Francesca saw the Daimler first, sandwiched between two gleaming black carriages. Then she saw Peter, standing by the hood, his hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy black overcoat. Two policemen in uniform stood not far away. Bragg stumbled.
She glanced at him and saw shock on his face; she quickly followed his gaze.
A very small, stunningly beautiful woman stood beside Peter. She had dark hair and fair skin and the face of an angel. “Hello, Rick,” his wife said.
Bragg stopped in his tracks, still holding both of their bags.
Francesca also halted, her heart seeming to have stopped. Oh, my God. It had begun. The ending of everything she treasured, the ending of their love.
Bragg was starkly white. “Leigh Anne?”
She should have told him, Francesca managed to think. She suddenly knew she had made the worst mistake of her life.
Leigh Anne came forward, smiling. “You seem surprised to see me, Rick. How are you?” She paused before him and Francesca thought she was only five foot tall, a petite perfect china doll with sea-green eyes and thick black lashes. She laid a small gloved hand on his arm and strained up on her tiptoes and somehow planted a soft kiss on his jaw.
Bragg pulled back. “Of course I am surprised.” He was flushing now. He wet his lips. “Leigh Anne, this is—”
“I know. This is Miss Cahill.” Leigh Anne finally turned to Francesca, her hand extended. “How do you do, Miss Cahill?” she asked politely, her eyes wide and innocent. No accusations seemed to lurk there.
Francesca could not speak, but she finally managed to breathe. It sounded as if she was frantically gulping oxygen, which, perhaps, she was.
“Surely Miss Cahill told you that I was on my way to New York?” Leigh Anne asked, turning her soft smile on Bragg.
“What?” And he finally looked at Francesca.
Leigh Anne said patiently, “I sent Miss Cahill a note. Surely she told you?”
Bragg stared at her, stunned again, while Francesca felt her cheeks blaze with fire. “I … I can explain,” she gasped.
His stare widened. “You knew? She sent you a note? You did not say a word?”
She could not think of, much less summon up, a coherent reply.
“Please. Do not be angry with Miss Cahill, Rick; I’m sure she intended to mention it. It must have slipped her mind, Rick,” Leigh Anne said quickly.
His wife was defending her? Was this really happening? Or was this a dream? A horrid, ghastly nightmare?
Bragg’s gaze slammed back to his wife. “What is this about, Leigh Anne?”
She stared back at him for a long moment, and there was no sign of anger or hatred upon her perfect face. Pain filled Francesca. “It’s been four years,” Leigh Anne said simply. “Don’t you think it’s time we spoke?”
He stiffened. He was darkly red, now. “Peter. Hail Miss Cahill a cab.”
His words were a bloody blow. “I can hail my own taxi,” she heard herself say thickly.
He did not look at her. “I cannot imagine why you wish to speak to me,” he said to Leigh Anne.
“You knew I was in Boston. Surely you knew I would come to New York, sooner or later.” Her green eyes never wavered from his face. They were direct, searching.
“Actually, I hadn’t thought about it at all,” he said harshly.
“Well, I can see my timing is poor,” she said, with a rueful smile. “I did not come here to upset you, Rick. I went to the house and happened to catch your man as he was leaving to pick you up. I am staying at the Waldorf-Astoria,” she said. “If you change your mind about speaking, you may find me there.”
Francesca felt tears blur her eyes, and she was horrified. But she could still see the way Leigh Anne stared at him—and the way he stared back. Bragg seemed extremely distressed, while Leigh Anne seemed entirely unruffled. She was a woman of extreme composure, Francesca thought grimly, but then, she had the advantage of surprise.
And a cab was waiting, having pulled up alongside Bragg’s motorcar.
Bragg turned, his gaze impossibly hard. “Your cab is here,” he said to Francesca.
She hesitated, a dozen responses coming to mind, and in the end, she said nothing. It was in that moment that her heart began breaking. She could not manage this; she simply could not. She had never imagined that it would be so impossibly painful to come face-to-face with his wife.
She tried to take her valise from him, but he did not release it; instead, he set his duffel down, switched her valise to his other hand, and gripped her elbow. He steered her across the curb and in front of the Daimler to the side of the hansom, where Peter stood.
Peter opened the taxi door.
Bragg looked at her.
“I was afraid to tell you,” she said, aware of the tears now shimmering in her eyes.
His jaw hardened.
She opened her purse and handed him the note.
He finally released her elbow, unfolded it, and read it. Then he handed it back to her.
“I don’t want it,” she whispered. “You are so angry.”
His expression did not soften. “I am furious. But not with you.” And finally, a light she recognized came into his eyes. “I am angry with you, Francesca, but not furious with you. We will most definitely talk about this at another time.”
“I am so sorry. As you said, I have the worst judgment.” She felt as if she were begging now for his love.
He hesitated, and finally, he softened. “Sometimes that is true. We will talk about this later.” His gaze did not waver from her face. He added, “Don’t worry.”
There was really no relief. She nodded anxiously. “Will you be all right?”
He was incredulous. “The woman I am married to—a woman I despise—suddenly walks back into my life and you ask me if I will be all right?”
She shivered. “How can I help?”
He was too much of a gentleman to point out that she had done enough. “We have an operation to see to, Francesca. Peter will take you directly to Hart, and I will follow.” He glanced over his shoulder and so did Francesca; Leigh Anne stood on the sidewalk, motionless, watching them, her hands inside a silver fox muff that matched the huge collar and lapels of her chinchilla coat.
She had to know. “Will you speak to her?”
His face closed. “No.”
He did not have time for this.
He did not have time for her.
What did she want?
Bragg got out of a cab, paid the driver through the window, and hurried up the broad front steps of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. As he entered the spacious high-ceilinged lobby with its gleaming wood floors and Persian rugs, he faltered.
Leigh Anne stood at the front desk, collecting her key. She smiled, perhaps in thanks, and the clerk appeared smitten. She turned away; the man stared after her helplessly, with longing.
It had always been that way. Nothing had changed. His little wife knew how to manipulate and entrance men, just as she had manipulated and entranced him from the moment they had met.
He was trembling. What did she want? What could she want? Why was she here? They hadn’t seen each other in four years, although he had seen her once, that single time when he had gone to Paris to bring her home and had found her instead in the company of another man. God damn her, he thought, shaken.
She could still shake him, enrage him, distress him the way no other person could.
And she still had the perfect beauty of a little angel. She could be in one of the religious or mythological paintings hanging in Calder’s home. She had not aged a single day. And he could still look at her and wonder if, somehow, he was entirely to blame for it all.
Which was absurd.
She had left him.
After blackmailing him.
She saw him and froze.
He gathered his determination and hatred around him the way one would a heavy cloak in the midst of a freezing day and stalked to her. “I have urgent matters to attend to,” he said
briskly. “But I can give you ten or fifteen minutes.”
“That is terribly kind of you,” she said, without any sarcasm at all. Her green eyes held his.
Instantly he looked away. Her eyes hadn’t changed, either; they were the color of emeralds, the color unusual, dark and intense. Heavy black lashes fringed them, and they were wide and almond-shaped. When she stared, she had a look of absolute innocence, of extreme naivete. He was not going to fall into the trap he once had. There was not an innocent bone in her body.
Once, there had been. On their wedding night.
Hot slick memories and images of pale porcelain skin and dusky nipples, heavy black hair, swinging like a cape, hit him hard then. Soft, breathy cries of sheer pleasure echoed in his mind.
She laid her tiny hand on his arm. He jumped away. “My room is on the sixth floor,” she said.
He nodded, his heart pounding as if he’d just made love. And following her to the elevator, he refused to think about her body, which had once been as perfect as her face. Small and fragile, but only in appearance; in fact, strong and impossibly flexible, impossibly eager. Why was he recalling the only thing they had ever had in their marriage? Because he was intelligent enough now to know he had married her for sex and not for any other reason.
In the elevator, they were the sole occupants. He stared at the floor indicator as it inched from 1 to 2 to 3 to 4 and then 5. And finally, it stopped on 6, and the light above the arrow’s tip lit up. He loosened his tie. He was perspiring.
She had stared at the tips of her shoes the entire time; now, she smiled uncertainly at him and stepped from the elevator after he opened the cage. He ignored her smile and her glance; it was all an act, a perfect act, for she was a perfect actress. For even now, he marveled at her aura of dignity and calm.
What did she want?
His heart lurched and then sped. The note she had sent to Francesca he dismissed. It was irrelevant now; he intended to handle his little wife, and he was not going to allow her to come close to Francesca and do what damage she might there. He would protect Francesca from his wife’s scheming and manipulations.
“You have changed, Rick,” she said softly, leading him up the hallway.
“I am the same man you married.”
She did smile, and it appeared guileless. “I think I married a boy. I am definitely walking up this hallway with a man.”
He steeled himself—did she intend to flatter him or disparage him? And he did not reply.
But he had not been completely honest with Francesca. This woman had done more than break his heart. She had ripped it from his chest, only to tear off pieces and feed them to the waiting lions.
Callously. Cruelly. Selfishly.
Which was why he so hated her. It was why he could not stand being near her. It was why he intended to put her on the next train to Boston.
He had been completely, helplessly, head over heels in love with his wife. Even when he had spent long nights at the office, poring over cases, she had always been there with him, on his mind. Coming home each evening, even when she was already asleep, had been the best part of his day. Leaving every morning, usually just after dawn, had been the hardest.
He realized he was sweating.
The carpeted hallway was empty. As he waited for her to unlock her door, he took off his coat, detecting her perfume. It had changed. It was sweeter and spicier. It seemed to envelop him; he also could detect her natural scent, the scent of a sexual woman.
He shifted his weight, hardened his jaw, wondering how many lovers she had taken in the past four years. For him, there had been three—a brief fling to assuage his broken heart and restore his manhood, a mistress he had kept in Boston, and his last mistress, whom he had kept in Washington. In his own way he had loved both of his mistresses; he had been genuinely fond of them, for each had been a strong, intellectual, and beautiful woman. They remained friends. And just a month ago he had found the woman of his dreams—Francesca—and last night he had been desperate to make love to her, but today, standing there in the endless hallway of the elegant hotel, he was acutely, hatefully aware of his wife, who had come to the city to destroy him.
There could be no other reason.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, smiled again, her lips rosebud pink without the aid of any rouge, and stepped inside a pleasant room with a four-poster bed, a small dining table and two chairs, a sofa, an ottoman, and a fireplace. “A suite was too expensive,” she murmured, removing her chinchilla coat.
His reflex was automatic, he jumped to take her coat, and as he did so, their hands brushed. He leaped away; she arched an eyebrow at him. “I hardly have leprosy, Rick,” she said.
“Forgive me for not welcoming you home with open arms,” he muttered, opening the closet and hanging up her coat. He threw his own coat over the back of one of the chairs and folded his arms across his chest.
She glanced at his chest, or was it his arms? Then she glanced lower, at his hips. His resolve hardened. “When are you returning to Boston?”
“In a few days, I suppose,” she said, turning away to fiddle with a vase full of flowers. She began to rearrange them and he sensed she was nervous, even though her manner indicated otherwise, and he was viciously pleased.
“Should I send for some refreshments? Have you eaten breakfast?” she asked, not turning.
He caught her wrist and turned her around. “My time is limited,” he said harshly. “So let’s not beat around the bush.”
“You act as if you hate me,” she said, her gaze wide and on his. Her glance slipped to his mouth.
He released her and said nothing. He was a gentleman, and he simply would not respond in the manner that he wished to.
She nodded, hurt changing her expression, and for a moment she appeared as vulnerable as a small child, which she was not. “Should I order breakfast?” she asked.
“We ate on the train.”
She looked at him and this time he did not look away. Her eyes continued to mirror hurt, but that was simply impossible. “She is very beautiful,” Leigh Anne finally said, removing a very elegant hat and placing it carefully on a bureau. She sat down as carefully in a chair—her toes just reached the floor; her heels did not. She clasped her small hands in her lap.
“Yes, she is very beautiful.” He did not want to discuss Francesca with her. Sultry images from the night before flashed through his mind. To his amazement, he felt guilt intruding.
“I have heard she is also clever, that she solves crimes,” Leigh Anne said quietly.
“Is that what you wish to talk about? Francesca?”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.” He did not hesitate.
She looked down. She did not speak.
He was not going to feel guilty, as if he were the one with the parade of lovers, as if he were the one betraying her and their marriage. “Is that why you have come to the city? To discuss my relationship with Francesca?”
She looked up. Her mouth, which was extremely full, was trembling. “My husband is in love with another woman. Should I merrily go about my business and pretend that naught is amiss?”
“We ended our marriage four years ago!” he cried, and it was an explosion. His fist hit the table. The vase jumped but did not overturn. Leigh Anne paled. “Yes, you should have continued your affairs and pretended nothing was amiss!”
She stared up at him. Her bosom heaved. “We have ended our marriage? Since when? I receive your checks every month. I send you my bills. I have never received divorce papers, Rick.”
Divorce. How easily they had segued into the topic he wished to broach. He leaned forward, aware of shaking now. “That can be easily rectified.”
She gasped. Then, “Is that what you are thinking? Now you think to divorce me? After all that you have done? Now you think to divorce me?” She was on her feet, her mouth quivering, her eyes filling with tears. Her small body was trembling. “My father is at death’s door. My mother is incompetent
and you know it. And then there is Charlie, my uncle’s bastard. She is a hoodlum, Rick, uncontrollable, wild, without any social graces! And I am supposed to find her a husband! She has been left in my household, for me to raise! Now you would divorce me?” The tears finally fell, drop after drop. And to make matters worse, Leigh Anne was as beautiful when she was crying as when she was not.
He grabbed her in sudden fury.
She stiffened.
“Don’t even think of starting with me, now,” he ground out, almost shaking her. Her shoulders were small and fragile beneath his hands—he felt as if he could crush them into dust if he tried. “I want a divorce. I have made up my mind. I shall marry Francesca, whom I love. And you, you can then do as you please, freely. Fuck the whole world, Leigh Anne, and I shall not care!”
“You’re hurting me,” she whispered, her eyes filled with fear. “Stop.”
“I’m hurting you? You walked out on me, my dear, not the other way around.” But he eased his grip. He was seeing red now, red and white, for she was impossibly porcelain, impossibly beautiful, and her fear only heightened her beauty.
“You broke every single promise you ever made to me!” she cried with a gasp. “Let me go!”
“I broke promises?” He pulled her off her feet. Her small body could so easily be crushed by his larger one. He felt every inch of her now, against his own anger-wracked frame. “You swore to love and cherish me until death, Leigh Anne. Through better and for worse.”
“You also swore to love and cherish me until death, Rick, and you promised me a wonderful life! A wonderful life! You promised me that Georgian mansion with the cast-iron fence, the one we both fell in love with, the one just two blocks from your parents’! There were gong to be family dinners on Sunday nights! And what about the two children we were going to have? There was going to be supper parties, once a week, I do believe. Our first guest list would be your partners at Holt, Holt and Smith! You promised me a home, a family, an entire life—and then you reneged on every single one of your promises,” she gasped, the tears falling in a ceaseless stream now. “And you are hurting me. Damn it. Let me go.”
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] Page 28
