Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  His eyes widened, remaining dangerously hard. “So he has convinced you of my utter immorality, my complete depravity, at last.”

  “He has done no such thing!” she cried.

  “No? You are the one person who has always believed in me, Francesca.”

  She squirmed. He was right. She knew he had a good side—she had seen it too many times. “But you threw your intentions in his face.”

  “Yes, I did. But only after he had aggravated me beyond all self-control! He is always telling me to stay away from you—ordering me, as if I were still a small and pitiful orphan crying for his mama. I do not take orders from him. And he has no rights where you are concerned, not any more. Not since his wife moved back in.”

  She wanted to believe that Hart had mistakenly told Bragg of his plans, and that it had not been a deliberate part of his war. But Hart’s version of events and Bragg’s were seriously at odds.

  “I fear we shall always fight over you, Francesca,” he added suddenly, darkly.

  “No, because I shall not allow it. I simply shall not.”

  Hart suddenly began to smile. “If anyone can end our bitter rivalry, maybe, in a way, it could be you.”

  She almost smiled. Instead, she sobered. Somehow she had had the courage to ask him if he was using her to hurt Bragg, but she did not know whether to believe him or not. Suddenly it occurred to her that she would never know the truth. He was the ultimate player in all kinds of games of power and morals. If he wished to bluff, she would not be able to ever reveal his hand—not unless he wished her to.

  She stirred. There was simply too much that was unknown and enigmatic and dangerous about Calder Hart.

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” he said softly, taking her hand. “But when I see how quickly you melt for my brother, it infuriates me,” he said.

  She had been about to draw her hand away, not because she remained angry, but because the night was still and close, and her pulse had quickened erratically in response to all that she did not know about the man sitting beside her. She hesitated, not wanting to annoy him further. “I have always been honest with you. I am not going to start to dissemble now. There will always be strong feelings between Rick and me. We will always be the best of friends and you cannot change that.”

  He was unmoving. “Of course. As the two of you are the perfect match. Never mind that he has reconciled with his wife.”

  “Please don’t lash out at me,” she said quietly, but his truthful words hurt.

  “I am sorry. But I am not the one who failed to reveal his marital status until it was too late. I am not the one who has already broken your heart and disappointed you, several times, I might add. I am not the one who stands deliberately between us, while taking a very beautiful wife to bed, day and night.”

  She recoiled. “He isn’t sleeping with her!”

  “Francesca, there is much I do not know about this world, but one thing I do know, beyond a doubt, is that Rick is insanely attracted to his wife, and if he has yet to sleep with her, more fool he. It is only a matter of time. You may take my word on that.”

  Had she been a small child, she would have clapped her hands over her ears. “I refuse to discuss him and his wife.”

  “Then let’s discuss him. He is going to do his best to poison you against me,” Hart said intensely. “You have to know that.”

  “He isn’t trying to poison me against you, Calder. He is trying to protect me from being used and hurt.” But she had graphic images dancing in her head now, of Bragg and Leigh Anne.

  He was incredulous. “My marrying you uses you? My intentions are noble ones! And may I ask who hurt you, Francesca? I have not broken your heart! In fact, barring my reputation, I have given you no cause to doubt me or my intentions, now have I?”

  He was right. She shivered then, uneasy. “But you admit you do not love me,” she finally said. “So you must agree, there is reason for my confusion.”

  “The only reason for your confusion, my dear, is my half brother and the fact that you have decided to keep him in your heart no matter the cost—and in spite of how he feels about his wife, he will now do the same, although for a very different reason.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, stiff with dread.

  “Oh, it means that as much as I think that Rick loves you—that he admires you, respects you, is attracted to you, that for him you are the Ideal Woman—I know he has never gotten over his wife. And in his case, given the fact that she is a whore and a bitch, the attraction shall certainly be fatal. He should have kept her in Europe for his own peace of mind. But now she is back. Within a month she will have him where she wants him. But he will not let you go, and it is me you accuse of nefarious motives. It isn’t I, Francesca, oh no. My oh-so-noble brother will cling to you even as he beds his wife—merely to prevent me from attaining any happiness at all.”

  “You are wrong,” she gasped, shocked by the scenario he had just painted. “You are very, very wrong!”

  “And you are naive,” he said harshly. “But it is one of the reasons I am so fond of you. Perhaps, one day, the blinders will come off.”

  She could not take it anymore. She was shaking. And the worst part was, once again Hart had brutally told her what he thought, and it was an honesty that caused real pain. But he was wrong! He had to be. “Hart, the two of you must end this absurd rift!”

  He laughed without mirth. “It will end the day one of us dies.”

  She became still. She was furious now, and all she could think of were two things—Bragg in bed with his wife and Hart marrying her to hurt Bragg. Her anger escalated dangerously. “I have had enough,” she said coldly.

  He started, leveling his black eyes upon her just as the coach rolled out of Central Park and onto Fifth Avenue. “Really?”

  “Really. I suggest you mend this particular fence, Hart, if you want a chance at having my hand.”

  He stared. “Is that a threat?” he asked too calmly.

  “Yes, it is.”

  The moment he got home, Bragg walked into his study at the end of the ground floor hall. The fire in the hearth was almost but not quite dead—a few heated coals glowed amid the ashes there. He turned on the lamp behind his desk, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. A glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room showed him that it was four in the morning. He went to the decanter on the credenza and poured himself a scotch, adding melting ice from the brass bucket beside it.

  Images of Francesca, lovelier than ever in her turquoise gown, vied for his attention with images of his half brother, sardonic, mocking, triumphant. He trembled with anger and envy. He had spent the evening consumed with the investigation, but they had, apparently, been out on the town.

  Hart could seduce any woman he set his sights upon. It was only a matter of time until he seduced Francesca. Bragg cursed.

  He knew Hart would never marry her. It was a ploy, a dastardly one. He would court her to destroy Bragg’s sanity, seduce her to pour salt on the wound, then walk away, scot-free and laughing.

  “Rick?”

  He jerked at the sound of Leigh Anne’s soft, feminine voice. He did not need this now, oh no.

  She paused in the doorway, clad only in an ivory satin peignoir trimmed with lace. She might as well have been naked. The satin wasn’t sheer, but it clung to her figure like a second skin, revealing her outstanding breasts, her tiny waist, and the plump, intriguing vee between her thighs. He stared and the way she had once spread her legs for him, laughing and wanton, filled his mind.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked quietly. “It is four in the morning, Rick.”

  If she dared to ask him where he had been all night he might throw her down on the rug and take what she so wanted to give. He was that wound-up, that angry. He jerked his gaze up to her face, past large, erect nipples. “I have been working,” he ground out. He drained the scotch, set the glass down.

  “I was worried,” she said as
softly, her gaze searching—as if she cared. “I heard you come in at half past eleven—only to go out shortly after again.”

  “There is nothing to worry about,” he said, rather rudely. “My work sometimes requires my attention in the odd hours of the night.” He was careful to avoid looking down her peignoir again. But he was explosive, and half of it, he knew, had to do with the state of celibacy he’d been in since arriving in New York for his appointment. The other half had to do with the fact that he imagined that Francesca was, at this very moment, in Hart’s arms.

  “But you are not a detective. You are the commissioner,” she said, stepping into the room.

  He finally met her emerald green eyes. They held a sensual promise—as always. And her hair was down. It was as straight as a sheet of paper fresh off the press, a thick, long mane of raven hair that gleamed like the satin she wore. “I am going up to bed,” he said firmly. He started past her.

  She caught his arm. “For how long do you think to avoid taking me to bed?”

  “I am tired, Leigh Anne,” he warned. But her lips were parted and moist, her nipples were inches from his chest, and he was physically aroused. If he took her, he would hurt her, savagely and deliberately, because ever since he had left the Channing residence, he had ceased to be a gentleman.

  “Our agreement is to be man and wife for six months.” She wet her lips. A sheen appeared there. “I know you want me. It’s fairly obvious. And I haven’t forgotten how wonderful it is to be with you.” She smiled a little then.

  It wasn’t as seductive as her eyes. She was acting like a virgin or a schoolgirl, tentative and uncertain. He knew there was nothing uncertain about her in bed. In fact, in bed, his little wife was the perfect whore. What he did not want to remember now was how fond Leigh Anne was of a particular act, one most gently bred women abhorred. It had been very easy to teach her to get on her knees and take his manhood and suck it down her throat. He stiffened impossibly more. He would never forget what her mouth felt like as it closed around his shaft.

  “Why do you resist me? Because of Miss Cahill?” she asked almost earnestly.

  “Yes.” He shoved past her, cursing her, and cursing himself and his damned inconvenient memory.

  She did not follow him. “You are a fool. Do you think to remain faithful to her?” She was incredulous.

  “Yes,” he said, refusing to glance back at her.

  “But that is not a part of our agreement!” she cried.

  “To hell with the agreement,” he said, and he pounded up the stairs—alone.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1902—9:00 A.M.

  Bragg was at his desk, in his shirtsleeves, looking as if he hadn’t slept at all that last night. Francesca studied Bragg for one moment, feeling a pang of compassion for him, too well knowing what he must be going through. He suddenly looked up and saw her. Instantly he smiled.

  It changed his expression, lighting his face, his eyes. She smiled in return, refusing to think about his accusations toward Hart or their bitter rivalry now. She hurried in, clutching the Sun and the Times in one hand. “Good morning.”

  He leaned back in his cane-backed chair. “Now why do you look as if you have had eight hours of good sleep, while I appear as haggard as a vagrant this morning?” The light in his eyes was warm and affectionate.

  She had to smile again. “I hate to say this, but in spite of the evening’s terrible events, I passed out like a drunk when I got home.”

  His smile faded, but he continued to study her.

  She guessed his concerns. “Hart was a perfect gentleman—even if we did argue terribly.”

  Bragg looked away. Then, “You will go out with him again, won’t you?”

  She put the newspapers on his desk, refusing to engage in the subject of Calder Hart. Especially as she did not know what she should do now. Besides, they had serious business at hand that morning. “Kurland has struck again,” she said softly. She was resigned. In a way, she had known it was only a matter of time. Kurland seemed to have become fascinated with her sleuthing, which meant he was always in the shadows, waiting for a scoop.

  “I’ve seen the papers,” he said. The headlines glared up at them both. The Sun read:

  STAGE ACTRESS FOUND STRANGLED—

  CAHILL MISTRESS UNTIL RECENTLY

  The Times was a bit better. It read:

  CITY STRANGLER CLAIMS TWO WOMEN, THIRD MISSING

  “We ran into Kurland last night at an art gallery,” Francesca said, taking a seat. “I refused to speak with him and he leaped on Sarah. Sarah hadn’t known about Evan’s relationship with Grace Conway. She was very upset to realize that Evan’s mistress had been strangled and that she was not an anonymous actress.”

  “I feel very badly for Sarah, especially in light of last night.”

  “So do I,” Francesca said somewhat glumly. “I haven’t stopped by yet to ask her what the strangler said. I suspect she will sleep rather late today.”

  “I agree. The two policemen who were posted at the Channing residence said they received orders from Sergeant Henley that their assignment was over.” His golden eyes held hers.

  “And?” She stiffened.

  “Sergeant Henley said he never issued any such orders. The two roundsmen swear another officer gave them. An officer they did not know. An officer we cannot seem to locate. His apparent name was Kelly.” Bragg stared significantly now.

  Francesca stared back, her mind whirling. “What are you suggesting? That there is no officer named Kelly? That someone posed as a police officer, dismissing the guards so our killer could make an attempt on Sarah’s life?”

  “That is exactly what seems to have happened,” Bragg said grimly.

  “That means our strangler is very clever!” Francesca cried.

  “Worse, it means he is very bold and highly motivated. I fear he is fearless.”

  She stared at Bragg with growing horror and he stared back.

  “Have Andrew and Julia seen these papers?” Bragg asked, returning to the original topic.

  “No. I stole the two newspapers, but Mama and Papa will learn of the accusations Kurland has made against Evan within hours. It will be the talk of society today.” She felt terrible for her entire family now. While Evan was better with each and every passing day, he was still grieving for Grace Conway and he hardly needed to be accused of her murder. Julia and Andrew remained extremely distraught over Evan’s injuries. They would be horrified by Kurland’s news article.

  “He makes suggestions, not accusations. He doesn’t accuse Evan of murder,” Bragg said calmly.

  “No, but he points out very succinctly that Evan Cahill is the link between Sarah, Miss Conway, and Miss Holmes. He suggests that Evan is the worst of womanizers, ruthless and callous, going through women the way I might drink water. Only the most foolish reader would not wonder if Evan did not get rid of his unwanted mistress, attempt to do so to an unwanted fiancée, and then rid himself of an unwanted and insane admirer.”

  “I am sorry it has come to this. The article in the Times was fair. In any case, I will issue an official announcement as to the state of the investigation. The press has been scheduled for one this afternoon.” He smiled at her. “In it, I shall state unequivocally that, while we are following all leads to their conclusions, your brother is not a suspect.”

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “But I am afraid the harm has already been done.” She sighed heavily.

  Bragg stood. “Only to Evan’s reputation, and that will be resolved when we bring our killer to justice, Francesca. Are you up to another interview with Hoeltz? I think it is time we find out why he lied about knowing Sarah.”

  She shot to her feet. “I am more than ready, Bragg.”

  He smiled at her and, with his hand on the small of her back, guided her out.

  Bertrand Hoeltz did not look happy to see them. Upon answering the doorbell, he merely opened the door an inch or so and stared out at Francesca and Bragg. Joel, who as always had
refused to come up to Bragg’s office, was with them. He remained by Bragg’s roadster.

  “Mr. Hoeltz, it is I, Miss Cahill. I need to speak with you again.”

  “I’m afraid I am occupied,” he said, beginning to close the door.

  Bragg stuck his foot there so the door could not close. “Mr. Hoeltz, we have not met. Rick Bragg. Commissioner of police.”

  Hoeltz sounded as if he moaned. But he opened the front door to the building, allowing them in.

  Francesca exchanged a glance with Bragg. “I saw you at the Gallery Duval last night,” she said.

  “Really?” Hoeltz appeared confused. “I was only there for a moment or two; going out was a mistake.”

  “And why is that?” Bragg asked.

  “Why? Surely you know that my dear friend Miss Neville is missing. I am desperate for word on her whereabouts!” he cried.

  Francesca again exchanged a look with Bragg. “Mr. Hoeltz, Sarah Channing was in my party last night. She was eager to say hello to you.”

  Hoeltz paled.

  “Did you not tell Miss Cahill that you did not know Sarah Channing?” Bragg asked.

  Hoeltz choked. “I lied! I have been caught! I lied because I am so afraid!”

  “Afraid of what?” Bragg asked calmly.

  “Afraid of what?” Hoeltz gasped. “Mellie has vanished! Mellie is gone! I am afraid of being accused of her murder!” he cried.

  “No one is accusing you of anything,” Bragg said.

  “I didn’t kill her!” Hoeltz was near tears. “I adored her! I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Mr. Hoeltz,” Francesca said firmly. “No one has insisted that Melinda is dead.”

  He blinked. “But that is what you think.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Francesca said, and it was hardly true. By now, Melinda Neville was dead. It was merely a matter of time before they found her body. “But perhaps that is what you think?”

  He paled. “If she isn’t dead, then why hasn’t she come home?”

  Bragg took his arm. “Mr. Hoeltz, I’d like to continue this conversation downtown.”