Deadly Vows (30 page)

He was angry with her. She hid a smile and wriggled her toes. “My feet hurt,” she said. “Would you?” She gave Hart a sweet look.

A cashmere throw was over the lower half of her body. Hart set his drink down somewhat forcefully, and took a single stride to her side. He removed each of her shoes as if it were a huge task, his face very, very grim.

He still loves me, she thought happily. She realized Rourke was staring and she smiled at him.

He smiled back. “Feeling better?”

“It must be the whiskey.”

“It must be.” He winked at her.

“I can't imagine what you both find so amusing.” Hart was cold. “I arrived at an emporium to find Francesca with a gun to her chest and my damn half sister about to kill her.”

Rourke's good humor vanished. “I thought Mary Randall was incarcerated in an asylum.”

“She escaped,” Hart said tersely, “with my brother's help.”

“Half brother,” Francesca corrected. “And we are assuming Bill helped her escape. We do not yet know that for a fact.”

Hart's look of annoyance increased.

Rourke glanced at Francesca. She decided now was not the time to mention that Bill had paid her a call—in her very own home. She'd save that for later in the evening. She smiled yet again.

“You are in exceedingly high spirits, considering that I shot you,” Hart exclaimed angrily.

“You shot her?” Rourke asked.

“There were two shots—Bragg might have been the one to graze my shoulder,” Francesca said instantly.

“No, Francesca.” Hart was adamant—and furious. “For once, your intellect is deserting you. Bragg was standing on your right, at an almost ninety-degree angle. I was standing behind you. I moved slightly left when the chaos began, hoping for a better shot. There is no possible way that Rick shot you in the left shoulder.”

He was right, she thought. Realizing how upset he was, her heart melted. “It was an accident. Mary wanted to kill me. You had to try to stop her.”

He picked up his drink and slammed a third of it down.

Rourke pulled an ottoman over and sat beside her.
“I am very sorry, Francesca, for what you have gone through.”

“Thank you.” She glanced from Rourke to Hart. “They must be the thieves. Did you hear our conversation?”

“I caught bits and pieces of it.”

“Mary has seen the portrait. She was bragging about it—and gloating.”

Hart gave her a dangerous look, but did not move.

“You cannot possibly blame yourself!” she cried.

“Why not? We are back to square one. I commissioned the damn portrait. You could have died.” He was final.

She became uneasy. He loved her. Surely they would reconcile!

Rourke laid his comforting palm on her good shoulder. “Where is Mary? Did Rick apprehend her?”

Hart turned away, so Francesca said, “He was chasing after her, Rourke, when I fainted. I don't know what happened afterward.”

“I'll give HQ a call. If he is not there, I'll call him at home.”

“He won't be home, not at this hour,” Francesca said.

Both men looked at her, Rourke with interest, Hart with moody speculation. Hart said, “Rick is either at headquarters or he is on his way here, to check up on Francesca. You may trust me on that.”

“I'll call him right now to let him know that she is all right.” Rourke paused. “Is there anything else that you need, Francesca?”

“I am fine.”

“That wound is like a minor burn. Do you want laudanum to help you to sleep?”

She shook her head. Rourke smiled and left.

And they were alone.

Hart was staring. Francesca stared back, wishing he
wouldn't blame himself for her having been shot—and for everything else. “I am fine, Hart, really.”

“I can't tolerate your running about town, chasing madwomen and criminals with no one at your side!” he exploded. “I nearly had a stroke when Alfred gave me your message.”

She tried to get up. “I thought I was meeting Solange, but it was a ruse, obviously. I am so glad Alfred found you.”

He strode to her and took Rourke's place on the ottoman. “Don't you dare. You could faint.” His hand closed over her right arm as he pushed her back onto the couch. “You rushed off to meet Solange, fully aware of how dangerous she is—while not knowing if I would even receive your message.”

For once in her life, she had no interest in debating the merits of the case. “I think I knew, in my heart, that you would come.”

“Really?” He made a hard sound and slid his fingers to her neck. “How could you go to meet her alone? Why couldn't you have waited to locate me? Why do you have to be so impulsive, so impervious to danger? Francesca, you are mortal!”

“You are so worried about me, Hart,” she breathed, acutely aware of his large, strong hand as it moved to her nape.

“Damn it, Francesca,” he breathed. “It is not amusing. Mary almost murdered you tonight—right in front of me—while I watched.”

She went still. As distraught as he was, his eyes were smoldering. She lifted her hand and clasped his rough jaw. “I love how worried you are. I love how much you care.”

His gaze moved to her mouth. “Of course you do.”

“Hart?” she asked softly.

Slowly, with effort, his gaze lifted to hers.

She rubbed his jaw, and then slid her hand down his strong throat and into the open V of his shirt. “You will never give me up. You can't give me up. And I won't let you, anyway. You are stuck with me—forever.”

 

R
OURKE PAUSED IN THE
lobby of police headquarters. As Francesca had suspected, Rick had been at police headquarters when he had called, approximately an hour ago. But Rick hadn't given him more than thirty seconds on the telephone. His only interest had been in knowing if Francesca was all right. Then he had told Rourke he had police affairs to attend and that a long night lay ahead. Before Rourke could even ask about Mary, he had told him to wish Francesca well and hung up.

Rourke loved both his older brothers. He considered Hart a sibling, even if they did not share blood or a name. He was very fond of Francesca, but like everyone in the family, the love triangle that had developed worried him immensely. Because Rick was married, and Hart so shockingly alone, he had concluded that he must root for Hart and Francesca. When he had learned what had happened at the Siegel-Cooper emporium, he had been instantly concerned.

Tonight had proven one thing: Hart was still, obviously, head over heels for Francesca. He felt certain that, in time, they would work their relationship out. He knew no one as determined and tenacious as Francesca. Not that her work wasn't cut out for her. Hart was infuriatingly stubborn.

It was Rick he was concerned about now.

He held a paper sack that contained a bottle of scotch. It was time to sit down with his brother and have a very long conversation—whether Rick was amenable or not. He had never been to police headquarters, much less Mulberry Street, and he was curious as he glanced around.
Several civilians stood at the reception desk, arguing with the officers there. One woman was clearly a prostitute. Two men were in the holding cell, both passed out from an overconsumption of alcohol. He did not know where Rick's office was, but he doubted it was on the ground floor. There was an elevator and a staircase on his right.

“C'mish?”

Rourke turned and realized the officer who had approached had mistaken him for his brother. That was not an infrequent occurrence. “I am the commissioner's brother, Rourke Bragg. Is his office upstairs?”

When he was directed to the third floor, he proceeded to the stairs, forgoing the elevator. Rourke took the steps two at a time. Rick's door was open, his office vacant, but he knew he was in the right place. Family photographs covered the mantel over the small fireplace. There was only one photograph of Leigh Anne—a bridal portrait. There were no pictures of Rick and Leigh Anne together and he wondered what the absence meant. It worried him. How could it not? He was aware of his brother's unhappiness.

Then he heard voices coming from another room. Recognizing Rick's calm tones, Rourke didn't hesitate. He walked over to a closed door with an opaque glass window. A woman was screaming shrilly from within.

He heard his brother say, “This is a one-time offer, Mary. I will not make it again. Tell me where the portrait is and I will make certain you are housed like a princess when you return to Bellevue.”

“Go to hell!” she shouted. “Even if I knew where it was, I wouldn't tell you, you bastard!”

He heard a glass crash and he winced. Bragg said, “I am not done with her. Find her a chair, put her in a corner and cuff her. Maybe a night without sleep will do
wonders for her temper.” The door to the interrogation room swung open.

Rourke smiled as he came face-to-face with his brother. “Sometimes, it is prudent for Mohammed to go to the mountain.”

Rick blinked. “I am very busy.”

“You are always busy. It is a tiresome excuse.”

Rick flushed. “I suppose I can spare you a few moments.”

Rourke glanced past him and saw Mary Randall standing with a policeman and Chief Farr, her white face blotched red, her eyes ablaze with anger. She was a tiny, shrewish-looking woman, too small to hurt anyone—or at least one would think so. She was so clearly unbalanced that he shivered. He saw a broken drinking glass on the floor.

“She claims she doesn't know where the portrait is,” Rick said, leading Rourke into his office.

Rourke closed the door and took a bottle of very fine, very old scotch whiskey from the paper sack. “Do you believe her?”

“Unfortunately, I do.” Bragg sat down, sighing, but he looked with interest at the bottle of scotch.

Rourke could feel how tired his brother was. “Is it worth it?” He uncapped the scotch, took a swig and handed the bottle to his brother.

Rick took a long draft, like a very thirsty man. “Is what worth it?”

“This job.” Rick carried the burdens of law enforcement for an entire city upon his shoulders. It might as well have been the burdens of an entire planet.

Rick made a harsh, mirthless sound. “Someone has to fight crime and corruption.”

“Yes, someone does. So is it worth it?”

Rick got up, walked to a small bureau and returned
with two glasses. Rourke poured. Rick said, “There are good days and bad days. There are days of victory—and days of immense frustration and defeat. Even worse, there are days of terrible tragedy.” He stared, pausing. “You heard Mary. What did you think?”

Rourke sipped the scotch, thinking about how heroic his older brother was. “She is insane, Rick. She might very well believe her own lies—or she might be telling the truth.”

He absorbed that. “How is Francesca?”

That hadn't taken very long, Rourke thought. “She suffered a graze. It is truly nothing.”

Not looking at him, Rick drank from his scotch, asking quietly, “Is she at Hart's or at her home?”

“She is at Hart's.”

There was silence. Rick finished his scotch swiftly and Rourke refilled it. Rourke said, “They will probably reconcile sooner or later. Hart is beside himself with worry for her. He remains in love with her.”

Rick looked up coldly. “He is destroying her bit by bit, piece by piece, day by day.”

“That is unfair. I happen to think that she is the best thing to have ever happened to him.”

Rick drank and said harshly, “I agree.” He stared down at one of his yellow pads darkly.

Rourke said quietly, “Are you still in love with her?”

Rick slowly looked up, his expression unhappy. “I am a married man, in case you have forgotten.”

“Married men are quite capable of falling in love with other women.”

“I have a duty toward my wife—my invalid wife.”

“Rick.”

“Fine! I care deeply—and I always will. There is no one I respect or admire more than Francesca.” He did
not look at Rourke, sipping his scotch and clearly lost in a great many dark thoughts.

Rourke grimaced. This was exactly as he had suspected. “Once upon a time, you admired and loved your wife.”

Rick looked up. “I was a boy, and I was infatuated as only a boy can be.” Then he added, refilling his glass, “Why are you doing this? I don't want to have this discussion.”

“I am doing this because I am your brother and you are so terribly unhappy.” Rourke cradled his glass and stared. “I want to help—I just don't know how.”

Rick met his gaze unflinchingly. He spoke thoughtfully, after a pause. “You're a doctor, so maybe you can help. Leigh Anne is unhappy, Rourke. She is filled with melancholy. I am worried. This accident has changed her entirely. She is drinking, and dosing herself with laudanum. I don't know what to do. She refuses to discuss anything with me—in fact, she does her best to avoid me.”

Rourke said gently, “It might take some time for her to adjust to losing the ability to walk. Or she might never adjust. Unfortunately, some people rebound from tragedy, others do not.”

Rick leaned back in his chair. He made a harsh sound. “I already know she will not recover. Do not tell me to think otherwise, to have hope. She isn't a very strong woman…she has never fought for anything. And the truth is, I am doing my best to avoid her, as well.” He suddenly covered his face with his hands.

His brother was crushed, not by the burdens of law enforcement, but by the burden of his marriage, and possibly, the loss of Francesca Cahill. “Why do you feel that you must avoid her? She is your wife.”

“She has made it very clear that I am intruding
whenever I set a foot in my own home.” Rick looked up and stared. “In truth, I have never forgiven her for leaving me and I couldn't forgive her for returning to me! Did you know that she bribed me into reconciliation?”