Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  He avoided her eyes. “Fine.”

  Francesca stared and, knowing him so well, knew he was lying and that nothing was fine. “How are you?” A few days ago, he had been very angry and very upset. He had told her that his heart was the one that was broken. And that had simply made no sense.

  “Why don’t you go up?” He now looked at her. “I am going to read the morning papers, and then I have a board meeting.” He nodded and walked out.

  Francesca was left staring after him feeling rather uneasy. Today he had no wish to confess his feelings to her, but then, he was usually a private man. That slip the other day had been just that, an angry, emotional outburst. Francesca sighed. If Neil did not wish to confide in her, there was nothing she could do about it.

  But Connie was her best friend in the entire world. Francesca knew Connie as well as she knew herself. Connie never loitered in bed. She was the busiest woman Francesca knew, a wife, a mother, a socialite. Until recently, she had loved her husband, her children, her life. And she never overslept.

  Francesca turned and made her own way through the house and upstairs. Outside of Connie’s suite she paused. Not a sound from within could be heard. She knocked, but there was no answer. Stepping inside, she saw that the sitting room was hardly empty. Connie sat at her secretaire, but she was not writing. Instead, she had her chin on her hands and she was gazing down at Madison Avenue through gauzy parted curtains.

  “Con?”

  She whirled. “Oh, I did not hear you!” As always, even in a peignoir—which was stunning—Connie was breathtaking in her beauty and extremely elegant. Only Francesca’s sister could roll out of bed looking as if she were on her way to a ball.

  Connie was a platinum blonde with vivid blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a perfectly curved figure. Actually, Francesca and Connie were often thought to be twins, as they so resembled each other. The only differences between them in appearance were their height—Francesca was two inches taller—and Francesca’s coloring. Her hair was a rich honey gold, her skin as dusky.

  And of course, they were not alike at all. Not in character and not by nature or inclination.

  “You slept late today,” Francesca said softly. The pensive expression she had just witnessed had disappeared. “Are you all right? May I come in?”

  Connie nodded, standing. “I don’t feel quite myself. I decided not to get up,” she said, flushing, but with what emotion? Guilt? Then she smiled, and she seemed quite her normal self. “But I am glad to see you, Fran. Even if you are the one who is supposed to be in bed.” She shook her head with disapproval but continued to smile.

  “I simply could not stand another moment of confinement,” Francesca said, happy to see her sister behaving normally. “Are you going to get dressed?”

  “In a moment. So what brings you by?” Connie went to a cord by the door and pulled it; a bell would sound below stairs, alerting a servant that he or she was needed.

  “I need advice.” Francesca smiled, pulling up an ottoman and sitting upon it.

  “From me?” Connie was amused, settling on the sofa. “I do find that hard to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “If you wish my advice, this must be about a social event—or a man.”

  Francesca winced. “It is about both.”

  Connie studied her.

  Francesca hesitated. “You aren’t still flirting with Calder, are you?”

  Connie flushed. “No. He suddenly lost interest in our flirtation, I think. I haven’t heard from him in a week.”

  Francesca did not tell her that Hart had ceased chasing her because she, Francesca, had insisted he stop. But it wasn’t too long ago that he had ruthlessly been intending to seduce Connie and that Connie had been enjoying a very dangerous flirtation. It still disturbed Francesca no end whenever she recalled the two of them together at the Plaza, flirting so intently that they hadn’t even been aware that Francesca was present.

  But that was Hart. He could not seem to resist beautiful married women.

  “Why are you asking, Francesca?” Connie asked curiously.

  “Well, Mama has invited Calder for dinner on Sunday.” Connie merely gazed at her. “So?”

  Francesca fidgeted. “Mama is insane, Connie. She thinks to match me with Calder.”

  Connie almost fell off of the sofa. She had paled. “What?!”

  “I know. It is absurd. What should I do?”

  Connie stared.

  “Con?” Francesca’s unease grew. Did her sister still have a small fascination for Calder Hart? Was she jealous?

  Then Connie said, very thoughtfully, “You know, maybe that is not such an absurd idea, Fran.”

  Now it was Francesca’s turn to almost fall from the ottoman. “What?!”

  Connie shrugged. “He is the most eligible bachelor in this city. He is, I think, the wealthiest one. He does, eventually, have to marry.” She paused, contemplating the scenario. “Why not you?”

  Francesca was on her feet. “Because I am in love with someone else.”

  Connie stood. “You think you are in love!”

  “How dare you tell me how I am feeling?”

  “Fran! I am on your side, remember? And even if you have fallen truly in love with Rick Bragg, he is married, remember?”

  How could she ever forget? Francesca tried to inhale, with extreme difficulty. “Con, believe me, I know he is married. But he is separated—or have you forgotten?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he is separated or not. He isn’t available. You cannot ever marry him. So you cannot remain in love with him—and frankly, Hart is far more interesting, wouldn’t you say?” Connie demanded.

  Francesca backed up. “What would you say if I told you that Bragg has decided to divorce his wife?”

  “I would say that you are dreaming,” Connie said slowly. “A divorce would destroy him, his career, and you, because you would immediately become the other woman.”

  Connie was right. Francesca sat back down again. Bragg had told her that he was going to divorce his wife, but he had been extremely upset when he had said so, as she had just escaped the Cross Murderer’s efforts to murder her. And even so, Francesca had known the moment he spoke that a divorce was unthinkable, because his political future was more important than their personal one.

  “Did he really tell you he wants a divorce, Fran?” Connie asked quietly, seriously.

  Francesca nodded and looked up. She felt moisture gathering in her eyes. “I could never allow him to do it. He is destined for greatness, Con.”

  “Dear God, he really does love you.”

  Francesca nodded and could not speak. The magnitude of the sacrifice Bragg wished to make was simply incredible.

  Connie sat down and took her good hand. “Fran? No good can ever come of your love for Bragg, just as no good can ever come of a man’s divorce. I fear for you, Fran. I am afraid there is going to be so much heartbreak.”

  Francesca hugged her sister, hard. “You are going through your own ordeal, and still you worry about me and my foolish dreams,” she whispered.

  “Of course I worry about you.” Connie broke the embrace. “You are my headstrong little sister who is always leaping in front of trolleys and just barely getting out of the way.”

  Francesca smiled and wiped away a tear. “I have never jumped in front of a trolley.”

  “Then a Cross Murderer,” Connie amended. “Fran, Mama is very wise. Her matchmaking might not be a terrible idea.”

  Francesca shuddered. “Calder told me himself. He will never marry.”

  Connie raised both brows. “Famous last words,” she murmured.

  “I really am in love with Bragg.”

  Connie patted her hand. “I know you are. And it frightens me.”

  Francesca knew the moment would never be more opportune. She stared at her sister.

  “Uh-oh. What is it? You look ill.”

  This was her chance to tell her sister everything. “I am in a bit of trouble
,” Francesca said slowly.

  Connie became grim. “You are always in trouble, Fran.”

  “Not this kind,” Francesca whispered.

  Connie suddenly started. “You are not … pregnant, are you?”

  “No!” Francesca stood. “No, Con, we have been noble, Bragg and I, even if he is separated, even though he despises his wife, even though she left him and he has not seen her in four years.”

  “Thank God,” Connie said fervently.

  Francesca inhaled, meeting her sister’s gaze. “You are right. I am ill. I am ill with fear.” She opened her purse and withdrew a carefully folded note. She handed it to Connie. “I received this a few days ago. Read it,” she said.

  Connie unfolded the note and silently read it. It said:

  My dear Miss Cahill,

  I should be in New York City soon, and I wish to meet you at your convenience. I shall be staying at the Waldorf-Astoria when I arrive. I look forward to making your acquaintance.

  Yours Truly

  Mrs. Rick Bragg

  Slowly Connie looked up. She seemed stunned.

  Francesca smiled at her and felt how weak her smile was.

  “When did you receive this?” Connie asked.

  “It came by hand on Thursday,” Francesca said. “I have been telling myself that it is a joke, but the truth is, I know it isn’t a joke.”

  “I thought she was in Europe,” Connie said.

  “No, she is in Boston. Her father is very ill.” Francesca suddenly closed her eyes and laid her forehead on her hands. She had tried very hard to forget all about the note because it was too terrible to really contemplate.

  “Well,” Connie said, and Francesca did not look up, “someone has been gossiping.”

  Yes, that much was clear, Francesca thought. Someone had noticed the attraction she and Bragg shared and had decided to inform Leigh Anne. Someone was deliberately stirring up this particular hornets’ nest. “What does she want? Bragg and I have been as virtuous as possible, given the circumstances,” Francesca said grimly.

  “It’s obvious why she wishes to meet you. You are the other woman.”

  Francesca looked at her. “You are making it sound so sordid.”

  “It is sordid. There is nothing romantic about being the other woman, about being a man’s mistress,” Connie said firmly.

  Francesca stood. “I am not his mistress and that is horribly unfair. You yourself just remarked how much Bragg must love me, to think of throwing his entire life away for us.”

  “Nothing is going to change the fact that you are the other woman,” Connie said firmly.

  “Do you have a single romantic bone in your body?”

  Connie just looked at her. And as she did, something impossibly sad flitted through her eyes.

  In that instant, Francesca forgot about her own troubles—after all, she and Bragg had done their moral best to avoid giving in to their desire, so his wife was, in a way, barking up the wrong tree. But Connie was married, with two children, and what Francesca had just seen in her eyes was a result of Neil’s own misbehavior. “Connie, I am sorry; I am being unfair, burdening you with this.”

  “You are hardly being unfair—I’m your sister, Fran. I think you had better be prepared for a difficult and unpleasant interview. What will you say if she asks you directly about your feelings?”

  “I have no idea,” Francesca said. Abruptly she sat down. “I do wish I knew who has been whispering tales in her ear. I wonder if that person seeks to hurt me, Bragg, or Leigh Anne. And how could this have happened so quickly? Bragg and I just met on January the eighteenth. Leigh Anne has been in Boston for what? A week? I am almost thinking that somebody traveled up to Boston to spread his or her gossip!”

  “Her gossip,” Connie said firmly. “This is the work of another woman, Fran.”

  “Yes, I think you are right.”

  “Have you mentioned this to Bragg?”

  “No!”

  Connie simply looked at her and finally said, “Shouldn’t you?”

  Francesca could only gaze back at her. “I’m afraid to.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I think I keep hoping this note, and his wife, will simply go away—maybe back to Europe. I’m afraid of how she will affect our lives if she does come to New York.”

  “I do think she’s coming, Fran. The note is rather explicit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, if it were me, I would draw a line right in the sand. I am quite certain that is what she intends to do.”

  “What do you mean?” Francesca asked foolishly.

  Connie touched her. “There is no reason for her to want to meet you other than to tell you quite clearly to stay away from her husband. She does have every right,” she added gently.

  “No, she does not. She abandoned him, Con. She left him shortly after their marriage. She has taken a dozen lovers since. He did not wish for a separation. She has no rights!”

  “Actually, separated or not, she has every right, Fran. She is his legal wife.”

  Francesca sank down into a chair. She could not speak. Dear God, Connie was right.

  Leigh Anne Bragg had every right, no matter the state of her marriage, to hate Francesca and demand that she stay away from her husband. She had every right to come to New York and move right into No. 11 Madison Square! And in that moment Francesca felt sheer panic.

  “What is it?”

  “What if she moves in with him?”

  “Well, that seems doubtful, if they have been separated for four years.”

  Francesca was relieved. Of course Leigh Anne would stay at the Waldorf!

  Connie pulled up the chair from her secretaire and sat down there. “Francesca, I shall be blunt. Frankly, it is time for you to give up on Bragg and move on, romantically speaking.” Her tone was firm.

  Francesca stared. “Could you stop loving Neil?”

  Connie stood. “This conversation is about you, Fran, not me and Neil. I am glad now that Mama is encouraging a match with Calder. You must forget about Bragg. In fact, if you really love him, you will end your friendship with him.”

  “That is why I cannot end our friendship!” Francesca cried.

  “You are usually so clever,” Connie said with a shake of her head. “She is his wife, he is police commissioner—and headed for the United States Senate—and you are the other woman. You can hurt him terribly, Fran, if you continue this … liaison.”

  The truth was stunning. Francesca stared in shock. “But she is his Achilles’ heel,” she finally whispered. “If the public ever found out about his separation—”

  “No,” Connie said. She leaped to her feet and grabbed Francesca by the shoulders. “If the public learns they are separated, the answer is easy—a reconciliation. All will be forgiven. You are his Achilles’ heel, Francesca. He will never be forgiven for another woman. You are the one who can destroy him. If you love him, you must let him go!”

  Francesca hesitated. Bragg’s office door was open, and he was inside with the new chief of police, Brendan Farr. Bragg was listening intently while Farr, a tall, gray-haired man, seemed to be presenting a point. He spoke quickly and urgently, every now and then punctuating a word with a gesture of his hand.

  Bragg looked past Farr and his gaze locked with Francesca’s. He smiled.

  Farr stopped in midsentence, turning and clearly annoyed at the interruption.

  Bragg said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea, at the moment.”

  Farr whirled back to Bragg. In spite of the flash of annoyance and maybe anger that Francesca had just seen, he spoke with deference. “Very well.” He nodded at Bragg and then crossed the room.

  Francesca had not moved from where she stood on the threshold of the office. She was surprised to find herself instinctively tensing as he approached.

  He nodded politely. “Good day, Miss Cahill. I hope it is not police business which brings you here.” But he smiled, in spite of his inference that
she should not be involved in police affairs.

  She smiled brightly. “Absolutely not.” Of course, they both knew that there was no other valid reason for her to call on Bragg.

  His iron-gray eyes held hers, and when he smiled, it did not reach his eyes. And then he was gone. For one moment, Francesca stared after him. She hadn’t liked him when they had first met a few days ago, and now she realized that she did not trust him, but then, neither did Bragg.

  Farr had been a typically corrupt inspector before Bragg had taken control of the department. Now Bragg felt he would toe the straight and narrow line of virtue in order to please. Choosing which man to promote to the oh-so-importan position of chief of police had been a very difficult decision.

  “What brings you here?”

  Francesca started and met Bragg’s smile. Her heart seemed to accelerate its beat. Now she had his wife’s terrible note on her mind.

  Of course she had to tell him about it.

  She was afraid to even guess what his reaction would be. It had been so much easier to simply forget its very existence.

  “I had hoped to speak with you yesterday,” Francesca began. “But you were so busy with your family that it was simply impossible.”

  His gaze was warm and searching. No other man ever looked at her quite the same way. It was as if he wished to know exactly what she was thinking and it was also as if, in a very tender way, he found her amusing.

  His smile faded. He moved past her and closed the door.

  “Bragg?” She wondered if somehow she had said or done something wrong. He seemed so serious, so intent, now.

  “They like you,” he said flatly.

  “They do? They said so?”

  “No one had to say anything,” he said. “I could tell.”

  “I’m not sure Grace likes me,” she began.

  He silenced her by pulling her close. “Why are you up and about town again? Why aren’t you resting? What if your burn becomes infected? I am worried, Francesca.”

  She stared into his eyes and recalled Connie’s last words: You are his Achilles’ heel, Francesca. If you love him, you must let him go!