Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  Suddenly Francesca realized she was intruding upon a very special moment. She felt herself flush and would have signaled to him and quickly backed away, but the room had fallen stunningly silent. His mother, his father, and his half sister all turned to look at her. Then so did the swarthy boy and the two toddlers.

  It was an awful and embarrassing moment.

  “Gimme!” The gibberish was a feminine shriek.

  Francesca blinked and saw the little golden-haired girl on the floor pointing an accusing finger at her brother, who remained in her grandfather’s arms. The little boy held a toy horse.

  “Mama!” came another ear-shattering cry.

  Lucy rushed over, scolding the little girl gently and lifting her quickly up. She turned and stared again at Francesca.

  “Francesca.” Bragg strode forward and their eyes locked instantly. “Is everything all right?” he asked quietly, pausing before her in the doorway. His gaze was now searching and concerned. He, of course, knew she was under house arrest or, at least, the doctor’s arrest.

  “Yes. No. I am intruding … . I had no idea,” she said breathlessly, tearing her gaze from his—never an easy task—and finding herself still the center of all attention. She felt her cheeks flaming. She had so wanted to meet his parents, but not like this, absolutely unprepared and flustered and undone.

  But he gripped her arm. “Come in. I want you to meet everyone.” His subsequent smile went right through her. It was so warm it could melt a block of Hudson River ice. He sent her another glance, and Francesca knew that he knew she wished to discuss a business matter with him.

  But then, it was always this way. He seemed to be able to discern her thoughts so effortlessly.

  “Rathe, Grace, I’d like you to meet Miss Francesca Cahill. She has become a good friend of mine. In fact, she is passionately dedicated to reform.” He smiled at his stepmother. “You both have a lot in common.”

  His father was regarding Francesca with open interest, at once curious and kind. She felt certain that Bragg would look exactly like Rathe in thirty years. His mother, however, was not smiling. In fact, she was looking from Bragg to Francesca and back again, her brows knitted.

  And Francesca’s world seemed to tilt wildly beneath her feet. She desperately wanted his parents to like her. She wished Grace was not looking at her with suspicion. Francesca tried to smile and failed. Grace knew. Somehow, she knew they were not simply friends and professional partners.

  “Hello,” Rathe said amiably, his eyes the same shade of amber as his son’s. “It is good to meet you, Miss Cahill. I do believe I have dined with your father on several occasions, most recently in Washington at a fund-raiser for President Roosevelt.”

  Her interest was piqued. “I remember when Papa went. I begged to join him, as I am a huge supporter of the president.” She was rueful. “I was refused.”

  “Andrew made a mistake; the evening was an interesting one.” His smile was identical to his son’s. “Are you the woman who helped my son bringing Randall’s killer to justice?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” Would he—they—approve or disapprove of her sleuthing?

  “We read the New York papers even when we are not in New York,” Rathe said with an infectious grin and two deep dimples. “Did I not hear something about a fry pan?”

  Francesca had apprehended this particular killer with a large iron pan. “There was no other weapon available to me,” she managed.

  “Francesca is no ordinary debutante. She has been indispensable to several police investigations,” Bragg said, sending her a smile.

  Francesca’s heart turned over and she looked at him, absurdly pleased. “Thank you.”

  “But it is the truth,” he said simply.

  “Surely you are not a professional sleuth?” Grace asked quietly.

  Francesca started, facing the older woman. She felt like a delinquent schoolgirl. In fact, sleuthing had ceased being a hobby when she had been hired by Lydia Stuart to solve a case. And now Mrs. Channing had requested her services. But her parents were close with the Braggs, and as far as Francesca was concerned, they must never find out about her new profession.

  Bragg saved the day. “Francesca has fallen into several investigations, purely by chance,” he said.

  She sent him a grateful smile. She had no intention of ever lying to either one of his parents.

  “And I am Lucy, Lucy Savage.” The beautiful redhead put her daughter down and came swiftly forward. She extended her hand. Francesca took it. “Rick is my brother. I am so pleased to meet you!” She smiled widely, but her blue eyes were filled with curiosity. “I am very impressed. I have never met a sleuth before, especially not a female one.”

  Instantly Francesca liked her. “Are those two adorable children yours?”

  Lucy laughed. “Yes, and so is Roberto. But the twins are hardly adorable—they try the patience of everyone who attempts to contain them! They are twin hurricanes, truly. They do take after their father,” she added. “Roberto, come meet Miss Cahill.”

  The dark-skinned boy came forward and politely shook Francesca’s hand. He did not seem at all related to the rest of the family, and Francesca wondered if he was related by blood and, if not, how he fit in.

  “We live in Texas. That is where my wonderfully impossible husband, Shoz, and my grandparents, Derek and Miranda Bragg, are. Paradise, Texas.” Lucy grinned. “And believe me, it is a little piece of paradise, right here on earth! I am on a bit of a holiday,” she said brightly. “At the very last moment I could not resist a trip to the big city! So tell me how you solved the murder.”

  “Lucy, Francesca has just stepped through the door, hardly expecting to find a Bragg reunion in progress, not to mention my extremely garrulous little sister. Can you slow down?” Bragg asked with a fond shake of his head.

  “Perhaps I can show you the city,” Francesca said, now glancing at Grace Bragg again. She was watching Francesca carefully, not missing a single word, as if carefully sizing her up. Francesca prayed she would like her. She sensed this woman would not fall for any tricks and that she would not be easy to impress, either.

  “Oh, that would be fun,” Lucy said. “Of course, I did grow up here—before my handsome husband abducted me and carried me off to Death Valley.” She grinned.

  Francesca blinked, diverted. “Death Valley? He abducted you?”

  “It is a long story,” Bragg remarked calmly, before Lucy could speak.

  “But I want to hear about how you caught the man who murdered Hart’s father!” Lucy cried. “When shall we get together? What about right now?”

  “Lucy,” this from Rathe, and his tone was fatherly and stern. But he was smiling, and he said to Francesca, “My daughter is a whirlwind. She was born that way—and marriage and children have not calmed her down.”

  Francesca smiled. Lucy sent her a conspiratorial glance that meant, “ignore him.” Then, “What happened to your hand?” she asked.

  Francesca hesitated, instinctively looking at Bragg.

  “I can answer that one,” a voice from the doorway said.

  Francesca froze. The voice had been lazy and sensual in tone. There was only one man who spoke in such a languid and amused drawl.

  “Calder!” Lucy shrieked, flying past Francesca. She turned and watched the gorgeous redhead mauling Calder Hart.

  And he was grinning—a flash of very white teeth in extremely swarthy skin. He lifted Lucy off of her feet. “I like that greeting,” he said, and it was brazenly flirtatious.

  Francesca realized in that moment that they were not really related. Bragg and Calder were half brothers, but they shared the same mother, not the same father. Hart did not have one drop of Bragg blood in his veins. She felt paralyzed and oddly annoyed.

  “Keep looking at me that way and Shoz will kill you,” Lucy breathed, grinning up at him and still in his arms.

  “But you like keeping him on his toes,” Hart said easily, looking pleased with himself. “And he’s
an old man now.”

  “He is very jealous,” Lucy said, clearly with satisfaction. “But he isn’t so old that he can’t teach you a thing or two.” She did grin.

  “You are probably right.” Slowly Hart released Lucy, and finally he looked directly at Francesca.

  She flushed.

  “So much for bedrest,” he said. And then he shrugged, as if it was not his problem, as if he did not give a damn. He looked at Rick. “We should have bet on her. I was going to give her three or four days. Clearly, I would have lost.”

  “Calder,” Bragg said tersely with an abrupt nod of his head. He wasn’t thrilled to see his brother and it was obvious.

  Hart entered the room, as always a rather devastating sight. He was darkly, dangerously handsome, and he favored brilliant white shirts and pitch-black suits. Only he could carry off such a look and not look like a funeral home manager.

  Grace was smiling—and tears sparkled on her lashes behind her spectacles. She had taken both Hart and Bragg in when their mother had died when they were young boys. She cupped Hart’s cheek. “Why has it been so long? Why, Calder?”

  Hart hesitated. “It is good to see you,” he said, and Francesca was startled, as she had never seen Hart unsure of himself before. He was usually terribly—insufferably—arrogant.

  “It is wonderful to see you! Are you sure you don’t mind all of us staying with you? I hate to inconvenience you,” Grace said softly.

  He shrugged again, but now he was flushing. “God knows I have plenty of room.”

  His house was the size of a museum, Francesca thought.

  Rathe had clasped Hart’s shoulder, as warm as Hart was stiff. “You are looking well. It is good to see you, Son.”

  Hart nodded, turning away quickly, so no one would see how emotional he was. But Francesca had seen, and she suspected he had a tear or two in his eyes.

  She realized that Bragg was watching her. She felt guilty, so she smiled at him, but he did not smile back.

  Hart had turned to Lucy. “Francesca fancies herself a sleuth,” he said lightly. He gave her a disapproving glance. “She likes to put herself in danger—I imagine the rush is rather similar to that experienced by gamblers … or illicit lovers.”

  Francesca frowned at him. “Please.” She did not need this now.

  Bragg sighed in exasperation. “Enough, Calder.”

  He ignored his brother. “Do you not get a rush of adrenaline when you confront a maddened criminal, Francesca?” Hart drawled. “A rush that I imagine is exactly the same as when you are wildly kissing the man of your dreams?” Both dark brows slashed upward. As he had practically caught her in Bragg’s arms at the Channing ball a few days ago—the cause of his commissioning her portrait—she knew he was referring to the passion she felt for his brother.

  Hart was purposefully putting her on the spot. He was purposefully referring to the fact that she and Bragg were in love—which he thought was lust and nothing more. She felt like slapping him—but she had done that once and would never do so again. “The only rush I get is one of fear,” she snapped. “Fear, Hart, not excitement, fear.”

  He laughed. “I somehow doubt that.” He turned to Lucy, who was wide-eyed. “She enjoys danger. Soon, no doubt, it will become an addiction—if it hasn’t already.”

  “Calder, do you wish to upset Miss Cahill?” Grace finally spoke with quiet censure.

  Hart looked at his stepmother. “If my brother can’t keep her in line, then someone should.”

  Francesca found herself rushing to the rescue even though she was angry with Hart. “He hasn’t upset me, Mrs. Bragg. I am sure that he doesn’t wish to be abrasive. It is just a character defect.” She smiled sweetly at Hart. “And do not blame Bragg—Rick—for my actions. That is completely unfair.”

  He sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Of course you defend him.”

  Bragg stepped between them, but he faced Hart. “This was an extremely pleasant gathering until you arrived, Calder. As always, you enter a room and do your best to cause trouble.”

  But Hart was speaking. “Oh, so now the fact that you allow her to engage in police work is my fault?” Hart shook his head.

  “That’s enough,” Rathe said firmly. “Company is present—and the two of you haven’t changed at all. It’s like watching you both when you were boys. What’s next? Fists and blows?”

  Grace looked at her, Francesca. The older woman’s eyes were wide and intent and … . accusing? But just what could she be accusing her of?

  “I’m sorry,” Bragg said instantly, to his father. “And you’re right. We’re acting like children.”

  “I apologize.” Hart actually seemed sincere. “In fact, I give up.” He looked directly at Francesca. “If you wish to endanger yourself, it is not my affair.” He shrugged. “If you and Rick wish to rush around the city together, chasing murderers, so be it.” He did not smile. His eyes had become black. “Who knows? Next time instead of a mere burn, perhaps one of these madmen will place a bullet in you.” His gaze locked with hers.

  “I think I had better go,” Francesca said tersely.

  “I’ll walk you down,” Lucy said quickly, rushing to her side. “Mother, please watch the children for me, just for a moment.”

  “I think Francesca can find her way downstairs,” Bragg said firmly. Then he gave her an odd look. And there was a question in his eyes.

  “I did want to speak with you, but it can wait until later,” Francesca said. She truly wanted to escape, and as much as she liked Lucy, she wasn’t ready for a tête-à-tête with his sister. Perhaps she would call Bragg later on the telephone and fill him in on what had happened at the Channings’.

  “Rick will lend you his Daimler,” Lucy said, whipping her coat off a wall peg. “Isn’t that right, Rick?”

  “Peter will take you home.” Peter was his man, and Francesca had come to realize that he was a jack-of-all-trades. “Lucy, Francesca has a burned hand. My understanding is that she is supposed to be at home for the entire week.” He spoke quite calmly. “Do not try and subvert her good intentions.”

  “And to think I was under the impression that she was to remain in bed,” Hart murmured.

  Francesca flushed, even though his meaning had to have been innocent.

  “I am merely walking her to the roadster,” Lucy said demurely. “At least we can chat a bit.”

  Bragg capitulated. “Fine. But mind your manners, Lucy.”

  She shook her head. “I am a grown woman, Rick, not a child.”

  “I know.” His smile was an affectionate one. “Mind your manners,” he repeated.

  She groaned and rolled her eyes.

  Francesca turned toward his parents. “It was so nice to meet you.” Then she glanced at Hart. He wasn’t even looking at her. He was studying his fingernails, as if an insect had appeared upon them, making them a fascinating sight indeed.

  “It was a pleasure, Francesca,” Rathe said, smiling. Grace also smiled at her.

  Lucy grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hall. “Well, you survived, and admirably, I think.” She grinned.

  Francesca was now weak-kneed. She realized she had been perspiring. And she might never forgive Hart for trying to humiliate her in front of the Braggs. “Do you think so? I mean, do you think your parents like me?” She and Lucy entered the elevator cage.

  “What’s not to like?” Lucy asked, hauling the cage door shut. She faced her. “So? What is going on?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.

  “What?” Francesca had not a clue as to what Lucy was speaking about, but her tone caused no small amount of apprehension.

  “Are you in love with my brother?” she cried.

  The question was like a blow—right between the eyes. “What?”

  Lucy grabbed her arm. “Are you in love with my brother?” she repeated. “And if so … which one?”

  Three

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1902 — 4:00 P.M.

  The elevator began to descend. Fra
ncesca was certain she had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

  Lucy was staring, her eyes eager and wide. “Are you in love with Rick … or Calder?”

  Francesca could not believe her ears. What was she talking about?

  Lucy shook her head, suddenly amused. “Wait—you don’t know?”

  “What are you talking about?” Was she mad? Yes, Francesca was in love with Bragg—for she hadn’t known he was married when they had met and begun working together on the Burton Abduction. He had been a perfect gentleman, but she had fallen hopelessly in love with him as they tried to decipher clue after puzzling clue. For he was everything she admired in a man. In fact, even now, those who knew him and his marital status had to admit that if he were eligible, he and Francesca would be perfect for each other.

  Hart had said that, too.

  What was Lucy thinking? Hart was only a friend, and often an insufferable one, at that—as he had just proven moments ago.

  “I am talking about the fact that Rick clearly admires you in a way that is not platonic. But Hart obviously cares about you, too, which is something I have never seen before. And while you clearly adore Rick, I see the way that you look at Calder. But, of course, most women are mesmerized by Calder.” She shrugged. “I know I am being very blunt—”

  “You are!” Francesca cried, suddenly panic-stricken. The elevator had stopped, but she did not notice. All she could recall now was the way Hart had looked at her at the Channing ball when she had been wearing that horrid and provocative red dress. She was the least fashionable woman that she could think of, as she preferred navy blue skirts and white shirtwaists or a tailored ensemble. When Hart had seen her in her new and extremely daring red gown, a gown that had not suited her at all, as she was not a siren, he had looked at her the way a man looks at a woman that he wants. It was precisely then that he had, finally, found her alluring. It was in that single moment that a dangerous and ugly beast had raised its head between them—one that would not now go away.

  Francesca wished the moment had never happened.

  She regretted ever wearing that red dress.