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Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (36 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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Bragg did not rise. He shifted and looked toward the saloon and watched Hart holding Francesca in his arms. He
was gripping her tightly and speaking to her with urgency. Francesca never took her eyes from his, and finally she nodded.
He could not stand it, and slowly, he stood.
 
“Are you all right?” Hart asked her, holding her tightly against his chest.
She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t speak; her heart had never beaten so hard. And for one moment, she rested her cheek against the plane of his chest and heard his own urgent, answering heartbeat. She felt his palm cradling her head. Her eyes closed and too many vicious images to count assailed her. Craddock striking Lulabelle, Craddock throwing her across the room, Craddock looking at her with cold, merciless eyes as he jammed the gun into the side of her head.
“Are you all right, Francesca?” Hart repeated, gripping her by the shoulders and setting her back a bit so their gazes could meet.
His was almost black and filled with concern. She nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was hoarse-sounding to her own ears.
His dark gaze moved over her features one by one and finally settled on her eyes, where it remained, searching the depths there.
She felt some of her strength and composure returning. The fear began to fade; her mind began to function. She inhaled, realizing she continued to tremble. “I’m fine. Really.” She saw from his eyes that he hardly believed her. “Chrissy?”
“Rathe took her home. And Kennedy, too.”
“Thank God!” She half-turned and saw Bragg and Farr standing over Craddock, who was prone and motionless. Was he dead? And had Shoz been the one to kill him after all?
How could she even wonder? she thought.
And as she stared at the dead man, Bragg, and Farr, she realized Bragg was staring at her. She smiled a little at him, telling him with her eyes that she was not harmed, and he smiled, just a little, back. His intense gaze did not waver.
“Right,” Hart muttered tersely.
She glanced at Hart and saw that any softness and concern was now gone. His gaze was cool and dark. He released her.
She rushed over to Bragg; he caught her arms. “Is he dead?”
Bragg turned her away from the dead man, but it was too late; she had seen that he was, most certainly, dead. “Yes.” His gaze scanned her from head to toe. “Yes. Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine, truly, except for a bruise or two,” she said with a valiant smile. Actually, her head throbbed like the devil, as Craddock hadn’t cared about whether he was hurting her or not, and she suspected her wrist was red from his grip, and it hurt a bit to breathe, as if her ribs were sore.
Bragg eyed her, clearly doubtful.
“Now
that
was a helluva shot,” Farr said.
Francesca looked at him. He was smiling, but coldly.
“Went in right above his right ear, clean out the other side of his skull.” His gaze narrowed. “Now who could pull off a stunt like that? We don’t see that kind of shooting here in the city, no sir, we do not.”
Francesca shivered and glanced at Bragg.
“You saw Craddock’s file; he has a list of enemies a mile long,” Bragg said.
“Yeah, guess he does. Harry! Robinson! Start a door-to-door search; we got a shooter on the run!” Farr ordered with obvious relish.
Francesca looked at Bragg. He shook his head at her in a warning.
Farr faced them, looking from the one to the other, his hands on his hips. “Well, your entire family seems to be accounted for, considering your daddy took the children home—except for Shoz Savage.”
A silence fell.
Hart appeared in their midst. “He went home with his daughter and Rathe,” he said coolly. “Isn’t that right, Raoul?” He glanced at the husky Spaniard who was his driver and remained in the driver’s seat of his elegant brougham, along with Peter.
Raoul nodded. “Yes, sir, he did,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent.
Farr smiled unpleasantly at everyone. “Harry, put a dozen men on the streets. I want the shooter picked up before he gets too far. And find me the bullet that got this bastard. I have a feeling we’ll discover a rifle was used. A fancy rifle, the kind I haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, sir,” the policeman said.
Farr faced Bragg. “I’ll handle things here, sir, if you want to leave with the rest of your family and go check on the little girl.”
“Thank you, Brendan,” Bragg said. He took Francesca’s arm. “Are you really all right?” he asked as they walked toward Hart’s coach.
“Yes. A bit bruised, I think, but that is all.” She smiled at him earnestly. “I am not the one you should be worrying about,” she added softly.
Their gazes met. In that moment, everyone around them seemed to fade out of focus completely. He finally smiled, just a little. “I have never been so scared, Francesca. I wish you could solve crimes without putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“I’m sorry. Actually, I wish I could, too.”
“Couldn’t you have waited a few minutes more for us to join you before tackling Craddock?”
“I was afraid Craddock would leave the poker game and we would lose him all over again!” she cried earnestly.
He stared and sighed.
She touched his sleeve when what she really wanted to do was sink into his arms.
“I think we might want to get out of here,” Rourke said dryly.
Francesca started. She had forgotten, for a moment, where they were and whom they were with. She glanced around and saw policemen combing the sidewalk for the bullet that might very well indict Shoz for murder, while across the street other officers were coming out of the apartment building
and the milliner’s shouting to Farr that they hadn’t found anyone. Then her gaze fell on Hart.
He was studying her with no expression on his usually mobile face. When she met his gaze he turned abruptly and opened the coach door. Francesca hesitated, recalling being swept into his arms when Craddock had been shot. There had been something very right about that moment, she realized with a pang of what could only be fear.
But it was not right. Nothing about Calder Hart was right, not for her.
“Francesca?” Bragg asked.
She started, shot him a smile, and climbed into the coach. Hart followed, as did Rourke and Nicholas. Bragg climbed in last, slamming the door closed.
Hart said, “We shall drop off Miss Cahill first, Raoul.”
There was no reply, but the brougham rolled off.
They all looked at one another, and the exchanged glances were followed by a series of sighs. Francesca knew that while everyone was relieved, everyone had the same fear—that Shoz would not be able to elude the police, that he was he going to be picked up … and charged with manslaughter.
But at least Craddock was dead. And the truth about Cooper’s murder could now be buried with him.
Rourke said, “The man can melt into shadows. I’ve seen him do it. If anyone can vanish right now, it’s him.”
“What about the fact that he had a rifle—and Farr is looking for the bullet that killed Craddock?” Francesca asked, hating being so dismal.
A silence ensued.
Then Nicholas grinned. He reached into his pocket, a glint in his eyes, and held out his hand. “I don’t think Chief Farr is going to find what he is looking for,” he said, opening his palm.
A bullet lay there.
Bragg’s eyes widened and he picked up the bullet and let out a shaky laugh. “Good job!”
“Well done.” Hart smacked his knee with a grin.
“See? He is good for something other than seducing ladies,” Rourke said, dimpling.
Francesca laughed in sheer relief.
Bragg handed Nicholas the bullet. “I have never seen that,” he said.
Their door was ajar, and as he stood outside it, he softened, for the scene inside was such a domestic one.
Lucy sat on the floor with her back against the sofa, her beautiful red hair loose and flowing about her shoulders, her feet in stockings. Chrissy was in her lap, playing with two miniature horses; Jack sat a few feet away, busying himself with crayons and a coloring book. Shoz lay on the sofa, taking up most of it, gazing at his wife and the twins, his hands behind his head, in a pair of dungarees and a plaid flannel shirt. Roberto sat curled up by his feet, immersed in a novel. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth.
His heart tightened. He would do whatever he had to do to protect his family, he realized, when a movement behind him made him start. He turned and met Hart’s dark eyes.
“Blood does tell,” Hart murmured. “I was going to ask Shoz a few questions.” He lifted both brows questioningly.
Bragg backed away from the door. “So was I.” He smiled a little, and so did his half brother. Then, impulsively, the afternoon’s events flashing through Bragg’s mind, he touched Hart’s white shirtsleeve. “Thank you for your help this afternoon,” he said.
Hart was startled.
“I could not have rescued Francesca without you,” Bragg added.
Hart leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. Although he had discarded his suit jacket, he remained in a silver brocade vest. “I doubt that,” Hart said quietly. “The one thing you are is a damn good police commissioner.”
Bragg was startled by the sincerity with which he uttered his praise. The urge was sudden and overwhelming and accompanied by far too many childhood memories to count, but in each and every one of them Hart was a small, dark, angry child, gripping his older brother’s hand. Why were they constantly at odds? Why did they dislike each other so? Wasn’t it time to bury the hatchet and heal old wounds?
“You are staring,” Hart murmured. “Have I grown horns?”
An image of Francesca in Hart’s arms came to mind and it was simply unbearable. Bragg straightened. “I imagine you grew horns a long time ago, Calder.”
“Thank you.”
“But horns or no, in a crisis I would want you at my side anytime.”
Hart’s eyes widened. “You are getting soft, Rick,” he said. Then, indicating the peaceful scene in the room beyond, “Shall we?”
Bragg nodded. Hart pushed open the door with a small knock on the wall. “May we?”
Shoz regarded them impassively from the couch, unmoving, except for the small turn of his head. Lucy moved Chrissy aside and leaped to her feet with a small, glad shriek. She rushed to them and hugged first Bragg and then Hart. “I love you both!” she cried. “Thank you!”
“I was merely along for the ride. Rick ran the show,” Hart said.
“Rick!”
Bragg looked down and smiled at his niece, who was using his trousers to haul herself into a standing position. He swooped her up into his arms, then watched Jack’s expression turn to grim determination. He somehow stood and began swaying aggressively toward his uncle and sister. He could not speak a single word yet, but his mood was clear; he was filled with jealousy and hell-bent on reaching his uncle.
Chrissy grasped his face. “Uncle! Uncle!” she cried happily.
Jack fell and howled with rage.
Lucy lifted him up and kissed Bragg’s cheek. “I love you.”
He was taken aback. While so much love ran so freely in his family, it wasn’t spoken of. “Are you all right now?”
She glanced at Shoz, who was finally sitting up with a yawn—as if he did not know why they were there. “My husband is home, safe and sound, and he has forgiven me my utter stupidity.” Then she grinned wickedly. “More than forgiven, I must say.”
He had the uncomfortable feeling that they had already made love and he didn’t really want to know about it. “Shoz? Can you step outside for a moment? Hart and I would like to clear up a few matters,” he said as casually as possible.
Lucy’s face fell. “What matters!” she cried.
“There is nothing for you to worry about,” Bragg said soothingly.
She stared in dismay, clearly not believing him.
Shoz strolled the short distance from the sitting area to the door, barefoot. His dungarees were so old that they were faded to a grayish white. He laid his hand on the small of Lucy’s back. “One moment,” he told her, looking into her eyes.
Bragg watched them and saw far more than the silent communication; he saw the flow of love and trust, and it was disturbing—it was what he had always wanted for himself. It was what he had, foolishly, expected to have on his wedding day and every day after that.
The three men walked into the hall, closing the door behind them. Shoz leaned on the wall, apparently unconcerned and indifferent. Bragg glanced at Hart—their eyes connected in silent agreement. Shoz’s composure was simply astounding.
“Well?” he drawled. Then, with a glance at Hart, “I owe you a rifle.”
Bragg started. “Where is it?”
“The river.”
Relief flooded him. He did not ask which river, either, as he had no wish to know. Shoz had not been caught fleeing the scene, the gun would never be recovered, and Nicholas had the bullet—or, by now, had gotten rid of it. “How many
lives is this?” he asked. It was hard to be stern with a man who was not merely twelve years older than he was, but strong-willed, intelligent, and dedicated to his family life.
Shoz’s mouth twisted into what might be an expression of mirth. “Number seven,” he said softly. “But as I am not a cat, I don’t know if I have two more coming.”
“Don’t you think it might be wise to change your ways?” Hart asked.
“I have changed my ways,” Shoz said, coming off of the wall. “I changed my ways the day I got married. But I do have a past. I guess I always knew it would catch up with me one day.” Suddenly his composure was gone. And fear appeared in his silver eyes. “If anything had happened to my daughter or Lucy or the other children, I would have never been able to live with myself,” he whispered roughly.
Bragg gripped his arm and their eyes held. “But it didn’t. And it’s over. Craddock is dead.”
Shoz smiled, without mirth.
He kept his hand on Shoz’s shoulder. “Did you kill Cooper?” Bragg asked.
“Yes,” Shoz said evenly, “and just about the whole world knows it.”
Bragg stared into his brother-in-law’s unflinching gray eyes and knew that there was far more here than met the eye. Clearly Hart did, too, because Calder said, “What happened?”
Shoz sighed. “Craddock and a few of his boys hung Cooper up and tortured him. One of the boys was half-Comanche and they knew how to make a man die as slow as can be. The whole prison was enjoying the show, even the guards and the warden. It got pretty ugly; even though Cooper deserved to die, no one deserved to die the way they were making him die.” He stared at them both. “I put him out of his misery. It was a mercy killing,” he said.
Francesca smiled as Bragg was escorted into the small pink-and-gold salon where she was pacing. She hadn’t seen him
since the evening before, when she had been dropped off at home after Craddock’s murder. He returned her smile, but he was very somber for a man who had just gotten his brother-in-law off of a blackmailer’s hook.
But then, her own smile was fragile and tentative. She could not escape a feeling of dread. She quickly crossed the salon and closed both doors so that they were utterly alone. What she had to say—and do—could only be said and done in the utmost privacy. And acutely aware of the intimacy now prevailing in the room, she returned, leaning breathlessly against one mahogany door. She had not slept at all last night.
Could she really go through with this?
Her pulse raced. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours, she thought grimly. Not the least of which was Leigh Anne calling upon her.
We have a bond that can never be severed, Miss Cahill …
I am staying. And I am going to help Rick achieve all of his dreams. Every single one.
Francesca wished, desperately, that she had never laid eyes on Leigh Anne, that the other woman had remained in Europe forever.
“What is it?” Bragg asked softly. He walked up to her and grasped her gently by both arms, his gaze searching hers.
“Leigh Anne came here yesterday.”
His grip tightened, and then he released her, his eyes wide, unhappy.
She laid her palm on his cheek. “Has the Craddock investigation been laid to rest?” she asked unsteadily.
He gave her a look and paced. “It is closed. Farr could not find the rifle or the bullet and the shooter escaped.”
“Thank God,” Francesca said.
He paused, facing her. “Actually, we have Nicholas and Shoz to thank.”
“I thought as much,” she said. Clearly Shoz had disposed of the rifle. She was glad. “And Cooper?”
“It was a mercy killing, but you were right! Shoz was the
one to put him out of his misery,” Bragg said harshly. “I shall have a long private conversation with Warden Timbull early next week. As he allowed a prisoner to be tortured and murdered, we can easily sweep this one under the rug.”
Francesca was relieved. While Shoz Savage seemed like an extremely hard and difficult man, clearly he loved his wife and children and clearly Lucy adored him and was impervious to his darker side. “Will they stay in the city for a while?”
“As they are all here, yes, they’ll stay about a month,” he said. “We have to talk, don’t we?”
She nodded, refusing to allow any tears to well up in her eyes.
He walked to her and pulled her close and she snuggled in his arms, against his chest. In that moment, she knew that the bond they shared was not going to change simply because his wife had decided to return to his side. And then the moment changed: a recollection flashed through her mind, more tactile than anything else. For one instant, she recalled being in Hart’s arms outside the Thirty-second Street saloon, with her cheek on his chest, his heart beating powerfully beneath it.
She stiffened and Bragg felt it immediately, as he let her go. She put a few steps between them. “I don’t know what to do,” she finally whispered, and it was a lie. Because deep within herself, she knew what to do.
You are his Achilles’ heel … you are the one who can destroy him.
Connie’s words had been echoing in her mind all night.
You are the problem here, Miss Cahill, you, not I … . If you really love him you would never think to put him in such a dangerous position.
If only Leigh Anne were in Europe!
“What did she say? What did she want?” he asked tersely, taking her hands in his. Then he said, “Is your right hand fully healed?” And he turned it over, glancing at her pink-and-white palm.
“Yes, Finney looked at it this morning. The scars may
eventually fade a bit,” she added with desperation. A tear finally shimmered in her eyes.
“Don’t cry. The one thing you will always have is my heart, Francesca,” Bragg said, taking her face in his hands.
His words could not thrill her. She closed her eyes and felt his mouth brushing hers, at first soft and gently, then repeatedly, and suddenly urgency and need flared in her loins, in the delta of her sex. She opened and strained against him, and what had begun as a chaste kiss meant to comfort became a monster of passion and grief.
He jerked away, breathing hard.
She was also breathless. “She is your wife. She has every right; I have none,” she whispered hoarsely. She had thought of nothing else all night.
He held her hands tightly. “Did I not make a choice? Did I not choose you over her—and over my political future?”
“And did I not tell you that I could never live with myself if you did not follow your destiny? You have a destiny, Rick, a huge and great destiny,” she whispered, meaning it. “Just like this country!”
“You never call me Rick,” he said with real surprise.
She was also surprised; his given name had just slipped out. And she had the awful feeling that it was an indication of the changes they must now make. “If I were truly brave, truly selfless, I would find a way to stop loving you.”
His jaw flexed. “And if I were truly selfless, I would wish that you could do just that. But a part of me refuses to let you go,” he said unsteadily.
“I have that same part, inside of me,” Francesca returned. A tear finally trickled down her cheek. “I have thought about us all night. I have come to a conclusion.”
He paled. “I pray now, suddenly, that it is not the very same conclusion I have been tormented with.”
She shook her head. “No, I think not. The one thing I can’t do, Bragg, is lose you as a friend. But I can stand aside and support you in your quest for justice and reform. I can also stand aside and support your marriage,” she somehow said.
He stared. “You are the bravest, most amazing woman I have ever known,” he finally said roughly. “Don’t you understand? It is moments like this that make me love you even more.”
She smiled through her tears.
“And I have no real marriage for you to support,” he added with a flash of black anger.
“Leigh Anne is staying, and as she has pointed out, I am the problem now, not her.”
“Have you so quickly forgotten that we have been separated for four years? That she left me? That I despise her? Has it not occurred to you that she sees my star rising and so now she has come forward, for God forbid she should not rise with me on my way to prominence and power?”
Francesca was shaken. “I think she loves you,” she heard herself say.
“She loves no one but herself!” he almost shouted. “Do not let her fool you, too!”
She recoiled. Would it always be this way? Would the mere subject of his wife be enough to inflame him? Surely this was a sign of the bond Leigh Anne had spoken of; surely this was a sign of some kind of peculiar but intractable love.
“I do not love her,” he said, as always in tune with her thoughts, her mind. “I love you. And if she chooses to remain in the city, I cannot stop her. But I intend to do my best to negotiate a pact between us, one that will satisfy her, one that will send her back to Boston, if not Europe.”
Oddly, hope did not flare. “Even if she leaves the city, she is hardly dead, and you are hardly unwed.”
His eyes softened. “I am so sorry for doing this to you.”
“Never tell me you are sorry for anything!” she cried, moving into his arms. They clung for a long breathless and hurtful moment. “Bragg? She has held the threat of informing the press about us over my head. Not directly, but I am no fool. I cannot be the one to destroy you. I must stand back now, and somehow, we must deny our real feelings and try to be true friends, and nothing more.”
He was grim. “Isn’t that what we have been doing? Hasn’t
it been far too difficult to achieve? Every time I am with you, I want you in my arms!” he cried.
“We must try harder,” she said. “The truth is, until I met her myself, it was almost as if I was pretending that she did not exist. But she does exist. Before yesterday, I did not want to deny anything; before yesterday, I was convinced that because we loved each other, our love would prevail.” She looked down. “But this is not a fairy tale, now is it?” she whispered, acutely aware of using Hart’s words.
“Now, this is hardly a fairy tale where the hero and the heroine are assured a happy-ever-after ending. Let’s navigate through this day by day. As I said, I need to sit down and negotiate a compromise with her, as her being here, intending to resume her position as my wife, is simply unacceptable.” His eyes were chilling now.
“But what can you offer her?” She knew she wasn’t being tactful, but he did not have any disposable wealth—although his family certainly did.
“Leave that to me,” he said.
She nodded uncertainly. Another tear crept into her eyes. She knew with her entire being that Leigh Anne no longer wanted money, and while she could not be sure that she had not been lured back by Bragg’s new position and power, she felt certain that she still loved him.
Which meant she was staying, as she had claimed she intended to do.
“I have never seen you so glum!” he exclaimed.
“I have never before come face-to-face with the wife of the man I love,” she said simply. “You were right and I was wrong. I am ashamed, and I am filled with guilt, but we never intended to fall in love!” she cried.
He swept her into his arms for a fierce moment’s embrace. “I know. This is my fault, not yours. I was aware of my feelings instantly; I should have avoided you like the plague.”
He released her, but she remained in his arms, loosely. She attempted a smile. “Bragg? At least we can solve crimes together.”
He smiled a bit at her. And she was stunned to see moisture in his amber gaze. She dared to use her fingertip to catch a tear. He looked dismayed, but before she could say that it did not matter, she heard a movement from the other side of the salon door. She tensed, turning.
“I cannot imagine investigative work without you at my side,” he said. “But we should avoid being alone like this,” he said, “as it is too difficult and dangerous. And I am thinking about your welfare, Francesca, not my own. I am afraid I no longer trust myself when I am around you.” His expression changed. “What is it?”
She gave him a warning look and rushed over to the door and flung it open. Her mother was standing there, clearly eavesdropping.
“How long have you been spying upon us?” Francesca cried.
Julia looked extremely grim. “Long enough.” She nodded at Bragg. “Your wife called yesterday, Commissioner. I can’t imagine what she and my daughter talked about.” She looked at Francesca. “Calder Hart is here. I suggest the commissioner leave.” She walked away, and suddenly Hart was striding down the hallway toward Francesca.
Anxiety filled her. Tension stiffened her. He had the worst timing, always. And what did he want? She had last seen him yesterday, too, when she had been dropped off at the house.
“Francesca?” Bragg said from behind her, his tone low.
She turned.
“I had better go.” He hesitated. “May I call you later?”
Speaking on the telephone was hardly the same as being with him, but she nodded unhappily. Bragg was now persona non grata in the house; she felt certain of it.
“Why do I have the distinct impression that I am intruding?” Hart drawled. “I take it love’s little melodrama is not going well?” His dark gaze moved between them.
Francesca gave him a dark look.
Bragg confronted him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“The same thing as you, I believe,” Hart replied, unruffled. “I am calling on Francesca.” He looked directly at her and her heart skipped numerous beats. “How is your hand?”
“Fine,” she managed.
“Has Finney looked at it?”
“Yes.”
“And in his opinion it is healing well?”
“Yes,” she cried.
He nodded, satisfied, and faced Bragg. “How is Leigh Anne?” His smile did not reach his eyes.
“I know what you are about!” Bragg exploded. “As always, you wish to cause trouble—you wish to come between me and Francesca.”
“I had not realized there was a ‘you and Francesca,’” he murmured. “Except in a particular fairy tale.” He gave her a look.
She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Don’t start now, please.”
Her tone had been pleading; his expression softened.
“I want you to stay away from her,” Bragg said harshly. “She is too good for the likes of you—and you damn well know it.”
Hart looked at his half brother as if he were an annoying mosquito that had dared to appear within his mosquito netting.
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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