by Brenda Joyce
"Bragg?" she asked warily, as if sensing the new and unwanted direction of his thoughts.
He turned them off, with an effort. "I doubt we will learn much from his staff at the Royal," he said, turning away.
"No, but we could learn quite a bit from his customers there."
"That is an effort I will make alone, Francesca," he warned quickly, facing her. "The Royal is no place for any lady, and especially not for you. You would be recognized by dozens of gentlemen there, and your reputation would never recover. Do not even think of setting one foot inside that door!"
She stood. Her eyes flashed. "You coddle me. I would hardly be in any danger by entering a fancy gambling hall, and I think my reputation is already in shambles, as the entire city knows I prefer being a sleuth to a bride."
He sighed. "I want you to stay away from LeFarge. He worries me. He is a dangerous man, never mind his false smile and pretense at surprise."
"I know that. Look at what he has done to my brother!" Francesca cried.
He went to her and touched her chin. "But Evan is on the mend, and LeFarge has been warned."
Francesca nodded grimly. Her eyes had grown moist.
He almost pulled her close, into his embrace, but he knew better—he knew the gesture meant to comfort would quickly turn into a kiss. Instead, he let her go. "I cannot go either to a gallery or back to the scene now, as I have some work to do before a luncheon engagement. You are free to enter the flat at any time, Francesca. The wardsman posted there will let you in."
"Then I will take Joel and do some sleuthing on my own," she said huskily. "He is waiting outside." She stood, her eyes unwavering upon him.
Bragg stared back. "I suppose the little cutpurse will hate me for all time."
"He will come around," she said quietly as he helped her on with her coat. He walked her to the door and said, "Be careful. If anything new develops, please come to me first before chasing a lead that could be dangerous."
She finally grinned at him, both tawny brows lifted. "I am hardly a china doll."
"It is that very attitude which keeps me awake at nights!" he exclaimed. That and his unrequited desire, he thought grimly. And a future that was looking darker and darker by the moment.
"I promise to exercise caution and good judgment," she said with a smile.
He doubted it. "I'll see you later," he said.
She hesitated, pressed her lips to his cheek, and quickly spun about and left.
Bragg stared after her until she had disappeared from view. He realized he was smiling once more. But Francesca was the woman who could always put a smile in his heart as well as upon his face.
He had never felt that way about Leigh Anne. The smile disappeared. He would have to send her a note about the upcoming evening. The tension that had vanished instantly riddled him again. He could think of nothing less pleasant or more distasteful than escorting his wife to the opera that night.
The sooner he convinced her to return to Boston, where her father was ill and perhaps dying, or to Europe, where she kept a string of lovers, the better.
But yesterday had got away from him and he had never found the time to call on her in order to discuss the impossibility of the present being maintained in this way. Or had he avoided what would become an extremely unpleasant confrontation?
"Rick?"
Bragg started, not having heard his chief of police, Brendan Fair, come to the door, which he had left wide open. The constant pinging of the telegraph and the intermittent ringing of telephones had become familiar and pleasant sounds to him, music to his ears, so to speak. "Come in, Brendan," he said with a brief smile. He was glad to be distracted from his personal life.
Brendan Farr was six-foot-four, broad-shouldered and leonine, with a head of iron gray hair and similarly colored eyes. After quite a debate, Bragg had promoted him from inspector to his current position. He had felt that Farr's loyalty to him for such a promotion would outweigh the man's previous history of disloyalty, self-service, and corruption. The one thing Farr was, was clever. He should know which side his bread was buttered on, but Bragg had begun to regret his choice. During an investigation last week, Farr had engaged in some questionable actions, and Bragg wasn't sure if he was loyal or not.
"Everything all right, Rick?" Farr asked, taking the chair in front of Bragg's heavily cluttered desk as Bragg gestured for him to do so.
Bragg sat down opposite him. "Just the usual preoccupations." He smiled.
"You seem worried," Fair commented. "If anything is troubling you, I would be more than glad to help."
"Low has asked me to cease the Sunday saloon closings," Bragg said, leaning back in his cane-backed chair. "But the Moral Right demands it."
Farr lifted two bushy brows. "I will support whatever choice you make. You are caught, though, between a rock and a hard place."
How true that was. "I expect no less," Bragg said noncommittally. Then, switching the topic and aware that Farr had not given him a single clue as to what he was really thinking, he said, "So what may I help you with?"
Farr leaned forward. "I just learned that we have a murder investigation on our hands. I would appreciate it if you would tell me when a high-profile woman has been strangled, Rick. I was an admirer of Miss Conway's."
Bragg knew he should not be surprised that Farr had somehow learned of an investigation taking place at headquarters; after all, if the mayor knew, so did half the political world. Not one to underestimate his chief of police, Bragg tensed. How much did he know? And could he trust Farr or not? "I have assigned Newman and Hickey to handle the preliminary investigation," he said blandly.
"Yes. I spoke with them both at length, last night," Farr said. He was grim but gave no clue as to whether he knew of Evan Cahill's involvement with the actress. "She was so beautiful. I saw her once at the Empire Theater. It was a show I will never forget."
"She had many admirers, apparently. We found a great deal of fan mail in her apartment."
"Care to fill me in?"
"Well, it all seems to begin with the vandalism of Sarah Channing's studio on Friday, February fourteenth," Bragg said. "Miss Conway was found strangled Tuesday evening by her neighbor Louis Bennett. She was in an apartment belonging to Melinda Neville, an artist, and her studio was also vandalized. Miss Conway lived across the hall from Miss Neville."
"Yes, I have learned all of this from Inspector Hickey," Farr said. "And there are no leads as to where Miss Neville is now?"
"Another neighbor saw her return home Monday at six p.m.," Bragg said. "She did not have her keys, and Miss Holmes let her in. She has not been seen since. And the coroner has determined that Miss Conway died sometime on Monday." Bragg shrugged.
"Perplexing," Farr murmured. "Well, at least the press has not got wind of it. Miss Conway was a bit of a celebrity, and the moment a newsman learns of her murder, it will be headlines. Which will surely make our jobs more difficult."
"Yes, I agree."
Farr stood. "If you need anything from me, let me know."
Bragg also stood. "Brendan? There is one other aspect of the case which I think you should know about," he said. It was always better to make an adversary think he was one's ally until there was no other choice.
Farr raised his heavy brows and waited.
"Until recently, Miss Conway was the mistress of Evan Cahill."
Fair didn't blink. And then recognition showed in his eyes. "Miss Cahill's brother? The gentleman engaged to Miss Channing?"
"Yes. I am keeping it quiet, as I am not sure yet if he is somehow involved."
Farr started. "You don't think—"
"No." Bragg cut him off. "Evan is not capable of murder. But the newsmen of this town would love nothing more than to speculate upon his involvement, and out of respect for his family, I do not wish to make this information public."
"I understand," Farr said, not batting an eye.
Which worried Bragg. Because Farr knew how closely he and Francesca wo
rked together, and Bragg felt certain that he disapproved, but whether it was of Bragg's friendship with Francesca or her involvement in police affairs he could not be sure. "Thank you," Bragg said in dismissal.
"Keep me posted," Farr returned. He turned and halted in his tracks.
Bragg looked up and froze. In fact, he forgot to breathe. Leigh Anne stood in the doorway.
Their gazes met, locked.
She was ethereal in her beauty, a tiny woman with fair and flawless skin, a perfect little body with a waist small enough for a man to span with his hands, and with sultry emerald green eyes that always seemed to whisper bedroom thoughts. Her hair was thick and long and raven black. She wore it neatly pinned up now beneath a smart black hat. She wore a suit trimmed in mink, that matched her eyes exactly. She smiled at them both. "Rick. I hope you do not mind?"
His heart beat then, hard and fast. But he knew what she intended. She intended to make their marriage public now by coming to his place of business. And by doing so, she had him by the balls. He had to acknowledge her, introduce her. It was another way of weasling back into his life.
He glanced at Farr and saw that he was, like all men, instantly bewitched. "Why would I mind?" Bragg asked with a cold smile. "Brendan, I do not believe you have, met my wife."
When Farr was gone, the door closed solidly behind him, Bragg turned and faced his wife, leaning against it. She smiled uncertainly at him. He knew it was an act meant to throw him off-guard. But she had already succeeded in her clever plans. She had won this round.
"Rick? I had somehow thought you might call on me. It seems like we have so much to discuss." Her emerald eyes never left his face.
He felt defensive. "I am extremely busy, Leigh Anne."
"I know. I have been reading all the newspapers. The city adores you. You are their hero, Rick," she said softly, her eyes shining now.
"I am nobody's hero," he ground out.
"You are the knight in shining armor meant to bring the villains in the police department to their knees."
"Is that why you have come? To congratulate me on six successful weeks in office?" he asked sarcastically.
"Is there a chance that we might have one decent and civil conversation?" she retorted.
He felt guilty then. "I am sorry. I am tired and overworked, not to mention preoccupied." He did not move from where he stood against the door.
She hadn't moved, though, either. "I hope some of your preoccupation is over me."
"It is not," he lied.
Her face fell. She turned away from him. He could not see if her expression changed, as he suspected it did. He watched her from behind as she gazed around the office. If only she had become old and ugly in the past few years. The thought was not a charitable one, but it was an honest one. Instead, she remained as petite as ever, although her small hips seemed more curved and womanly now.
She walked over to the mantel where he kept a dozen family photographs. When she had finished studying them, she faced him with a smile. "I understand that Rathe and Grace are in town," she said, referring to his father and stepmother.
"Is this why you have come down to my office? To discuss my family?"
Her smile faded. "Will you always be so hateful and so angry with me?"
He itched to lay his hands on her slim white throat. He itched to squeeze the very breath from her. Instead, he shoved them in his pockets, trembling and appalled. "We had an agreement, you and I. You were to remain in Europe, and I was to provide handsomely for you. I upheld my part of the bargain; you have broken yours."
Her mouth tightened. It was the color of rosebuds. "I beg your pardon. My father lies at death's door. Of course I would come home. And it was not a part of your bargain that you would take a mistress and flaunt her about an entire city."
He stiffened. "Francesca is the last person I care to discuss with you. But she is not my mistress. I love her too much to treat her with such disrespect."
Leigh Anne's eyes widened.
"Have you forgotten the man that I am?" he demanded.
She shook her head. "She led me to believe that she was your lover, Rick. And no, I know the man you are. Honest to a fault. There is no one more virtuous. I just wish, still and foolishly, that your honesty had extended to our marriage as well, that it had extended to me as it does to everyone else."
He exploded. He reached her in two strides, grabbed her small shoulders, unintentionally lifting her off her feet. And in holding her, he was reminded that she was not fragile, and that appearances were deceiving. "You dare to accuse me of dishonesty where you are concerned?" He saw red.
She clung to him. "You are hurting me!" But her eyes darkened, becoming almost black.
He became oddly paralyzed, with her suspended in the air, her skirts enveloping his thighs. Their gazes locked. He could not help but notice her lips were parted and that small breaths escaped them. When he made love to her, her eyes would turn black with heat, but the moment she climaxed they would turn smoke green. He set her down instantly.
She did not back away. Breathlessly she said, "I refuse to retract how I feel and what I believe."
She had told him that he had broken every single promise he had made to her. She had expected a life in a mansion, a life with servants and teas, balls and soirees. Instead, he had turned down a position with Washington's most prestigious law firm, opening up his own practice to serve the city's poor. Instead of buying a mansion not far from his parents' home, they had let a small, run-down flat just a stone's throw from the city's rat-infested tenements and knife-wielding gangs. "I do not want to rehash the past," he said tightly.
"But I do," she returned as firmly.
"Good God! Is that why you have come? I am sorry, Leigh Anne, sorry that after we were married I could not go through with our plans! I am truly sorry! But nothing will change the decision I made four years ago—just like nothing will change the fact that you left me, without a word of warning."
"I warned you. I tried to tell you again and again how unhappy I was—but it was a bit difficult getting through to you, now wasn't it?" Her eyes darkened, but no longer with excitement and desire. "I mean, you left for that shabby practice of yours at dawn, and when you came home, somewhere around midnight, even if I was awake, you were asleep on your feet. Oh, except for your ability to make love to me! You were always too tired to talk about us and our future—but never too tired to make love!" Tears filled her eyes.
If he allowed himself to feel guilty, she would win. "Very well. I refused to listen, and I used you selfishly."
She sighed and laid her delicate palm, encased in a fine kidskin glove, on his arm. He flinched. But oddly, he did not shake her off. "You hardly used me, Rick. That is not what I said or meant, and you know it."
There had been so many heated nights and mornings....
"I never turned you away, because I wanted to be with you as much as you wanted to be with me," she added frankly, allowing her hand to finally drop from his arm.
The gesture was a caress of sorts. He stiffened, aroused inexplicably, and he paced away. He reminded himself that he hadn't been with a woman since he had arrived in New York, about to accept a politically important appointment. It had been almost two months, during which he had been tormented by his desire for Francesca. But he knew he was fooling himself.
Leigh Anne had always had the ability to arouse him with a mere look, a single word, a soft breath.
"Leigh Anne." He cleared his voice. "I have a dozen things I must get through today. What is it that you want?"
"You know what I want."
He whirled.
But she wasn't playing the seductress now. Her look was direct and steady and resolved.
"Refreshen my memory," he managed.
"I want to resume our lives, Rick."
"Why? Why now?" he demanded, even though he already knew. Now that he was in a position of prominence and power in New York City, and perhaps on his way to the U.S. Senate, she intended
to be his wife again. For she knew he could offer her a life of glamour and prestige now and, if all went well, eventually one of wealth and power, too. This had nothing to do with love and everything to do with avarice. His wife remained a selfish, calculating bitch.
She smiled grimly. "When we were separated, I carried the oddest notion with me. It was that I would always be the one woman you loved, and that there would never be anyone else. That notion was, somehow, comforting. It was my anchor."
He could not imagine her speaking truthfully now, and he could not imagine where she was leading.
She sighed. "Rumors of your love for Miss Cahill reached me in Boston, Rick. I was stunned, I told myself the rumors were wrong, but I could not put what I had heard aside. In fact, I was distressed, extremely so."
He did not believe her. He wanted to laugh in a disparaging manner, but somehow he did not.
"And I decided to come to New York to find out for myself if the rumors were true. And the moment I saw the two of you together, when you were coming out of Grand Central Station, I knew I could not allow you to love another woman. I was jealous. I am jealous. Erroneously, I had thought I would always be the only one capable of holding your heart. The only one who really had your heart. Well, that is apparently not the case. But we are still married, and I will fight for my rights as your wife."
"A pretty speech," he said coldly. "I am almost moved to applaud."
"Rick! I am speaking to you from the heart!"
"Then so shall I. I love Francesca Cahill, and I want a divorce."
She stared, her mouth trembling, more beautiful than ever, appearing fragile, vulnerable, hurt.
"So the impasse remains," he said, aware of being cruel. She inhaled, hard. "Not necessarily," she said. He stiffened, sensing a devious blow. "No? You want a marriage; I want a divorce. Surely you do not have a way out of this dilemma?"
"I do." She wet her lips, the tip of her tongue small and pink and very moist and flitting nervously about. He stared.
"Allow me to resume my place in your life as your wife for one year, and if, after that time has passed—a time in which we share all that every husband and wife shares—if you still wish for a divorce, I shall give it to you."