by Brenda Joyce
Sarah regarded him and her flush increased. "You are right!" she suddenly exclaimed weakly. "I am not well. I have no desire to paint. I can't paint! And I haven't felt well all day." Tears suddenly filled her eyes. "What if Hart changes his mind? What if I lose his commission?" she cried. "It is the most important event of my life!"
"My stepbrother will not change his mind. He is many things, but indecisive he is not. If he has commissioned Miss Cahill's portrait, there is a reason, and knowing Hart, neither hell nor high water shall detour him from his course."
Sarah did not seem relieved. "I prefer to go home. Mama? We can send for Dr. Finney."
Mrs. Channing hesitated when Bragg said, "I can stop at Finney's now, on my way to the Cahill residence. By the time you arrive at the Channings', Rourke, Finney will be there, or shortly thereafter. He is a fine doctor," he added.
"A good plan," Rourke said. He smiled at Sarah. "Can you stand up?"
"Of course," she said.
Rourke helped her to her feet. "Cahill? I shall escort you and your fiancée back to her home, if you do not mind."
"Not at all," Evan said, appearing relieved. "I'll go get a cab."
Rathe and Grace had taken off in one cab, their destination Hart's. Rourke had accompanied Evan and the Channings to the West Side. Lucy had gone to her rooms in the hotel— Francesca had learned that she had thought it too much of an imposition to stay at Hart's with three children and her nanny. Francesca felt certain Calder would not have cared. Bragg had gone with Lucy, clearly to have a word or two, while Francesca had waited alone in the lobby. Now, finally, he appeared, looking grim. "I am sorry to have been so long," he said, helping her on with her coat, which she had been holding.
A doorman held open the door for them as they stepped outside. "How did it go?" Francesca asked worriedly.
"My sister can be a stubborn jackass," Bragg said, his hand on the small of Francesca's back. They went down the steps and another doorman understood. He stepped out into the mostly deserted street to hail a cab. Bragg had apparently left the sometimes temperamental Daimler at his home.
"Which means?"
He slid his arm around her and she moved against his side. He looked down at her; she looked up into his eyes. Warmth spread quickly through her. "It means she denied everything, even your firing a gun outside of the hotel. Then she reversed herself and told me to mind my own business, as her affairs were just that, her own affairs."
Francesca trembled. Even though he wore a heavy greatcoat, his body was hard and strong and male against hers. "So we have not learned a thing."
"Not a thing. Cold?"
"No." She smiled just a little.
"I didn't think so," he said, finally looking at her mouth.
A wild excitement suddenly flamed and she leaned just a bit closer to him. It was enough. His hand clasped her hip. Their gazes locked.
The urgency was sudden and overwhelming. And so many thoughts went through her mind at once, they were less coherent than a kaleidoscope of feelings and fears. She thought about how much she loved and admired him, and then in the same breath she thought about his wife and her note. She thought about the terrible fight she had witnessed between her brother and her father. She thought about poor Sarah and the trouble Lucy was in. She thought about Calder Hart, who had promised to never touch her. And she thought about the fact that finally, at long last, they were alone—and moments away from being within the privacy of a hansom.
The realization was stunning. It was simply absurd to deny and control the depths of their feelings for each other.
"Commissioner? Cab's here."
As the doorman spoke, Bragg's hand dropped from her hip. "Thank you," he said gruffly, handing the man a coin.
Francesca climbed into the hansom first, flushing and praying the doorman hadn't noticed any intimacy between her and Bragg. Reality was like ice-cold water. One second before, it had seemed obvious that they should go to his house and become lovers. Now, all she could think of was what if the doorman spoke to a news reporter?
Bragg climbed in after her, closing the door. "We are making two stops, the first at Eight-ten Fifth Avenue," he said.
The driver murmured an affirmative, released the brake, and whipped his gelding on.
Francesca began to look at Bragg with worry when he abruptly pulled her into his arms.
"Bragg!" she began.
His mouth seized hers and her protest died. Their lips locked, her hands found his shoulders, his back, and she fell back onto the swabs of the seat, Bragg on top of her. He opened her mouth, and his tongue became a forceful, thrusting instrument. His hand moved inside her coat, up her side, and over her breast.
She moaned, moving his own coat out of the way, running her hands up and down inside his white dinner jacket, exploring the hard planes and angles of his torso and chest. His mouth moved to her throat. Fiery sensation trailed in the wake of his lips, his tongue. Francesca gripped his head, encouraging him to go lower.
He did.
He rained kisses on her bare chest, and when he reached the edge of her bodice he paused.
"Don't stop," she whispered frantically.
He rubbed his cheek over her breast until the silk of her gown raised her nipple.
Francesca pushed her bodice down.
He inhaled, hard, his lips inches from her nipple, and then she heard herself beg, "Please," and he touched it with his tongue, slowly, deliberately, again and again, until she began to writhe, wildly, on the cab seat.
He sucked it into his mouth.
Francesca cried out, then felt his hand beneath her skirts, sliding up her stockinged knee, her bare thigh. She froze.
He lifted his head and looked at her and she saw passion straining his face. And then she felt his fingers move up her thigh, finally brushing her sex.
She collapsed against the seat, moaning, mindless. He began to kiss her again—her mouth, her face—but his fingers stroked over her and then she felt what had to be an electrical current or a bolt of lightning. Her body arched wildly, stars exploded inside the cab, not once, but many times, and as they began to flutter down through the night sky she began to drift with them, lower and lower still, weightless.
Until suddenly there was a hard piece of wood beneath her neck, a solid seat beneath her back, one leg dangling off, awkwardly, and Bragg's solid body was moving off, away. She looked up at the ceiling of the cab, which was torn, and then she started to sit and she looked at him, stunned.
He stared, his eyes still dark and heated. "Are you all right?"
She realized she was not quite dressed; she pulled up her bodice and rearranged her skirts. "Are you all right?" she asked cautiously.
He made a sound. "Yes. And no. I lost control, Francesca. I didn't mean to ravage you in the cab."
She wanted to touch him but, oddly, was afraid to. "I'm glad that you did."
"I'm not."
His words were a blow. "What?"
"This is too hard."
Fear paralyzed her. It was a moment before she could speak. "I am an independent woman. I am glad we love each other, no matter the circumstances! Bragg, I have no regrets!"
"Are you certain?"
"Yes!"
He suddenly flopped back fully in the seat, his eyes closed, his face upturned to the torn canopy. "God damn it," he said.
She stared at his taut neck, his strained profile, and dared to glimpse the rigid outlines of his entire body. Dismayed, she sank back in her seat. Why couldn't he say to hell with everything and take her as his lover? But then, that was why she loved him so. "I don't care, Bragg, about my virginity," she said somewhat bitterly. "I wish gladly to give it to you."
His eyes flew open. "Don't talk like that!"
"But it's the truth. I have thought about it. You are the one. Nothing will ever change my feelings."
He turned his head to stare but otherwise did not move. The cab continued to rumble through the city. "We've had this conversation before.
I am not going to ruin you, Francesca. I love you too much."
"But I don't care!" she cried. "I am never going to marry anyone else, so what difference does it make?"
"You don't know that," he said, sounding bitter now. He faced her more fully, his gaze now oddly intent.
And instantly she became rigid and fearful. "What is it? Why do you want to speak to me?"
"On Thursday I told you I intended to divorce Leigh Anne. Yet you haven't said a word about it, not then, not since then. Granted, we have not really had a moment alone together. But I know you. You would find that moment to discuss our future. Yet you have not," he said grimly. "I know you very well. You aren't happy, are you? Something's changed. Yet I don't know what."
She was so stiff with tension she could hardly breathe. "I know you would never say such a thing on a whim."
"A whim? A man only marries once. This is not about a whim, Francesca."
She found it hard to breathe properly now. A man only marries once. He was giving himself away. And this was what she wanted, but not this way. Not over the carcass of his wife and career. She would never let him destroy himself—she would never be the cause of his destruction.
"I haven't changed my mind. I wrote Leigh Anne a letter telling her that I have decided upon a divorce," he said stiffly.
"Have you really thought this through?" she asked with dread. How had the evening boiled down to this? Just a moment ago they had been in the throes of ecstasy. Now they were on the verge of anger and argument.
"The words—and expression—of an ecstatic woman. I have thought of nothing else in the dark hours between midnight and dawn." He seemed angry now. "But I cannot tell her in a letter. That would be unfair. Later this week I will go up to Boston and tell her in person, myself."
She thought of the note, which she had left at home. "My dear Miss Cahill, . . . I wish to meet you at your convenience."Then she recalled Lucy's furious outburst. "I hate her. After all she did to Rick..."
"What did she do?"
"Do you have to even ask? She broke my brother's heart."
Francesca began to perspire. She knew she should not raise this topic now, but she had to—she had to know. "Lucy said that she broke your heart."
"What?" He was startled.
She wet her lips. A little voice inside her head said, Don't do this. He loves you, he has proven it; he just made love to you. "Lucy said Leigh Anne broke your heart."
His jaw tightened. His face hardened. "I don't want you gossiping with her about my marriage."
She flinched as if struck. "Did she break your heart?"
"No."
"Then why would Lucy say such a thing?"
"How would I know?" he exploded.
"Stop." She seized his arm. "Why are you shouting at me? What have I done? I am asking a simple question."
He was furious. "I was young. Naive. I trusted her. And more significantly, the woman I loved did not exist. Did she break my heart? It took me some time to recover from the fact that I had married a whore. Now. Does that answer your question?"
"She broke your heart," Francesca whispered, shocked. And something inside her own heart broke, and while it was only a small spoke, while the other spokes remained intact, the entire wheel was forever changed. It would always wobble now.
"I did not grieve, Francesca," he warned.
"You just said 'the woman I loved,' You loved her." She was reeling.
He slammed his hands down on the seat. "I was in love, yes, but not with Leigh Anne. I was in love with the most beautiful and perfect little angel to set foot on the earth. Except the woman I loved was an illusion. Now—have you finished your interrogation?" he asked tersely.
"You told me it was lust. You lied—to me," she whispered.
"It was lust. Because you can't love a figment of your imagination," he said.
Francesca turned her back to him to stare out her window, gripping the edges of the seat. The most beautiful and perfect little angel.... how his words hurt. She wanted to vanish, to die.
"Francesca? I am sorry," he said softly now. "But the mere mention of my wife still has the power to upset me. I did not mean to shout at you."
"I think you are still in love with her," Francesca heard herself say slowly. How she hated her own words, but now, oh God, she knew that they were true.
He gripped her arm. "I love you," he said flatly. His eyes seemed black. "She is the worst thing to ever have happened to me. You are the best thing to ever have happened to me. I am going to ask her for a divorce. I will give her the shirt off of my back if she will agree, and if not, I will fight her, for as long as it takes. And then I am going to marry you," he said. "Francesca, will you marry me?"
She looked at him and shook her head slowly. "No. I cannot," she said.
Chapter Nine
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902— MIDNIGHT
His eyes widened. "What?"
She inhaled and reached for his hand. "I can't let you divorce her," she said.
He pulled his hand away. "Why not?"
"Because your career in politics would be over," she said, frightened now. His face was so hard.
"I see."
"No, I don't think that you do! I can't let you divorce Leigh Anne because it would destroy everything you have dreamed of and worked for your entire life! I could not live with myself, Bragg, if I were so selfish!"
His jaw was tight. "Isn't it my decision to make?"
"I would never forgive myself, and maybe there would come a time when you would hate me!" she cried.
"I could never hate you." He stared at her so intently she wanted to squirm. His gaze narrowed. "Is there someone else you wish to marry?"
"No! The question is absurd!" But she grew uneasy, because she knew exactly where their conversation was now heading.
"Is it? I do believe a very infamous art collector is desperate for your portrait," he said coldly.
"Do not bring Hart into this," she warned. "He has nothing to do with how much I love you."
"Do you love me? You would not be the first woman to marry a divorced man."
"It is because I love you that I cannot accept your offer," Francesca said, feeling ill. The world seemed to be spinning—but in the wrong direction. She was refusing a marriage proposal from the man she loved. How had her life come to this?
He was silent for a moment. "Stay away from Calder," he said coolly.
Francesca could hardly believe her ears. "What?" Then, "What does Calder have to do with anything?"
"He has been coming between us ever since his father was murdered," Bragg said flatly. "Which was when you first met him."
She stared, stunned that he had injected Hart into their conversation, now. She was about to tell him that he was wrong and that Hart had not come between them, but she could not speak. Not after the horrible encounter she had had with him earlier that day. Not after he had told her that he wished to take her to bed but would never do so, because he so treasured her as a friend. "He is only a friend," she finally said, and was aghast, because her tone sounded pitifully weak to her own ears.
"Stop. You can tell yourself until you are blue in the face that his intentions are merely platonic. Lie then if you will. But not to me."
"I am not lying," she managed. "Do not accuse me of lying!"
He inhaled. "I am sorry. Clearly you have convinced yourself that that is the truth. I don't want to fight with you, Francesca. But I do not trust my half brother, not one whit. He would love nothing more than to stab me in the back— and steal the woman I love out from under my nose."
"That's not true."
"No? So now you are an expert on Calder?" He gave her a sidelong look. "As always, you defend him blindly. When will you ever learn? He is not to be trusted, Francesca. Not even by you."
Francesca did not answer now. Bragg was wrong. Oddly, she did trust Calder, and she realized now that he had been right—it was herself that she did not trust when they were together. It was a ho
rrible realization to have, especially in that moment.
"Again, will you stay away from him?" Bragg was demanding.
She was, to her amazement, torn. "This is not fair."
"Why can't you simply agree? Sit for that damned portrait if you must, but otherwise, avoid Calder at all costs."
Somehow she knew he was not giving her a choice. "You are strong-arming me."
"Yes, I am."
She closed her eyes, and Hart's image blazed there in her mind, darkly amused yet oddly tender. She sighed and looked at Bragg, then almost recoiled at the fierce and intent look in his eyes. This would be for the best. "I will avoid him socially," she said. "But considering that I have promised to uncover the ruffian responsible for the vandalism of Sarah's studio, I may need Hart's insights into the art world."
"I can accept that," he said flatly. "If I asked you to reconsider my proposal, would you?"
She stiffened, surprised at his rapid reversal back to his marriage proposal. She met his dark, disturbed, and even angry eyes. Her mind was made up, but she could not refuse him now. "Of course."
His face hardened. "You are being glib. Do not tell me you will think this over when your mind is firmly set."
"Sometimes it feels like you are inside of my mind," Francesca whispered, shaken and tearful now.
"It is because we are so alike," he said flatly, but the anger remained there in his eyes, flashing and black.
She hesitated. "But how can you be so certain that you would really give up your career for me? How, Bragg?"
And he hesitated. "I don't want to lose you to someone else. I cannot bear the notion," he finally said.
She trembled, wondering if he somehow thought he might lose her to Hart, which was preposterous. And he had hesitated before answering, and somehow his answer did not seem like the right one. Yet she knew that he loved her. What had just happened in the cab proved that, as did all the moments they had shared on the past three criminal investigations they had solved. But she also felt that he still loved his wife—and she felt it very strongly. That love might be perverse, and it might be odd and angry. But somehow, it still was love.
