Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  His heart beat then, hard and fast. But he knew what she intended. She intended to make their marriage public now by coming to his place of business. And by doing so, she had him by the balls. He had to acknowledge her, introduce her. It was another way of weasling back into his life.

  He glanced at Farr and saw that he was, like all men, instantly bewitched. “Why would I mind?” Bragg asked with a cold smile. “Brendan, I do not believe you have met my wife.”

  When Farr was gone, the door closed solidly behind him, Bragg turned and faced his wife, leaning against it. She smiled uncertainly at him. He knew it was an act meant to throw him off-guard. But she had already succeeded in her clever plans. She had won this round.

  “Rick? I had somehow thought you might call on me. It seems like we have so much to discuss.” Her emerald eyes never left his face.

  He felt defensive. “I am extremely busy, Leigh Anne.”

  “I know. I have been reading all the newspapers. The city adores you. You are their hero, Rick,” she said softly, her eyes shining now.

  “I am nobody’s hero,” he ground out.

  “You are the knight in shining armor meant to bring the villains in the police department to their knees.”

  “Is that why you have come? To congratulate me on six successful weeks in office?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Is there a chance that we might have one decent and civil conversation?” she retorted.

  He felt guilty then. “I am sorry. I am tired and overworked, not to mention preoccupied.” He did not move from where he stood against the door.

  She hadn’t moved, though, either. “I hope some of your preoccupation is over me.”

  “It is not,” he lied.

  Her face fell. She turned away from him. He could not see if her expression changed, as he suspected it did. He watched her from behind as she gazed around the office. If only she had become old and ugly in the past few years. The thought was not a charitable one, but it was an honest one. Instead, she remained as petite as ever, although her small hips seemed more curved and womanly now.

  She walked over to the mantel where he kept a dozen family photographs. When she had finished studying them, she faced him with a smile. “I understand that Rathe and Grace are in town,” she said, referring to his father and stepmother.

  “Is this why you have come down to my office? To discuss my family?”

  Her smile faded. “Will you always be so hateful and so angry with me?”

  He itched to lay his hands on her slim white throat. He itched to squeeze the very breath from her. Instead, he shoved them in his pockets, trembling and appalled. “We had an agreement, you and I. You were to remain in Europe, and I was to provide handsomely for you. I upheld my part of the bargain; you have broken yours.”

  Her mouth tightened. It was the color of rosebuds. “I beg your pardon. My father lies at death’s door. Of course I would come home. And it was not a part of your bargain that you would take a mistress and flaunt her about an entire city.”

  He stiffened. “Francesca is the last person I care to discuss with you. But she is not my mistress. I love her too much to treat her with such disrespect.”

  Leigh Anne’s eyes widened.

  “Have you forgotten the man that I am?” he demanded.

  She shook her head. “She led me to believe that she was your lover, Rick. And no, I know the man you are. Honest to a fault. There is no one more virtuous. I just wish, still and foolishly, that your honesty had extended to our marriage as well, that it had extended to me as it does to everyone else.”

  He exploded. He reached her in two strides, grabbed her small shoulders, unintentionally lifting her off her feet. And in holding her, he was reminded that she was not fragile, and that appearances were deceiving. “You dare to accuse me of dishonesty where you are concerned?” He saw red.

  She clung to him. “You are hurting me!” But her eyes darkened, becoming almost black.

  He became oddly paralyzed, with her suspended in the air, her skirts enveloping his thighs. Their gazes locked. He could not help but notice her lips were parted and that small breaths escaped them. When he made love to her, her eyes would turn black with heat, but the moment she climaxed they would turn smoke green. He set her down instantly.

  She did not back away. Breathlessly she said, “I refuse to retract how I feel and what I believe.”

  She had told him that he had broken every single promise he had made to her. She had expected a life in a mansion, a life with servants and teas, balls and soirées. Instead, he had turned down a position with Washington’s most prestigious law firm, opening up his own practice to serve the city’s poor. Instead of buying a mansion not far from his parents’ home, they had let a small, run-down flat just a stone’s throw from the city’s rat-infested tenements and knife-wielding gangs. “I do not want to rehash the past,” he said tightly.

  “But I do,” she returned as firmly.

  “Good God! Is that why you have come? I am sorry, Leigh Anne, sorry that after we were married I could not go through with our plans! I am truly sorry! But nothing will change the decision I made four years ago—just like nothing will change the fact that you left me, without a word of warning.”

  “I warned you. I tried to tell you again and again how unhappy I was—but it was a bit difficult getting through to you, now wasn’t it?” Her eyes darkened, but no longer with excitement and desire. “I mean, you left for that shabby practice of yours at dawn, and when you came home, somewhere around midnight, even if I was awake, you were asleep on your feet. Oh, except for your ability to make love to me! You were always too tired to talk about us and our future—but never too tired to make love!” Tears filled her eyes.

  If he allowed himself to feel guilty, she would win. “Very well. I refused to listen, and I used you selfishly.”

  She sighed and laid her delicate palm, encased in a fine kidskin glove, on his arm. He flinched. But oddly, he did not shake her off. “You hardly used me, Rick. That is not what I said or meant, and you know it.”

  There had been so many heated nights and mornings. . . .

  “I never turned you away, because I wanted to be with you as much as you wanted to be with me,” she added frankly, allowing her hand to finally drop from his arm.

  The gesture was a caress of sorts. He stiffened, aroused inexplicably, and he paced away. He reminded himself that he hadn’t been with a woman since he had arrived in New York, about to accept a politically important appointment. It had been almost two months, during which he had been tormented by his desire for Francesca. But he knew he was fooling himself.

  Leigh Anne had always had the ability to arouse him with a mere look, a single word, a soft breath.

  “Leigh Anne.” He cleared his voice. “I have a dozen things I must get through today. What is it that you want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  He whirled.

  But she wasn’t playing the seductress now. Her look was direct and steady and resolved.

  “Refreshen my memory,” he managed.

  “I want to resume our lives, Rick.”

  “Why? Why now?” he demanded, even though he already knew. Now that he was in a position of prominence and power in New York City, and perhaps on his way to the U.S. Senate, she intended to be his wife again. For she knew he could offer her a life of glamour and prestige now and, if all went well, eventually one of wealth and power, too. This had nothing to do with love and everything to do with avarice. His wife remained a selfish, calculating bitch.

  She smiled grimly. “When we were separated, I carried the oddest notion with me. It was that I would always be the one woman you loved, and that there would never be anyone else. That notion was, somehow, comforting. It was my anchor.”

  He could not imagine her speaking truthfully now, and he could not imagine where she was leading.

  She sighed. “Rumors of your love for Miss Cahill reached me in Boston, Rick. I was stunned, I t
old myself the rumors were wrong, but I could not put what I had heard aside. In fact, I was distressed, extremely so.”

  He did not believe her. He wanted to laugh in a disparaging manner, but somehow he did not.

  “And I decided to come to New York to find out for myself if the rumors were true. And the moment I saw the two of you together, when you were coming out of Grand Central Station, I knew I could not allow you to love another woman. I was jealous. I am jealous. Erroneously, I had thought I would always be the only one capable of holding your heart. The only one who really had your heart. Well, that is apparently not the case. But we are still married, and I will fight for my rights as your wife.”

  “A pretty speech,” he said coldly. “I am almost moved to applaud.”

  “Rick! I am speaking to you from the heart!”

  “Then so shall I. I love Francesca Cahill, and I want a divorce.”

  She stared, her mouth trembling, more beautiful than ever, appearing fragile, vulnerable, hurt.

  “So the impasse remains,” he said, aware of being cruel.

  She inhaled, hard. “Not necessarily,” she said.

  He stiffened, sensing a devious blow. “No? You want a marriage; I want a divorce. Surely you do not have a way out of this dilemma?”

  “I do.” She wet her lips, the tip of her tongue small and pink and very moist and flitting nervously about.

  He stared.

  “Allow me to resume my place in your life as your wife for one year, and if, after that time has passed—a time in which we share all that every husband and wife shares—if you still wish for a divorce, I shall give it to you.”

  He was stunned. “No! Absolutely not!” Was she insane? Did she think he could tolerate her in his life, his home, his bed, for an entire year? What clever ploy was this? He strode to the door, flinging it open. “Good day, Leigh Anne.”

  She did not move. “Very well. Then we shall make it six months.”

  He started, staring again.

  She wet her lips nervously another time. “Rick, I will put it in writing. Six months of marriage, and if you still feel this way, you shall have your divorce. With your connections, that means in seven months or so you would be a free man—free to wed Miss Cahill, if that is what you really want.”

  His heart beat hard, urgently. For one moment he saw Francesca in his mind, but he could not think about her now. He felt as if his entire life were at stake. In seven months he might be free of this witch. All he had to do was accept this amazing bargain. Of course, he would have his lawyer draw up a contract. He did not trust his beautiful little wife for a moment.

  While she, clearly, believed he would change his mind after the prearranged time. But of course, he would not.

  “Rick? This is fair. It gives us a chance to find out if we should really part ways, or if we should honor the vows we once made and stay together instead.”

  Her words were another blow. When he had made his marriage vows, he had intended to keep them forever. He was the kind of man who married only once and forever. Very cautiously he said, “Six months as man and wife. Six months and not a single day more.”

  “Yes.” Her face was pinched with tension now. It only made her more beautiful.

  It was hard to think clearly—he sensed a fatal trap. But in seven or eight months he would be free, finally. All he had to do was keep a clear mind and remind himself of the liar and adulteress that she really was.

  And how hard would that be? He had been aware of those facts for four long, painful years.

  He smiled.

  She tensed, her eyes widening.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—NOON

  MAGGIE KENNEDY PAUSED NERVOUSLY before the open door to Evan’s bedroom. She was wearing her best ensemble, a pin-striped gray jacket and a matching skirt. The white shirtwaist beneath had lace detail at the collar, where she had pinned a pretty cameo, one that had belonged to her mother. Maggie only owned two hats—as she could not make them herself—and a jaunty black affair with a satin ribbon was pinned atop her head. She had carefully pulled her shoulder-length Irish red hair into a chignon, but a few wisps escaped around her face. When her mother had given her the cameo, she had also given her tiny pearl ear bobs, and Maggie wore those as well. Her only other jewelry was her plain, unadorned wedding band. But on its inside Joe had engraved: “Joe Kennedy, Forever Yours.”

  Was he laughing at her now? She could see him so clearly, as if it had not been five years since he had died. He had been short and brawny, but he’d had the face of an angel—their eldest, Joel, took after him exactly. No, he probably wasn’t laughing; he was looking at her sternly, although there was that twinkle in his eye. And he was chiding her for her foolish ways.

  Now what could you be thinkin’, Mrs. Kennedy? To carry on with a gentleman? I know you be missin’ me, but a gentleman? You might as well hope to land on the moon! Ah, Maggie, darlin’, how I wish I was with ye now. . . .

  Tears filled her eyes. She would always miss her husband, and he was always right. In a way, since he had died, he had become an angel sitting upon her shoulder, guiding her in the difficult task of raising four children alone.

  “Be brave,” he whispered now, his black eyes soft and fond. “Tell the gent good-bye an’ begone with you an’ the children.”

  Silently she told him not to rush her. Maggie glanced inside Evan’s bedroom and saw that he was sleeping. Her heart skipped, lurched. Maybe it was better this way, she thought, oddly miserable. She knew that this was the perfect opportunity to sneak away.

  An image of the stunningly elegant and beautiful countess filled Maggie’s mind. Sitting there on Evan’s bed regaling him with anecdotes of her life in castles in Europe, a life filled with duchesses and dukes, her hand stroking his shoulder, his cheek, his hair. And Evan had not minded, not that any man would. He had laughed at her stories, but when she touched him his laughter had died.

  Maggie hadn’t meant to spy or eavesdrop. But when his fiancée had excused herself for a moment, leaving the room, Maggie, who had been pacing in her own bedroom, the door wide open, had crept out into the hall. The handsome doctor had left a bit earlier, and she knew very well that Evan and the beautiful countess were alone.

  The door had been left ajar. Maggie had glanced in, only to find the countess leaning over Evan, her milky white bosom almost falling from the jacket she wore, her mouth on his.

  Evan had not pushed her away. The kiss had been long and, from Maggie’s perspective, quite intimate.

  Maggie didn’t blame him. She knew his upcoming marriage was an arranged one, and she would have to be deaf and blind not to know that he did not want to marry his fiancée.

  “Foolish gel,” Joe whispered in her ear now. “What do ye think to do? Wind up on yer back with yer skirts up over yer head? I know it’s been a long spell, my girl, but we both know that isn’t you.”

  Maggie wiped her eyes. It had been five years since she had lain in her husband’s arms, breathless and glowing from their lovemaking. And she did not want to be a passing fancy, a lightskirt, a trollop, a whore. She was never going to be in a man’s arms again, and she was never going to be held and loved the way Joe had held and loved her.

  She would not say good-bye. She turned to go, trying not to recall a vivid image from the other day, when Evan had returned home with her three little ones, Paddy and Mat and Lizzie. They had all been bundled up in coats and hats, scarves and gloves—her children clearly in new garments Evan had bought for them. And they had all been laughing, shrieking, screaming. Lizzie had been on top of Evan Cahill’s shoulders, beaming. As everyone was covered with snow and a huge grinning snowman now graced the front yard of the Cahill home, Maggie suspected quite a frenetic snow fight had just taken place. She had looked at the four of them and had, somehow, felt another piece of her heart warm over.

  “Maggie! Mrs. Kennedy!”

>   She froze at the sound of his voice, and slowly she turned.

  He smiled at her. “Did you wish to speak with me? I must have dozed off.”

  She wet her lips, reluctant now to enter the room. And even with black-and-blue mottling his face, even with the black patch worn to protect one eye, he remained one of the handsomest men she had ever seen, almost as handsome as Joe.

  “Mrs. Kennedy?” His smile faded a little. “Do come in. Is something wrong? Are you going somewhere?” His gaze drifted over her small body.

  Maggie nodded, forced a smile, and entered the room. “How are you today?” she asked softly.

  He looked now at the purse and gloves she carried. “You did not come to visit this morning. I had to ask a housemaid to read yesterday’s news to me.”

  Maggie had brought him a breakfast tray yesterday, along with the Herald. She felt that her small, odd smile had become frozen in place. “I fear we must be leaving, Mr. Cahill,” she said.

  He started, his smile vanishing, and he jerked to sit upright. As he did, he uttered a soft groan. Maggie wanted to run over to him and help him into a comfortable position, as Joe had once had broken ribs and she knew just how painful the injury was. But she gripped her bag and gloves and did not move.

  “Leaving?” he gasped, pale now. “What do you mean? Surely you do not mean that you and the children are moving back to your home?”

  She nodded. Ye have been a fool, Mrs. Kennedy. Stayin’ so long in this fancy home, as if it were where ye belong. Ye don’t belong here and ye never will. An’ ye never should have let the children get so fond of the fancy gentleman in the bed. Maggie swallowed. Joe was never so cruel. But he was being cruel now.

  “Have I done something to offend you, Mrs. Kennedy?” Evan asked seriously, appearing extremely upset.

  “Of course not,” she said quickly. “You have been nothing but kind and generous, as has your entire family. But there is simply no valid reason for us to remain here. Our home is downtown.”