“Pa . . . pa!” Dot cried, on her feet now and grabbing hanks of Leigh Anne’s hair.
“Ow,” Leigh Anne said, but with a smile. The child was adorable, if rather demanding. “Do not pull my hair, Dot. And Mr. Bragg will be home shortly.” She stroked the child’s golden curls and wondered if Rick still wanted children. She continued to debate the strategy of becoming pregnant with his child.
And she thought of how it would be when he finally caved in and took her to bed. Images filled her mind, so tactile that, for one moment, she could feel him inside her. He was huge and strong and she would never forget what being together with him was like.
“Papa!” Dot exclaimed, pushing Leigh Anne away, then falling in her haste to turn and race away.
Leigh Anne jerked and found Rick standing in the doorway, staring at her, as Dot now staggered awkwardly toward him. Instantly, as his eyes slipped lower, she was aware that her wrapper was almost completely open, allowing him a generous glimpse of her breasts, her waist, and even her inner thighs. Anticipation had been swelling within her for the past hour or so, and now it heightened considerably.
His jaw flexed, his eyes darkened, and he looked away. “Dot, sweetie! Come here,” he said, ignoring Leigh Anne now.
Leigh Anne slowly got up, triumph searing her, and she pulled the wrapper slightly closed. She watched Rick lift Dot and twirl her high while she squealed. “Where’s Katie?” he asked, settling her in his arms.
“Kitten.” Dot beamed. “Kitten.”
“I think that means the kitchen,” Leigh Anne said quietly.
His gaze jerked to hers. “I know what it means,” he said. Then, recovering his manners, he said grimly, “Good evening.”
“How was your day?”
He stared down her wrapper again, but just for an instant. “Hellish. I hope you’ve made plans for the evening?”
She smiled. “Of course I have,” she lied. “I’m having a late supper with a friend.”
For one moment she thought he started, and she sensed his suspicion. He wondered if her friend was a lover. She said gently, “We have an agreement, Rick. I am hardly going out on the town with a gentleman.”
“I hardly care,” he returned, walking out with Dot in his arms.
Leigh Anne waited ten minutes. In those ten minutes she sat back down at her dressing table, staring at her reflection, but thinking about the way Rick had looked at her. How long did he think to hold out? And why? For God’s sake, they were married, never mind if he was in love with someone else. But then, she had never understood him completely; in fact, his sense of morals and duty had bewildered her more often than not. Virtue was, more often than not, an inconvenience to be ignored. Unless one was born Rick Bragg.
They were nothing alike. But that was, she knew, the real reason for their undying attraction to each other.
Ten minutes later, her wrapper firmly belted and completely closed—up to her neck—her hair pinned up, as if she truly intended to go out that evening, Leigh Anne went downstairs and to his closed study door. She knocked.
“Come in.”
She entered and paused. He was at his desk, having taken his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing his hard forearms. His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned, exposing his strong throat and the interesting space between his collarbones. How many times had she run her tongue over the hollow there? And other, far more fascinating, hollows? She quivered. He was standing at the window, a scotch in hand, staring out at the small, snowy backyard and the patch of snow belonging to his neighbor. Beyond that, curtains were drawn in the windows of the facing brick house. The view was an uninteresting one.
He turned and stared at her, unsmiling and grim.
She smiled at him and closed the door behind her. “You’re welcome to join us, Rick. I think you might like Harold Weatherspoon and his wife.”
His jaw tightened. “How do you know Weatherspoon? He is one of Low’s biggest supporters.”
“I met the Weatherspoons in the south of France, a year or so ago.” She smiled at him.
He didn’t look happy. “I have work to do, Leigh Anne.”
“It is very commendable, how seriously you take your job,” she said. And in truth, she meant it. In a way, he had become very much like his father and grandfather, two very powerful, wealthy men.
He did not reply. He turned his back on her and stared out the window instead.
“Well, if you change your mind, we shall be at the Mirage,” she said softly.
His back was very rigid now.
Her loins were soaking wet.
She reached for the doorknob but other than that did not move.
He downed the entire glass of whiskey in a single gulp.
She didn’t move, because she sensed that an explosion was imminent, that his restraint was—finally—gone.
She could hardly wait.
Not turning, he ground out, “Did you really come down here to invite me to dinner?”
She wet her lips and did not answer. She waited, careful and on fire.
He turned. “Did you?” he shouted.
She backed up against the door, breathing harder now. Their gazes locked.
He cursed and threw the glass at her. She didn’t duck, she didn’t even flinch, and the glass broke somewhere to the left of her shoulder. Shards of glass cut her cheek. Then he started violently toward her.
He was enraged. It was hard not to cringe, but this was what she wanted, desperately, so desperately that she thought that one touch might be enough to send her into the best orgasm she had ever had. He caught her hands and slammed them high above her head. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” he demanded, thrusting his stiff groin against her.
She looked into eyes as hot as her own. The difference was, he was livid, livid because he was losing to his lust while she was winning, and the fear made it almost impossible to speak. And she felt every inch of him throbbing and wanting against her. “Yes.”
He let her go, ripped open her wrapper, and tore her corset down to her waist. Leigh Anne had expected anger, but not so much. And as he grabbed her breasts, forcing them upward, mauling her, hurting her, exultation swept over her. Her sex swelled impossibly. She pressed it hard against him. She whimpered as he took an engorged nipple between his teeth, grinding his rigid arousal against her abdomen. She cried out again and again, in pleasure and pain, but she did not move, while he thrust against her.
He paused, shaking and panting. She opened her mouth to beg him not to stop, then somehow thought the better of it. She had forgotten how much she wanted this man. She was going to die if he did not impale her, and soon.
But he did not. His expression twisting, he met her gaze and he shoved his hand between her thighs and seized her sex, hard, grunting harshly as he did so. Her drawers were soaking wet, and the moment he had her in his grasp he became still, their gazes locking again.
And she couldn’t stand it—she shoved her sex against his hand, trembling wildly, barely able to stand, finally gasping his name. “Rick. Rick!”
“Damn,” he said savagely. “Damn.”
His face was strained with lust, his eyes livid with rage. Then he looked down, tearing her pretty French drawers apart, in two. Leigh Anne cried out, exulting again, aching to grab his head, his hair, him, but knowing to remain utterly passive, utterly submissive, and utterly docile.
He slid to his knees, pinning her lips wide apart with his thumbs. It hurt. And then his face was there, his mouth and tongue everywhere, and she began to come, sobbing her release, vaguely aware that she had forgotten how this man made love, how he worshiped her sex, like he was worshiping every inch of it now. His tongue refused to stop, and he was using his teeth, until pain replaced the pleasure. She knew he wanted to hurt her just as she knew he needed her, this way, now and always, and she began to sob in another mad climax again.
She was boneless as he dragged her to the floor. Why did I ever walk away from this, from him? No one
else made love like this, no one . . . she managed to think, dazed. And then he grabbed her by a hank of her hair, jerking her head back.
Her gaze flew open and the first thing she saw was his manhood, huge and distended, over her face; then she looked past it, trembling in fresh excitement, and she met his eyes. He smiled dangerously at her. “Show me what you’ve learned,” he said.
She shivered, because he had changed unthinkably. She had married a gentleman, and he had become ruthless and savage somehow.
“Come closer,” she whispered.
His mouth turned up. He pressed against her lips. Leigh Anne sighed and he took instant advantage, swiftly penetrating. She began to use her tongue and her throat muscles. She heard him groan in real pleasure, no longer able to deny it or her.
His thrusts took him deeper. Her mouth hurt, but she loved the pain, because every taste was better than chocolate, better than champagne, and his face was glazed now, glazed with pure pleasure, and she thought, He will never be able to walk away from me now, and her loins began to drip again as she sucked and watched him fighting to delay his climax.
His gaze flew open; he gasped, appearing stunned.
Hurry, she mouthed.
He inhaled hard, eyes wide, intent on one single act, and he pulled back, away, thrust between her legs, as hard as he could, and he drove her across the floor, into the wall, thrusting again and again. Leigh Anne could not wait. She felt her body explode abruptly, and then she felt him filling her with his hot seed, gasping out, mindless and hers and hers alone, and even aloft in the black, star-spangled universe, she smiled, knowing she had won.
“Have you found her?” Thomas Neville cried, hurrying down the wide, sweeping staircase.
Francesca regarded the tall, gaunt man with severe features. His dark eyes were not severe, however; they were wide, desperate. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Neville. I am sorry,” she added.
He paused before her, clearly dismayed. “But haven’t you interrogated Hoeltz? He is the key to her disappearance, Miss Cahill, I know it! He has certainly done something terrible to her,” he added grimly.
Francesca thought that he was probably right. “He is being interrogated downtown at police headquarters, even as we speak,” she said, hoping to be reassuring.
Neville’s eyes flickered, with satisfaction, Francesca thought. “Good.”
“How well do you know my brother, Mr. Neville?” There was no point in wasting an interview.
“We have known one another for years. We have had dinner together upon occasion, although not recently, I fear. Why?” He finally smiled, appearing puzzled by her question. “Melinda asked him several times if she could do his portrait. He declined.”
The world became dangerously still. “What?”
He smiled at her. “He said he did not have the time to sit for a portrait.”
Evan knew Melinda Neville. He had lied. But why?
Suddenly Thomas Neville took her arm. “Do sit down, Miss Cahill. You are very pale. Will you faint?”
She jerked free. Her brother had lied to her. “I am fine,” she managed. She swallowed hard. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Neville, and I am sorry I had to ask you such unpleasant questions. Joel?” She turned, and as she did so, she caught sight of the big Scot standing beside the front door, watching her and Thomas Neville. Instantly he looked away, at the ceiling, as if bored.
“Let us go.” She managed a breathless smile. But her ears had begun to ring. Could Evan have possibly forgotten meeting Melinda Neville—a woman who was not at all his type? She prayed so.
“Please find Mellie!” Thomas Neville called after her. “Please.”
Francesca did not look back, her feet carrying her as swiftly as possible without running to the front door. She took Joel’s hand as the Scot opened the door, and somehow she managed to thank him. But her nape prickled and she had to glance back over her shoulder one last time.
She was being watched again. This time, it was Andrew LeFarge, who had come to stand upon the threshold of his study. Then her gaze moved and she realized that Richard Wiley was also staring after her from where he sat with his entourage across the spacious lobby.
A moment later she was standing on Broadway, cloaked in the darkness of the recently fallen night. Francesca moved into the halo of a gas lamp with Joel.
“Miz Cahill, you don’t look too good,” Joel said, peering anxiously up at her.
Evan had lied directly to her. There was no other possible conclusion to draw. When had he ever done such a thing? And why? “I am a bit shaken.” She took a deep calming breath and clasped his small shoulder. “Joel, it is late. You should go home. Let’s find a cab and I will drop you before I go home.”
“I’ll walk. It ain’t far from here an’ it will be faster.”
He was perhaps ten or twelve blocks away on foot. Less if he cut through alleys. Francesca nodded. “But go directly home. Maggie must be worrying about you by now.”
He started backing away. “I’ll be home in ten minutes,” he boasted.
She did smile. “And be careful,” she advised.
He grinned and turned and broke into a run. She winced as he began dodging through the coaches and carriages on the avenue, before dashing right in front of an overcrowded electric trolley. Then, as he disappeared into the crowd across the street, she sobered. It briefly crossed her mind not to ever tell Bragg that Evan had lied about his acquaintance with Melinda Neville.
But Evan was not their killer, and he had had some terrible reason for lying. Besides, she trusted Bragg. He was not about to accuse Evan of murder.
A hand seized her shoulder, hard.
Before fear could assault her brain, she was thrust rapidly across the sidewalk and into a dark alley. And as her assailant shoved her face-first against a brick wall, Francesca opened her mouth to scream. But a hand clamped down there, so that only a muffled gasp sounded, as another large hand closed around her throat.
The stunning knowledge clicked. The strangler had found her . . .
CHAPTER
TWENTY
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1902—8:00 P.M.
PANIC ASSAILED HER—HIS hand was brutally squeezing her throat, choking her, and his body was pressed against hers now. There was no mistaking his grossly huge sexual arousal. A man she did not know, a murderer, was thrusting his sex against her buttocks. Francesca choked, writhing to get away, but her efforts were useless, and he laughed in her ear.
“You’re all whores, now aren’t you, Miss Cahill?” he sneered, his tone a rasp.
Her heart thundering wildly in her breast, Francesca became motionless, determined to identify him from his voice. Yet she could not. It was obviously muffled.
His hand tightened on her throat. She cried out, panting in raw fear now, hard and fast. “But you’re the biggest whore of them all, aren’t you?”
She tried to speak. Her mind said, Let me go. But no words escaped.
He jammed her harder against the wall, and she was caught between brick and his stiff sex. Terror consumed her. Would he rape her? Sarah’s frightened whispers echoed, increasing her panic to the point where she could not breathe at all. She was on the verge of suffocation. He wanted to rape me, Francesca.
“Afraid?” He laughed. “Is the city’s most notorious little sleuth afraid? Where’s Bragg? Oh! He’s not here to save you!” He laughed again.
She wondered if her arm might break, jammed as it was between them. There was no air now. The night had become darker somehow. She was about to faint.
“You I might fuck. I will fuck you while you die. Because you’re so pretty,” he said roughly. “Ever take it in your mouth? I’m going to push it down your throat while your heart stops, Miss Cahill. I heard dying in ecstasy is the ultimate climax. What? Are you shaking?” He laughed, finally removing his hand from her mouth.
She knew this was her chance to scream. But instead, she sucked down the precious life-giving air desperately while he lifted her skirts from
behind. She knew she had to break free now. But her mind was blackness and shadows, and her body refused to obey; there was only sweet, sweet oxygen searing her burning lungs.
“Oh, God, bitch,” he said, grasping her buttocks.
It was going to happen if she did not react now.
“Ow!” he cried, his grip on her easing as an object hit the ground beside them.
Francesca thought, Joel! She somehow jammed her elbow backward, but even before the bone connected with her attacker’s rock-hard torso, he grunted in more pain. Francesca realized that he was being pelted with stones.
“Git off of her!” Joel screamed, enraged.
The man cursed, releasing her.
Francesca fell to the ground, instinctively clutching her throat, which throbbed terribly. She heard more rocks hit the ground, the wall. She turned on her hands and knees, saw a tall, broad-shouldered form and the grotesquely disguised stocking-clad face. Joel dived at his ankles.
He went down.
Francesca reached for the rock not far from her hand.
He cursed and threw Joel away, looked at her once, a monster with no eyes and no mouth, then launched himself to his feet and disappeared into the night at the far end of the alleyway.
Francesca collapsed in the dirty snow and began to cry.
“Miz Cahill! Miz Cahill!” Joel scrambled over on his knees. His small hands covered her back. “Did he hurt you? You all right?”
She could still feel the man’s erection against her body, his breath in her ear, his hand on her mouth, on her throat. She choked the sobs down. She was too strong to cry. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead and she hadn’t been raped and damn it, she wasn’t going to weep.
Joel stroked her back. “Please don’t cry. C’mon, Miz Cahill. We gotta get outta here. Please get up.”
She managed to stop sobbing, aware of the tears drying on her face, burning her with cold. She breathed deeply, harshly, again and again. Thank God for Joel Kennedy, she thought.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Page 29
