by Brenda Joyce
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 abandone
d 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-important 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!
"Tell me you are not here on police business, as Fan-suggested," Bragg whispered.
It was hard to shove Connie's words far away, to a place where she would not hear them, echoing with a horrible and fatal insistence. Francesca laid her hands on his hard chest. His suit jacket was open, and through his cotton shirt she felt muscle and bone and the pounding of his heart.
"I am guilty as charged," she whispered. And she felt his heart beat faster, harder.
"Why am I not surprised?" he asked in a husky tone. He cupped her face with one large palm. Their gazes locked.
And a little voice inside her head said, You had better tell him about the note or there will be hell to pay.
Of course, it was hard to listen to that inner voice, when he held her face and she felt his heart beating beneath her palm. She knew what its acceleration meant.
"What is it? You look so unhappy," he murmured.
She inhaled. This was her chance to tell him that Leigh Anne knew about their feelings and that she was on her way to New York. Francesca opened her mouth to begin but somehow could not get a word out.
For she had the most awful sense that when she did, it would change everything. That the entire world as she had known it since he had stepped into her house on January 18 would crumble and vanish forever. Suddenly she was gripping his shirt. "It's nothing," she began.
His eyes told her that he did not believe her, but before she could reaffirm what she had said his arm slid behind her and before she could take a breath she was in his arms, against his chest, and his mouth was on hers.
They hadn't kissed since the Channing ball. Francesca had forgotten how much she wanted to be with this man. But not this way, oh no. She wanted to be in his bed; she wanted to be unclothed; she wanted to consummate their relationship. She wanted to be his lover, desperately so.
You are his Achilles' heel... You are the one who can destroy him.
Their hearts thundered as one. His entire hard body fused with hers; his hands moved up and down her back, her bottom; her hands slid over his chest, his abdomen. His arousal ground against her hip. Somehow she was turned so her back was against the wall. He leaned all of his weight against her and she strained back against him. She almost hated her sister in that moment. Connie was wrong.
He suddenly ended the kiss, briefly hugging her, hard. In his arms she felt small, safe, and secure, in spite of the blood that continued to run like hot, bubbling lava in her veins. His face was buried against hers. His beard was merely a few hours old, but it was scratchy and delicious.
"I like your beard," she whispered.
"I love you," he returned.
And the echo began. You are his Achilles' heel...
"What is it?" he asked sharply.
Francesca had stiffened; now s
he pulled away. "Nothing."
He stared intently. "Something is bothering you."
She had never lied to him. She never would. "Sarah Channing is in trouble, Bragg." That was the truth. Still, there was nagging guilt.
For one moment he was surprised, and then, all business, he said, "What happened?"
Francesca felt a surge of relief. "Someone broke into her studio and went on a rampage. Her work has been destroyed, and in general, the studio is quite unusable now."
His gaze remained on hers. "Is she all right? Was anyone hurt? Has it been reported to the police?"
"Sarah is extremely upset, as is Mrs. Channing. No one was hurt, and Mrs. Channing did report the crime." She hesitated. "An Inspector O'Connor is in charge. Actually, it happened between midnight Thursday and yesterday morning at five-fifteen."
He absorbed that. "So that is why you came by yesterday?"
She nodded.
Then, "Dare I ask how it is that you are involved when you have been told to remain at home and preferably in bed for an entire week?"
"She is my friend! My brother's fiancée!" she exclaimed. "Of course I am involved!"
"Francesca," he began firmly.
"Bragg, stop. You know Sarah. Her life is her work. She is the victim of a strange crime—a strange and angry attack! I cannot sit by and do nothing! The real question is, Why? Why would anyone harbor a grudge or be angry with Sarah Channing?"
Bragg sighed. "It seems very odd, I agree."
"I do have one theory," Francesca added.
He smiled, briefly and reluctantly. "Please."
She told him about the fact that Sarah had become engaged to her brother and that perhaps a jealous young woman had struck out at her.
He gave her an interested and thoughtful look, started to pace toward his desk, and then whirled.
Francesca turned to see what had so captured his interest.
The door was now open and Lucy Savage stood there, wide-eyed and intent.
She smiled quickly, but she was looking from the one to the other. "I knocked, but no one heard me, so I came in." Her glance moved between them again.
Which brother do you love?
That was not a question Francesca wished to recall, not ever and especially not now. But surely Lucy had not been outside that door when Bragg had been kissing her as if it were the end of the world. How much had she seen? How much had she heard?