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“No.” His gaze slid over her new turquoise dress again. The vee over her breasts was low, tiny cap sleeves clung to her shoulders, and the gown fell closely over her hips, finally swelling in a pool of lace around her calves and ankles. The
dress showed off the best curves of her body, accentuating them, when, in truth, she was a touch too thin. At the very last moment, she had thought to add a necklace with a pearl cameo. “Mrs. Kennedy’s work?” he asked with a soft smile.
Francesca nodded, pleased because he clearly liked it. “Any news on the vandal who struck at Sarah’s studio?” she asked. From the corner of her eye she glanced at his family. Grace remained calmly seated, as if sipping champagne, but her gaze was steadily upon them. Rathe was standing politely, as was another man whom Francesca had never seen before. As he was almost Bragg’s twin, he had to be Rathe’s son as well. Like his father and his mother, he was watching them, but unlike the other two, his gaze was hooded and hard to comprehend.
Francesca wondered if Bragg’s family cared at all for his wife.
“There has been no other instance of such vandalism in the city in the past three months,” Bragg was saying. “But Inspector O’Connor is checking further back.”
“If such an attack were not reported to the police, then he will never learn of it.”
“That’s true,” he said with a slight smile. “And a single act of vandalism might not have ever been reported.”
She absorbed that. “Have you or your men interviewed Bartolla?”
“She has been elusive,” he said, meeting her gaze. “She clearly is amused by the entire event. And I do believe O’Connor is smitten with her.” He rolled his eyes. “He has been newly promoted,” he added.
Francesca laughed but sobered quickly. “I spoke with her briefly. She had nothing of importance to say and she did seem unperturbed by the entire event.”
“I think I will call on her tomorrow myself,” he said. “Press her a bit.”
Francesca touched his hand. His skin was smooth but not silken or soft. His eyes touched hers. She said, “Let me join you.”
He hesitated. “You may join me, but I think I might have
more success, in this one case, with Bartolla if I speak with her alone.”
She stared, not liking the implications of his comment. “What does that mean?” How terse her own tone sounded to her ears.
“You do not have to be dismayed, Francesca. The countess adores men. And while I have no intention of flirting with her, I think I can interview her more effectively if you are not present.”
She hated the idea.
“Don’t scowl,” he said with amusement. “When you are old, you shall have scowl lines.”
It wasn’t funny and she did not laugh, but she hated the extent of her jealousy.
“What is this about?” Evan asked, apparently having been listening to their conversation. “How is the countess involved?”
Francesca started, having forgotten that her brother was standing behind them. She glanced at Bragg. He said, “The single canvas destroyed in the attack upon Sarah’s studio was a portrait of Bartolla. Perhaps, and it is a mere perhaps, the vandal struck a blow at the countess and not at your fiancee.”
Evan’s eyes were wide. “Is she in danger?”
Bragg hesitated, and it was clear that he was uncertain as to which woman Evan referred to. Francesca knew that he referred to Bartolla, as she had previously assured him that Sarah was fine and did not seem to be in any danger. Her words had been automatic, however, as she had only to recall the use of so much dark red paint to shudder and have a terrible sense of foreboding. “Neither Sarah nor Bartolla appears to be in any imminent danger.”
Evan was now concerned. Grim, he walked away. “You must be Mr. Bragg,” he said, extending his hand toward Rathe. As they shook hands, Lucy jumped up to make the introductions.
Francesca turned to Bragg. “So much has happened,” she said in a low voice, thinking about the horrendous falling-out
between Evan and her father. “I have to talk to you.” And she was thinking about his wife’s note.
“Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “Offer to drive me home tonight, after supper,” she said. “It will give us a private moment to speak.”
His jaw flexed. “That is not a good idea,” he said flatly.
She faced him fully. “Please. We won’t have a single moment alone otherwise; I feel sure of it. Now that your family is in town, it will be harder than ever to have a decent conversation.”
He took her elbow and they stepped away from his family. “It is hard enough being with you when they are present,” he said, low. His eyes were dark. “But you are right. We do have to speak.”
Alarm filled her. “What does that mean?” she cried softly.
“Just as you wish to speak with me, I wish to speak with you.”
“About what?” She was more than alarmed now; she was afraid.
He knew Leigh Anne was on her way to New York. He knew that his wife wanted to meet her. He had heard about her encounter with Hart.
But he knew something, something dire, and she was afraid of what his reaction would be.
He seemed surprised. “Francesca, this is not the time or the place for a real conversation between us.”
She grabbed his hand, as he was about to leave. “Is this about us?” she asked in a very low voice.
“Yes,” he said. He tugged his hand free and stepped back to the others. But she could not move.
There was a thought in her mind, but it was too terrible to contemplate. Still, it refused to go away. Not too long ago he had claimed that being alone with her was simply too difficult a test of resolve and willpower.
What if he had decided that it was impossible to be mere friends?
Once, he had suggested that maybe they should not see
each other again. Because it was too dangerous being together.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” a male voice said, cutting into her worst fears.
She started and found herself looking at the man who might have been Rick Bragg’s twin. His hair was darker—more brown than blond—and his face was squarer. But the rest was the same—the amber eyes, the dark eyebrows, the high, high cheekbones, the dimples and cleft chin. “I’m Francesca Cahill,” she said, and she heard how tremulous her own tone was.
He smiled and it was a smile to melt female hearts. “The infamous sleuth. I’m Rourke, the eldest after my no-good policeman brother.” He extended his hand.
She shook it, trying to clear her head. “Rourke? What an unusual name.”
“It’s my middle name. But I got tired of being beaten up when I was six, trying to defend the worst name a child could have—Brian Bragg. So it’s been Rourke ever since.” His eyes were warm and kind and he grinned.
“Are you the one in medical school?” she asked with real curiosity. She realized he was probably several years older than she was, and just two years or so younger than Bragg.
“Yes. In Philadelphia. Third year. Excellent grades. My sister is enamored of you.”
Francesca smiled and was about to say that she truly liked Lucy as well. But he added, “And apparently, she is not the only one.”
She felt her smile vanish. She followed his gaze—and caught Bragg watching them both intently.
For once, she was entirely at a loss for words. She looked at Rourke and could not summon up a coherent reply.
His smile was compassionate. “I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. I have a bad habit; I tend to speak my mind.”
Francesca shook her head. “I don’t have a clue as to what you are talking about,” she said, intending to keep her tone light. But it came out terribly hoarse.
He patted her arm. “We’ll strike that ungentlemanly comment right off the record. Friends?” He grinned. But a huge question remained in his eyes.
“Friends,” she whispered. And then, beyond Rourke’s broad shoulder, she saw the thug who had been standing outside of police headquarters yesterday, who had been so intently watching Lucy.
Francesca felt herself stiffen, and she turned to find Lucy in order to gauge her reaction—and to see if she had remarked the burly man.
“What is it?” Rourke asked quickly.
Lucy had been sipping champagne. Now she turned white and set her flute down abruptly.
Francesca faced Rourke. “Nothing. So, what year are you in?”
“My third,” he said quietly, his regard intent and searching. “But I already said that.”
With one ear Francesca heard Lucy making an excuse that she must powder her nose. She smiled at Rourke and, out of the corner of her eye, watched Lucy cross the atrium, clearly wishing to hurry and, as clearly, trying not to. In the lobby, the thug had disappeared. Suddenly Bragg was standing beside them.
“I see you have met Miss Cahill,” he said to his younger brother, not looking particularly pleased.
“I have, and it is a pleasure indeed.” Rourke smiled.
“Do not let my brother’s profession delude you,” Bragg said. “He is an unrepentant ladies’ man.”
Rourke chuckled. “We can’t all be as noble as you.” He winked at Francesca.
“My nobility vanished some time ago,” Bragg said tersely, and he turned to Francesca and their gazes locked.
She thought that he meant that he had lost his morals because of her. She stared, instantly dismayed. Surely he did not mean what he had appeared to mean?
Bragg turned back to Rourke, who seemed to be watching them both like a hawk. And he did not seem like the kind of man to miss a thing. “I doubt you have turned from a
saint into a devil,” he said, but quietly. “However, on a more important note, what is wrong with Lucy?” And Rourke looked right at Francesca.
“I don’t know,” Bragg said. “But think I shall go find out.”
“I’ll go,” Rourke said. “You can escort Miss Cahill in to supper.” And the two brothers exchanged a potent look.
“The Channings haven’t arrived,” Bragg finally said, a slight flush upon his cheekbones.
“I’ll go,” Francesca interrupted, and before either one of them could engage her in a debate, she hurried across the atrium, lengthening her stride, as Lucy had turned the corner and vanished from sight.
But the ladies’ room was on the far side of the lobby and just around that corner. Of course, Francesca was certain that Lucy had no real interest in the ladies’ room and that it was not her destination. Turning the corner, she saw Lucy and darted behind a column so she could watch her.
It shielded her from view, just in case Lucy turned. The redhead had paused beside the ladies’ room door, looking back over her shoulder, clearly to see if anyone was watching—or following. As she was wearing a daring crimson gown, she stood out like a sore thumb—the several ladies and gentlemen in the hall were all turning to look at her, with either envy or admiration, as did every bellman and concierge who passed.
Lucy did not notice. She was pale with fear. Giving one last glance to make sure she was not being watched—and Francesca felt certain it was her family she was afraid of now—she hurried down another corridor.
Francesca followed.
She realized Lucy’s intention instantly. At the corridor’s farthest end were a small door and an EXIT sign. That door was closing behind the strange man. Lucy now hurried through it and outside.
Francesca reached inside her purse, and her left hand closed awkwardly over her tiny gun.
Damn it
, she thought. This was exactly what she had not wanted to happen. She
did not want to confront a hoodlum without the use of her right hand.
But she had no choice, because Lucy was frightened and Francesca was certain that she was in danger.
She slipped through the small door and outside. She was on the south side of Central Park. Carriages and a few motorcars were double- and triple-parked up and down the endless block. A few pedestrians were heading her way.
And Lucy stood a few doors down the block, near a service entryway. So did the hoodlum. Francesca stood stockstill, straining to hear them, as a pair of gentlemen walked past her, eyeing her in her bare evening gown as they went.
“Leave me alone!” Lucy cried.
“An’ why should I? When you got something I want?” he returned, and his tone was lewd and smug.
“You followed me to New York!”
“Damn right I did!” he laughed and suddenly he grabbed her. “You know what? Maybe we should start over.” And he started to kiss her.
Francesca rushed forward, removing the gun from her purse. “Get your hands off of her!” she cried.
The hoodlum froze, but he did not release Lucy. “What the hell?” And then he saw the gun she held and he laughed.
She pointed the gun at him. “Release her,” she said.
He laughed harder.
Lucy turned incredulous eyes upon Francesca. As she did, the thug said with a grin, “What is that?”
“I think you know what it is. Let her go,” Francesca said, hoping that her hand was not shaking visibly. But her heart was certainly pounding now. What had Lucy gotten into?
He yanked on Lucy. “We got business to—”
Francesca did not give him a chance to finish. She pointed the gun at his feet and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out loudly in the night.
The thug yelped, releasing Lucy. Francesca thought that she had shot his foot although she had really aimed more at the pavement. He turned disbelieving eyes upon her and their gazes met. His eyes were blue and bloodshot. Then he turned and ran.
Lucy and Francesca looked at each other, stunned. The shot had been surprisingly loud—like the shot from any normally sized gun. Francesca glanced past Lucy. A number of elegant carriages were in the street, moving down it. Window latches were being clicked free, windows pushed out. Heads were popping into sight. Opera glasses were trained upon them.
Francesca and Lucy looked at each other again. As one, they grabbed hands and rushed back into the side entrance of the hotel. They slammed the door closed, then huddled in the doorway. Francesca looked in both directions down the hallway, but it was vacant—thank God.
“Did you hit him?” Lucy cried.
“I’m not sure. I think so. But only in the foot!” Francesca realized that both her hands were shaking now as she hurriedly
stuffed the derringer back into her purse. It remained almost impossible to use her bandaged hand. She looked back up the hall, almost expecting to see Bragg coming down it, his expression thunderous. But surely that gunshot had not been heard inside of the hotel and she was merely stricken with paranoia.
“Did anyone see us?” Lucy asked breathlessly.
“I don’t think so. Except for those inside the carriages on the street.” Their gazes locked with sudden comprehension. They were hardly unremarkable now, not with Lucy in her crimson evening gown and Francesca in her turquoise one.
“Damn it,” Lucy breathed.
“What is going on?” Francesca cried.
Lucy’s eyes went wide with fear and she backed away, shaking her head. “Nothing.”
For one moment, Francesca was disbelieving. “Nothing? I was there! I saw and heard everything. He accosted you. You are in trouble, Lucy!”
Lucy looked ready to cry. “I can’t …”
This time, Francesca used her bandaged hand as well, taking both of Lucy’s hands in hers. “Let me help. You are already a dear friend. Please, let me help!”
Tears welled in Lucy’s eyes, but they did not fall. “This is simply a mistake. Nothing is going on! That man has mistaken me for someone else.” She stared grimly at Francesca, on the verge of copious tears.
And clearly, she was so afraid. Francesca did not believe a word Lucy had just said—that thug was not mistaking her for someone else. She touched her bare arm. “Lucy, please let me help you.”
“There is nothing for you to do!”
Francesca inhaled. “You have the most wonderful family behind you. Your brother is police commissioner, your father one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country.” She thought about Hart’s wealth and power. “And your stepbrother can certainly move a few mountains here in the city. I can see that you are afraid … but you do not need to be
in whatever trouble you are in alone. They can help, as can I, I am sure!”
Lucy pulled away. “I am going to the ladies’ room,” she said. “And we are about to be late for supper.”
 
Francesca had not been able to walk away from Lucy in her distress and had joined her in the ladies’ room. There was a huge bronze clock on one of the bureaus in the lounge, and Francesca realized as they left that they had been gone almost a half an hour. Lucy read her mind. She said, “I will tell everyone I had a coughing fit.”
Francesca just looked at her.
Lucy seemed belligerent. “I do not want anyone worrying needlessly, Francesca. There is no reason to mention that … that
incident
to anyone.”
Francesca disagreed but did not say so. Lucy was in trouble, and surely her brother could help. Francesca would speak to Bragg the moment they were alone.
Lucy gripped her arm as they entered the spacious lobby. “Do not breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Rick!”
Francesca looked into her eyes, which were steely with determination. “You know I desperately want to,” she finally said.
“No. Or our friendship is over,” she said harshly.
Francesca recoiled. Whatever dilemma Lucy was in, clearly Francesca must solve it alone; either that or jeopardize their new friendship.
“Can I trust you?” Lucy asked.
Francesca nodded. “Yes. Although it is against my better judgment.”
Lucy sighed, relief flashing in her eyes. “Thank you.” She now smiled. “I will tell them we went up to my rooms to check on the twins and Roberto.”
Francesca nodded, as that was a far more plausible lie. But it was a lie, and she was acutely uncomfortable now.
Lucy faced her as they crossed the lobby, passing the concierge and registration desks. “I know. I hate lying to those I love the most!”
“In general, a lie is never a good idea.” Francesca glanced ahead. The family had remained in the atrium, but Bragg was standing and looking impatiently at them as they approached. Even from a distance, she could see that Bragg’s stare was particularly intent and suspicious.
“Oh, we are lucky; the Channings are just arriving!” Lucy exclaimed softly.
Francesca glanced over her shoulder and saw Sarah and her mother entering through the large front doors at the opposite end of the lobby. Both women were dwarfed by huge sable coats.
Bragg stepped over to them. “Where have you two been?” he asked, his gaze moving carefully from Francesca to Lucy.
“We went up to my rooms to check on the twins and Roberto,” Lucy said with a wide smile. “And I decided to show Francesca photographs of the ranch and Shoz.”
Francesca smiled at Bragg.
He did not smile back. He knew a lie when he heard one.
Rathe had stood and he came forward, looking closely at his daughter. “Are you all right? Is everything all right with the children?”
“Jack has a bit of an upset stomach, but other than that, we are all as perfect as can be,” Lucy said, far too happily.
Her father gave her a long look. A pause that seemed endless ensued. “Good,” he finally said.
Francesca sensed that he suspected quite a bit. To make matters worse, Grace had also come over. She said, “Have you been crying?”
“Of course not. I have an allergy.” Lucy smiled at her mother. She did not smile back.
Instead, Rathe and Grace exchanged a glance. “We are looking forward to seeing your parents tomorrow night,” Rathe remarked, turning to Francesca. “It has been awhile since Andrew and I spent an evening solving all of the world’s political and social problems.”
Francesca laughed. It felt good to laugh just then, after the past few moments. Then she realized that Rourke had gone up to Lucy and he seemed angry. He pulled her aside.
Francesca pretended not to notice, but she strained to hear. Whatever he whispered to her, Lucy became angry and she pulled defiantly away.
“The Channings are here,” Bragg remarked quietly.
“I am so sorry we are so late!” Mrs. Channing replied, handing her sable to the cloakroom clerk who had suddenly materialized. “But that awful detective returned and he just would not leave Sarah and the countess alone. It was an impossible and
endless
interview!” She turned a dark look on Bragg, as if it were his fault. “Sarah, dear, do hand off your sable,” she said.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Channing, if Inspector O’Connor has disturbed you. I did not realize he would return to interview you and your daughter tonight.”
“It was the worst timing,” Mrs. Channing said, but she beamed now at Rathe and Grace.
Bragg quickly made introductions all around, and as he did so, Francesca saw Rourke cast a once-over at Sarah. She winced as she saw Sarah’s gown, then glanced back at Rourke. She saw him wince as well.
Sarah did not look well to begin with. She was far too pale, yet she had two bright, garish spots on her cheeks, which looked like rouge from an earlier epoch—but they were clearly a natural and agitated flush. And she was wearing a dark emerald green gown that overpowered her small size and delicate features. The color suited her, but the bulky shape and amount of fabric made Sarah look plump, when she was anything but. She was also wearing a ridiculously expensive emerald choker that was absolutely inappropriate for a young unwed girl. Francesca knew Sarah’s mother had chosen it for her, just as she now knew that Sarah couldn’t care less about the clothes or the jewelry she wore.
Evan had turned to his fiancée. “Sarah,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I am so sorry about your studio.”
Sarah seemed tense. She pulled away. “Thank you, Evan. But I am sure the culprit will be found.” She turned wide eyes upon Francesca. Francesca now winced again—she had
to help Lucy, but she also had to find the vandal who had destroyed Sarah’s studio.
“Evan dear, how handsome you look!” Mrs. Channing cried, kissing his cheek. “Yes, it has been the worst nightmare, and poor Sarah is beside herself.”
Lucy came over and hugged Sarah. “How about a sip of champagne? It will help, I am sure.”
“I can’t drink. My stomach isn’t quite right,” Sarah said tersely.
Bragg laid his hand on her shoulder. “Has O’Connor upset you, Miss Channing?”
“No.” Her tone was abrupt. “I am glad he is on the case. I just want this solved and over with.”
Bragg seemed somewhat unsatisfied with that. His glance met Francesca’s with concern.
But she was also concerned. She had never seen Sarah so tense or terse or abrupt.
“What happened to your studio?” Rourke asked.
Sarah turned. “Someone broke into it, apparently last night. They overturned most of my paintings, spilled and threw paint everywhere, and slashed up one particular portrait. And I just cannot think of who would do such a thing, or why.” She held her head high. Francesca felt that the effort of being social was costing her dearly and that she wished to be anywhere but at the Plaza.
“Sarah surely has no enemies,” Evan said, in an attempt to be gallant. “As she is very kind and everyone thinks so.”
Sarah gave him a cursory smile.
“I am sorry,” Rourke said, his amber eyes speculative. He glanced at Francesca. “Are you on the case?”
Francesca hesitated. “Mrs. Channing specifically asked me to help.”
Rourke seemed amused. “I have never encountered a female sleuth before.”
“Are there not female doctors?”
“There is one in the entire medical school. She is extremely unpopular with most of the students and staff.”
“What a shame,” Francesca said. “Surely you are not so quick to judge?”
“I tried not to, but she goes out of her way to be rude and I have given up.” He shrugged.
“I am sure she will be a better doctor than all of her male counterparts combined,” Sarah said.
Rourke looked at her.
So did Francesca. Of course, Francesca was less surprised; after all, she knew Sarah, who was actually very bohemian—but one would never guess from looking at her. However, what was surprising was her voicing her thoughts in the mixed company in which they were in.
Sarah’s color increased. “Well, when a woman wishes to do something that is reserved exclusively for men, the passion she has usually causes her to excel. Take Francesca. As a sleuth she is superb.”
“Ah, not really,” Francesca murmured.
Rourke lifted both brows. “I take it you know this from experience?” His gaze moved over her features one by one, as if he were dissecting her in one of his medical classes.
Sarah shrugged, clearly careless and indifferent. She was so out of character tonight, Francesca thought, she could not help but be worried, and her eyes were simply so bright. “I think so.”
“Shall we sit down for supper?” Mrs. Channing cried with alarm. “Dear sir, my daughter is the most polite lady, and her painting is a pleasant little hobby, the kind most ladies enjoy. A few simple watercolors here and there, and that is the brunt of it.”
Francesca looked at Sarah and felt horrible for her and wished Mrs. Channing would not try to ingratiate herself so much into the present company. She was about to make a quiet remark, but a rebuttal nonetheless, when Lucy said, “I think she is brilliant.”
Sarah smiled grimly at her.
Grace turned to Mrs. Channing. “I happen to agree with Sarah. In fact, for a long time I have seen what I only suspected when I was Sarah’s age—that women have superior
intellects, when they are allowed to use them. And those women who dare to fearlessly go where Man does not wish her to, why, they are simply superb doctors and lawyers and artists.” She smiled at Mrs. Channing and then at Sarah. “I should love to see your art sometime.”
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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