Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  “No! You have been teasing me mercilessly for days!”

  Very carefully he said, “You make it sound reprehensible. As if marriage is the ultimate fall from grace.”

  “In your own way, you are pursuing me the way you have the others!” she cried. “Ruthlessly . . . seductively . . . selfishly! The only difference is that your goal with them was to bed them once or twice, and with me, it is to enslave me as your wife!”

  He stiffened.

  She saw the dangerous look on his face and in his eyes and knew she had gone too far.

  “Enslave? I have no wish to enslave you, my dear.”

  “I didn’t quite mean that,” she retracted as quickly as possible.

  “You meant it. You are a woman of passion and you always speak what is in your heart. Francesca, good night.” He wheeled away.

  “And you are always running away from our fights!” she shouted after him. If she’d had a dinner plate in her hand, she would have thrown it at his head—and not missed.

  He whirled back. “Because you provoke me beyond all reason and I do not trust myself,” he ground out, striding toward her now.

  Fear assailed her—she shrank back from him, against the wall.

  But he didn’t stop until he was pressing her against it. “I am tempted to do as you wish—to make love to you until you can’t even walk! And do you know what?” he demanded unpleasantly, furiously.

  She was afraid. She was afraid of his next words, for she sensed a cruel blow.

  And she was right. “I have not a single doubt that if I seduced you tonight, you would be begging me tomorrow to be my wife.”

  She gasped.

  “And that would make my life a lot easier now, wouldn’t it? But I happen to be taking the high road. The difficult road. Only you refuse to see it or believe it.” He turned and walked out. “Think what you want. You always do,” he said, not looking over his shoulder.

  She didn’t respond. There was no response she could make.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—10:00 P.M.

  She heard an odd nose, almost a gasp, from the adjacent bedroom.

  Catherine Holmes strained to hear, suddenly wide awake. But now silence filled her small, dark bedroom.

  It didn’t matter. She was terrified.

  Because she had lied to the lady investigator and the police. She spent half of her waking moments in that rocking chair, looking wistfully out the window onto the street. Watching her neighbors and friends, watching strangers and thieves. How often had her mother chastised her for yearning for the outside world? Too late, she knew her mother was right. For she had seen what she should not see, what she must not see, she had seen a man, and she had seen his face.

  For one split second, when he had torn the odd transparent mask from his face.

  On Monday night, at seven o’clock.

  Catherine Holmes sat up, trembling. She reminded herself that the door to the apartment was bolted from inside. The windows were locked. No one could get in. She strained to see through the shadows filling up her small bedroom. She kept her door open, in case her mother called out to her in the middle of the night, but she could not even see the threshold.

  But he had looked back and he had seen her, sitting with her nose pressed to the window glass. She didn’t simply know it. Their gazes had met, locked.

  “Mother?” Catherine tried nervously. She reached for the small domed candle at her bedside. She fumbled for matches, lifted the dome. She could not light the candle. “Mother?” she called out, loudly now.

  There was no answer.

  She struck the match a third time, but her trembling hands refused to allow her to light the candle. There had been dark comprehension in his eyes.

  Catherine heard a creaking, a familiar sound, from the oak floorboards in the parlor. She tensed. This time, she did not call for her mother.

  No one was in the apartment. It was a mouse.

  She slipped from the bed, wearing only a cotton nightgown, her long auburn hair in a single braid. Now she regretted not telling Miss Cahill and the commissioner what she had seen—and who it was.

  Because she had recognized him instantly.

  Just as he had recognized her.

  And there was only one explanation for the mask he had been wearing as he came out of the building. He was Grace Conway’s killer. It was too shocking for words.

  She had asked herself time and again, But why? What possible reason could there have been? For she knew he was not mad. Or was he?

  Her mouth was dry. Catherine paused to take a sip of water from the chipped mug that she kept beside her narrow bed. In doing so, she turned away from her bedroom doorway.

  His hands went around her throat. “Screaming is useless,” he said.

  She gasped, as he was choking her, and she knew, in that instant, that he intended to strangle her as he had Miss Conway. “No,” she choked.

  His hand clamped over her mouth, he pushed her against the wall, somehow, with one hand, keeping an unbearable pressure on her throat. She couldn’t breathe. He was choking her to death. And then she stiffened, a harsh sound escaping her, as he shoved his male hardness up against her buttocks. He started rubbing himself slowly there.

  She was terrified now of rape. Rape, then death . . . Dear God, she would rather die first!

  “Is it good?” he said thickly, shoving against her harder, faster now. “You like it, don’t you, whore? You’re all whores.”

  Silently, as she could not breathe, much less speak, she begged him for pity, for mercy, for life.

  He began to tell her what he would like to do to her—except that she wasn’t worth it. But blackness was descending like a curtain over her mind, and she could not make out his every word. She begged God now for her life.

  Silk whispered around her throat.

  For one instant, she thought her prayers had been answered.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—10:00 P.M.

  FRANCESCA WAS TIRED. IT had been a long, even difficult day. Hart had loaned her a carriage and driver with which to whisk her and Ellie home, and Francesca had actually considered going directly to the Cahill mansion. She had quickly negated the idea. It was late, but she had been at Bragg’s when it was later, and he still didn’t know about her interview with Bertrand Hoeltz and that Melinda Neville was his lover. Bragg lived at Number Eleven Madison Square, just a stone’s throw from Madison Park. Francesca had just asked Ellie to wait for her, telling her that she would not be very long, but the woman had fallen asleep on the seat beside her, wrapped up in a heavy cloak borrowed from Grace Bragg.

  Francesca smiled a little, pleased that she could do a good deed and help someone in difficulty, and she climbed down from the carriage. The man sitting in the driver’s box was awaiting her orders, and she said, “I suspect I shall be about twenty minutes.”

  Francesca hurried up the short brick walk to Bragg’s brownstone. The building had been built several decades ago and was typically Victorian—the roof was gabled, the facade brick, the rooms within small, the stairwell narrow. Her knock was answered instantly by Peter, Bragg’s man.

  Francesca smiled at him. He was a huge Swede, perhaps six inches over six feet tall and quite wide with brawn and muscle. Francesca knew he was a jack-of-all-trades—at times a butler, a valet, a cook, or a housekeeper. Once Bragg had thought to foist him on her as a bodyguard.

  Peter hardly ever smiled and he hardly ever spoke. He nodded. “Good evening, Miss Cahill.” If he was surprised to see her at this hour, he gave no sign.

  Francesca stepped inside a small, poorly lit foyer, as only one small lamp was on, sitting upon a side table against the wall, beneath a mirror. The steep, narrow staircase was just ahead and to her left, a dark runner there. Directly down the hall was the parlor, and the door was open, but the room was also dark. To its right was Bragg’s office. His door, she saw, was shut.

  Light, however, came from th
e dining room’s open doorway on her right, beyond which was the kitchen.

  Francesca had stopped by earlier that day. Bragg was fostering two young girls whose mother had been murdered by the Cross Killer. Francesca had arranged it, and her mother had arranged for their nanny, Mrs. Flowers. Not a day went by that Francesca did not spend an hour or two with Dot, who was two, and Katie, who was six. Permanent arrangements had yet to be made for the pair.

  “Did Katie eat her supper?” she asked. Katie had been very distressed when she had first come to Bragg’s, and not eating had been her way of evincing it.

  Peter smiled. It was a rare sight indeed. “Every morsel.”

  Francesca was impressed. “And has Dot behaved herself?”

  “Always,” he said, with a straight face now and laughter in his eyes.

  Francesca did not even try to imagine what mischief the vivacious toddler had got into. “Is Bragg in his office?” she asked.

  “I am afraid he is out for the evening,” Peter said.

  Francesca blinked. “Do you know when he will be back, Peter? There really is a lead I wish to discuss with him.”

  “He said ten or eleven, Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca hesitated. “Do you mind if I wait? Perhaps I can sneak upstairs and kiss the girls.”

  He didn’t look pleased with that.

  “I do promise not to wake them,” she added, smiling. He nodded. “Should I bring you a tea or a sherry or a glass of wine?”

  “No. I am fine. Thank you.” Francesca started for the stairs and tripped over an object upon the floor.

  Peter quickly gripped her arm. Francesca saw that she had stumbled over a small valise. Now she realized a large trunk and another valise, medium-sized, were all lined up beside the stairs. Her heart skipped. “Bragg is going out of town?” she asked quickly.

  “He did not say,” Peter commented.

  Francesca was disturbed. Every hair on her nape prickled with warning and alarm. She bent down. The small valise was a dark red, she saw, and it was definitely a woman’s bag.

  There was a name tag encased in leather on the trunk. She seized it. It read: MRS. RICK BRAGG.

  She inhaled. Her mind scrambled for excuses. Leigh Anne was leaving town—which was why her bags were there, in Bragg’s house, at the bottom of the stairs. Perhaps he was taking her to the Boston train first thing in the morning!

  But why weren’t her bags at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where she was staying?

  Francesca was grim. She turned and stared at Peter. It was a moment before she could speak. “Do you know why Mrs. Bragg has her trunks here?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said impassively. “The commissioner did not say.”

  She wet her lips. “When did these bags arrive?”

  “Around six this evening, Miss Cahill.”

  She reached for and gripped the newel post on the smooth wooden banister of the stairs. So it had finally happened. Bragg had reconciled with his wife. She reminded herself that this had been inevitable—that it was right. She had no cause to be upset or to feel betrayed.

  The front door opened. As it did, a woman’s voice sounded, distinct, cultured, soft . . . pretty. There was a teasing note in her tone.

  Francesca turned as Bragg’s familiar slightly rough and terse voice responded, “I do not know what Mrs. Lowe intends, Leigh Anne.”

  Francesca held on harder to the banister. But she was upset. Because she could not turn off her feelings as simply as one did a water faucet. Why hadn’t he told her?

  “Francesca!” Bragg halted in his tracks.

  She meant to smile. But she could not, so she stared instead.

  They made a striking couple. He was tall and golden; she was small and dark.

  “Miss Cahill!” his beautiful wife cried, hurrying forward. “Is everything all right? Are you all right, my dear?”

  Francesca recovered. “I have come to discuss a new lead with . . . your husband,” she said briskly. “But I can see that I have come at an inopportune time.”

  “Oh!” Leigh Anne had paused before her, handing off her silver chinchilla fur coat to Peter. She wore a silver gown beneath, one gorgeous in its design and one that revealed her perfect yet petite figure—and a great deal of surprisingly voluptuous bosom. Of course Bragg would remain attracted to her. What man wouldn’t?

  “Well, why don’t you and Rick go into the parlor and I shall send in some refreshments?” Leigh Anne smiled pleasantly. “I don’t really know what is lying about in the kitchen, as I have only just moved in, but I am certain I can come up with something. Peter? Do help.”

  She had moved in. Francesca was not surprised. She had known it the moment she had seen those bags. It was really, truly, finally over.

  Leigh Anne had started for the dining room doorway. Bragg came forward, draping his greatcoat on the chair beside the side table. “Francesca,” he said urgently.

  “I think this can wait until tomorrow,” she managed, and she hurried past him, through the entry hall, and out the door into the night. The sorrow overwhelmed her then. What had she been thinking, to carry on even if only emotionally with a married man? But could she really let go? Did she even want to?

  “Francesca!” Bragg cried, chasing her.

  She turned to face him. “I am happy for you, for you both, Rick. You deserve a marriage, a family—you deserve happiness.” And that noblest part of her meant it.

  “It is only for six months,” he said.

  “What?” Hope flared. And past his shoulder, she saw Leigh Anne in the doorway of his house, watching them.

  “Leigh Anne offered me an arrangement. One I am getting in writing, Francesca,” he said, his tone low and urgent. “She will live with me for six months, and then I am free. Then she will give me a divorce,” he said in a rush.

  She was stunned. “I don’t understand.”

  He grimaced. “I do believe she thinks that after six months, I will change my mind.”

  Her mind sped and raced, but uselessly, in confusion. Until she realized that Leigh Anne was probably right. “Of course you will. You still love her.”

  “That’s not true,” he said angrily. His eyes flashed. “I despise her. She is very clever, that is all. My feelings for you haven’t changed,” he added.

  She stared. It was a long and even sadder moment before she spoke. “No, Rick, I think you should face the truth. You love her, not me. And that is as it should be.”

  “You dare to tell me who I carry with me in my heart, minute by minute and day after day? It is you, Francesca. You are the one I think about, yearn for, dream of. You are the one who makes me laugh and smile. You have always been the one to put a smile in my heart.” He added, “And I hate it when you call me Rick!”

  She finally pulled away from him. “Don’t do this. Not now. Not anymore.” And Hart’s knowing, mocking image filled her mind. It clearly said, I told you so.

  “I am not asking you to wait,” Bragg said. “But damn it, I am not going to lie to you, either.”

  “You are lying to yourself. I simply do not know why,” she said, but she was torn. A part of her wished to discourage his marriage—to tell him what he wanted to hear. “Hatred and love—both extreme passion . . . and, as Calder has said, the opposite sides of the same coin.”

  He stared, his eyes agonized. “Not in this case.”

  “Have you slept with her?” Francesca asked, and then could not believe the burning question had popped out. But she had to know. And terribly, she recalled the fact that just an hour or so ago, she had finally been kissed by Calder Hart.

  He was clearly taken aback. “No.”

  Francesca shook off her sudden guilt. But what had happened at Hart’s was not the issue, not now. And she would analyze that incident later. “But you will. Don’t deny it. I see the way you look at her.”

  “Francesca, men are different from women. A man can sleep with a woman he has no feelings for.”

  “I am aware of that. Bu
t more important, we don’t get to choose whom we fall in love with,” she said sadly.

  “You are being as bullheaded as ever,” he snapped. “I am allowing Leigh Anne to live in my household for exactly six months. And after that, she will agree to a divorce and I shall be free. I should have told you. But we concluded this arrangement only today. For God’s sake! I have been in shock myself, trying to adjust to the fact of my wife’s return—and her very clever manipulations.”

  “I think she still harbors love for you, too.” In fact, Francesca had little doubt now.

  “She loves only herself.” His anger vanished, his tone became pleading instead. “I don’t want you leaving this way. No matter what happens, we are friends.”

  She realized she was hugging herself. She glanced past him and saw that his wife had left the door and it was now closed. And suddenly she wondered if she and Bragg could really remain friends. It now seemed a monumental task.

  She knew he wanted reassurance from her—that she would be his friend no matter what happened—but she was not up to the task of offering comfort now. She tried a small smile instead. “I’ll drop by headquarters tomorrow. There is a new development you should know about. It’s late. I have to go, Bragg. If my mother sees me when I come in, I am in serious trouble.”

  He didn’t smile. He clearly couldn’t.

  Francesca hesitated, kissed his cheek, felt her heart suddenly break, and walked off to Hart’s waiting carriage.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1902—10:00 A.M.

  She knocked gingerly on his closed office door. Headquarters was oddly silent that morning—no telephones were ringing, and she had heard only one telegraph. Voices were kept low, in a murmur. It was as if everyone were in mourning. Or was she the one in mourning and the atmosphere prevailing her imagination?

  Bragg briskly called out. “Come in!”

  She opened the frosted glass door hesitantly. She had spent most of the night tossing and turning, first thinking about him and then, against her will, considering Hart. She had gone over and over the memories she and Bragg had made. Every few moments, Hart’s nearly black eyes would intrude, their message clear: I told you so. He had been warning her that she was headed for ruin as long as she loved Rick Bragg for some time now—ever since they had first met. Then his eyes would change, turning to gray smoke. Furious—not wanting to think about the sensual interlude of that evening—she would jerk her thoughts back where they belonged. Hart’s dire predictions were wrong. She wasn’t ruined, not in the traditional sense of the word, but her heart had been broken, not even once but several times over, in fact.