Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce
Читать онлайн книгу.
Of course he had. She wondered if he had thought about her, too. Had he regretted their argument? Had her doubt been on his mind? Or had he been too preoccupied with Daisy’s murder?
Francesca told herself not to return to that place of doubt and insecurity. Instead, she briskly went behind the desk, reaching for a piece of paper. She scribbled a quick note, telling Hart that a reporter had been to see her that morning and that they should meet that evening to discuss the case. She added that she was on her way to interview Rose, and that the first thing she had to do was establish a timeline for the murder.
“Francesca?”
She started and looked up, only to meet Rourke Bragg’s warm gaze and equally affectionate smile.
He seemed mildly bemused. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, coming into the room. He was Hart’s stepbrother but Rick Bragg’s half brother, and like his half brother and father, he had dark blond hair, amber eyes and a golden coloring. He was a medical student in Philadelphia and Francesca genuinely liked him.
Francesca straightened. “Rourke, I’m sorry! You didn’t frighten me. I was so absorbed I did not realize you were there.” She quickly came around the desk and he clasped her hands and kissed her cheek. “Are you on break from medical school?”
“The semester is over, actually, and I am waiting to see if my transfer to Bellevue Medical College has gone through,” Rourke said easily. “And how is my favorite soon-to-be sister-in-law?” But his gaze was carefully searching.
Francesca hesitated. A tremor swept through her as she thought about the murder and Hart and she knew he felt it, because he became very alert. “You haven’t heard.”
Warily, he said, “I haven’t heard what?”
“Daisy is dead. She was murdered last night.”
He was clearly shocked.
“You haven’t seen Hart?”
“I was out last night when he returned from his business trip. What is it that you are not telling me?”
She inhaled. “Hart found the body.”
Rourke made a sound and looked away. Then, facing her, he said, “Don’t tell me. He is the prime suspect?”
“I hope not! Rose also found Daisy, but independently, before Hart arrived at the scene. Or at least, that is how it appears. Rose is also a suspect.”
Rourke shook his head grimly. “Is there any chance that you were with Hart last night at the time of the murder?”
“I wish I had been, but no. Rose actually sent for me. I found them both at the house with the body around midnight.”
Rourke walked away, his expression hard. Then he hesitated, glancing at Francesca. “At midnight? What the hell was Calder doing at Daisy’s at that hour?”
Francesca flushed, wondering if he was thinking what Newman and Bragg had thought. She walked back to Hart’s desk and sat down in his chair.
Rourke hurried to her. “Francesca, I did not mean that the way it sounded! We both know he had a good reason for being there. I just don’t happen to know what that reason is.”
“I should like to know, as well.” Seeing Rourke’s grim expression, she added, “Rourke! He was not there to rekindle their affair. Surely that is not what you think? Bragg and Newman think so, and the fact that he will not explain why he was there isn’t helping his case.”
Rourke paled. “No, I don’t think he went to Daisy’s for such a purpose.” He sat down on the edge of Hart’s desk. “Calder won’t explain his actions? That hardly makes any sense.”
Because Rourke had become such a good friend, she said, “I wish he would confide in me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine what could be so secretive. But in a way, he is right. He is entitled to his privacy. However, the police do want an explanation. And sooner or later, he shall certainly have to give them one.”
Rourke smiled at her. “I am pleased to see that you remain as calm and sensible as ever.”
She rolled her eyes. “It is a facade—I am worried. But not because I doubt Hart’s innocence. Rourke, I wish Hart hadn’t been at Daisy’s last night—and I wish he would tell me why he went to see her in the first place.”
He regarded her for a moment, as he absorbed what she had said. “Francesca, give him some time. I believe that Hart is in love with you. He has never been this involved before—or involved at all, really. He may not know how to confide in you. He may not understand that you need to know why he went to Daisy’s last night.”
Francesca was startled. Rourke’s words made sense. Hart had been reluctant from the first to share his real feelings with her. He kept a large part of himself closed off. He was adept at showing the world an arrogant facade, but Francesca knew it was only that, a front to hide the very complicated man behind it. Perhaps he didn’t know how to be himself with her—and he certainly wasn’t accustomed to having to account to anyone for anything.
“I know one thing,” she said slowly. “Hart needs my trust. It is probably the greatest gift I can give him. So if I have to wait to discover his secret, I will do just that.”
“I happen to agree. No one has ever believed in him before,” Rourke said. He gave her a look. “Patience might be worthwhile in this instance, Francesca.”
“Obviously, we both know that patience is not my strong suit.” She sighed. “I am resolved to be patient now, but I am worried, Rourke. He lied to the police. I can’t imagine why, but obviously he felt it was necessary. And I even lied to the police to cover for him.” And now Alfred would lie, too.
Rourke took her arm in surprise. “You lied to the police—or to Rick?”
Francesca could not believe she had made such a blunder. “It was a very small deception, just until I can find the real killer!”
Rourke was disapproving. “They are both my brothers. You are on a tightrope, as long as you remain friends with Bragg while engaged to Hart.”
She turned away. It was simply too much to ask her to end her friendship with Rick, but friends did not lie to each other. Then she faced Rourke. “Thank you, Rourke. Thank you for being so kind and so caring.”
He grinned, revealing a rakish dimple. “We are almost family, and it’s my duty to look out for you if my stepbrother is too negligent—and foolish—to do so.”
Francesca thanked him again, this time hugging him. He was blushing when she pulled away. She returned to the desk, taking up the note. “Are you going downtown, by any chance? I was hoping to send Hart this note.”
“Actually, I had planned to cross town to the Dakotas. But I have a free day. I think I could manage it,” Rourke said amiably.
Francesca’s brows rose. Most of the city’s residents referred to the distant and rather unpopulated West Side of the city as the Dakotas. She had no doubts as to why Rourke was making such a trip. Trying to be casual, she said, “Send Sarah my regards, will you?”
He glanced away. “I haven’t seen her or Mrs. Channing in some time.”
Francesca gave up and grinned, having wanted to play matchmaker for some time. Sarah Channing had become a dear friend, her best friend after her sister, Connie. Although most people saw Sarah as plain, mousy and reticent, Francesca had come to know her well. Sarah was as bohemian in spirit as Francesca, dancing to the tune of her own drummer and refusing to be cast in the mold of a proper, marriage-mad lady. She was, in fact, a brilliant artist. From their initial introduction, Rourke had been very attentive and kind to her. “We should plan to dine together, the four of us. How long will you be in town?”
Rourke eyed her. As if he had no real interest in such an evening, he shrugged. “I should not mind such a supper. Make the plans.”
Francesca