by Kery, Beth
“I have never been happier in my life than when I was with you. I didn’t know what happiness was until you,” he breathed out.
“Then why? Why did you leave?” she asked, unable to disguise her wretchedness. The words seemed to cut her as they came out, having grown sharp and crystallized from being kept inside for so long. Her heart seemed to stop when he brushed the corner of her mouth and cheek with the side of his hand. It felt so good, but she turned her chin away from him in hurt and confusion. He set down his drink on a nearby bookcase in an impatient gesture and stepped closer, using both hands to capture her face, a palm on each side of her jaw. He lowered his head until his mouth was just inches from hers.
“Because after my mother died, after I found out about Trevor Gaines, I had never felt more dark standing next to your brilliance, never so hollow beside your fullness,” he said in a quiet, pressured voice. “My leaving had nothing to do with you, Francesca. Nothing. It was about me, trying to figure out who the hell I am. What the hell I am. I still don’t know . . . and I don’t deserve you until I do.”
“You’re Ian Noble, no different than you were before you found out about that foul man,” she grated out. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t want to blink lest she spill tears. “And that’s not an answer, what you just gave me.”
In the distance, she heard heels tapping on the Great Hall marble floor and a woman talking as though giving instructions.
“I’m sorry. It’s the only answer I have,” Ian said bleakly before he dropped his hands, grabbed his drink, and walked toward the fireplace. He set his glass on the mantel and faced the door just as Anne entered the room with a maid.
“Ian,” Anne said in surprise. “You’re down early.”
“We were confused about the time,” Ian said as Anne approached and he leaned down to kiss her cheek in greeting.
“We?” Anne asked, glancing around.
Francesca walked out of the shadows at the edge of the room. Anne’s eyes went wide in pleasant surprise as Francesca greeted her. She mentally damned the maid when she chose that moment to switch on a lamp. Anne’s animated expression fell when she noticed the strained quality of Francesca’s smile and her damp eyes.
* * *
Lisle Gravish was a nice-looking but fussy man of about thirty-five whose affected accent and pretentious jokes abraded Francesca’s already raw nerves. His wife, Amy, defied all English stereotypes with her perfect beauty queen smile, exotic, curling jet-black hair, and the curves of an Italian film goddess. It looked as if a display case from Cartier had exploded on her, she glistened so greatly with diamonds. She combined all this glamour and beauty with talent. Apparently she was a gifted opera singer. Francesca wondered irritably as she watched Amy flirt outrageously with Ian during dinner if she’d begun to sprout those amazing breasts while they’d still been in primary together. Ian didn’t necessarily reciprocate the flirtation, but he did occasionally smile. Ian’s full-out smiles were so rare, and so brilliant, that in Francesca’s opinion, they were the equivalent of another man’s hotly whispered indecent proposal.
Perhaps that extra dash of jealousy added to her already chaotic mix of emotions was what made her careless in her interactions with Gerard, who sat next to her during dinner. She hadn’t realized how distracted she’d been, failing to send up red flags as they talked quietly together. Things finally pierced her distraction when Gerard leaned close to her and spoke near her ear as they waited for the main course to be cleared.
“You have yet to wear the diamond choker I gave you.”
“That’s because I plan to return it. I told you it was too much,” she murmured softly, keeping her face forward because Gerard’s lips were barely an inch from the side of her head.
“Hold on to it for a bit. You might change your mind,” he said silkily, his breath causing her hair to stir and tickle her ear. “Not that I’m complaining about your not wearing jewelry tonight. A wise woman knows that no decoration is necessary to complement absolute perfection.”
She glanced across the table and saw Elise’s wide-eyed, comical stare. Given Elise’s amused look, she guessed Gerard was gazing down at her breasts. She grabbed her water glass, her jabbing elbow forcing Gerard to lean back in his chair. Elise suppressed a laugh and choked on her wine. Her suspicion about where Gerard had been gaping was confirmed when she noticed Ian’s stone-cold stare.
Gerard took her hand as they left the dining room.
“May I have a word in private?” he asked her. “It won’t take but a moment.” Perhaps he noticed her hesitancy. “It’s about Ian.”
She glanced behind them anxiously, but no one immediately followed them out of the dining room. Anne, James. and Lisle had already gone ahead, while the rest of them lingered in the dining room. They were momentarily alone in the Great Hall. She nodded once hesitantly and Gerard pulled her toward a private alcove that was situated behind the massive grand staircase.
“What is it?” she asked in a hushed tone, made uneasy by his secrecy given his earlier flirtation. Especially when he stood so close and leaned down over her. She realized he was striving to keep quiet, and resisted stepping back.
“Have you spoken with Ian yet? About where he’s been? About what he’s been doing? I was speaking to Anne and James, and they’re curious to know,” Gerard whispered.
“No,” she said, not thinking that Ian’s general reply of “France” counted as much of an answer at all. “But he’s given me the impression he’s going back there. He said he has unfinished business . . .” She faded off at the sound of a door opening and conversation echoing in the all. She heard heels tapping and recognized Lucien and Elise’s voices, then Amy Gravish’s laughter.
“The sitting room, correct, Ian?” Lucien asked.
“Yes,” came Ian’s deep, quiet voice.
“Unfinished business? Is he leaving soon?” Gerard asked once the sitting room door closed and the hall was quiet once again.
“I don’t know for sure,” she whispered. “You mean he hasn’t revealed any of this to you or his grandparents?”
Gerard shook his head. “Francesca,” he began uneasily. “Is there a possibility that Ian has been . . . ill? Perhaps hospitalized.”
The blood rushed from her head. “Why do you say that?” she asked, alarmed.
Gerard shrugged. “It’s a pretty good explanation as to why he’d disappeared off the face of the earth for so long.”
“No, he said he wasn’t sick, and I believed him. I thought maybe he told you something about where he’s been when you walked earlier . . .”
“No, that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about with me,” Gerard answered grimly, looking thoughtful. “I get the impression he’d been speaking to Lucien about what he’s been doing, though. The two of them certainly clammed up quickly when I walked in on them in the billiards room earlier today.”
An uneasy feeling went through her. She knew the intimate truth he shared with Lucien. They’d been talking together about their biological father, Trevor Gaines. What had Ian been doing all these months in regard to Gaines? And how in the world did he think it would help him discover who he was? She’d never hated anyone or anything more than she did that criminal. He was dead, but he was continuing to make Ian’s life a misery.
Her own.
She blinked when Gerard wrapped his hand around her upper arm and pulled her closer.
“Have you asked him why he left?” he asked in her in a pressured whisper.
“No,” she said, starting to become offended by his intensity.
“Don’t you think that would be the easiest solution?” Gerard asked.
“Excuse me.”
Francesca jumped at the unexpected hard voice. Ian stood there, his hands behind his back, staring at them coldly. Francesca stepped away from Gerard, realizing too late that her action made her look guilty. She lifted her c
hin and gave Ian an annoyed glance, feeling her pulse starting to throb at her throat. Gerard let his arms drop to his side and faced Ian rapidly, as if expecting a blow.
“Yes?” Gerard asked coolly.
“Grandfather is looking for you,” Ian said, his stare on Gerard like twin nails made of ice.
Gerard seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he nodded briskly. “Francesca?” he said, holding out his hand for her. She paused, reluctant, but then reached for it as a last-ditch effort to escape the incipient explosion hinted at in Ian’s eyes. Ian halted her action by taking her hand in his before it ever reached Gerard.
“I need a word with Francesca,” Ian said to Gerard with a note of finality.
Gerard’s jaw tightened. “Very well,” he said coolly when Francesca didn’t protest. He turned and left them. Ian didn’t look at her, just stared toward the Great Hall. It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for Gerard’s footsteps to fade. She could hardly tell when they finally did disappear, because her heart had started to beat so loudly in her ears.
She knew what usually happened when Ian’s eyes became fire and ice at once. He firmed his hold on her hand and pulled her behind him into the hall. She could have refused to go with him.
She could have, but she didn’t.
Chapter Six
She followed him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride in her heels. He opened a paneled door that Francesca knew led to an area Anne had called the reception room when she’d given her the tour, a formal, gilded room that Anne said she rarely ever used anymore. She thought he’d pause in the empty room, but instead he continued walking purposefully straight through the room to another door.
“Ian,” she called from behind him, her breath coming erratically. But he didn’t turn, just opened the door and pulled her after him. They were in a short, dark corridor. She followed him down it. He opened another door and turned on a light, prompting Francesca to pass before him. This wasn’t a room Anne had shown her, Francesca realized. She had a brief impression of a long, narrow mudroom with locked gun racks on the wall, dozens of coats hung on hooks, a giant Chinese urn filled with umbrellas, assorted Wellington and snow boots lining the wall, and an oversized washer and dryer. Two worn upholstered chairs that had probably once adorned a great room faced each other, placed there for convenience, Francesca supposed, for people to sit and put on or take off boots before walking or hunting on the grounds.
She spun around when she heard Ian shut the door with a thud. Blood roared in her ears when she heard the snick of the lock.
“What are you doing?” she asked when he came toward her.
“You asked me this morning if I’d been with another since we’d been apart and I told you no. Can you say the same to me?” he demanded coldly.
“I don’t owe you any explanations for my behavior for the last six months, Ian,” she grated out, infuriated by his manner, but inexplicably excited as well.
“Are you sleeping with my cousin?” he shot out, stepping closer. She backed up until her bottom ran into the edge of the washer.
“No. But even if I was, it wouldn’t be any of your business.”
“Do you want to fuck him?” he asked crudely. “Because he obviously wants it. Rumor has it he’s a good lover. Do you figure he’d do the trick for you?”
She slapped his cheek. Hard. She’d never hit anybody before. It felt fantastic . . . and yet she’d never hated her loss of control more. Her flash of aggression barely seemed to penetrate Ian’s consciousness.
He opened his hand along her jaw and tilted up her face. “Francesca?” His voice was quieter this time, but it was still an order for her to respond. He pressed nearer still, until their fronts were plastered together, her breasts heaving against his jacket-covered ribs, the fullness behind his fly becoming increasingly more obvious against her belly. It felt so good, so elementally right, that for a moment she couldn’t focus on what he was asking her.
“Answer me.”
“No I don’t want to fuck Gerard, damn it,” she spat, so angry that it was true, furious that she couldn’t find some way to sever this throbbing cord of connection she felt to Ian. His gaze ran over her face hungrily. She found herself straining toward him, her teeth bared. Her feelings were so confused in that volatile moment, she honestly couldn’t say if she wanted to kiss him or bite at him like an animal and draw blood. His eyelids narrowed. He frightened her a little bit at that moment. She wasn’t the only one about to lose control.
“Go on,” he said.
She blinked at his low taunt and felt his erection swell against her. Her heartbeat roared in her ears.
“Take a bite, Francesca.”
He barely got out her name before she put her hand on the back of his head and pushed him to her, her mouth molding his roughly, her teeth scraping his lower lip as she sucked the captive flesh, her tongue licking and plunging and seeking. It was an angry consumption more than a kiss, and one he didn’t allow to be one-sided for long. Within seconds he leaned down over her, forcing her back to arch, the barrier of their clothing feeling both insubstantial against their mingling heat and pressing bodies, and also unbearably intrusive. God, she needed to feel his naked body against hers, needed to be filled by him . . . absolutely required him to prove he was there with her in that moment in the most primal way possible.
She lost all sense of time or place as he kissed her with a hunger that matched her own. His hand firmed on her jaw and he sealed the kiss, backing up a few inches when she craned toward him. She met his blazing stare.
“Do you want me to ask you permission to bend you over and fuck you hard, or do you just want me to do it?” he rasped. She whimpered when she realized he’d plunged his hand below her neckline and was extricating a breast from the confines of her demi-bra. He lifted it above the edge of the neckline. She felt his cock leap next to her belly as he stared down at the exposed flesh, the vulnerable, tender nipple. Before she could draw a full breath, he leaned down and sucked the nipple between his lips. She squealed at the abrupt, delicious sensation of him drawing on her greedily. Her hips thrashed against him, grinding against his erection. By the time her nipple popped out of his suctioning, hot mouth, it was hard and pebbled and reddened.
“I asked you a question,” he said, white teeth flashing before he bit and nibbled at her mouth and she felt her core go liquid with heat. She struggled to recall what he meant. “Tell me whether you want to give me permission or you want me just to take you,” he said roughly against her mouth, seeming to understand she required a reminder.
She closed her eyes in mortification even as she continued to shape his lips to hers. He’d never asked her permission before. If he was ready to take her, he just would, knowing very well she’d be prepared to meet his need. That’s how she wanted it . . . how she needed it.
“Don’t make me ask,” she said raggedly, her eyes remaining sealed tight.
“Fine. Then I’ll just fuck you,” he said, his nostrils flaring. His hand lowered, lifting her dress. He found her unerringly, shoving long fingers into her panties.
“Ah, that’s good. So sweet, so wet, so ready,” he hissed next to her swollen lips. She quaked as he rubbed her well-lubricated clit with the ridge of his finger, his actions neither gentle nor rough, but Ian-like. Perfect. She gritted her teeth and pushed her hips against him. He grunted, and the next thing she knew, he turned her and he was sliding her dress up over her ass and hips, bunching the material at her waist in a fist. She felt him press firmly at her lower back and she responded instinctively, leaning her upper body against the washing machine. He began to lower her panties as he stood next to her, his pelvis pressed against her hip, his erection feeling full and extremely arousing next to her skin. He backed up slightly to get her underwear between them and shoved them down her thighs. Her eyes sprang wide in painful anticipation in the ensuing seconds as he p
aused with her hip and buttock still pressed against his cock and ran his hand over her bare ass. She made a helpless sound in her throat as liquid warmth rushed through her, wetting her even more.
Then he was behind her and she was clutching her eyelids shut again in unbearable excitement at the sound of his zipper lowering. He put one opened hand on her inner thigh and she parted wider for him, her breath burning in her lungs. She bit her lip, the buildup killing her, as he widened her slit with his finger. She could just imagine him standing behind her, his cock in one hand, a determined, rigid look on his face as he looked down at her. He pushed the fleshy, tapered head of his cock into her, making the air fly out of her lungs.
“Hold steady,” he said tensely.
He firmed his hold on her hips and thrust. She bit off a scream. He stretched her wide, his cock pulsing high and hard in her. It burned deliciously.
“Try to keep quiet. I brought you as far from them as I could, but there might be staff around,” she heard him say through the roar in her ears before he started to fuck her with long, forceful strokes, popping her ass with his pelvis in a regular, driving rhythm. She stared blankly at the control mechanisms of the washer, her mouth hanging open, inundated—no, overwhelmed—by sensation. Her hips drove back on him instinctively, her arm muscles going rigid as she braced herself against his powerful possession. She knew she shouldn’t be allowing this to happen, but one didn’t rationalize about a hurricane or earthquake. What he did to her—what Ian was—was a force of nature, and all she could do was grit her teeth together and take the glory of him.
He grunted gutturally behind her, his pace never wavering, only growing stronger . . . faster. She didn’t protest when he wrapped his forearm around her waist to steady her and lifted one of her legs, forcing one knee onto the edge of the washer, opening her even more for him. He drove into her, their bodies smacking together, and this time she couldn’t prevent a small scream. He paused. Sweat popped on her upper lip at the sensation of him filling her while she was in such a vulnerable position, pried wide for him.
