she sank into a huge, thronelike chair, which dwarfed her. She had not stopped talking since they had arrived, and she was going on and on about how distressed Sarah was, how maddened someone must be, and why would anyone do such a thing?

  “I do need to speak with Sarah,” Bragg said firmly.

  Mrs. Channing’s hands fluttered nervously. “She is coming down, Commissioner. She has already been sent for.” Tears filled her eyes. “My poor dear has been so happy. You know, with the engagement and all. And to have some madman come along and ruin it all this way!”

  Francesca turned to Lucy. “The engagement to my brother was a recent one.”

  “How wonderful,” Lucy said. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

  Francesca hesitated, wondering what to say. “He doesn’t know what has happened,” she finally said.