Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (45 page)

“And I hope you shall find the time to enjoy it,” he returned. “You deserve a holiday.”

She studied him with a smile. “I have no time for a holiday. I fear to fail all my courses if I do not do some serious studying indeed.”

He laughed. “Then by all means, it is off to the library with you.” He quickly sobered. Then, “Francesca, I keep thinking that there is something that I must say to you.”

“Yes, I have that feeling, too.” Her pulse raced now.

He shook his head. “But all has been said, I fear.”

Her heart skipped a series of beats. “Do you really believe that?” she asked softly.

He hesitated. “No.”

She gazed up at him and he gazed back. So desperately, she wanted to move into the circle of his arms. It would be so right.

But she did not, as it was not right. She felt a tear shimmer on her lashes.

Abruptly he reached out his hand. She did not hesitate, and she slipped her palm into his. His grip tightened.

Briefly, she closed her eyes. There was something magical about the feeling of her palm enfolded in his. There was something so right it was almost impossible to describe. Her hand fit in his, the way she had somehow come to belong in his life, in its very center—the way he now belonged in her life, at its core. Yet it was also painful, and forbidden now.

“Anything I say will only make things worse,” he said, very low. And he slid his hand from hers, slowly and reluctantly.

“I don’t think so,” she said, glancing at the two liveried doormen out of the corner of her eye. But if they had noticed the city’s married police commissioner holding her hand, they were not batting an eye.

“What is it that you wish me to say?” he asked, low and strained. “I am so sorry, to have hurt you and to have misled you, but I cannot wish we had not met, because I treasure our friendship, and wishing that my own circumstances were different would be a useless and pitiful act. There is a saying—I made my bed and now I shall sleep in it.”

“Do not punish yourself for making a mistake when you were young and far less wise than you are now.”

“Only you would say something like that to me, now,” he said softly. “It is why—” He stopped.

Her pulse accelerated. “It is what?” she asked softly.

“There is no point,” he began intensely.

She grasped his wrist. “Yes, there is!
Do you love me?”
She could hardly believe herself. She no longer cared if she broke every rule of etiquette.

“Yes,” he said, his golden eyes riveted upon her face.

She nodded, feeling tears well. She was not surprised, for she had known what his answer would be. “I love you, too, Bragg,” she said, very careful to keep her voice down.

“Damn it,” he said, and he took her hand firmly in his and he held it, hard, as if daring society to look at them and speculate and point fingers and cast shadows.

It was hard to speak now. A tear interfered with her vision. “What do we do now?” she asked quietly. “Where do we go from here?”

“I do not know,” he said. His smile appeared fragile. “But I wish that I did.”

Her own smile felt fragile in return.

“Miz Cahill!” someone shouted.

Only a reporter would shout her name that way. Francesca stiffened; Bragg released her hand, and they turned as Walter Isaacson from the
Tribune
came hurrying out of the hotel’s front doors. Two other journalists were with him. “Is it true that you apprehended Mary Randall and her brother last night? By yourself?” he cried, rushing over to them.

Francesca looked past the reporters at Bragg. He smiled at her, with encouragement. She turned. “Yes, it is true.”

“But how did you know she was the killer? Did you suspect her all along? And how is it that you came to be involved in the first place?” Isaacson rapidly asked her. All three men held pencils, prepared to write down her every word.

“Well,” Francesca began, quite pleased with the attention—though her parents would surely lock her in her room for days, months, even years, if they knew the truth, so she must carefully choose her words—“it is a long story, but one I am glad to supply.” She looked past Isaacson and his colleagues.

Bragg had walked over to the hotel doors, where he paused. Silhouetted against the bronze and glass, he made a magnificent sight: a tall man with tawny, sun-streaked hair, high, high cheekbones and nearly olive skin, and strong, broad shoulders. Their gazes locked; he saluted her. In his eyes was far more than love; there was respect and, she thought, admiration.

Francesca smiled in return, and against all common sense and better judgment, her heart did sing and exult. She turned back to the reporters. “Now where was I?” she asked.

All three newsmen began firing questions at her. “How did you become involved in the Randall Killing?”

“Weren’t you involved in the Burton Abduction?”

“Are you intending to become the city’s first policewoman?”

Francesca was about to reply when she noticed a blue-eyed woman in a worn, hooded cloak standing behind Isaacson.

She was staring at Francesca so intently it was as if her eyes might burn a hole through Francesca’s clothing. Francesca started, tensing.

“Which clue led you to Mary Randall?”

Francesca returned her attention to the journalists, held up her hands, and as she started to speak, glanced back at the hotel’s bronze doors. Bragg was gone.

She turned back to the newshounds. It did not matter. There would be another day, and another case for them to solve together—of that she did not have a single doubt. In fact, she would go downtown to Headquarters later that day; she had forgotten to ask him about the Kurland incident. And as for the road they must travel, she only knew that it would be exciting indeed, with Bragg at her side. She would worry about the rest of it another time.

Then she felt the woman’s eyes upon her again. Francesca looked her way, and their gazes locked.

The woman seemed to realize that she was staring, because she flushed and began to back away.

“Miss Cahill? Which clue led you to the murderer?”

Francesca knew that she was not imagining it. The other woman, who was close to Francesca’s own age,
had
been staring and was extremely upset and afraid. What was this? “Miss? Wait!” she called impulsively.

The woman whirled. As she did so, her hood fell back to reveal rich, chocolate-brown hair. She ran down the steps to the curb.

“Wait!” Francesca shouted, rushing after her.

Her cry only made the woman run faster. Francesca suddely realized that a brougham was approaching and that the young woman was running directly into its path.

“Stop!” she screamed, halting at the curb.

Too late, the woman realized the danger from the oncoming vehicle. She froze in her tracks, her eyes wide with terror.

The coachman saw her, too. He jammed down the brake, cursing at her. The two bays reared as he wildly tried to rein them in.

Francesca dove after the woman, knocking her down and out of the way of the two plunging horses and the carriage.

She felt a carriage wheel graze her shoulder as the coach passed. It slowed and then stopped a short distance away.

The woman blinked up at her, and for one moment, they stared into each other’s eyes. Francesca knew the woman’s terror had nothing to do with almost being hit by a carriage.

Francesca had landed on top of her, and she quickly rolled off, still stunned. The woman leapt up, and without a word, she lifted her coat and skirts and ran.

“Wait,” Francesca gasped, still sitting in the middle of the street as three reporters and half a dozen bystanders rushed to her. “Are you all right, Miss?” someone asked.

“Miss Cahill! Who was that?” This from Isaacson.

A crowd had gathered around her. “Did you see that? The woman must have been mad, to run in front of a coach like that!” “Maybe a lunatic, from the looks of her.”

Someone was shoving through the crowd. Francesca felt him before she saw him, and she turned and looked up, meeting his eyes. Bragg knelt. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

She nodded, her wind having returned, and he helped her to her feet. She leaned into him, shaking a bit from the close encounter. “There’s a woman in danger, Bragg. She wanted to approach me, I am certain of it, but then she ran away, and was almost run over!”

He held her upper arms. His gaze was concerned and grim. “You don’t know that, Francesca. I was just coming out of the hotel to speak with you again, and I saw you chasing her into the street. You have no facts.”

“I am certain she wished to speak with me!” Francesca cried, as he released her. Suddenly she realized just what was happening. She blinked at him, and in spite of the danger the mysterious woman was undoubtedly in, she did smile, just a bit.

“Oh, no,” Bragg said, with a soft groan. “I know exactly what you are thinking.”

“There is another crime to solve,” she said sweetly.

“Francesca! You were almost killed last night—”

“Balderdash,” she said.

He stared.

She grinned.

THE ADVENTURES OF FRANCESCA CAHILL WILL CONTINUE! TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW
OF

DEADLY AFFAIRS

(ON SALE IN APRIL 2002)
AND

DEADLY DESIRE

(ON SALE IN MAY 2002)

“You have a caller, Francesca.”

Francesca halted at the sound of her mother’s voice, having just handed her coat, hat, muff, and gloves to a servant. She slowly turned, with dread.

For the voice had been sharp. Now, disapproval covered Julia’s attractive face. She was an older image of both daughters: blond, blue-eyed, with classic and fine features. Although over forty, she remained slim and glamorous; many men her own age often eyed her in a covert manner.

“Good day, Mama,” Francesca said nervously. She had seen
The Sun.
Francesca would wager her life on it.

Julia Van Wyck Cahill was magnificently attired, clearly dressed for an early evening affair. Her sapphire-blue gown revealed a slim and pleasing figure, while two tiers of sapphires adorned her neck. Before she could answer, Andrew appeared on the stairs, in a white dinner jacket and satin-trimmed black trousers. He took one look at Francesca and his expression became pinched, with disbelief and accusation warring in his eyes.

“I can explain,” Francesca whispered.

“What can you explain?” Andrew demanded, halting beside his wife. “That you have made the front page of
The Sun!
That you once again immersed yourself in a dangerous affair? One belonging, I believe, to the police?”

Francesca inhaled. How to begin? Before she could speak, her mother interrupted.

“I am aghast. I am aghast that my daughter would confront a killer and place herself in unspeakable danger. This shall not continue, Francesca. You have gone too far.” Julia turned and nodded at a servant, who was holding her magnificent sable coat for her. She allowed him to slip it over her shoulders.

“I am beginning to wonder if my brilliant daughter has truly lost her mind,” Andrew said.

Francesca cringed. Papa never spoke to her in such a manner. “I helped the police enormously,” Francesca murmured. The fact was, she had solved the case at the eleventh hour.

“You have been up to your ears in police affairs ever since Bragg arrived in town,” Julia said sharply. “Do you think I am blind, Francesca? I can see what is happening.”

“Nothing is happening,” Francesca tried, stealing a glance at her father. He knew about Bragg’s married state, she thought suddenly. This was the secret he had been keeping. But why hadn’t he told her?

“We are on our way out for the evening, but we shall speak tomorrow morning, Francesca.” Julia gave her a look that was filled with warning, and did not look at her again while Andrew donned his coat. But her father met her gaze, shaking his head, looking so terribly grim that Francesca knew she was in a kind of trouble she had never dreamed of. There was no relief when they left the house. But what could they do? She was a grown woman.

Francesca relaxed slightly. She would worry about her parents tomorrow. She turned as Bette handed her a delicately engraved calling card on a small sterling tray. Francesca studied the card for a moment, curiously; she did not believe she had ever met a Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She thanked Bette and entered the far salon.

It was beautifully appointed, but small, and used for more intimate gatherings, such as a single caller. It was painted a pale, dusky yellow, and most of the furnishings were in various shades of yellow or gold, with several red and navy-blue accents. The moment Francesca entered the room, she saw Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She had been sitting on a sofa at the room’s other end, but upon espying Francesca, she instantly stood. Francesca smiled and approached.

Mrs. Lincoln Stuart twisted her hands.

Francesca saw that she was a few years older than her. She was rather plain in appearance, her features usual and unsurprising. But her hair was a beautiful cascade of chestnut curls, and it was what one noticed first. She was very well-dressed, in a green floral suit and skirt, and she wore a rather large, yellow diamond ring. Her husband was obviously wealthy. And she was nervous and distressed.

“Miss Cahill. I do hope you do not mind me calling like this,” Mrs. Stuart said in a husky voice, one filled with tension. Worry was expressed in her eyes.

Francesca smiled warmly, pausing before her. “Of course not,” she said politely. “Have we met?”

“No, we have not, but I was given this by a boy the other day.” And Mrs. Stuart handed her a card.

Francesca recognized it instantly—how could she not? Tiffany’s had printed the cards at her request upon the conclusion of the Burton Affair. It read:

“My assistant, Joel Kennedy, must have handed this to you,” Francesca mused, pleased. She had recently assigned him the task of drumming up business for her. She glanced up at Mrs. Stuart. Was she a prospective client? Francesca’s heart thudded in anticipation.