Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (22 page)

Francesca forced herself to calm, showing Beth into the conference room and asking her to wait there. Shutting the door behind her, she faced Bragg’s frosted glass door. She squared her shoulders and inhaled. Kurland had the knack of being able to shake her composure as no one else could. But then, she sensed he enjoyed discomfiting her.

She knocked.

“Come in.”

Francesca stepped into Bragg’s office and instantly saw him seated at his desk, his face on his bridged hands. He seemed grim, unhappy, and deeply lost in thought. “Rick?”

He looked up. His expression changed as he stood swiftly. “Good. I am glad you are here.” He moved swiftly to her side, helping her off with her coat. “Are you all right, Francesca?”

She blinked, meeting his gaze. “You know?”

“Calder told me. Damn it, he told me, Francesca.” His gaze darkened.

She understood. Once upon a time, she would have run directly to him, had she been assaulted the way she had been last night. “I’m fine. But it had to be Tom Smith’s killer. He held a knife to my throat and told me to forget the girls, Bragg.”

He tilted up her chin, unbuttoned the two highest buttons on her collar, and grimaced when he saw the fine dark red line on her throat. “Smith is dead. I want you off this investigation.”

“Never!” she cried, backing away.

His hand dropped.

“How can you even suggest such a thing? And I do have the means to protect myself. I am carrying my gun and it is loaded.”

He folded his arms across his chest. He had an odd look now, one dangerously annoyed. “I am not burying you on this case.”

“No, you are not,” she said.

“And Hart will allow you to continue on?”

“Hart doesn’t allow or disallow anything,” she shot back.

“Then you do not know the man you think to marry,” he said softly—unpleasantly.

She stared. “You are in a foul mood today. Do not take it out on me.”

“Why not? My mood is worse because you were threatened last night, you went to him—and I was not there to help.”

“Yes, I was with Hart last night. Just the way you were with Leigh Anne.”

He flushed, which she did not understand.

“I had thought you sent for me because there was a new lead.”

“No.”

“No? Well, I have one. In fact, she is here. Schmitt’s daughter is an eyewitness to Emily’s abduction, Bragg, and I want to get her started on the mug book. I also want to see if we can find John Cooper in there.”

“Beth Schmitt saw the abduction?” Bragg asked, diverted now.

Francesca nodded. “There were two men. One short and fat, the other big and bald. The short one threatened to come back for her, too, if she said a word.” Francesca stared. “Calder thinks this is about child prostitution.”

He grimaced. “Calder would.”

“I think so, too.”

He stared. “So now you both think alike?”

And she lost her temper. “Hardly! But we are in agreement, and if we are right, this is a ghastly crime!”

He reached for her. “Calm down. Shouting will not solve either the crime or anything else.”

She pulled away. “What do you really think?” Her heart hammered hard.

“I happen to agree,” he said flatly. “I wanted to spare you the worry you are now so clearly afflicted with.”

“By lying to me?” she asked, incredulous and dismayed. “By misleading me on such an important investigation?”

“I was trying to protect you,” he said sharply.

“Maybe it is your wife you should be protecting,” she said without thinking.

He snapped back, as if struck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, aghast at making such a cutting remark.

“Let’s get Beth Schmitt started on those photographs and sketches,” he said.

Francesca watched him walk to the door. Dismay immobilized her. How had they been reduced to such straits?

Bragg turned. “He is winning, you know. Because this is exactly what he wants, to drive us apart, in every way, even as genuine friends.”

Their gazes locked. “You are wrong.”

He made a sound of disgust.

But she was afraid. Afraid that he was right.

An hour later, Beth had failed to identify the thugs who had abducted Emily, leading Francesca to believe that both men were rowdies and little else. Clearly they were the brawn for the brain behind the child prostitution ring. However, they did find John Cooper in the mug book.

He had done time. Two years, to be exact. His crime? An odd con involving his daughter, whom he had claimed to be someone else’s child, missing since birth. The ecstatic parents had paid him several thousand dollars for the return of their supposed daughter, and had Bonnie not been recognized by chance on the street, the con would have never been revealed. She had been three at the time.

Nine years ago, the man had sold his own daughter, and here was the proof.

“He did it again,” Francesca whispered.

Bragg had avoided looking at her for the past hour. Now their gazes met. “I shall enjoy interrogating this man,” he said.

Francesca was a bundle of nerves as she entered the grand entrance of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Now, with John Cooper
on her mind, she wished very much that she had put off Grace Bragg. But it was already a quarter past one and it was too late to send her a note canceling their luncheon.

She entered the lobby where oak floors gleamed underfoot and paneled wood columns met a vaulted ceiling with a huge crystal chandelier. The lobby was filled with hushed conversation coming from the clusters of gentlemen, all in their business attire. Clerks in dark suits graciously registered new guests. Francesca saw Grace instantly, as she was the only woman in the entire lobby. She was seated on a coach in the central lounge area, and two distinguished-looking gentlemen had paused to speak with her.

Francesca inhaled for courage, smiled firmly, and started toward the woman who would be, in a way, her mother-in-law. Grace saw her and stood.

Francesca smiled, because Grace was wearing a very severe gray suit, as plain and drab as Francesca’s navy blue one. However, the gray color did wonderful things to her fair complexion and brilliant red hair, which was tightly pinned back beneath a matching gray hat trimmed with black soutache. Her spectacles were hanging on a chain around her neck.

“Hello,” Francesca said as they embraced. “I am sorry I am late.”

“I understand. The case?”

Francesca brightened. “We have several new leads today, and I am extremely hopeful,” she said.

“That is wonderful,” Grace said, clearly meaning it.

“Mrs. Bragg, good day.”

Francesca turned as a slim and dapper gentleman about Grace’s age paused to greet her. He was exceedingly well dressed, his complexion very fair, his eyes pale blue.

Grace hesitated and Francesca thought she was trying to recall the gentleman’s name. “Mr. Murphy,” she smiled firmly, and Francesca realized she was wrong—Grace knew this gentleman and did not like him.

“Yes, Tim Murphy. We met at a function in Washington, I believe.” He smiled at her. “I had heard you and your
husband were back in the city and I wanted to say, ‘Welcome.’ ”

Grace’s smile was cool. “How nice of you. May I introduce Miss Cahill?”

Murphy turned and leveled his pale eyes on Francesca, smiling. “Any relation to Andrew Cahill?”

She smiled politely. “He is my father,” she said.

“Well, I am pleased to meet you then,” he said, taking her hand and politely lifting it. “Are you here for lunch?” he asked, his gaze now riveted on hers.

“Yes.”

“Do enjoy. Chef Tomas is wonderful.” He excused himself and left.

Francesca glanced at Grace and saw her expression, clearly one of distaste. “Who was that?”

“A Tammany rat,” she said calmly. “He is a good friend of Croker’s. I do believe he was in Van Wyck’s administration. Shall we go in?”

Van Wyck had had one of the most corrupt administrations in the city’s history, and that on the heels of the reform administration of the previous mayor, Strong. Fortunately, Julia was not related to those Van Wycks. Francesca had been present at inauguration day to witness the happy event of Seth Low becoming the city’s mayor and great good-government white hope. Van Wyck had not dared stay for the ceremony, he was so unpopular and so disliked. He had slunk away without a word the moment he had handed over the ceremonial keys to the city. And it had been good riddance, too.

They were ushered into an elegant dining room filled with gentlemen—the only women present. Grace clearly did not care and she accepted many greetings as they were led to their table. As they sat, she asked Francesca if she would like a glass of wine with lunch.

“No thank you,” Francesca said. “I have far too much work to do this afternoon.”

Grace asked the maître d’ to bring them tea, and when
he had left, she smiled at Francesca. “I am very pleased that you could have lunch with me.”

Francesca smiled grimly. “I feel as if I am on the executioner’s block.” The moment the words were out, she wished she hadn’t spoken so frankly.

“Oh, dear.” Grace reached across the table for her hand. “I am very impressed by your intelligence and determination, Francesca. I like you very much.”

Francesca managed to smile. The unspoken word was
but
.

“How much thought have you given to your engagement with Calder?” she asked.

“More than you can ever know,” Francesca said ruefully. She hesitated. “I accepted his proposal a month ago, Grace.”

She was surprised. “A month ago? And then you left town. Tell me, Francesca, why did you accept Calder’s proposal? Are you in love with him?”

She tensed. “I am very fond of him.”

“That is hardly love.”

“No.”

“Are you in love with Rick?”

Francesca could not speak. She could only stare. Was she in love with Bragg? Hadn’t she promised him her heart, forever, no matter what?

“Have you asked yourself this question? I hardly think it fair to Calder if you marry him when you have given your heart to someone else.”

Francesca wished the afternoon would evaporate. “Calder doesn’t love me, Grace. He doesn’t even believe in love. But he is as fond of me as I am of him, and he wishes to marry me. Upon reflection, I think it will be a very interesting union.” She felt herself begin to flush. She was so erudite, and that was the best she could do.

“Calder is a complicated man,” Grace said. “He seems smug and confident—I find him terribly fragile. You have clearly turned his head, otherwise he would not wish to marry you. I think he may very well be in love with you,
my dear. But I don’t think he is capable of admitting it, not now, perhaps not ever.”

Francesca stared, for one moment reeling, and then she recovered, because she knew Grace was wrong. “What are you really saying?”

“I am very fond of you,” Grace said. “But I don’t want either of my sons hurt.”

Francesca stiffened, because Grace could not have been clearer. She did not want Francesca marrying Hart because of Francesca’s remaining feelings for Bragg.

Grace smiled, but it was firm and hardly reassuring. “I do not think you known what you want. The last I heard, you were very in love with Rick.”

Francesca knew she was supposed to respond, but she did not know how. “There is no one I admire more,” she managed hoarsely. “But I support his marriage.”

“Do you have a choice?” Grace bluntly asked.

“No,” Francesca admitted, flushing. “But I truly support his marriage. I have encouraged Rick to forgive his wife, to give her a real chance.”

Grace stared. Then, “The fact that you and he would even have such a conversation speaks volumes. I support his marriage as well, Francesca.”

Francesca swallowed uneasily.

Grace continued, “Leigh Anne was an immature young woman with stars in her eyes and many foolish romantic notions in her head when she met my son. He was as foolish—and as romantic. Both were naive when it came to relationships. Neither one knew the other, and the courtship was brief. An impulsive, somewhat selfish, and angry girl left my son four years ago. A mature and, I believe a very different woman has returned to his side. Leigh Anne has changed—and the change seems to be for the better. I want them to have a real marriage, Francesca. But first, they need a real chance.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, dismayed. But she already knew what Grace’s answer would be.

“Because the bond between you and Rick remains—and it doesn’t help his marriage at all.”

Francesca flushed. Carefully she said, “Then why aren’t you encouraging me to marry Calder?”

“Because you don’t love him. Because it upsets me to see my sons fighting one another—over you.” She toyed with her glass, then said, “I don’t like it. I don’t like this entire scenario. Not one bit.”

Francesca felt ill. “So you are asking me to break it off with Calder?”

“I would never do such a thing. I am asking you to think carefully about what you are doing—and why. It is your decision to marry. Just be certain you are marrying for the right reasons. Not because you are hurt and cannot have the man you really want.”

Francesca felt real despair. She had been excited, she realized, about her engagement, and now she felt hurt and even, oddly, crushed. Francesca stared at the linen tablecloth. What should she do?

Could she break it off with Hart?

She couldn’t breathe. The thought of breaking up with Hart made her ill, almost violently so. But she didn’t love him, did she? She had briefly found true love with Rick Bragg, but what she felt now for Hart was so very different. It was wild and frightening and dangerous.

She simply couldn’t imagine being with Hart in a house filled with their children, a white picket fence about the yard. And it had been so easy to see herself with Rick Bragg that way.

The only thing she could envision when it came to Calder was being in his bed. And that, dear God, was hardly love.

Maybe Grace was right. Maybe she should break it off before it was too late. Maybe she was marrying him for all the wrong reasons.

“Francesca? I hope I haven’t been too brutal in my honesty.”

Francesca managed to meet her gaze and somehow managed
to smile. “I appreciate your honesty,” she said. “You are right. I am marrying for all the wrong reasons.” She smiled, but she felt deathly ill.