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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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She pushed through the precinct’s front doors, which were
slightly ajar. Summoning up a friendly smile, she waved at Captain Shea, who was behind the front desk. Several gentlemen were there arguing loudly, with a bored-looking Sergeant O’Malley standing over them. An unshaven man was seated on the wood bench before the front desk, his hands in cuffs, a roundsman beside him. As always, there was a good bit of raucous conversation in the lobby, to which was added the background noise of the constantly pinging telegraph. It was the telegraph that connected all of the police stations in the city. And every now and then, a typewriter or a telephone could be heard.
“I am going up!” Francesca called to Shea. “He is in?”
He waved her on. “G’day, Miz Cahill. He most certainly is.”
She loved being well-known at headquarters. She loved being waved on up as if she belonged there even more. And in a way, she did belong there now. Bragg had admitted that he could not have solved any of the past three cases without her.
Not to mention the fact that she herself had been the one to bag the Randall Killer and the Cross Murderer, she thought with a satisfaction she simply could not deny.
As usual, she skipped the elevator, although it was present on the ground floor, its iron cage door open. She ran up the stairs to the second floor and realized that Bragg was hardly alone. His frosted glass door was open. Bragg was with an older man and woman, another gorgeous woman hanging on his arm. Two toddlers were on the floor, pulling books out of his bookcase, and a dark boy of about ten or eleven seemed to be watching over them.
Francesca recognized the people present instantly, from photographs she had seen. It was a family reunion, and she was frozen, suddenly, uncharacteristically, shy.
His mother, Grace Bragg, was a handsome older woman with red hair, a pair of spectacles slipping down her nose. She clung to his arm, smiling. Francesca knew she was an extremely politically active woman and that in her day she had been a leading suffragette before the movement became
a popular one. His half sister, Lucy, who was perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, clung to his arm, speaking rapidly and excitedly. He had a good-humored smile upon his face, and he was nodding at everything she said, clearly being patient.
And he looked so much like his father, Rathe Bragg, who stood beside him, that Francesca felt he would mature exactly the same way, into a very handsome older man with silvery blond hair, a dimpled grin, and sparkling amber eyes. Suddenly one of the toddlers howled—the boy, who was as dark as his sister was fair—and Rathe swooped up his grandson.
Bragg suddenly saw her. His gaze widened and his smile vanished.
Suddenly Francesca realized she was intruding upon a very special moment. She felt herself flush and would have signaled to him and quickly backed away, but the room had fallen stunningly silent. His mother, his father, and his half sister all turned to look at her. Then so did the swarthy boy and the two toddlers.
It was an awful and embarrassing moment.
“Gimme!” The gibberish was a feminine shriek.
Francesca blinked and saw the little golden-haired girl on the floor pointing an accusing finger at her brother, who remained in her grandfather’s arms. The little boy held a toy horse.
“Mama!” came another ear-shattering cry.
Lucy rushed over, scolding the little girl gently and lifting her quickly up. She turned and stared again at Francesca.
“Francesca.” Bragg strode forward and their eyes locked instantly. “Is everything all right?” he asked quietly, pausing before her in the doorway. His gaze was now searching and concerned. He, of course, knew she was under house arrest or, at least, the doctor’s arrest.
“Yes. No. I am intruding … . I had no idea,” she said breathlessly, tearing her gaze from his—never an easy task—and finding herself still the center of all attention. She felt her cheeks flaming. She had so wanted to meet his parents, but not like this, absolutely unprepared and flustered and undone.
But he gripped her arm. “Come in. I want you to meet everyone.” His subsequent smile went right through her. It was so warm it could melt a block of Hudson River ice. He sent her another glance, and Francesca knew that he knew she wished to discuss a business matter with him.
But then, it was always this way. He seemed to be able to discern her thoughts so effortlessly.
“Rathe, Grace, I’d like you to meet Miss Francesca Cahill. She has become a good friend of mine. In fact, she is passionately dedicated to reform.” He smiled at his stepmother. “You both have a lot in common.”
His father was regarding Francesca with open interest, at once curious and kind. She felt certain that Bragg would look exactly like Rathe in thirty years. His mother, however, was not smiling. In fact, she was looking from Bragg to Francesca and back again, her brows knitted.
And Francesca’s world seemed to tilt wildly beneath her feet. She desperately wanted his parents to like her. She wished Grace was not looking at her with suspicion. Francesca tried to smile and failed.
Grace knew. Somehow, she knew they were not simply friends and professional partners.
“Hello,” Rathe said amiably, his eyes the same shade of amber as his son’s. “It is good to meet you, Miss Cahill. I do believe I have dined with your father on several occasions, most recently in Washington at a fund-raiser for President Roosevelt.”
Her interest was piqued. “I remember when Papa went. I begged to join him, as I am a huge supporter of the president.” She was rueful. “I was refused.”
“Andrew made a mistake; the evening was an interesting one.” His smile was identical to his son’s. “Are you the woman who helped my son bringing Randall’s killer to justice?”
“Yes. How did you know?” Would he—they—approve or disapprove of her sleuthing?
“We read the New York papers even when we are not in New York,” Rathe said with an infectious grin and two deep dimples. “Did I not hear something about a fry pan?”
Francesca had apprehended this particular killer with a large iron pan. “There was no other weapon available to me,” she managed.
“Francesca is no ordinary debutante. She has been indispensable to several police investigations,” Bragg said, sending her a smile.
Francesca’s heart turned over and she looked at him, absurdly pleased. “Thank you.”
“But it is the truth,” he said simply.
“Surely you are not a professional sleuth?” Grace asked quietly.
Francesca started, facing the older woman. She felt like a delinquent schoolgirl. In fact, sleuthing had ceased being a hobby when she had been hired by Lydia Stuart to solve a case. And now Mrs. Channing had requested her services. But her parents were close with the Braggs, and as far as Francesca was concerned, they must never find out about her new profession.
Bragg saved the day. “Francesca has fallen into several investigations, purely by chance,” he said.
She sent him a grateful smile. She had no intention of ever lying to either one of his parents.
“And I am Lucy, Lucy Savage.” The beautiful redhead put her daughter down and came swiftly forward. She extended her hand. Francesca took it. “Rick is my brother. I am so pleased to meet you!” She smiled widely, but her blue eyes were filled with curiosity. “I am very impressed. I have never met a sleuth before, especially not a female one.”
Instantly Francesca liked her. “Are those two adorable children yours?”
Lucy laughed. “Yes, and so is Roberto. But the twins are hardly adorable—they try the patience of everyone who attempts to contain them! They are twin hurricanes, truly. They do take after their father,” she added. “Roberto, come meet Miss Cahill.”
The dark-skinned boy came forward and politely shook Francesca’s hand. He did not seem at all related to the rest
of the family, and Francesca wondered if he was related by blood and, if not, how he fit in.
“We live in Texas. That is where my wonderfully impossible husband, Shoz, and my grandparents, Derek and Miranda Bragg, are. Paradise, Texas.” Lucy grinned. “And believe me, it is a little piece of paradise, right here on earth! I am on a bit of a holiday,” she said brightly. “At the very last moment I could not resist a trip to the big city! So tell me how you solved the murder.”
“Lucy, Francesca has just stepped through the door, hardly expecting to find a Bragg reunion in progress, not to mention my extremely garrulous little sister. Can you slow down?” Bragg asked with a fond shake of his head.
“Perhaps I can show you the city,” Francesca said, now glancing at Grace Bragg again. She was watching Francesca carefully, not missing a single word, as if carefully sizing her up. Francesca prayed she would like her. She sensed this woman would not fall for any tricks and that she would not be easy to impress, either.
“Oh, that would be fun,” Lucy said. “Of course, I did grow up here—before my handsome husband abducted me and carried me off to Death Valley.” She grinned.
Francesca blinked, diverted. “Death Valley? He
abducted
you?”
“It is a long story,” Bragg remarked calmly, before Lucy could speak.
“But I want to hear about how you caught the man who murdered Hart’s father!” Lucy cried. “When shall we get together? What about right now?”
“Lucy,” this from Rathe, and his tone was fatherly and stern. But he was smiling, and he said to Francesca, “My daughter is a whirlwind. She was born that way—and marriage and children have not calmed her down.”
Francesca smiled. Lucy sent her a conspiratorial glance that meant, “ignore him.” Then, “What happened to your hand?” she asked.
Francesca hesitated, instinctively looking at Bragg.
“I can answer that one,” a voice from the doorway said.
Francesca froze. The voice had been lazy and sensual in tone. There was only one man who spoke in such a languid and amused drawl.
“Calder!” Lucy shrieked, flying past Francesca. She turned and watched the gorgeous redhead mauling Calder Hart.
And he was grinning—a flash of very white teeth in extremely swarthy skin. He lifted Lucy off of her feet. “I like that greeting,” he said, and it was brazenly flirtatious.
Francesca realized in that moment that they were not really related. Bragg and Calder were half brothers, but they shared the same mother, not the same father. Hart did not have one drop of Bragg blood in his veins. She felt paralyzed and oddly annoyed.
“Keep looking at me that way and Shoz will kill you,” Lucy breathed, grinning up at him and still in his arms.
“But you like keeping him on his toes,” Hart said easily, looking pleased with himself. “And he’s an old man now.”
“He is very jealous,” Lucy said, clearly with satisfaction. “But he isn’t so old that he can’t teach you a thing or two.” She did grin.
“You are probably right.” Slowly Hart released Lucy, and finally he looked directly at Francesca.
She flushed.
“So much for bedrest,” he said. And then he shrugged, as if it was not his problem, as if he did not give a damn. He looked at Rick. “We should have bet on her. I was going to give her three or four days. Clearly, I would have lost.”
“Calder,” Bragg said tersely with an abrupt nod of his head. He wasn’t thrilled to see his brother and it was obvious.
Hart entered the room, as always a rather devastating sight. He was darkly, dangerously handsome, and he favored brilliant white shirts and pitch-black suits. Only he could carry off such a look and not look like a funeral home manager.
Grace was smiling—and tears sparkled on her lashes behind her spectacles. She had taken both Hart and Bragg in when their mother had died when they were young boys. She
cupped Hart’s cheek. “Why has it been so long? Why, Calder?”
Hart hesitated. “It is good to see you,” he said, and Francesca was startled, as she had never seen Hart unsure of himself before. He was usually terribly—insufferably—arrogant.
“It is wonderful to see you! Are you sure you don’t mind all of us staying with you? I hate to inconvenience you,” Grace said softly.
He shrugged again, but now he was flushing. “God knows I have plenty of room.”
His house was the size of a museum, Francesca thought.
Rathe had clasped Hart’s shoulder, as warm as Hart was stiff. “You are looking well. It is good to see you, Son.”
Hart nodded, turning away quickly, so no one would see how emotional he was. But Francesca had seen, and she suspected he had a tear or two in his eyes.
She realized that Bragg was watching her. She felt guilty, so she smiled at him, but he did not smile back.
Hart had turned to Lucy. “Francesca fancies herself a sleuth,” he said lightly. He gave her a disapproving glance. “She likes to put herself in danger—I imagine the rush is rather similar to that experienced by gamblers … or illicit lovers.”
Francesca frowned at him. “Please.” She did not need this now.
Bragg sighed in exasperation. “Enough, Calder.”
He ignored his brother. “Do you not get a rush of adrenaline when you confront a maddened criminal, Francesca?” Hart drawled. “A rush that I imagine is exactly the same as when you are wildly kissing the man of your dreams?” Both dark brows slashed upward. As he had practically caught her in Bragg’s arms at the Channing ball a few days ago—the cause of his commissioning her portrait—she knew he was referring to the passion she felt for his brother.
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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