by Brenda Joyce
“My men will not speak up.” Francesca was jerked out of her contemplation. “I have made it very clear, if this gets out, they are all without jobs.”
She trembled, closing her eyes briefly, determined to control her wayward thoughts from that moment on. Then she looked at him. “Is that fair?”
He looked directly into her eyes, unnerving her again. “I am thinking about a little boy now, and Eliza.”
She hugged herself. “Does Burton know?”
He was startled. “Francesca.”
“I am sorry! This is just the most stunning turn.” She turned away from him, trying to recover her composure, and doing a poor job of it. She remained shaken, undone. She should not have come.
Francesca walked over to a chair, took a deep breath, and sat down, finally facing him. She would focus on the investigation at hand. She swallowed and very briskly, in a nonsensical tone, she said, “Has a fresh grave been found?”
He was studying her and making no attempt to hide it. “Of course we have found several fresh graves—eight of them, to be exact. But every burial was legitimate.”
Francesca smoothed down her skirts. “And you cannot go exhuming the dead upon a wild-goose chase.” She remained brisk and businesslike.
“No, we cannot.” He continued to stare.
Her mind raced. She knew he understood. What if the boy had been interred with someone else? How clever the killer would then be.
“Where do we go from here?” she asked, hugging herself again. If only he would break eye contact, even for a moment. “We have a handful of clues, but nothing to lead us to the killer,” she cried.
Bragg’s expression became ever more drawn, and he turned away.
She realized why and jumped to her feet without thinking twice about it. “Oh, I did not mean that! Maybe he is still alive, Bragg,” she whispered, from behind him, not daring to reach out to him.
He faced her. “I cannot keep on fooling myself. The odds are against it. But the real question remains, who? Who did this to ... my son?” The last words were a mere whisper.
“Who are your enemies, Bragg?” she whispered back. “You must have enemies.”
“I have made a list. It is short. There are three men in my life who might wish to destroy me—and one of my sons.” He gave her a hard, frightening look and walked back and forth across the small rug.
She watched him closely. “And they are?”
“My stepbrother. Calder Hart. He has always despised me, and the feeling is mutual.” His smile was hard and ruthless. She had never seen such a frightening expression on his face before, not even last night, with Gordino. For there was something absolutely uncompromising and unforgiving about it.
“I do not know him,” she managed, mesmerized.
“He is here in New York, actually. He is rather successful in shipping. But he does not know the Burtons, and he has never been to their home.”
“And whoever did this, he has very easy access to the Burton home. Whoever did this is a close friend, or a servant.”
“Or a relative,” Bragg said. “In this case, I am ruling Calder off my list.”
“Who are the other two men?” Francesca asked, wondering what could have caused such bad blood between him and his stepbrother.
He hesitated.
“Bragg?” Dread swept over her.
“Gordino.”
“Gordino!” Francesca cried, shocked.
“We have a history, Francesca,” he said. And then he flushed.
“I do not understand,” she said. Her mind raced. “You have never been in law enforcement before—have you? So how could you and Gordino share any history at all?” She remained bewildered.
His high, ruddy color remained. “Let us just say that there was a time in my life when I knew him. We were boys. And we were enemies,” he said. He continued to pace with long, hard strides.
It began to click. Bragg’s mother was a prostitute. Bragg had come from a different class of society—the same class of society Gordino had. She did not dare ask, she did not, but a little boy’s life was at stake. Francesca followed him over to the table where he stared down at the bottle of scotch. She ignored her own warnings to herself. “My mother told me,” she blurted.
He barely glanced at her, walking away, only to return with a fresh glass. His hand wasn’t quite steady as he poured another drink.
“Bragg!”
He faced her, holding the glass tightly. “Indeed?”
“She told me about your family.” Francesca felt a flush burning on her own cheeks. “It doesn’t matter to me!” she cried fiercely.
He saluted her with his glass and drank.
“Please don’t drink,” she implored.
“Why?”
“Because the clock is ticking and we have a crime to solve.”
He set the glass down carefully. “ ‘We.’ You never cease to amaze me, Francesca. Never.”
She thought she heard a note of bitter irony in his tone and she tensed. For she sensed he would lash out at her now in his hurt and confusion and grief. She was wrong.
“So beautiful, so intelligent, so vibrant, so determined. And so damnably kind and caring. But I already said that, didn’t I?” He saluted her once again with the glass.
She could not tear her eyes away from him.
“How can a man resist?” he asked simply.
Francesca began to tremble. He was not teasing her. He was not being mocking.
He seemed deadly serious.
Bragg continued. “Gordino is smarter than he appears. He did not break last night, Francesca. And the question remains, is it because he does not know who abducted my son, or is it because he hates me so that he managed to remain silent, in spite of the beating I gave him?”
“Could he hate you that much?” she whispered, still reeling from what he had said about her. Did he really mean what he had said? Did he really think of her that way? Was it possible?
“When we were boys living on the Lower East Side, we belonged to different gangs.”
Francesca could not believe her ears. But he was so educated, so cultured! And then she thought about the way he had assaulted Gordino last night. “I thought you were from Texas.”
“Oh, no. I was born here in the city. But my father is the son of Derek Bragg, the founding father of our family.” He looked directly at her. “When I was twelve, my father appeared in my life, and he took me and my stepbrother in and we moved down south.” His smile was brief. “His name is Rathe Bragg. He is a great man. But the woman who raised us is an even greater woman. Grace never treated us differently from the rest of her children.” And as if he realized he had said too much, he looked away.
“I am glad, Bragg,” Francesca whispered.
“The rivalry between the gangs was bitter and intense. And in one particular gang fight, Gordino’s brother died. He blamed me. I was partly to blame.” He briefly closed his eyes. “I was Joel’s age. Ten years old.”
“And he still hates you?” Francesca asked, reeling from all that he had said.
“Enough that he might have bribed a servant to have the kind of access necessary to have perpetuated this deed by himself,” Bragg said flatly.
She stared for a moment. “Do we know where he lives? If he had an old Remington typewriter, then we would know he is the one.”
“We found his flat days ago. There was no evidence linking him to the crime.” Abruptly, Bragg sat down on the sofa, setting down his glass. He rubbed both temples.
Francesca sat down next to him, keeping a respectable distance between them and also trying not to think about that. “And the third man on your list?”
He did not look up. “Burton.”
“Burton!” she cried. But then it made so much sense. “Oh, God! He knows the boys are not his, and he has secretly hated you for all these years! You have only just returned to New York City with your new appointment— and he decided to strike!”
He straightened. “Francesca. Eliza s
wears that he does not know. She swears he believes the boys are his. She swears that he adores them. And the truth of the matter is, I have seen him with the twins. I don’t think he knows, Francesca. I think he loves the twins the way I do.”
She was so disappointed. “Bragg, when did you meet Eliza?” The question, though cautious, just popped out.
“I attended Columbia University. We met eight years ago, and we had an affair.” He hesitated. “For a year. We were young and in love, Francesca. Or so we thought.” He hesitated. “When we broke up, neither one of us knew that she was pregnant. And she immediately married Burton. In fact, she was engaged to him toward the end of our relationship.” He shrugged.
But Francesca had seen the look in his eye and she was dismayed and distressed. He had cared for her, even loved her, and he had been hurt when she had been affianced to someone else, someone more suitable than a bastard like himself. She cleared her throat. “Then it is Gordino—or someone out to get Burton.”
“Or someone out to hurt Eliza.”
She held his gaze. Her heart pounded now. “Why?”
He laughed, but not with mirth. “She has broken many hearts.”
Francesca knew then that she had been right. She wet her lips. “What is it about her that makes men fall in love with her?” And she was thinking not just of Bragg and Montrose, but of Wiley, and even of Burton, who seemed to love her so. “I mean, if you really look at her, there are many women more beautiful.”
“She is like you,” he said, staring. “She is beautiful and intelligent and genuine. She is an original, and men find that mesmerizing.”
Two compliments in one morning. Two vast compliments. Francesca held his gaze and could not, for the life of her, look away.
Abruptly, as if the couch they shared had become far too small for the two of them, he leapt to his feet.
Francesca remained motionless.
He said, very grimly, “Eliza would not cooperate until yesterday, but I have a list of the men she has had affairs with. I cannot share it with you.”
Her heart stopped. And when it resumed its beat, the pounding was frantic and all awareness of her attraction to this man briefly disappeared. He had spoken in the past tense. Was Montrose on that list? Francesca could not imagine any woman confessing to the identity of a current lover. “Did any of those men call on her Tuesday during the time that the pajamas and the fourth note were left?” she managed.
“No. She had three callers that day. Elizabeth Oscar and Georgina Hennessy.”
She realized she was hugging herself. He was staring at her. She did not like the look in his eyes. It was suddenly highly speculative.
“Don’t you want to know who the third caller was, Francesca?” he asked far too softly.
No. She did not want to know.
“Eliza did not tell me. I had to glean the information from a servant,” he added in a drawl.
She sat there like a lump on a log. He knew. He was too damnably clever, and he knew all about Montrose and Eliza.
Bragg reached for her, took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Their gazes locked. He did not release her hand. Francesca did not pull free. “It was your brother-in-law,” he said.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” she heard herself plead. And her hands slipped to his chest.
And briefly, she was shocked by how hard the slabs of muscle were beneath her palms, and by the feel of his drumming heartbeat.
His eyes widened. His hands covered hers and she could not, did not, move. “Why does it not surprise me that you already know about this?”
“Please, Bragg.” And suddenly she did sway toward him. Her thighs brushed against his. She had become a woman in that one transformative moment, and as their gazes locked, they both understood it. Her power felt fragile and it also felt vast. “No one can know, Bragg. Connie doesn’t know, and it will kill her!”
He did not answer her for one long, heavy, awkward moment, during which time Francesca felt his heart racing even faster beneath her hands. “Francesca, I am going to have to speak to Montrose.”
Francesca cried out. “But—”
He was grim. “Do you know that his first wife died under suspicious circumstances?”
Francesca gaped. “What?”
“He was heavily in debt and he married an heiress,” Bragg said.
Francesca cut him off rudely. “Wait one moment,” she said. “He inherited that debt from his family.”
“I am well aware of that,” Bragg responded evenly. “The point I am trying to make is that he paid off a large portion of that debt, and then a wheel fell off the carriage that was supposed to be carrying them both back to his estate. At the last moment, however, he decided to remain in London, and she went on alone. There was a brief investigation. The authorities concluded that it was an accident.” His gaze was steady and dark upon hers.
“Well, then, you have your answer,” Francesca said in a desperate rush. Now she tried to move back, away from him, but his grip tightened and she could not move. She felt her eyes widening. His stare darkened in return.
“Francesca, I am sorry,” he said. And compassion filled his gaze.
“No. You are not,” she said, but she no longer tried to wrestle herself free.
He pulled her into his arms.
Francesca did not stiffen in surprise. Because she was not surprised. She did not seem to have any control over her own body, and she melted against him, into him.
He was the one to tense briefly with surprise.
And then he wrapped his arms around her and held her hard, thigh to thigh and breast to chest. His breath feathered her neck and ear.
And suddenly Francesca became aware of desire for the first time in her life. He was a big, strong man, and he felt like a very safe haven from all of the world’s evils; in his arms, with her cheek resting against his shoulder, she knew no harm could come to her, not ever. And he was all lean, long muscle, all hard, strong bone, every inch of him intriguing and arousing. Whom had she been fooling, to think he was just her friend? She had been smitten from the moment she had first laid eyes upon him.
If he did not kiss her, now, this instant, she might very well die.
He released her. “Montrose is a fool,” he said gruffly. “But Eliza does that to men.” His gaze was heated, wary, searching hers.
Francesca’s knees seemed weak and about to buckle. She was so dismayed that he had released her, and she really did not hear what he said. She cupped his rough, stubby jaw, trembling. “You are very kind, too, Bragg. Did you know that?”
His jaw flexed visibly. He started to pull away. “I do not believe anyone has ever called me kind before.”
“Don’t, Bragg,” she whispered. What was she doing? she managed to think as she slid her thumb over the hard, tensed-up muscle there.
And his gaze met hers, filled with brilliance and comprehension and hunger, and he pulled her forward again, and this time, he tilted up her chin and his mouth covered hers completely.
Francesca flung her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to receive him.
His arm, behind her back, tightened. His other hand slid around to her nape, covering it completely and anchoring her in place. And his mouth, which was warm and firm and tangy with the scotch whisky, plied her lips. The tips of their tongues tested each other and tasted and touched.
An image flashed through Francesca’s mind, of Bragg going down on his knees before her, kissing her thighs, kissing her at the soft, aching juncture there, the way she had seen Montrose do to Eliza.
Francesca cried out, sagging in his arms.
Both of his arms went around her, hard. Francesca was drawn up against the entire length of his body while their mouths fused again, and there was no mistaking the huge arousal against her hip. Oh, God. So this was what a man felt like, this was what he tasted like. She threaded her fingers through his thick, silky hair. She tried to kiss him back. She tried not to think of him down on his knees, his face b
uried between her spread thighs.
He tore his mouth from hers only so he could rain kisses along her jaw and throat. His tongue touched her ear, penetrating it. His hand slid down over her breast, and then lower, over her hip, and lower still. Someone moaned wildly—it was herself.
Francesca’s lower body collapsed.
He caught her in his arms, lifting her and carrying her to the sofa. As he laid her down on her back, Francesca managed to think in spite of the haze of heat unfurling within her. This was very wrong.
But Bragg was very right.
She did not, could not, care.
He moved on top of her and she embraced him with a cry, her mouth seeking his now, her tongue testing the seam of his lips. The sound he made came from the back of his throat. It was deep and guttural; sexual and male.
His arms lifted her even more tightly to his body and his mouth found her collarbone amidst the ruffles of her shirt collar. He licked the hollow there and drew the lower part of her body even closer to him.
“Bragg,” Francesca whispered, clasping his face with both hands.
His heated eyes met hers and then his mouth was on hers, hard and insistent. And Francesca felt his erection against her pelvis. Somehow, without conscious volition, she was moving against him, and he was arching against her.
Mentally, she stripped him naked. He would be leaner than Montrose. Leaner, harder, more sculpted. Like Montrose, he would be huge. Like Montrose with Eliza, he would thrust into her, the way he was almost trying to do now, despite the barrier of their clothes. Francesca held him more tightly, crying out, frantically, desperately.
This moment must never end.
“Bragg,” she moaned, and somehow, her palms found their way into his shirt, onto the hard slab of his chest.
Somehow, his hands were beneath her, clasping her buttocks. He was panting, and hard, as if he had just run a marathon. Then he reared up over her.
Francesca had never seen a man with such an expression upon his face before.
She did not have to be tutored in the ways of the world to understand. Bragg was consumed with the desire he felt for her. He wanted her. He wanted her in that savage, feral, carnal way that was as old as time itself. He wanted her the way Montrose wanted Eliza, the way that she wanted him.