Deadly Love Read online

  “Oh, yes,” Wiley gushed, turning a deeper shade of red. “Please do come downtown. And Monday would be so fine.”

  “Monday, then,” Julia said, smiling at them both.

  Francesca found her voice. Her examination was at eleven o’clock Monday morning. “Monday? I am afraid—”

  Julia cut her off with a single glance. “Darling, you cannot possibly refuse such an invitation. And do save Mr. Wiley a dance,” Julia said, smiling and kissing her daughter’s cheek. She excused herself from the group, turning to greet other guests.

  And suddenly the two of them were left alone.

  Francesca was trembling. She felt as if the rug had just been pulled out from under her, and she had landed on elbows and knees on the hard marble floor. Of course she could not go. Not on Monday. Yet her mother had put her in a terribly awkward position.

  Of course, this was not the first time her mother had outmaneuvered her. But this, this was beyond the pale. It truly was.

  “Miss Cahill? Are you all right? You seem distressed.”

  Francesca jerked and met his concerned gaze. “I am fine, truly I am.” She forced a smile. He reminded her of a gangling puppy, eager to please, yet somehow so awkward he could not help but do the wrong thing.

  “There are some fine restaurants downtown,” he offered.

  “I’m sure,” Francesca murmured, thinking she would send him a note tomorrow. And not really intending to be rude, Francesca glanced around.

  Eliza and Robert Burton were just entering the hall. They were her neighbors, inhabiting the mansion adjacent to the Cahill home, which they had moved into two years previously. Francesca had to stare, because the moment the Burtons had handed off their cloaks, an animated crowd surrounded them. Eliza, who was not really beautiful, made a comment, and suddenly everyone was laughing. Even her husband was smiling, and holding so lovingly onto her arm.

  “Ah, the Burtons. They are neighbors of yours, are they not?” Wiley said, following her gaze.

  Francesca tore her gaze away from the striking brunette, who fascinated her. She blinked at Wiley. “Yes, they are. They live right next door.”

  “Wonderful people,” Wiley said in a rush. “Very lively, that Mrs. Burton.”

  “Yes, she does seem to regale those around her with her wit and conversation,” Francesca said truthfully. Francesca had always secretly wondered how she did it. When Eliza Burton entered a room, she drew admirers of both genders to her like honey drew bees. She was one of the most interesting women Francesca knew. For she was always speaking her mind, voicing her opinions, and she wasn’t afraid to offend and be outrageous. Yet the world seemed to adore her.

  Francesca could not help glancing her way again, even though Wiley was saying something. Eliza was wearing a dark red gown that was very bare; truly, it was almost scandalous, for it showed off her lush figure to perfection. Her dark hair was piled high, and her lips were dark red. But somehow, she was elegant in the daring gown and the dark red lips. And she was saying something about their newly elected mayor. Francesca strained to hear.

  No, she was making a comment about the city’s last mayor, something to the effect of his being not Croker’s lapdog, but his snapping turtle. “After all,” she smiled, “there was no bark and no bite, just the tiniest of ineffectual snaps.”

  Everyone roared.

  Francesca had to smile, Eliza was far more original than the press.

  And Wiley had heard, because he was chuckling, too.

  She glanced at him, and thought she saw admiration in his eyes as he stared at the other woman. Francesca found herself watching Eliza as her husband escorted her across the hall and to the reception room. Eliza was smiling, but there was nothing artificial about it. She seemed genuinely happy. Her gaze met Francesca’s, and she smiled again.

  Almost shyly, Francesca smiled back.

  “A very nice turnout, don’t you think?” Wiley said, tugging nervously on his mustache.

  Francesca drew her attention back to her suitor. The one thing she was not was rude. “I suppose so.” She inhaled, aware that etiquette demanded that she attempt small conversation. Then she faced her suitor, feeling grim. “So, what do you think of the break in ranks between Platt and Odell?”

  Wiley blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?” He didn’t seem to have a clue as to what she was speaking about; it was as if he had never heard of Thomas Platt, the most powerful man in the state.

  “Surely you are aware that Senator Platt and Governor Odell have broken ranks. Odell was assumed to be Platt’s man. Perhaps Platt has finally fallen, what do you think?” Francesca could no longer restrain herself. “Perhaps his days of power are finally over,” she added eagerly.

  He stared at her as if she were sporting two heads. “Of course I am aware of the rift growing between them,” he finally said, eyes wide.

  “And I doubt it will be healed,” Francesca added. But Wiley remained silent and suddenly Francesca’s frustration soared to new bounds. He was not for her. Why did Mama have to do this? Why couldn’t she understand that Francesca had more important things to do than to meet suitors who expected her to be coy and flirtatious, who did not care that she had a brain inside of her head? Why were most men afraid to have an intelligent exchange of opinion with a woman? How did Eliza Burton do it? Francesca suddenly felt despair descending over her like a heavy black cloud. “I had better mingle with Mama’s guests. It was a pleasure meeting you,” Francesca said with a brief, strained smile.

  “Until Monday, then,” he called after her eagerly.

  Francesca found herself nodding, for there was little else that she could do. But she would send Wiley a letter of apology first thing on the morrow. And as for Julia, well, they would have to have a very serious discussion, indeed.

  The idea was quite terrifying.

  Suddenly Francesca stumbled and stopped short. Just ahead of her was her father, a short man with iron-gray hair, a beard, and huge sideburns. He was in the midst of conversation with a gentleman Francesca had never before met but whom she recognized immediately from all the press he had received since New Year’s Day. Her heart flipped oddly and suddenly Andrew Cahill saw her and he beamed.

  “Darling.”

  Francesca heard her father but did not look at him, meeting the dark, golden gaze of a man with tawny hair and swarthy coloring instead. He was extremely attractive, although in a rougher way than Montrose, at once tall and broad-shouldered, and like most of the gentlemen present, he wore a black tuxedo with satin lapels, a fine satin braid sewn down the side of his evening trousers. Andrew Cahill grabbed her arm, pulling her close. He was, Francesca knew, the newly appointed commissioner of police.

  “There is someone you must meet,” Cahill said, for he knew his daughter better than anyone and, in fact, Francesca’s passion for reform had been inherited from her father’s own, similar passion.

  Francesca met his smile with one of her own. And even though her gaze was now on her father, she was acutely aware of Rick Bragg, standing there beside them. “Don’t chastise me for being late,” Francesca said affectionately, but she could hear that her own tone sounded odd—breathless and high-pitched. And her mind raced at lightning speed. The city police department was notoriously corrupt. So many efforts to reform the institution had failed. Bragg was expected to bring about much-needed reform. But could he do it? She stole another glance at him.

  He had been studying her, and politely, slightly, he bowed.

  His eyes, she noticed, were amber, and flecked with gold. Francesca felt herself flushing.

  Cahill did not notice. “How can I not chastise such a delinquent daughter?” he was saying. He smiled, kissing her cheek, his salt-and-pepper beard scratching her skin.

  Francesca was the apple of her father’s eye and she knew it. Yet it was so hard to respond right now; instead, she was trying to recall everything she had read about Bragg in the papers since his appointment by the newly elected mayor on New Year’s Day. “
Please be gentle with me, then, Papa,” she said. She had to steal another glance at Bragg.

  And she could not decipher his penetrating gaze.

  “We shall see.” Andrew winked. “Darling, you must meet the police commissioner.”

  Francesca managed a smile that felt unnatural and tightly stretched; how odd. She was aware of a tension she had never before been faced with, and she did not understand it.

  “Rick, this is my younger daughter, Francesca,” Cahill said proudly. “And my daughter may be the youngest member of the Cahill family, but she is without a doubt the most intellectual—I would go so far as to say that she is brilliant.” He beamed.

  Francesca was embarrassed. Usually she was proud of her education and intelligence, but just then, she could only hope that her father’s words had somehow impressed him, and finally, she gave in to sheer confusion. His taking her hand and bowing over it did not help. “Charmed,” he drawled, and there was something laconic in his tone that startled her even more. His accent was slightly Western.

  Her mind raced.

  Rick Bragg was related to the Texas Braggs, a wealthy family with holdings in mining, railroads, banking, and beef. Apparently, he was a great-great-grandson of the founder. Hadn’t she read somewhere, though, that he was originally from New York? She did recall that he was a graduate of Harvard Law School, and that he had had his own firm in Washington, D.C., until recently. But what Francesca remembered the most was that one and all wished to know if Bragg had been given carte blanche to administer the police. Seth Low, whom her father had supported heavily, was a Reform mayor, and his appointment of Bragg had raised a flurry of hopes and expectations among the city’s progressive-minded liberals.

  Francesca trembled. Could he do it? Would he do it?

  Bragg was laughing briefly at something her father had said. The sound was warm and rich. He had his back to her. He said, “I saw the cartoon. I only object to the fact that the horse they put me on was a nag instead of a fiery steed.”

  “I liked the six-shooters, myself,” Cahill chuckled.

  Francesca wondered what cartoon they were referring to. Obviously, she had missed the caricature of the city’s newest police commissioner. She wondered if it was in today’s paper. She must check immediately and find out.

  His gaze had turned slightly, allowing her to study his nearly classic profile. “I cannot reiterate enough what your support has meant, Andrew,” he said.

  “I have every confidence in you, as I do in Seth,” her father said jovially, referring to the city’s newly elected mayor.

  “He has his work cut out for him,” Bragg returned. His back was now to Francesca. “But I shall do everything in my power to see to it that my department eases his way, instead of adding to his burdens.”

  As her father responded, Francesca realized she had been dismissed. She stared at Bragg’s broad shoulders, shocked.

  For even though she was not looking for a suitor, and even though she was not a flirt, she was used to being admired. She was used to being ogled, if she dared be frank. It had been a fact of her life ever since she was a small child.

  This man was impervious to her charms? But... how could that be?

  “So, will Low make a public policy declaration regarding the police department and its affairs?” Cahill asked Bragg, apparently not even noticing the slight upon his daughter.

  Francesca found herself crossing her arms tightly over her chest. An image of Connie retrieving the pot of lip rouge from the wastebasket came to mind. And she snapped silently to herself, Do not be an absurd ninny!

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the mayor that,” Bragg responded, smiling slightly at her father. His smile softened the distinct planes of his face.

  Francesca wet her lips. Her pulse accelerated with her almost conscious intention. “So. Do you intend to enforce the Raines Act?” she heard herself ask.

  His shoulders stiffened ever so imperceptibly and he turned to face her. His amber eyes locked with hers, wider now with some surprise. Francesca’s tension had escalated dramatically—oddly, she felt as if she had just baited the bear in its den and she somehow felt threatened. She expected him to ask her what she had just said. He said, evenly, “I am afraid you will have to wait and see, just like the rest of the city, Miss Cahill.” And his regard remained upon her, unwavering in its intensity.

  She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. She wondered if she had made a mistake to so captivate his attention. But she could not seem to stop herself. Breathlessly, she said, “The law should be enforced or it should be repealed.” And to her own ears, her normally husky voice came out high-pitched, like squeaky carriage wheels in the need of a good oiling.

  He stared, becoming extraordinarily still. Francesca did not feel even a moment of triumph; if anything, she was stricken with anxiety and incapable of all movement.

  An endless moment ensued before he spoke. “Again, I am afraid I must decline to make a comment,” he said. But his gaze had sharpened like two lead pencil points.

  Cahill slid his arm around Francesca. “My daughter is not only intelligent, she is very interested in the welfare of this city,” he said proudly. “The district attorney is a friend of ours, as well.”

  Francesca managed, “He had supper with us Thursday night.”

  “I see,” Bragg said, his gaze still on her, and Francesca had the feeling that he did. Had she made a mistake to engage him so? She could not tear her gaze away. “He can be a loose cannon,” Bragg said flatly.

  “He is the district attorney, and a man of the law,” Francesca said, hoping to sound mature and calm when her heart was fluttering uncontrollably within her breast. “I respect most of his opinions.”

  Did she remark the briefest and faintest of smiles flitting across his face? Had she somehow amused him? For that was not her intention, oh no. “So you mime his opinions?” Bragg asked.

  Suddenly the crowd around them disappeared. Francesca heard nothing and no one but her own deep, labored breathing, her own pounding heartbeat; she saw nothing and no one but the man standing before her; she even forgot that her father stood beside her, so closely that her skirts brushed his trousered leg.

  Francesca’s instinct was to flee. She did not. Undoubtedly because she was so oddly incapable of most movement. “I mime no one’s opinions, sir. The only ones to gain from the failure to enforce the blue laws are the saloon and brothel keepers.” She was amazed that her intellect did not fail her.

  And suddenly he smiled. It transformed his face, already attractive, to one rather devastating in a rough, male, almost cowboy-like way. “Shall we debate?” he asked. And there was a twinkle in his gaze.

  Francesca felt her eyes widen and she was also overcome with relief. “I am not trying to debate you, sir,” she began. “But I have very strong feelings upon this subject.”

  Cahill threw his arm around her. “My daughter would be the Reform mayor herself, if she were a man. Isn’t that right, Francesca?” he said.

  Francesca somehow managed to tear her eyes away from Bragg. “But I am not a man, so the question is moot, is it not, Papa?”

  “My daughter will not give an inch, Rick, I warn you on that. She is devoted to her many causes. Do you know that she is an active member of four leagues?”

  Bragg had not removed his gaze from Francesca, and perhaps that was why her cheeks continued to feel as if they were on fire. “No, I did not. That is a large number of clubs, Miss Cahill.”

  She wet her lips again. “Actually, I belong to five.” She glanced at her father. “I just began a new society, Papa. The Ladies’ Society for the Eradication of Tenements.”

  “A terrible blot upon our city,” Cahill said grimly.

  “And where will the tenement dwellers go if the tenements are torn down?” Bragg asked with a calm that she was realizing was characteristic of him. But there was nothing calm about his intent eyes.

  Francesca refused to fidget. “We are a rich city.” She
took a deep breath, hoping to recover her composure. “Surely you are aware of the fact that one half of the country’s millionaires live here?”

  He smiled again. A dimple appeared in his right cheek. “Will the funds then come from the pockets of men like your father, or from the city’s coffers—assuming the politics of such a budget might be mastered?”

  Francesca told herself that she was not in over her head.

  But was he now amused? “Both, I hope. In fact, now that we have an honest and determined Reform mayor, my hopes have never been higher.” She smiled briefly. It felt brittle. If she had become a source of amusement, she might very well die. “Commissioner Bragg, there is always a way to accomplish a worthy end.” And by God, she did mean it.

  He was silent for a moment. “I admire your enthusiasm,” he said, then ruined the compliment with, “How old are you, Miss Cahill?”

  She tensed again. “What does my age have to do with my ideas? I am no child.”

  “The young tend toward optimism,” he said flatly. “Not realism.”

  Francesca had just received an ungentlemanly setdown, and she could no more stop herself than she could stop the snow from falling outside. “And you are so very elderly?” she asked.

  He chuckled.

  Was he laughing now at her?

  She was about to point out that, throughout history, the greatest strides made by mankind were precipitated by the young and the restless, when her father took her arm. “The commissioner is right, of course. But it is the enthusiasm of the young that drives society to debate and action and ultimately the best of all possible conclusions.” He kissed his daughter’s cheek. “I must introduce Bragg around, although I would love to listen to the two of you debate all night. Have a good night, dear.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” She somehow smiled at him, and then she looked at Bragg again. Right in the eye.

  He had been studying her; his eyes immediately changed, making them impossible to read, and he nodded politely. Too politely, as if they had not just had the most scintillating exchange of opinions and ideas. Still, there were hidden layers there, and as he walked away with her father, Francesca watched them go. She felt rooted to the spot.