Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  But he shook his head, ignoring the dangerous desire that seemed to sizzle between them. Still, as he spoke, his eyes were on her mouth. “Damn Calder. He always finds a way to overturn every single boat in his path. He hasn’t changed—he was a dangerous boy, and now he is a dangerous man.”

  For once, Francesca did not feel like defending him. “You wait until I get a chance to tell him what I think of his behavior,” she said.

  “Do not bother, as it will go in one ear and out the other,” he replied. He wore gloves, but they were made specifically for drivers, and through the cut-out portion she saw his knuckles were white with tension as he gripped the leather-braided steering wheel.

  She could not think about Hart now. Her heart jumped. The very dangerous thoughts she had had yesterday returned in full force. Why should Leigh Anne be able to stand there as a barrier between them, denying them love and happiness?

  Was she, Francesca, brave enough to ignore societal mores and find the love and happiness she knew she could have with Bragg, in spite of his wife?

  Did she dare?

  She shivered uncontrollably.

  “What is it?” he asked harshly. Then, because he had to know, he said, “You should go.”

  She couldn’t smile, but she managed to swallow. These thoughts could not even be discussed with Bragg. But she would spend hours making what could be the most life-transforming decision of her life.

  “Something is going on in that clever mind of yours. But you look frightened—and determined—all at once,” he whispered.

  She smiled a little and summoned up her courage and resolve. “Don’t move,” she heard herself say, and when he started, it was too late.

  She was leaning toward him, until her mouth was on his.

  His response was immediate. Francesca had expected him to pull away; he did not. For one moment, he pulled slightly back and their eyes met and she felt triumph soar in her breast, for the look in his eyes was unmistakable. Then he threw his arms around her, crushing her against his chest, and as she lay back against the seat, their open mouths fused. As he kissed her—as she kissed him back—they explored each other with their hands, and she was exultant.

  She knew the passion they felt for one another was extraordinary.

  His hands moved to her face, cupping it. She opened her eyes and saw him gazing at her, his breathing harsh and uneven. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “And the best part is that your beauty comes from within, Francesca. The most beautiful thing about you is your mind.”

  Tears almost came to her eyes. “Kiss me again, Bragg,” she said unevenly.

  This time he hesitated. It was at that moment he began to war with himself, the man of honor versus the man of desire. Francesca felt it, knew it, and to forestall his ending the encounter, she kissed him again.

  He took control immediately, his tongue deep within her, his hands beneath her coat. Francesca lost her ability to think; there was only sensation, rioting through her veins, pooling in her loins. She did not know how long they kissed, but the heat was blinding. And when he finally moved away from her, she half-lay on her seat.

  And her first coherent thought was, of course they must become lovers. There was not even a choice.

  He sat up fully, breathing with exertion, and it was a moment before he could speak. “I must be mad. What if Andrew or Julia is upstairs, awake, at a window?”

  Fear filled her instantly, and with it came panic.

  He helped her to sit up. Their gazes locked. Denying what had just happened would be sheer folly, especially now, after the conversation they had just had.

  Francesca did not know what to say. So she said, “Even if they were upstairs, they could not see into the car.”

  “But they would demand to know what we were doing, sitting in here for so long.” He was grim now, and he ran his hand through his thick hair, which in the night appeared far darker than it was. “Damn it.” He looked at her. “I lost my head. What am I doing? The last thing I want to do is to encourage our feelings for each other.”

  She reached for his hand. “But I don’t mind.”

  Startled, he looked at her with wide eyes, and he pulled his hand away. “You had better mind. You had better mind being treated with a complete lack of respect!”

  He rarely raised his voice. She was hardly disturbed by what had happened, but she saw how upset he was. “Bragg, I know you respect me.”

  “No, Francesca. If the day ever came—and it shall not—when I took you to bed, that would mean one thing: I am a selfish man incapable of respecting and deserving a woman like yourself.”

  Dismay began. It slowly filled her. “Don’t say that. We 1—”

  He shook his head. “We are friends. Nothing more.” Then he smiled, but it was grim. “And tomorrow we have a bit of sleuthing to do. Remember?”

  She could not smile now. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He stepped out of his side of the car, and, not bothering to adjust her clothes or her hair, she watched him walk around the hood to her door. If she decided to go forward with Bragg—if she decided to become his lover, secretly, in defiance of her parents and all of society and the ways he had been raised—it might not be easily done. He might resist her.

  The dilemma was almost a laughable one.

  Except that loving him so much now was so hurtful, and there was no way she might laugh when thinking of her and Bragg.

  He opened her door.

  Francesca smiled bravely and he escorted her to the house. At her front door they paused. He pushed some hair out of her face, blown there by an evening breeze. “I will see you tomorrow, then. Is ten too early?”

  “No, it is perfect,” she said.

  He nodded, then his smile faded, and he looked sharply around.

  Instantly she tensed. “What is it?”

  “I had an odd feeling—that we were being watched.”

  Instantly she thought of her parents. “I am sure they are asleep, Bragg.”

  “No, I felt as if we were being watched . . . in a rather unpleasant way.”

  “You are almost frightening me.”

  “I did not mean to do that.” He smiled and touched her cheek. “Good night. And, Francesca? Do not forget about the girls.”

  Her heart sank. “But haven’t they adjusted? You did not mention them all night!” She had been afraid to bring up the subject.

  “Peter’s hands are full. But I am sure you have a foster home lined up for Monday.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly, dismayed. She must check on the girls tomorrow, she thought as she opened the door.

  He said, behind her, “It’s not locked?”

  “There is a houseful of servants, Bragg. And it is not locked as the last one to come in locks it, and tonight that is me.”

  He glanced around, toward the lawns on either side of the house, then said, “Very well. But next time, take a key.”

  He was making her nervous. She slipped inside, but kept the door cracked open. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered.

  He gave her a sharp look.

  She watched him stride back to the roadster, which he had let run, and she continued to stand in the door as he began driving around the circular drive until he was heading out of the driveway. She sighed and closed the door, recalling his lovemaking in the automobile, the memory making her dreamily happy—until Leigh Anne dared to intrude upon her thoughts.

  But she did not feel guilty, as Leigh Anne had abandoned him—as she hated him, and flaunted her lovers to prove it.

  What should she do?

  She was about to lock the door when a hand clamped down hard over her mouth, cutting off her cry of fear.

  Almost simultaneously she was pulled away from the door, and the body behind hers was hard and masculine.

  Terror began.

  “You ain’t my cousin,” a male voice hissed in her ear. “An’ I want to know why you lied.”

  TEN

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 9,190
2—1:00 A.M.

  Terror seized her, and she knew she was in the hands of the man who had gruesomely murdered both Mary and Kathleen.

  “Don’t move an’ don’t make a sound,” he warned in her ear.

  She couldn’t move, as he held her far too tightly. Francesca tried to nod, but that, too, was almost impossible.

  He dragged her outside, not bothering to close the door, and then he released her.

  Francesca did not scream. She staggered backward, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, somehow having tasted his flesh, the taste horridly bitter. She glanced desperately across the circular driveway; it was starkly empty and Bragg was long gone. There would be no help from him—she was alone with a madman.

  As she could not speak, he spoke. “What do you want, Miz Cahill?”

  It was dark out, so it was very hard to see his expression, but there was no mistaking the menace in his voice.

  She cleared her throat, but her words came out in a whisper. “I am trying to find the man who killed Kathleen O’Donnell and Mary O’Shaunessy,” she finally gasped.

  “Oh! An’ you think it’s me?”

  She backed up and hit the wall of the house. “No! I merely was hoping that you might provide a clue.”

  He stepped so close to her that she could smell his breath. He hadn’t been drinking, but it was foul with decay and tobacco. “I liked fucking Kathleen, and that’s what I been doing, fucking her—not killing her an’ carving her up.”

  Francesca froze. He was their man. How else would he know about the cross carved into Kathleen’s throat?

  “You got any more questions for me?” he asked angrily. “ ’Cause this is your one chance, lady.”

  She somehow shook her head.

  “Good! Got no time for a bitch like you.” He whirled and then turned back. “Next time you might think to lock your fancy door.” He laughed and began stomping up the drive.

  Francesca fled into the house, through it, and to the study. Her hands were shaking wildly, uncontrollably, as she dialed Bragg’s home number. As it began to ring, she realized that there was simply no way he could be home yet. She hung up.

  She should follow Sam Carter, so they would not lose him now.

  Francesca ran back through the house, and as she did so, she cursed herself for leaving her gun behind when she had gone out for the evening. But how on earth would she have ever guessed that something like this would happen? She had been at the theater with the police commissioner, for God’s sake!

  She raced to the closest window looking out over the frozen grounds and toward the avenue. It was in one of the salons. As she did, she saw Sam Carter about to walk through the open front gates at the end of the driveway. Her fear warred with the few remaining shreds of courage left to her.

  She could not go after him alone. God only knew what he would do if he discovered her tailing him. She inhaled and raced up the stairs and into the side of the house that belonged to her brother. He might not be in at this hour, but she prayed he had dropped Sarah and Bartolla off and come directly home. She began to shout his name. “Evan!”

  He appeared almost instantly, stepping out of his ground-floor study, still clad in his evening clothes, a glass of whiskey in hand. His eyes widened at the sight of her skidding to a stop before him.

  “There is a killer outside; we must follow him—before we lose him and he kills again!” she cried, grabbing Evan’s hand.

  Whiskey sloshed over them both. “What in God’s name are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “I am—” Francesca stopped. She stared over her brother’s shoulder and into the library where he had, apparently, been sipping a drink before bed.

  Bartolla sat on the sofa in her stockings, her red satin slippers on the floor. She also held a scotch, and she smiled at Francesca benignly.

  Francesca could only stare.

  “It is only an after-dinner drink,” Evan said stiffly.

  Francesca was appalled. She glanced briefly at him, feeling how wide her eyes were.

  Bartolla stood, smiling in the infectious way she had. “Francesca! Please, do not leap to conclusions, I would never betray my sweet cousin in any way. She knows we are here—she declined to join us. Would you care for a brandy?”

  Francesca was slightly relieved—and still thoroughly taken aback. “This is not done,” she managed.

  “I cannot believe you, of all women, would ever say such a thing,” Evan growled.

  Bartolla shrugged. “I am a widow, my dear. A wealthy one. I can do whatever I choose, as long as I don’t care what they say about me.” She shrugged. “And I really couldn’t care less what the gossips say. Truly, they are all envious of my freedom.” She sipped her drink and sighed. “Dear Evan, this scotch whiskey is marvelous.”

  “I brought it back from McLaren after my last hunting trip,” he said, smiling at her.

  Francesca decided that now was not the time to analyze Bartolla’s liberal spirit or her relationship with her brother. “Evan, by now he is gone!”

  “Who?” Evan asked.

  Bartolla sat up straighter, allowing her legs to fall over the couch, her feet to the floor, where they belonged. “Yes, what is this about a killer?”

  “Damn it!” Francesca cried. She began to shake all over again. Tears of frustration came to her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Evan asked, setting his scotch down and putting his arm around her.

  “No, I am not! As the man responsible for killing two innocent young women just accosted me in the house and is even now getting away!” she shouted.

  His eyes went wide. “Good God.” Then he darkened. “I cannot believe you, Fran. Enough is enough. I suggest you call your friend. That is, I suggest you call the police.”

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 9,1902—10:00 A.M.

  Francesca arrived on Bragg’s doorstep at a quarter to ten—before he might think to pick her up. She was not surprised to find him answering the door, his coat already on.

  He was surprised, however, to see her. “Francesca! I was on my way to pick you up.”

  “I thought to see the girls before we go.” She stepped inside, removing her gloves. “Any luck last night?” She had called him after leaving Evan and Bartolla to their drinks—and then had decided to join the pair so as to chaperone them. Her evening had ended after two, and she was quite tired as a result.

  “No. We scoured the Upper East Side, but he disappeared after leaving you.” His eyes were dark, resting upon her.

  “I am so sorry. There was a time lapse—he had quite the head start.”

  “I am the one who is sorry. I should have known something was amiss—I sensed it, for God’s sake! And to leave your front door unlocked . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head.

  Francesca touched his arm. “He didn’t hurt me, Bragg.”

  “No, he did not, and I thank the heavens above for that.”

  “Me, too,” Francesca had to agree. Before she could ask him what he thought of the morning newspapers—both the Sun and the Tribune had run headlines about the murders and the case was now fodder for the public—Peter jogged into the hall.

  Francesca could only blink, as his shirt was coming out from beneath his black jacket and Dot was on his back, giggling with delight. He saw them and halted, turning red.

  Dot shouted, “Pee, Pee!”

  Francesca was alarmed. “I believe we must use the facilities,” she said, rushing toward them. “Hello, Dot.”

  Bragg followed as Peter slid Dot to the floor. “I do believe she has decided to call my man Pee. Considering she has a rather nasty habit, it is probably appropriate.”

  Francesca didn’t dare look at him now. Had Dot made another mess on the floor? It sounded like it. “How are the girls, Peter?” she asked.

  “Where is the nanny?” was his impassive reply.

  She wet her lips, but Bragg spoke. “Never fear. The girls leave tomorrow.” He gave Francesca a stern look.

  Dot pointed
at Bragg, her face accusatory. “Bad,” she said. “Bad!” she shrieked.

  “And neither one likes me,” Bragg added.

  “Well, have you even bothered to play with them?” Francesca asked curtly, taking Dot’s hand. The child gave her a beatific smile.

  “Play? When do I have time to play?” he asked incredulously.

  He was right. She sighed. “Bragg, it might take more than a single day to find them a home,” she said, leading Dot to the bathing room.

  “Good luck,” Bragg said.

  Francesca did not know whether he referred to the event that she hoped was about to happen or to her finding a family for the girls tomorrow. She led Dot inside and seated her on the lavatory. Dot grinned at her and began to play with the doors on the adjacent vanity, not evincing much interest in any biological function.

  “Dot, now is the perfect time—and place—to make a pee. Please, Dot, pee,” Francesca urged, squatting beside her.

  Dot said, “Pee! Pee!”

  From outside the door, Bragg said, “Peter has undergone a distasteful personality change. I have not had fresh shirts—or sheets—since Friday.”

  Francesca winced. “What if I hire a nanny tomorrow?” She looked at Dot, who grinned back at her, and nodded encouragingly.

  “The girls leave tomorrow,” Bragg said firmly. “It has been an entire weekend, Francesca.”

  Dot did not seem to like the sound of his voice, because she glared at the door and stood up.

  “Dot, you must do your business,” Francesca said, sitting her back on the toilet seat.

  Dot shook her head, trying to punch Francesca. “Pee!” she shouted. “Pee!”

  Francesca decided Dot did not have to go, and it crossed her mind that Connie and Mrs. Partridge might be helpful here. She said, “Very well. Off you go to Peter.”

  Dot left the bathroom at a run, beelining for the big man who had tucked in his shirt and combed his wispy blond hair. She leaped at him.

  He caught her and put her on his shoulders and she laughed in delight, grabbing his ears.