Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (28 page)

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Authors: Deadly Desire

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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He moved his hand lower and his middle finger began to rub back and forth in an expert circular motion. She cried out, beginning to shake.
“I love you,” he said harshly, and he kissed an aching nipple. “Come for me, Francesca.”
She managed to meet his gaze, already spiraling along the paths of untamable pleasure, guiltless ecstasy. And he knew.
He bent and began licking and tugging at her nipple, while his finger continued its devastating work. Suddenly her gown was whipped up, his hand now on her naked flesh. She was
slick, slippery, wet. He palmed her entire sex, then began to rub her with his thumb.
She exploded, arching off of the bunk, her cries deep, harsh, loud.
When she came back to earth this time, he was holding her tightly in his arms, her face was against his chest, he had one leg wrapped over her, and she felt every inch of his arousal against one thigh. “You have to go,” he said. “And I mean it.”
It was hard to think clearly. “No.” She tried to look up at him, but his eyes were screwed tightly shut. “I love you, too, Bragg.” And as her mind began to function, fear began spiraling down her spine.
He gripped her shoulders, straightening. “That’s just it,” he said. “I’m not sure that you do love me. Because if you did, you would understand that if this goes much further, I will never be able to forgive myself.”
She stared.
Because, my dear, I am sick of it, him, the two of you!
I am sorry I will not be at your wedding, the first one to toast the police commissioner and his new, second wife.
Francesca hated Calder Hart then, with all of her being, for daring to come between them then, now.
“What is it?” he asked quickly, sitting and moving away from her.
“Where do we go from here?” she had asked him, not too long ago.
“I don’t know.”
She slowly sat up. “I do love you,” she said. It was the truth. “I have loved you from the moment we first met and engaged in a debate. You have no idea how much I admire you. There is no one I respect more.”
Something flitted through his eyes; he did not speak.
Francesca suddenly turned partially away from him. Tears were coming, fast and hard, but why? She had just experienced mind-shattering pleasure in the arms of a man she admired and loved more than anyone. And he loved her
enough to try to protect her from ruin. There was no reason for her to be on the edge of grief.
Hart was there in her mind, mocking her.
You want Rick as your husband, but I am the man you want in your bed.
I want to take you to my bed very much … . Your friendship is more important to me than sex.
“Francesca? Are you crying?” Bragg’s voice was tight with surprise and fear and perhaps even guilt.
“No,” she lied, the very first blatant lie she had ever told to him. She began to stand. Calder Hart had nothing to do with this.
It was Leigh Anne. She was the reason Francesca was grief-stricken, because she was the reason they might not find lifelong happiness.
Bragg caught her wrist. “I’m sorry.” His tone was agonized. “This is my fault. I should have sent you away—”
“No!” She whirled and put her finger to his lips. “No. Never say you’re sorry, not to me. You never have to say you’re sorry, not to me.” But why was she crying? The tears were streaming down her face.
“What is it?” Bragg asked, his gaze riveted on hers, with real apprehension.
And the truth struck her then. “You’re right, Bragg. You’ve been right all along.”
He stood abruptly, his eyes wide, anxious.
“I’m confused,” she whispered, shaken to the very depths of her being. “I love you, but …”
“But what?”
“But I’m not ready. It’s so simple. I’m afraid.”
The train was slowing as it entered the Ninety-sixth Street tunnel, and as quickly as one could blink, the morning became the night. Francesca hesitated as she stood, swaying from side to side, in the doorway of her compartment. Had she slept a wink all night? She did not think so. Perhaps it served her right.
She was frightened by her sudden confusion, but she was relieved that she had not gone through with her original intentions. She could still become Bragg’s lover, at any time. She still wanted to be his lover. Because she loved him so much. But she was afraid—she was afraid because he was married, because his wife wanted to meet with her, and because once she took that fateful step, there would be no undoing it. How had her life become so complicated?
She felt as if her life were a total shambles. And perhaps it was.
Suddenly his door slid open and their gazes met. She recalled the way he had held her and touched her and she flushed, looking nervously away. Still, those memories were enough to leave her breathless.
“Good morning,” he said, his tone noncommittal.
His tone was so carefully modulated that her gaze flew to his. She could tell nothing from his eyes. “Good morning,” she said, and she coughed to clear her throat, as she was so hoarse from tension she could hardly get such a simple salutation out.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her face.
She hesitated, then smiled too brightly. “I am fine!” Good God, she had sounded like a cheerleader!
He studied her, unsmiling and grim. Her heart lurched with dread. “I am almost fine,” she whispered, an amendment.
“I lost all control, Francesca. It won’t happen again.” His jaw flexed and a steely determination filled his eyes.
She didn’t know what she wanted him to say or do now, but telling her that he would never hold her and make love to her again was hardly reassuring. She wanted to protest, and she opened her mouth to do just that. But she was speechless, for she simply did not know what to say.
Worse, she no longer felt that the answers were simple and easy ones. The path of their future seemed to be boobytrapped with pitfalls and land mines, not to mention the specter of his wife.
“Last night was my fault, entirely so,” she heard herself say.
Before he could respond, the conductor began to shout, “Grand Central Depot. Last stop, Manhattan. Grand Central Depot! Last stop! Manhattan.”
They looked at each other. The train was slowing down vastly now.
As the conductor continued to call out the last stop, Bragg finally smiled slightly, and she knew he meant to be reassuring now. But she was not reassured. How could she be?
He pulled out his pocket watch. “In two hours Hart shall confront Craddock.”
A new and different fear gripped her. “Will you stop him now?”
His gaze met hers. “No. Let’s see what he can find out.”
Francesca could hardly believe her ears. Images of Hart confronting Craddock and the situation escalating into violence filled her mind. “Bragg, don’t let him go.”
“Hart is usually extremely effective. I will be lurking close enough to the rendezvous to help him—or hinder him, as the case may be.”
She was hardly satisfied. The train had come to a halt.
“You will also let him do dirty work you would not deign to do?” She was trembling.
His response was as sharp as the lash of a whip. “No, Francesca. But I am bound by the letter of the law, and he is not.” He turned his back on her.
She froze, bewildered and torn, uncertain of what to think and of even what she was feeling. She seized his arm from behind, forcing him to look at her. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”
“Yes, it was,” he said quietly, and their gazes locked.
And Francesca knew that the one thing she never wished to do was argue with this man. She smiled a little at him, and finally, his expression softened, too.
The platform was visible outside of the window behind Bragg’s silhouette, along with the white tiles of the walls, other passengers awaiting a train on the parallel track, and conductors and baggage men in their blue uniforms. “Peter will meet us on Fourth Avenue,” Bragg said.
Francesca nodded.
A few moments later, they were hurrying along with the crowd of disembarking passengers, Bragg carrying both her valise and his smaller duffel. They crossed the huge main lobby of the terminal, which had been completed recently. And then they were pushing through swinging glass-and-iron doors. Outside, it was snowing, the skies heavy, threatening and gray.
Francesca saw the Daimler first, sandwiched between two gleaming black carriages. Then she saw Peter, standing by the hood, his hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy black overcoat. Two policemen in uniform stood not far away. Bragg stumbled.
She glanced at him and saw shock on his face; she quickly followed his gaze.
A very small, stunningly beautiful woman stood beside Peter. She had dark hair and fair skin and the face of an angel. “Hello, Rick,” his wife said.
Bragg stopped in his tracks, still holding both of their bags.
Francesca also halted, her heart seeming to have stopped.
Oh, my God. It had begun. The ending of everything she treasured, the ending of their love.
Bragg was starkly white. “Leigh Anne?”
She should have told him, Francesca managed to think. She suddenly knew she had made the worst mistake of her life.
Leigh Anne came forward, smiling. “You seem surprised to see me, Rick. How are you?” She paused before him and Francesca thought she was only five foot tall, a petite perfect china doll with sea-green eyes and thick black lashes. She laid a small gloved hand on his arm and strained up on her tiptoes and somehow planted a soft kiss on his jaw.
Bragg pulled back. “Of course I am surprised.” He was flushing now. He wet his lips. “Leigh Anne, this is—”
“I know. This is Miss Cahill.” Leigh Anne finally turned to Francesca, her hand extended. “How do you do, Miss Cahill?” she asked politely, her eyes wide and innocent. No accusations seemed to lurk there.
Francesca could not speak, but she finally managed to breathe. It sounded as if she was frantically gulping oxygen, which, perhaps, she was.
“Surely Miss Cahill told you that I was on my way to New York?” Leigh Anne asked, turning her soft smile on Bragg.
“What?” And he finally looked at Francesca.
Leigh Anne said patiently, “I sent Miss Cahill a note. Surely she told you?”
Bragg stared at her, stunned again, while Francesca felt her cheeks blaze with fire. “I … I can explain,” she gasped.
His stare widened. “You
knew?
She sent you a
note?
You did not say a
word?”
She could not think of, much less summon up, a coherent reply.
“Please. Do not be angry with Miss Cahill, Rick; I’m sure she intended to mention it. It must have slipped her mind, Rick,” Leigh Anne said quickly.
His wife was defending her? Was this really happening?
Or was this a dream? A horrid, ghastly nightmare?
Bragg’s gaze slammed back to his wife. “What is this about, Leigh Anne?”
She stared back at him for a long moment, and there was no sign of anger or hatred upon her perfect face. Pain filled Francesca. “It’s been four years,” Leigh Anne said simply. “Don’t you think it’s time we spoke?”
He stiffened. He was darkly red, now. “Peter. Hail Miss Cahill a cab.”
His words were a bloody blow. “I can hail my own taxi,” she heard herself say thickly.
He did not look at her. “I cannot imagine why you wish to speak to me,” he said to Leigh Anne.
“You knew I was in Boston. Surely you knew I would come to New York, sooner or later.” Her green eyes never wavered from his face. They were direct, searching.
“Actually, I hadn’t thought about it at all,” he said harshly.
“Well, I can see my timing is poor,” she said, with a rueful smile. “I did not come here to upset you, Rick. I went to the house and happened to catch your man as he was leaving to pick you up. I am staying at the Waldorf-Astoria,” she said. “If you change your mind about speaking, you may find me there.”
Francesca felt tears blur her eyes, and she was horrified. But she could still see the way Leigh Anne stared at him—and the way he stared back. Bragg seemed extremely distressed, while Leigh Anne seemed entirely unruffled. She was a woman of extreme composure, Francesca thought grimly, but then, she had the advantage of surprise.
And a cab was waiting, having pulled up alongside Bragg’s motorcar.
Bragg turned, his gaze impossibly hard. “Your cab is here,” he said to Francesca.
She hesitated, a dozen responses coming to mind, and in the end, she said nothing. It was in that moment that her heart began breaking. She could not manage this; she simply could not. She had never imagined that it would be so impossibly painful to come face-to-face with his wife.
She tried to take her valise from him, but he did not release it; instead, he set his duffel down, switched her valise to his other hand, and gripped her elbow. He steered her across the curb and in front of the Daimler to the side of the hansom, where Peter stood.
Peter opened the taxi door.
Bragg looked at her.
“I was afraid to tell you,” she said, aware of the tears now shimmering in her eyes.
His jaw hardened.
She opened her purse and handed him the note.
He finally released her elbow, unfolded it, and read it. Then he handed it back to her.
“I don’t want it,” she whispered. “You are so angry.”
His expression did not soften. “I am furious. But not with you.” And finally, a light she recognized came into his eyes. “I am angry with you, Francesca, but not furious with you. We will most definitely talk about this at another time.”
“I am so sorry. As you said, I have the worst judgment.” She felt as if she were begging now for his love.
He hesitated, and finally, he softened. “Sometimes that is true. We will talk about this later.” His gaze did not waver from her face. He added, “Don’t worry.”
There was really no relief. She nodded anxiously. “Will you be all right?”
He was incredulous. “The woman I am married to—a woman I despise—suddenly walks back into my life and you ask me if I will be all right?”
She shivered. “How can I help?”
He was too much of a gentleman to point out that she had done enough. “We have an operation to see to, Francesca. Peter will take you directly to Hart, and I will follow.” He glanced over his shoulder and so did Francesca; Leigh Anne stood on the sidewalk, motionless, watching them, her hands inside a silver fox muff that matched the huge collar and lapels of her chinchilla coat.
She had to know. “Will you speak to her?”
His face closed. “No.”
 
 
He did not have time for this.
He did not have time for her.
What did she want?
Bragg got out of a cab, paid the driver through the window, and hurried up the broad front steps of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. As he entered the spacious high-ceilinged lobby with its gleaming wood floors and Persian rugs, he faltered.
Leigh Anne stood at the front desk, collecting her key. She smiled, perhaps in thanks, and the clerk appeared smitten. She turned away; the man stared after her helplessly, with longing.
It had always been that way. Nothing had changed. His little wife knew how to manipulate and entrance men, just as she had manipulated and entranced him from the moment they had met.
He was trembling. What did she want? What could she want? Why was she here? They hadn’t seen each other in four years, although he had seen her once, that single time when he had gone to Paris to bring her home and had found her instead in the company of another man.
God damn her,
he thought, shaken.
She could still shake him, enrage him, distress him the way no other person could.
And she still had the perfect beauty of a little angel. She could be in one of the religious or mythological paintings hanging in Calder’s home. She had not aged a single day. And he could still look at her and wonder if, somehow, he was entirely to blame for it all.
Which was absurd.
She had left him.
After blackmailing him.
She saw him and froze.
He gathered his determination and hatred around him the way one would a heavy cloak in the midst of a freezing day and stalked to her. “I have urgent matters to attend to,” he said briskly. “But I can give you ten or fifteen minutes.”
“That is terribly kind of you,” she said, without any sarcasm at all. Her green eyes held his.

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