Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (44 page)

Francesca stiffened. “We were only friends, and we did not meet until January eighteenth. Neither one of us was looking for a romance.”

“You defend him now?” Connie was incredulous. “You should be angry, no, furious!”

Francesca did not hesitate. “We are still friends.” She was not going to tell her sister or anyone how painful the marriage was for Bragg or how awful his wife was. That was his private affair.

Connie stared. “No, Fran, you are still in love, and that will not do! The man is in politics. He will never divorce, so unless his wife suddenly dies, there is no hope. You must forget him now and move on.” She was firm.

“The way you have forgotten Neil?” The words just popped out.

Connie flushed. “That is different. We are married, and we have two children.”

“Love has many guises,” Francesca said, meaning it.

“Oh, God. You are the most stubborn person I know! I am afraid for you now!” Connie cried.

And deep in her own heart, Francesca was also afraid, for herself, for Bragg. Because the bond between them felt somehow stronger with every passing moment, not the other way. But she removed her hand from her sister’s, so she could pat Connie’s reassuringly. “Don’t worry about me. I am fine.”

Connie eyed her, then said, “Did you see the
Sun
this morning? Apparently he struck a reporter last night at police headquarters.”

Francesca had seen the article, and she was dying of curiosity and eaten with apprehension to know just what had transpired. Diverted from her own personal fate, she said, “I saw. I know the reporter. I am certain the article was a highly distorted version of the truth.”

“Yes. I cannot imagine Commissioner Bragg striking anyone. He is quite the gentleman—or so I thought, until today.”

“He
is
a gentleman,” Francesca said firmly. And he was, even though he had grown up on the Lower East Side in a tenement and had belonged to a gang. A few weeks ago she had seen him in a brutal fight with the thug Gordino. Bragg was capable of losing his temper and his better judgment, and he knew how to fight with the most vicious sort. But that did not change the fact that he was a man of honor. Still, Francesca felt there was a bit of truth to the article, and she hoped, fervently, that if there was, it would not cost him his job.

“There was a suggestion in the article that the man who was attacked might sue,” Connie said.

“I know; I read it. Don’t you think we should order?” Francesca asked, worried about Bragg. Perhaps she would make a trip downtown to headquarters to find out what was happening now with the Randall case—and to learn what had really happened with that miserable Arthur Kurland.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” A familiar and oh, too sensual drawl caused Francesca to start and look up.

Calder Hart smiled at her and her sister, standing beside their table, a dashing figure in a dark gray business suit.

“Mr. Hart!” Connie cried, smiling as if very pleased to see him. “What an unexpected surprise.”

His gaze moved over her slowly, as if relishing the view, before he spoke. “And I do hope it is as pleasant for you as it is for me, Lady Montrose. You are, beyond a doubt, the loveliest woman in this dining room.”

Connie flushed. “How could it not be a pleasure to see you?” she murmured.

And Francesca looked from Hart’s smiling countenance to her sister’s blushing one and she was stunned. What was this?

And had Hart not noticed that the two sisters were almost identical? Indeed, strangers often assumed them to be twins!

“And you do flatter me overly, I fear,” Connie added.

“I am a connoisseur of many things, including beauty,” he remarked. He turned toward Francesca. “And how are you today, Francesca?”

She felt herself flushing as well. She stared at him. “Very well, thank you.”

“You look tired.” But his eyes were warm.

She did not rate the flattery her sister did? “I am tired.” Her expression felt mulish now.

“Busy sleuthing, I believe?” Both slashing brows lifted.

“You know?”

“Bragg called me last night. I understand you apprehended my vicious half sister and her equally reprehensible brother yourself. With a fry pan,” he added, a twinkle in his eyes.

Before Francesca could respond, Connie cried accusingly, “Francesca! I thought Bragg was with you!”

She glanced gingerly at her sister. “Well, Bragg did show up a minute later, and I do mean a minute.”

“You cannot go about apprehending killers by yourself,” Connie said firmly.

“I am in absolute agreement with your sister,” Hart said, his eyes still sparkling. He reached into his interior breast pocket and handed Francesca an envelope.

“What is this?” she asked, bewildered.

“A bank note.” He smiled. “I am accepting your offer to join the board of the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements.”

Francesca gaped and as she opened the envelope, Hart looked at Connie. She glanced at the bank note and froze—it was for $5,000. “Hart!” she cried, stunned. “Thank you!”

“You are welcome,” he said, but his gaze had slipped to Connie’s décolletage. Her beautiful rose-and-ivory-striped ensemble was form-fitting but modest, not low-cut, and absolutely appropriate for day, but his glance was unmistakable.

Francesca felt herself scowl. It was stupid to wonder, but had he ever looked at her that way?

Yes, he had, she decided, when he had been outrageously drunk.

Connie leaned toward Francesca to peek at the note. Her eyes became round. “Oh. Mr. Hart, that is terribly generous of you.”

Hart smiled into her eyes. “It is my pleasure to aid your sister in her efforts at reform.”

“Obviously.” Connie smiled back, into his eyes. “More citizens of this city should be like you.”

He laughed at that. “I do not think so. So, what shall
we
do about Francesca’s penchant for sleuthing?” he asked Connie with a dimple.

“I think we shall have to convince my
little
sister of our way of thinking,” Connie said lightly, clearly enjoying the flirtation.

He did not look away. “A joint effort is clearly called for.”

“She can be very stubborn,” Connie warned.

“So can I,” he said softly. “And you, Lady Montrose? Do you have a stubborn streak?”

Francesca looked from the one to the other and knew her eyes were impossibly wide. This had to be stopped!

“Determination is not considered ladylike,” Connie said softly. “Would you have me share my secrets with you?”

“I am very good at keeping a lady’s secrets,” Hart murmured. “And yours I would love to share.”

Connie’s complexion had turned pink again. “I rather believe you,” she murmured in return, glancing coyly aside. “You might get me in trouble, Mr. Hart.”

“I might,” he agreed, causing both sisters to stare at him.

Connie flushed. “You are shockingly bold.”

“I am well aware of it. Perhaps you will come to enjoy my boldness.”

She gazed at him with a soft, slight smile. “Perhaps.”

“Ahh.” His smile widened now. “Does this mean you will finally, at last, accept my invitation to lunch?”

“It has only been three days since you tendered it,” Connie smiled.

“Four, if you count today,” he countered quickly.

Francesca could not believe what she was witnessing. Did they even know she was still present? She opened her mouth to say something, anything, and said, “I wonder if
Neil
has heard the news. Do you think he knows we caught your
father’s
killer?”

She was ignored—as if she hadn’t spoken, as if she did not exist. Connie said, “Four then. I had not realized you were counting the days.”

“How could I not? When I offer up an invitation to the most enchanting woman I have met in years, I do not forget it. So? Will you accept my invitation?” he pressed, his gaze steady and intent.

“Nothing would pleasure me more,” Connie said, no longer smiling but staring back at him.

They regarded each other for an interminable moment.

“Connie!” Francesca finally gasped, shocked.

Hart grinned, the moment broken. “I must check my schedule, but I do believe I am free this Friday. Say, at one?”

“Friday at one o’clock would be perfect.”

Hart nodded at her, still smiling—as if the cat had already eaten up all the cream. “I shall be in touch with the details,” he said. He bowed, then looked at Francesca. “Will you be joining us?” His eyes were gleaming with amusement.

“Francesca is busy on Friday,” Connie said quickly, before Francesca could even open her mouth. “Aren’t you?”

Hart seemed to choke back a laugh.

Francesca looked at her sister and wondered what would happen if she reached across the table and actually tried to throttle her. “I happen to be free on Friday,” she said.

Connie gave her a perfect smile. “You have forgotten that you have an engagement,” she said sweetly.

Francesca gave her a look that should have killed; unfortunately, it did not.

Hart had to laugh out loud. Heads did turn at the happy and robust sound. “Good day, ladies. And, Francesca?” His smile vanished. “Thank you,” he said.

She looked into his dark eyes and saw the sincerity there and felt an odd pang. “You’re welcome, Calder,” she said softly.

He bowed at them both and left the restaurant with long, graceful strides. Both men and women turned to watch him go. Whispers as well as stares trailed in his wake.

Francesca turned to see Connie gazing after him, her blue eyes almost shining and certainly thoughtful. “What are you thinking?” she cried. “Have you lost your mind? Have you forgotten that you are married?” she demanded.

It was a moment before Connie replied, and not until Hart had exited the dining room. “I have hardly forgotten that I am a married woman with two children,” Connie said calmly.

“You were flirting with Hart,” Francesca accused.

“So? That is hardly a crime.” Connie was serene. “I see my friends flirting with gentlemen other than their husbands all the time.”

“But you are not a flirt!”

“I have decided to try it as a pastime; it seems rather enjoyable.”

Francesca gaped. “Con, he is notorious for his liaisons, and I do believe married women are his
specialty.”

Connie smiled. “I suppose we shall see.”

“What? Wait!” Francesca was horrified. “Is this your idea of vengeance?”

“Francesca, do not be absurd. A charming man has asked me to lunch, and I have accepted. It is no more than that—a casual, and I do mean casual, flirtation.” But she looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Indeed, she continued to smile, an expression Francesca had not seen in days.

“Well, let me tell you something,” Francesca said in a huff. “If you play with fire, you shall get burned.”

Connie shrugged with nonchalance. “Not if one holds the match very carefully,” she said.

After a meal that had tasted very much like cardboard—during which Connie seemed to be in extraordinary spirits—they paid their bill and left the dining room. The lobby of the Plaza was a vast room with huge Corinthian columns and an atrium in its center. The moment the two women paused on its threshold, Francesca saw a cluster of gentlemen entering through the hotel’s front entrance. In their midst was Bragg.

Quite literally, her heart missed a beat.

She froze in mid-stride.

He was surrounded by newsmen, she realized, as every single one was holding a small notebook and a lead pencil. But he stopped speaking in mid-sentence, and like herself, he halted.

Across the spacious room, through the huge potted palms, in spite of the atrium, in spite of everyone coming and going, he looked at her and their gazes met.

It should have been impossible, given the distance and space between them, but it was not.

“Fran?” Connie said with worry.

Francesca didn’t hear her. Smiling, she moved toward him. It was almost as if a magnet were luring her there.

Bragg detached himself from the reporters, as if he, too, were being pulled toward her. Somewhere between the atrium and the long walnut-and-marble reception desk, they paused. He was smiling, too.

“Good afternoon, Francesca,” Bragg said softly.

“Hello, Bragg. It’s a bit late for lunch, is it not?”

His gaze was searching. “Yes, it is. How are you?”

Her own gaze searched his as well. “I am fine. A bit tired, I suppose.”

“Yes, and you should be. I am tired, too.”

She touched his sleeve, too briefly for anyone to notice. “How late did you work last night?” She had already noticed the slight discoloration beneath his eyes and the fact that if he had used a razor that morning, he had done so too swiftly for it to have been thorough.

“Late.” He smiled. “Well after midnight. Mary has admitted everything.”

“She was eager to speak?”

“It seems that way. She is a very troubled young lady.”

Francesca nodded. “And Bill?”

His gaze never left hers. “He is being charged with conspiracy and assault.” His eyes changed. “You did not tell me that he hit you on the head with a lamp.”

“I didn’t know. But I saw Dr. Finney, and I am fine. There shall be no permanent damage.” She smiled.

He smiled back and took her hand and lifted it in order to look at her wrist. He nodded and met her gaze again, dropping her hand. “The abrasions are healing well.”

“Yes.” How easily his touch could arouse her, she thought.

“And other than having been hit on the head with a lamp and having rope burns on your wrist and being tired, how are you today?” he asked.

“Well enough,” she said, but only after a hesitation.

He was the one to pause now. His gaze was so somber. “Will you step outside with me for a moment?”

She wanted nothing more. “Of course.”

He grasped her elbow, but only for the barest of moments, and they walked through the library, careful not to look at anyone, careful not to touch. Still, Francesca felt her skirts brush his trousered leg as they stepped out into the brilliant winter sun. The day was dazzling in brightness.

She squinted and faced him where they stood beneath the hotel’s majestic bronze awning, within a stone’s throw of the park. “It is an unusual day,” she remarked. She was achingly aware of him.