Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (28 page)

Bragg had said the same thing, although for different reasons. He was worried about Connie’s fragility, and after seeing her a moment ago, Francesca was now worried, too. “Maybe you are right. But what I really am is worried. Mama, I am not sure that Connie should go home. She is in such an odd state!”

“Of course she must go home,” Julia said firmly. She took her hand and smiled, but it was a sad smile indeed. “I have no doubt that in the end, they will successfully reconcile.”

“Connie is so distraught,” Francesca returned.

“She is distraught, but then, how could she not be?” Julia sighed. “She is so used to things being easy for her. She has had so little adversity in her life—if she has had any at all. Yes, this is a terrible blow. Perhaps, in the end, this will be good for her … and her marriage.”

“How can you say that?” Francesca asked, with surprise and real curiosity.

Julia smiled a little. “Your sister will emerge much stronger from this crisis. Of that I have no doubt. But more importantly, it is never too soon to realize that we enter this world alone, and we leave it alone.”

“Mother!” Francesca was stunned. “You have been married to Father for over twenty years. Successfully, I might add. That was a very negative thing to say.”

“Francesca, never be deceived. No matter how much I love you, no matter how much your father loves you, or Evans or Connie, you are here alone. Ultimately, your fate rests in your own hands, whatever it might be.”

Francesca shivered. “I do hope you are not telling me that in the end, there is no one you can count on other than yourself, ultimately?”

Julia smiled just a bit and did not reply. And that was an affirmation.

“What happened, Mama, to make you feel so alone? Papa loves you. We all do.”

“Even I have my secrets,” Julia said, standing and looking down at her. “We all do—and that is as it should be.”

Francesca was bemused.

“So. Where are you off to at this hour, Francesca?” Julia asked as they finally were helped on with their coats.

Francesca hesitated. Numerous excuses and denials sprang to mind. Then, “I was on my way to bring an important bit of information to the police commissioner’s attention. It is very important, Mama.”

“Francesca, you are not involved in police business again?” Julia was incredulous.

“Not exactly. But this should please you—I called on Calder Hart. And he gave me the information I must pass on to Bragg.”

Julia stared. “You called on Hart? Francesca! He must be the one to court you!”

Francesca hid a smile. “I called on him, Mania; I did not go courting him. You know, I think you should call on him yourself. If you state that you are my mother, I am sure he will receive you.” She continued to keep a straight face. One visit to Hart and her mother would dismiss him as a marriage prospect.

“You are up to something. And I will think about it. But you are right; I am pleased you called on him. What time is it?”

“A bit past seven. I can be home by eight, I promise,” Francesca said, crossing her fingers behind her back. Half past eight was more likely, or even nine o’clock. But she would deal with that matter when the time came.

“I know you will go home and then steal out of the house at some horrendously late hour if I refuse. So go, but be back by eight-thirty.” There was a warning in her tone.

“You can be the most wonderful mother,” Francesca cried, impulsively hugging her. “And I shall be back on time, I swear.”

Julia smiled fondly and Francesca dashed from the house.

Peter, Bragg’s man, answered the door before she had even finished knocking. The big blond man looked down at her, his expression inscrutable. Francesca beamed. “Good evening, Peter. Is it not a lovely night?” She nodded her head toward the street, now dusted with an inch of snow. The few carriages that passed by were also snow-clad, and two of the neighborhood children were out, tossing snowballs at each other not far from Bragg’s house. A spaniel puppy was chasing the snowballs amid shrieks and laughter.

“Good evening, Miss Cahill. The commissioner is in his study.”

Francesca walked past the giant man, well aware of her rapidly pounding pulse. She had butterflies in her stomach, too.
Oh, well. So much for detachment and professionalism,
she thought, continuing to smile.

She followed Peter down the hall. The one single time she had been in Bragg’s home, she had been in the parlor, which was at the end of the house. The door was open now, but no lights were on, and no fire danced in the hearth.

Peter knocked and then pushed open a door to the left of the parlor, saying, “Miss Cahill, sir.”

Francesca stepped inside.

Bragg was sitting at a large desk, oddly placed in the center of the room. One old and very frayed armchair was placed facing the room’s hearth, which was small. There a small fire crackled. A bookcase crammed with books covered another wall; windows looked out on the small backyard. Boxes, opened but unpacked, were everywhere. They contained books and journals.

It was a reminder that he had only returned to New York recently, in order to accept his appointment as police commissioner.

Bragg had leaped to his feet as she entered. He was in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up to his elbows, and a dark vest, which was open. Even his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a hollow there and a few dark hairs. He smiled, obviously pleased to see her. “Francesca, what an unexpected surprise.”

“You cannot get rid of me, I fear.”

He laughed. “Do you not remember, I learn fast? And that fact I learned weeks ago, during the Burton Affair.”

Francesca found it hard to remove her gaze from him. He seemed bigger somehow, perhaps because when he was clad only in his shirt and vest, one became aware of how broad his shoulders were, how strong and muscular his arms. And in the shadowy room, in the firelight, his eyes appeared darker than they were. He, too, seemed to be scrutinizing her. Not glancing away, she murmured, “You need a decorator, Bragg.”

“I know. Is that another one of your many and unique talents?” He moved out from behind the desk, coming toward her slowly. Not taking his eyes from her face, he said, “Peter, bring Miss Cahill a sherry, please. Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

She wet her lips, which had become dry. Her body felt taut, as if riddled with tension. “A sherry would be perfect,” she said. “Wine tends to go straight to my head, making it rather mushy.”

He smiled, his gaze still on hers. “A mushy-headed Francesca. That might be an interesting change. I will have a glass of red wine, Peter. Burgundy, if you will. Open a bottle if none is left over from supper.”

Peter left.

“Does he speak?” Francesca opened the top button of her shirtwaist, at her throat.

“Infrequently,” Bragg said, his gaze moving to her fingers. “When he does, it is usually worthwhile to attend to what he has to say.” It lifted again to her face.

Francesca nodded. “I imagine so.”

“Shall we go into the parlor? You seem warm. It is warm in here. And I am afraid the only chair I can offer you is rather shabby, and the cushion rather thin.”

She eyed him, then reached down to test the cushion, which needed new stuffing. “Actually, decorating is not a talent of mine, but it is one of Connie’s.” Thinking about her sister made her frown with the worry she could not shake.

“Then perhaps we shall enlist her aid. Francesca? What is wrong?”

She straightened and met his gaze. As usual, it was intense and riveted upon her. Her butterflies increased. The feeling was a heady one. The night felt immense, as did the possibilities. It was almost as if anything could happen—as if anything would happen.

And he had said “we.”

“I am sure Connie could be enticed into sprucing up your home,” she said softly.

He touched her arm. “Has something happened that I do not know about?” he asked with concern.

Her heart melted then and there. “She spent last night at her best friend’s. Mama and I found her, and Mama insisted she go home. Connie has agreed. She is so distraught, Bragg. I am somehow afraid for her. And I do not like Mama pushing her.” Her tone sounded imploring to her own ears.

His hand briefly cupped her shoulder. The gesture was meant to comfort, but it did more than that; it caused her pulse to soar. As if he sensed her reaction, as quickly, he removed it. “I am sorry. But I do think they will work this out eventually. Things, however, might get worse before they improve,” he said.

“Oh, dear. Do not speak that way!” Francesca hoped fervently that he was wrong. “Mama has actually instructed Connie on how to behave—even on constructing an excuse for last night. I do wish she would let Connie manage her marriage her own way.”

“Your mother is a very strong woman. I imagine Connie is accustomed to doing as Julia asks.”

“Yes, she is,” Francesca said, even more worried now. She sighed.

He brushed a stray tendril of light blond hair from her face. She stiffened; he said, “There has been a betrayal of trust. Trust is no easy thing to give in the first place, but to win it anew, that is even harder. A reconciliation will take some time.”

“Do you always have to be so wise?” she asked, her heart beating frantically, and their gazes locked.

He stared and a long and intense moment seemed to pass. He said, “You give me so much more credit than I am due.”

“I don’t think so.” She knew she did not.

His gaze slipped over her. It moved across her mouth and down her bodice, and he turned away almost simultaneously, but she had seen it and she sensed what it meant. She was thrilled. He was aware of her now, as she was of him.

“Do you enjoy working in here?” Francesca asked, smiling and breathless.

“Actually, I do.” He gave her a sidelong glance, which she now could not decipher. “There are no distractions, not even the telephone, for that is in my parlor. And upstairs I have installed another telephone, in my bedroom.”

She blinked. “You have a
telephone
in your
bedroom?”
It was unheard of.

“I do get calls in the middle of the night,” he said. “It is the nature of my job.”

“I suppose so,” she said, blushing. She should not imagine him in bed, half-undressed, on the telephone, conducting business—but she did. She already knew how he would look without his shirt, for she had held him in her arms and she knew his body was a lean and muscular one. She tried to shake free of her unwelcome thoughts. She had called on him for a reason—and she had limited time. “I have news, Bragg.”

“I did not think this a social call,” he said, touching her elbow to guide her to the parlor. “In fact, I have played a little mental game with myself, deciding the number of hours it would be before you popped up again.”

His tone was so warm that she could only smile. “And how many hours did you decide it would be before our paths did cross again?” He had been thinking about her, too. She was elated.

“Unfortunately, I have guessed rather poorly,” he said, wry. “I had expected to hear from you late tomorrow morning. I had decided upon eleven
A.M.”

“Ah. I am at least sixteen hours in advance of your estimation. I am keeping you on your toes.” She grinned.

“I suspect you wish to keep me on my toes. But the evening hours hardly count—or so I have now decided.”

“You cannot change the rules in the middle of the game!” she cried, delighted.

“Why not? It is my game,” he said softly. His eyes danced. They wound up lingering on her mouth again.

Francesca had to pause. Tonight, surely, when they were alone like this, with just the small fire for company, he would hold her and kiss her. She was certain of it. She wanted nothing more. “But you do business in the middle of the night; you have a telephone by your bed; you have proven that.”

“For emergencies only.” But he was smiling at her.

“But you never know when I shall have an emergency to present to you,” she rebutted with her own smile. “Was it not midnight that I sent Joel over with news of a murder?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I concede defeat. You are absolutely right. Next time, you may determine the rules, Francesca.” He ceased smiling. His stare was unwavering now. It was also heated.

And her breathing became suspended as well. “I had better write this down and record this moment for posterity,” she said softly.

“Perhaps we had better keep our understanding an oral one. God forbid a rabid journalist learns that the police commissioner of New York City allows a mere slip of a Barnard student to set the rules of the game.”

She wondered if he thought her petite, and she did not mind. “You are right.”

“The parlor?” he asked, taking her arm and gesturing with his head. He stood so near her now that they were hip-to-hip.

Her arm seemed to tingle beneath his hand. “I do not mind staying in your office. I rather like this room.” It was so full of his energy, his essence, and his character, she thought. Her gaze fell on the closest box of books. They were law books, she saw, undoubtedly acquired during his years at Harvard Law School or perhaps even when he had worked in Washington, D.C., as an attorney defending the poor, the falsely accused, and the unfortunate.

“Only you would like so dour a room.” He released her and she gingerly sat down in the big chair. To her surprise, it was like sitting on a cloud, and every inch of it reminded her of Bragg. She inhaled his strong, masculine scent. “How long have you had this chair?”

“Too many years,” he said flatly.

No wonder she liked it, she thought. The chair smelled like him—woodsy yet urbane, musky yet fresh. She leaned back and to her surprise, the chair tilted abruptly backward while an attached ottoman shot out, elevating her feet. “Oh!”

“I forgot to tell you, the chair reclines.” He quickly leaned over the chair, a hand on each arm. As he pulled it upright, she looked at his face, which was now mere inches from hers. He paused, staring back.

Francesca could not help herself. She looked at his mouth and recalled how his lips had tasted and felt. Her heartbeat had become a drumroll. “Bragg?” she breathed.