Read Online Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] by Deadly Caress - Free Book Online

it at that?”
    Andrew reached her side. “Please do not tell me that you have been out and about this morning with Rick Bragg.”
    “No, I have not,” she said honestly.
    That softened him. “I am glad to hear it. Although I fear you are still carrying a torch for that man.”
    “Papa, you admire and respect him as much as I; he is your good friend. Would you truly blame me if he did keep a piece of my heart forever?” she asked simply.
    He patted her arm. “No, I would not, not when you put it that way. But a piece of your heart is something we can all live with—it is something you can live with, too, in time. What other personal business could you have possibly had at this early hour?”
    He disliked Calder Hart—he had said that he did not trust him and that he did not like his casual womanizing ways. Francesca smiled. “I am twenty, Papa. Surely I can keep some of my affairs to myself?”
    He sighed, kissed her cheek, and said, “I am going down to the office, but only for an hour or two. Evan is up, and he seems a bit better this morning. Your mother is with him.” Now worry was reflected in his eyes, and with it, Francesca saw guilt.
    She hugged him, hard. She adored her father and she always would. “This is not your fault! The row you both had is not why Evan has been so badly injured! Do not blame yourself!”
    He nodded at her grimly, clearly continuing to feel responsible for the plight his son was now in, and accepted his coat from a servant. “Have a good morning, Papa,” Francesca offered.
    “I shall try,” he said.
    She did not watch him go. She already knew that Bragg was not yet present, as neither a coach nor his motorcar was outside in the drive, and the doorman had not said he waswaiting for her. Francesca hurried upstairs and to Evan’s room.
    His door was open. Maggie Kennedy was seated on the bed at his side, apparently reading the newspaper to him. The pretty seamstress, who remained at the Cahill home recuperating from a knife wound, had proven herself to be an angel of mercy where Evan was concerned. Francesca hesitated in surprise, for Julia was also present. She had pulled up a heavily upholstered chair and sat close by the bed.
    Julia Van Wyck Cahill remained a beautiful woman, and Francesca had often been told that she looked so much like her mother. She had a small oval face, high cheekbones, a slim and pretty nose, and thick, waving blond hair. Francesca’s complexion was tinged with gold and apricot and her hair was the color of rich honey, unlike the fairer complexions and lighter hair that her mother and sister shared. The Cahill women were universally acclaimed to be beauties. Francesca thought her mother and sister were great beauties, but she herself was too serious and too intellectual to ever be put in that category. She hardly minded. She had more important issues to deal with every day.
    Julia never left her rooms before noon. Francesca knew that she got up around nine but took care of household affairs in the privacy of her suite before coming out. But Julia adored her son. Francesca doubted she had left his side all night. Now Maggie stopped reading and everyone glanced at Francesca.
    “Good morning,” she said, too brightly. Her gaze was on Evan, who was propped up against numerous pillows, the eye he had almost lost bandaged like a pirate’s, the skin around the patch a vicious purple, green, and blue. His lower lip was cut and swollen, and his left wrist was in a cast. But he seemed to smile at her.
    “Ow,” he then said, scowling. “God, I cannot even grin!”
    Julia stood, unsmiling. “Good morning, Francesca. Are you just getting up?”
    At least her mother did not know that she had been out.But she didn’t want to lie now. “Mama, is everything all right?” she asked cautiously, noting now that in spite of her mother’s perfect ensemble, a dark gray double-breasted suit in pebbled cheviot, trimmed with antique moiré and silk braid, she looked