by Kery, Beth
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “This . . .” she glanced at his beautiful, satiated cock and looked away anxiously. “Didn’t happen.”
For the first time since he’d returned, she saw a small smile tilt his mouth. She took a reflexive step back. She hadn’t been expecting that potent weapon.
“It happened all right,” he stated unequivocally. “Do you mean that you prefer not to make it obvious to everyone at Belford that it happened?”
She nodded, not meeting his stare because she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d meant.
“All right,” he said, jerking his underwear and pants over his thighs and hips. He settled back in the couch, but left his pants unfastened. “I can agree to that, if it’s what you prefer. It’ll give us time to figure out what it means, I suppose.”
“What what means?” she mumbled uneasily.
“Everything. What we mean.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “There is no ‘we.’ I’m going to bed.”
“I assume since you found me in here tonight, you’d checked my quarters first?” he asked from behind her.
She paused and cautiously peered over her shoulder. “Yes,” she admitted, seeing no way to deny it. “Your grandmother pointed out your rooms when she gave me the tour. When you weren’t in them, I came here. Anne said this was your favorite room.”
He held her stare. “Go now to your suite and rest. I think you’ll sleep now. But tonight—I’ll wait for you in my bedroom after everyone settles.”
She opened her mouth to deny him—God, how she hated his quiet arrogance. He spoke before she could come up with the most scathing response possible.
“I’m not saying it for me—or at least not just for me. You’re burning from the inside out, lovely,” he said, his voice hollow. “I know it’s my fault, but I see how tired you are. I won’t have you suffer while I’m here. I don’t want you to become sick. You’ll come tonight. You’ll come tonight if only because we have no choice. Not while we’re here together in this house. Maybe you’ll rest easier . . . and so will I for a precious period of time.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. She thought of denying him, but didn’t want to add lying to the sins she was compiling since Ian had returned. She said nothing, just turned and left the sitting room, silently praying all the while she’d find the strength to prove his arrogant assumptions wrong.
* * *
Ian watched her go, forcing muscles that wanted to spring into action and claim her into complete stillness. After the door had closed behind her, he glanced around the increasingly dim room. The fire was almost out. It was always darkest before the dawn.
He lowered his head and caught her lingering scent. He inhaled deeply, taking strength from the fragrance, and stood.
On the way to his quarters, he heard a click and a subtle, scurrying sound on the oak floors of the hallway. He glanced behind him and saw the maid, Clarisse, standing outside Gerard’s closed door, looking down as she finished closing the side zipper on her gown. Her head came up and she saw him standing there. She started. The shadows were so heavy in the hallway, he sensed more than saw her shocked embarrassment.
Neither of them spoke. Clarisse turned and hurried away in the opposite direction.
* * *
She slept better than she had in ages, not rising until twelve thirty. For a moment, she lay in bed, recalling all the tumultuous events of the previous night.
After she’d left Ian standing on the dance floor the night before, she’d searched through the maze of Belford, desperate to find the kitchens. Twenty minutes and two startled waiters’ instructions later, she’d found what she sought: Mrs. Hanson bustling around the gargantuan kitchen belowstairs, preparing some of the last touches on the lavish midnight buffet.
“Francesca!” Mrs. Hanson had called in mixed shock and pleasant surprise when she’d appeared. But then the sweet older woman had acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to stumble into the kitchens in all her finery.
Mrs. Hanson had given her a cup of hot tea and let her sit at the center island, just like Francesca had grown accustomed to doing while at Ian’s penthouse. Francesca didn’t tell the housekeeper why she’d sought her out in such odd circumstances, but Mrs. Hanson seemed to understand without words. She must have heard the rumor of Ian’s return. She answered Francesca’s random questions about mundane things, like the feast, occasionally interrupting their conversation to call out instructions to the catering staff.
Francesca had eventually gone back up, forcing herself to remain at the ball until past one in the morning, going through the motions of enjoying herself and fastidiously acting as though Ian wasn’t across the room. Ignoring him stole every ounce of energy she possessed.
Trying to ignore him, because it hadn’t worked in the slightest.
Once she’d gone to bed, however, she was surprised to realize she couldn’t rest, despite her exhaustion. There was no one left to fool but herself, lying there alone in the darkness, and Ian’s return had halted that brittle self-deception. Sleep had been an utter impossibility.
Until she’d finally risen in desperation and sought him out.
He’d been right.
It was strange to feel so awake on that bright December day, her nerves tingling with awareness . . . so good, and yet so terrible at once. Quenching her desire had been what she needed to rest, and he’d known that. Some part of her must have known it, too.
She closed her eyes as she stood before the bathroom mirror, overwhelmed by a potent paradoxical sense of shame and arousal at recalling what had occurred in the sitting room. Never in a million years would she have thought she could be so bold . . . so desperate. The memory of what she’d done under the cloak of night felt like the recollection from another person’s brain had been magically inserted to her own, all the details excruciatingly vivid, but also foreign somehow.
He’d left her. He’d offered no explanation as to why (not that she’d allowed him to give a reason) and practically the moment he returned, she had sought him out and let her pussy rule the day.
No. You let his cock rule.
Yet another reason it was difficult to meet her own gaze in the mirror as she got ready. Shame, anger, and longing were an unbearable brew.
She showered and dressed in jeans, boots, and a warm sweater and smoothed her hair into a ponytail. She left the suite a moment later, carrying her sketchpad, pencils, her coat, hat, and gloves in her arms.
They all were in the sitting room when she arrived—Lucien, Elise, Anne, James, Gerard . . .
Ian.
The mood in the cozy sitting room was very casual and easygoing, everyone looking pleasantly lazy after the late-night festivities. She’d interrupted Elise in the process of animatedly describing a funny scene from a comedy that was currently popular. Her friend was curled up in the corner of the couch, her knees resting casually on Lucien’s thighs. She envied Elise’s ease in such splendid surroundings, a natural consequence of her upbringing, an innate confidence Francesca herself could never hope to achieve.
“Good morning,” Francesca said to everyone. “I apologize for being down so late.”
“Nonsense, we all slept in,” Anne assured. “But you look rosy this morning. You must have slept well. I’m glad to see it.”
She was determined not to meet Ian’s stare at Anne’s incendiary words, even though she felt his gaze on her heated cheeks. She couldn’t help but notice from her peripheral vision that he was dressed much like her. Her heart used to do a leap on the rare occasions when she saw him in jeans, knowing it probably meant he wanted them to go motorcycle riding together. He really did become a different man on the open road. She loved seeing his wind-whipped hair, his relaxation palpable in comparison to his typical rigid control, his full-out smile . . . the vision of him laughing without restraint. Even though she
lectured herself not to look, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from glancing furtively at his long, muscular jean-clad thighs and narrow hips as James pulled up a chair for her and Anne went to pour her a cup of coffee from the service arranged on the sideboard.
“You weren’t planning on starting work on the painting today, were you?” Anne asked as she approached, noticing the sketchbook and coat she’d placed on the floor next to her chair. “But I was hoping you’d relax before beginning on that, take a little vacation. Why don’t you get started after the New Year? I’m having the canvas and your supplies delivered on the thirtieth. We’re all determined to be lazy today, after last night. We’re thinking about taking in a movie in town,” Anne said, handing her a china cup filled with coffee and cream. Francesca took a sip of the hot brew.
For some reason, irritation was rising in her at the idea of them all being so casual and accepting of Ian’s unexpected return . . .
. . . of his prolonged, unexplained absence.
He could do murder and his friends and family would rush to see to his every comfort.
You certainly were eager enough to see to his every comfort last night, you hypocrite.
“Vacation?” she asked, her light tone disguising not only her chaotic thoughts, but her anger. “Does that mean we’re all off the hook then?”
“Off the hook?” Anne asked uncertainly as she returned to her seat next to James.
“Has Ian let us all off the hook?” she clarified, her anger making it possible to stare directly at Ian as she took another sip of coffee. “Are you planning on returning to run Noble Enterprises, now that you’re back?”
She could tell by the stunned silence that no one else had yet dared to ask him the question. Ian returned her stare calmly before replying.
“I haven’t decided yet. Lin has kept me generally apprised of what’s been going on, and Lucien and Gerard filled me in on the details of the Tyake acquisition last night.”
“I do hope you’re pleased with our efforts,” Francesca said.
He didn’t blink at her quiet sarcasm. “I am. You’ve all arranged things almost as precisely as I would have. Everything is in place for the plan to move forward in the New Year. I was waiting until a moment when I could thank you all more formally, but Francesca’s right. You all deserve my gratitude now . . . as well as my apologies for leaving you in such a fix. I can’t thank you all enough, for all you’ve done on the Tyake acquisition,” he said, glancing at each of them in turn. His quiet sincerity left her feeling even more agitated.
“That’s what family is for,” James replied for everyone.
She stood, taking her cup to the sideboard. She hadn’t meant to say those things; she really needed to get ahold of herself. No one deserved her bitterness, save Ian.
Save herself.
“I hope you all have a good time at the movies,” she said with a smile, picking up her coat, hat, and the fingerless gloves she wore for outdoor sketching in the winter. “I think I’ll get started on some rough sketches before the canvas arrives. I could use a little work.”
“She’s right,” Gerard said. He stood to retrieve her sketchpad and pencils while she put on her gloves. “Work always sets things on track, I always say. And I’m not going to the movies, so I’ll take Francesca to the gardener’s cottage. That’s where you two were saying you wanted her to set up base while she draws, isn’t that right?” he asked James and Anne.
“Gardener’s cottage?” Francesca asked, hearing of this for the first time.
“Well, it’s not really a gardener’s cottage anymore,” James explained. “It hasn’t been anyone’s cottage but an occasional guest’s for the past twenty years. But it’d be a good post for you. It’s right at the edge of the woods, and it’s got an excellent straight-on view of Belford through a picture window. It won’t do for the details, of course, but we figured that since it’s so chilly out, it might save you a few days from the cold while you get the panoramic sketches. I had Mr. Sayers turn on the cottage furnace just yesterday, so it should be warm enough by now. If you think that’d be useful?”
“Very useful,” Francesca assured. “Thank you for thinking of it. It’ll save me having to go in and out to thaw out my fingers, for a few days, at least.
“I’ll take her to it,” Ian said, standing. Gerard shared Francesca’s nonplussed expression.
“I said I’d show her to it. You should go and relax with the others,” Gerard said.
“We’ll both show her then,” Ian said quietly, but his eyes flashed dangerously at Gerard before he picked up his coffee cup.
“It’s not really necessary for you to come,” Gerard prevaricated as Ian set his cup and saucer on the tray on the sideboard.
“It is, actually,” Ian said. James shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the hard edge to Ian’s tone. Ian’s stare at Gerard was one that Francesca could only describe as a silent, simmering challenge. Concern mingled with her annoyance. His calm exterior was far more brittle than she’d ever seen it before. “Because the gardener is off today, and I have the only other set of keys to the cottage.”
Gerard flushed. Clearly, Ian had preempted Gerard’s actions and asked his grandfather for the keys in advance. There was something subtly, but distinctly proprietary underlying Ian’s statement, as if he was reminding Gerard who the future master of Belford was. Or who the master of Francesca was. Resentment bubbled up into her chest. She noticed Elise giving Lucien an uncomfortable glance in the prickly silence that followed, and Anne and James did the same. Ian was acting like a caveman. It was all extremely awkward. She shot a fulminating look at Ian, which he didn’t notice as he studied his cousin.
“Come on, Gerard,” she said with false brightness. “I’ll enjoy your company.”
Gerard seemed a little angry, not to mention embarrassed, which made her even more irritated at Ian. At first, she thought he was going to stand down, but then he gave her a smile and nodded toward the door as if to say, Let’s proceed then. With everyone watching them in the uncomfortable silence that followed, she felt she had no choice but to follow Ian out of the room, Gerard falling in step behind her.
Chapter Five
She, Ian, and Gerard walked to the cottage at the edge of the woods, their boots crunching on the frosty path leading through the gardens, the cold winter air seemingly doing nothing to cool either her irritation at Ian or the charged atmosphere swirling among the three of them.
The cottage itself was nice, she decided once Ian had unlocked the door and they’d entered, but chilly despite the furnace being activated. The interior was modest in comparison to the luxury of Belford itself. In fact, the little house looked like it hadn’t been redecorated for several decades. She found the shabby elegance of it cozy.
“Stay here. Both of you,” Ian said after he’d closed the front door. She gave Gerard a questioning glance, but Gerard was watching his cousin dubiously as well.
“What is with him?” Gerard mumbled for her ears only.
Francesca just shrugged, too irritated to reply.
They stood next to the cold hearth of the fireplace as Ian stepped into the kitchen and looked around, and then stalked down the hallway, his dark head just two feet away from the low ceiling. At first, she’d thought he was inspecting the place like someone might a rarely used property in order to make sure there were no leaks or property damage. By the time he returned to the small living room where she stood, however, another suspicion had struck her.
“Ian, you’re not checking out this place for . . . I don’t know, bad guys or something, are you?”
“What’s this?” Gerard asked, both amused and confused.
“Just making sure everything is in order for you to work here today,” Ian said evenly, stepping closer, blue eyes pinning her. His size struck her suddenly, his presence. He was really too large for these cramped quarters. She s
tepped back reflexively, and then felt foolish when he only knelt and started to build a fire.
“Were there any other unusual occurrences either before or after that man tried to take you in Chicago?” Ian asked in an offhand manner as he began to arrange logs and kindling.
“No one tried to take me,” she insisted. She noticed Gerard’s puzzled expression. For some reason, a sharp somatic memory of the assailant’s brutal grip rose to her awareness. She rubbed her upper arms as if to erase the unpleasant recollection. Was there any possibility that Ian was right in his suspicion? “And in answer to your question, no. Nothing unusual at all has happened other than that.”
“Gerard? Anything odd that you noticed while you were in Chicago?”
“Other than the fact that the waiters there whisked away my plate the second I took my last bite, everything was boringly normal,” Gerard said dryly.
Ian just continued to build the fire in silence. She shook her head in disgust, knowing him well enough to recognize he wasn’t going to argue, but that he hadn’t changed his mind in the slightest. She left Gerard and looked around the little house, familiarizing herself with the location of the bathroom, which was in the hallway between the living room and bedroom. The small, tidy bedroom included a made double bed, upholstered chair, a desk and bureau. She’d be very comfortable working here, she decided. She found some tea bags in a kitchen cabinet and filled the kettle on the stove.
When she returned to the living room with a mug of tea in her hand, Ian had successfully started a fire. It felt warm enough for her to remove her coat.
“There’s hot water for tea, if you’d like it,” she said politely as she hung up her coat. Personally, she was hoping both men would vacate as quickly as possible. She’d never be able to focus with Ian there in the small confines of the cottage, sending her simmering, churning emotions up to a full boil.
“That sounds good,” Gerard said, starting for the kitchen.
“I’m going to walk around and inspect the grounds a bit, maybe look in at the stables,” Ian said pointedly to Gerard, who came to a halt. “Why don’t you come with me? There are some things we need to discuss.”
