by Kery, Beth
“You’re wrong,” she replied steadfastly. “You can choose, Ian. Your past? Or your future.”
He dropped his hand. She sensed his rising frustration at their disagreement, but she didn’t apologize. She started to move past him to the hallway, but he caught her arm.
He pulled her against him, his kiss possessive . . . hungry. She understood that he was reaffirming his right to touch her that way, and she reciprocated without hesitation. Her still-aroused sex throbbed. The time for pretending she didn’t crave him—love him—with every ounce of her being had passed. She figured the realization had hit when she’d stood in the woods sketching earlier, wrestling with her warring emotions, and heard him calling for her, so desperate in his need.
* * *
Elise came to visit with her in her suite early that afternoon, bringing the sad news that Lucien and she planned to return to Chicago the day after tomorrow.
“Lucien hinted very vaguely that he and Ian might take a trip together sometime in the near future,” Elise said as she looked over Francesca’s shoulder at her completed sketches. “Do you have any idea where they are going?”
Francesca glanced back at Elise uneasily. “No. I don’t know precisely what they might be doing or where they are going, but I can tell you, I don’t think it’s a good idea at all.”
They’d agreed that the brothers were likely doing something associated with Trevor Gaines, and Elise didn’t appear very pleased about the concept of the upcoming trip, either.
After Elise left to go riding, Francesca had gotten down to about an hour of some serious sketching, rising out of her trance at around three o’clock. She was restless. This was about the time Mrs. Hanson often took her tea, and Francesca had grown in the habit of sitting with her in Ian’s kitchen while she’d spent so much time in the penthouse. It was a tradition she missed.
She was walking down the grand staircase, planning on going to the kitchen, when she saw Ian crossing the Great Hall toward the front doors with that familiar long-legged, purposeful stride. Her heart did its typical jump upon seeing him unexpectedly. She noticed he’d shaved and changed his shirt since they were out at the cottage. How he managed to look so distinct and sophisticated and elementally male at once never ceased to fascinate her.
He turned and paused when she called out to him.
“Where are you off to?” she asked, approaching.
His blue eyes flickered over her body, lingering on her breasts. She’d showered after her return from the cottage and changed clothing. His small smile was like a warm, sexual caress. Their differing backgrounds and styles of dressing had been a point of self-consciousness and awkwardness on Francesca’s part since the beginning of their relationship. Ian, on the other hand, was typically sublimely nonchalant in regard to how she dressed, expecting everyone to treat her like a queen no matter how she was garbed.
I want you to know that I am far from being critical of your appearance. Whether you’re in pearls or your Cubs T-shirt, I find you to be extremely attractive. Perhaps you haven’t noticed?
She shared his smile at the memory of him saying those words to her in that dry, sardonic tone of his.
“I don’t have the type of clothing in storage here at Belford that I’d like for the press conference,” he said. “I packed light for my stay. A haberdasher I know in Belford is going to set me up and deliver a suit in the morning. Speaking of clothing,” he said, his gaze rising from the red C logo on the T-shirt she wore to her face. “I see you’re wearing one of my favorite outfits.”
She laughed and his smile widened. It felt so good, sharing a lover’s inside joke with him.
“May I come along?” she asked impulsively.
He hesitated, glancing at the heavy, carved front door. She had the impression he’d rather keep her behind that locked entrance.
“It’ll be a quick trip, and boring to boot,” he warned.
“No it won’t. I’ll be with you.”
His mouth tilted. His gaze was so warm on her. He was considering denying her, nevertheless; she could tell. She went up on her toes, brushing the front of her body against his solid form, and pressed her mouth to his, shameless in her attempt to convince him. That’s all it took, and his arms were satisfyingly surrounding her as he took control, returning her kiss with blistering heat.
“You shouldn’t take so much pride in being convincing,” he said a moment later, his gaze scanning her face. Her toes had curled from his kiss. She forced them to relax now while she waited anxiously to see if he’d take her along.
Triumph zipped through her blood when he sighed, took her hand and led her to the front door.
* * *
The front door closed. Gerard walked out from behind the grand staircase and crossed the hall. He opened a paneled door and slipped into James’s private office. It was empty. He walked over to James’s large desk—an antique that had been passed from one Earl of Stratham to the next for the past five generations. It should have been one of Gerard’s many belongings when James was gone. As things stood, although Gerard would be the next earl, James had decreed that this treasured desk along with everything else would be Ian’s.
The Noble ancestors must be turning in their graves.
Screw James, Gerard thought as he slid open the right-hand drawer and lifted the lid of a red leather box. He smiled grimly upon seeing what was stored there.
He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Brodsik’s number.
“This is it. They’re going into town. Francesca is with him,” he merely said when a man answered the phone. He listened, frowning. “You idiot. I told you to stay close by to take advantage whenever the opportunity arose. Well it’s not my fault you partnered with a fool. How do I know where Stern has disappeared to? He’s your friend. No, no,” Gerard interrupted bitterly. “I will not discuss your little blackmail scheme at the moment.” He was outraged at the concept of a such a grubby, moronic criminal trying to manipulate him, but Brodsik would pay. In fact, Stern had already outlived his use, and Brodsik would very soon.
He paused, listening to Brodsik’s defense for asking him for extra money beyond his fee. “Well I’d certainly call it a bribe, considering you’re threatening me with exposure if I don’t agree to your demands,” Gerard replied wryly. “I’ve told you I’d have your money tomorrow. It takes more than a few hours to come up with that much cash. For now, do you still work for me, or not?” He paused, his mouth curled into a snarl. “Good. You know what to do right now. You’ll have time to make it back to Stratham while they’re at the tailor in town. Noble shouldn’t be in there for more than an hour. The sun will still be up if you get your ass back here quick enough. Remember, I want Francesca to see you. What? Yes, we’re still meeting tonight at the usual place in town. I’ll have a Belford passkey for you. Were you able to purchase it?” He listened for a moment. “Good, because you’ll need that gun tomorrow, won’t you?”
He hung up and checked his watch. He had at least an hour, probably closer to two. Ian’s paranoia was such that he locked the door to his suite even in his childhood home. Whatever he kept on his computer must be valuable, indeed. In his illicit observance thus far, Gerard saw little else being kept in the room that might warrant so much caution on Ian’s part. Most of Gerard’s allotted time would be spent using his inexpert knowledge of lock picking to get past the door. Still, the locks on the Belford suites were not complicated mechanisms, intended for privacy from servants more than actual security. He’d manage it, he thought grimly as he hurried up the stairs.
* * *
She enjoyed the short visit to the tailor, not at all agreeing with Ian’s warning that she’d find it boring. What could be boring about watching a beautiful, sexy man be expertly fitted for a suit?
Mr. Rappaport, the owner of the haberdashery, seemed very eager indeed to provide a service to the Earl of Stratham’s illustri
ous grandson. Francesca came to understand that he’d occasionally made suits for Ian when he was a child and young man. Mr. Rappaport pulled a chair up for Francesca in the luxurious working area outside the dressing rooms. He politely provided her with a magazine and a cup of tea, which held her interest, until Ian came out of the dressing area, that is, and stood in front of the triple mirrors. The magazine article was forgotten as she watched the gray-haired tailor—who was so petite, Ian looked like a giant in comparison to him—scuttle about, taking measurements and marking up the suit. Ian lifted his stark white shirt while the tailor took his waist measurement, and Francesca’s attention redoubled. The pants hung on his frame loosely, emphasizing his lean, cut abdomen and the narrow trail of dark hair that ran from his taut belly button beneath the waistband of the pants.
Ian had been present on several occasions when he’d had dressmakers come and fit her for clothing, and had somehow found his quiet, focused observance of the ritual arousing. She’d never had the privilege of watching him endure the process, however.
She sensed Ian’s eyes on her in the mirror as Mr. Rappaport began to measure his inseam.
“And you dress to the left, if I recall correctly?” the tailor asked briskly.
“Correct,” Ian said, holding Francesca’s stare. She frowned slightly, confused by the tailor’s question. It took her a second to puzzle out that the tailor was asking which way Ian’s cock rode in his pants, so as to allot for the volume in his measurements. Ian must have noticed her eyes widening as understanding struck, because she saw his lips tilt in amusement in the mirror.
After he’d finished, Mr. Rappaport scurried out of the dressing area when an assistant called to him. Francesca blinked in surprise at the vision of Ian stalking over to her, now wearing only the trousers and a partially buttoned shirt.
Her breath caught. She recognized that gleam in his blue eyes.
He leaned down, trapping her by placing his hands on the arms of the velvet chair. He swooped, capturing her mouth in a scalding kiss that soon had her forgetting where they were and everything but his possessive mouth and addictive taste.
“You’re going to get it later, for getting me hard while I was in such a vulnerable situation,” he muttered against her lips a moment later.
“I was just watching,” she defended breathlessly.
He stood, his absence disorienting her.
“It was enough. Plenty,” he added with a hard glance before he walked behind a door to change. Mr. Rappaport scurried back into the room a few seconds later, immune to her flushed cheeks and erratic breathing.
When Ian had finished at the haberdasher, they got some coffee to go at a quaint little tea shop and returned to the car. She relished in Ian’s relatively relaxed mood. While Ian was never one to smile frequently, she was encouraged to see his small half grin with increasing regularity. Was he, perhaps, rising out of this pervasive depression that seemed to have weighted his spirit since his mother had died? It struck her that while they had danced around the incendiary topic of Trevor Gaines, they’d carefully avoided the sad topic of Helen’s unexpected death last summer.
She studied him driving as they left the town of Stratham behind and headed for Belford on the narrow country road, the setting sun casting his profile in a reddish-gold glow.
“Ian, where are you keeping your mother’s ashes?” she asked, referring to the fact that Helen had requested in one of her more lucid periods to be cremated.
He glanced at her swiftly, his blue eyes cool in his sunlit face.
“Grandmother has them. She’s holding them for me. I didn’t want to take them where I was going.”
She absorbed his answer for a moment, blindly staring at the frozen-looking road before them.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
The silence swelled. She glanced at him reluctantly. He stared fixedly out the windshield. Her throat felt tight. She could guess at how much guilt he carried for his decision to give permission for Helen to receive a medication that possibly had led to her liver failing, and ultimately death.
“You’ve given permission dozens of times over the years for medication changes and alterations in your mother’s treatment. She was very ill. She wasn’t eating. The medication was supposed to not only help with her depression and psychosis, but also increase her appetite. It was the doctor’s recommendation, Ian,” she said when she saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. “She would have died if she didn’t start eating more.”
“They could have kept her alive with a feeding tube,” he said.
“Yes. They could have, I suppose. But the doctor recommended this course of action first, and I agreed with her recommendation. I know you did, too. You didn’t want her kept alive on a feeding tube. You wanted to make a decision that respected her rights as a human being as much as you could. There’s no way you could have known the reaction she’d have to that medication. The fact of the matter is, there’s no clear-cut proof her decline was due to that medicine. You know how ill she was . . . how weak.”
“The medicine did it,” he said shortly, still staring fixedly at the road.
“You cared for her your whole life. You did a thousand times more than most sons. Whoever had been her primary caregiver would have faced a similar decision, and they’d have made the same choice you did, Ian. It was her time,” she added softly. “She’d suffered enough.”
His nostrils flared slightly, but she couldn’t tell if he was angry at her choice of topic or moved by her words. His hands tightened on the wheel. It took her a moment to realize he was no longer focused on their conversation. He glanced in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed. She looked over her shoulder and saw a car driving far too close to their bumper for safety. Ian sped up slightly, but the car followed, maintaining its close tail. Suddenly, the car leapt forward and hit them, making them lurch in the rigid restraints of their seatbelts.
“What’s he doing?” Francesca asked in incredulous anger when the car behind them abruptly jerked the wheel into the oncoming lane. She yelped in alarm, sure he must have missed the corner of their bumper by inches or less.
“Francesca, get down,” Ian ordered.
The vehicle—a dark green sedan—flew up next to them. Fear shot through her when she looked into the cab of the car and saw the familiar craggy features and furious stare.
“Ian, that’s—”
Ian’s hand pushed at the back of her head and rapidly flew back to grip the wheel. She bent below the window, finally doing what he’d demanded, lowering her face toward her thighs, straining against the seatbelt. She squeaked in alarm and grabbed the door handle when their car jerked violently. The man had intentionally rammed into them sideways. Their car careened onto the side of the road, gravel popping beneath the wheels. Fear shot through her veins like it’d been mainlined. They were going to lose control and wreck.
But somehow, Ian miraculously kept the car in control as he braked. She rose and peered over the dashboard cautiously. The dark green car had shot past them. Her heart racing, she wondered if the vehicle would double back. Instead, it just zoomed over a slight hill in the road and disappeared.
Shivers coursed over every inch of her flesh. She turned and met Ian’s stare. His face looked rigid.
“Are you all right?” he asked tersely.
She just nodded. “That was the man.”
His eyelids narrowed dangerously. “What man?”
“I saw him,” she said, her tongue feeling numb. “That was the same man who attacked me in Chicago.”
“Are you sure?” he demanded.
She nodded. “One hundred percent sure. It’s not a face I’m likely to forget.”
* * *
The two police detectives interviewed Ian and Francesca in the sitting room with Anne, James, Gerard, Lucien, and Elise all present.
“I’d
like you to come down to the stationhouse tomorrow morning to work with someone to render a likeness of the man who has attacked you twice, Ms. Arno,” Detective Markov said to Francesca as they stood in preparation to leave, putting away their notebooks.
“No,” Ian said abruptly, standing as well. “The sketch artist can come here. I don’t want Francesca going out until we get this situation under control. But Francesca is actually an artist herself. You can sketch this man’s face, can’t you?”
“Of course,” she said.
Detective Markov looked at his partner, taken aback by Ian’s decree. But then he shrugged, seeming to see Ian’s point. “I suppose you’re right. But we don’t use a traditional sketch artist. We’ve acquired the technology to do everything on the computer. It’s easier to send off the image to other police and crime officials that way. A few of us will be coming out to Belford Hall tomorrow for security during the press conference, as you requested, your lordship,” Markov said, nodding respectfully to James, “so we’ll just send the woman who specializes in the computerized renderings then. Will that suit you?” he asked Ian.
Ian nodded. “Yes, Francesca’s not attending the press conference. I want her to stay away from the cameras. She can work with the artist during it. And you’ll be sure and contact the authorities in Chicago about this man?”
“I’ll report to you straightaway if they have any leads as to his identity.”
“They don’t at the present time,” Ian said, his mouth slanted in irritation. How could he say that with such certainty? Francesca wondered. It struck her that he’d been in constant contact with the Chicago officials. “But they didn’t bother to have Francesca work with a sketch artist or look at mug shots. They treated the case like a random attempted robbery and assault. It’d be best if you sent the sketch immediately to the Chicago police once it’s made to see if they can make any connections. I know a man in the department who can help us. I’ll pass on his contact information to you. I would have had him work with Francesca after this man attacked her in Chicago, but by the time I’d learned about things and got ahold of him, Francesca was already on her way to Belford. I thought she’d be safe here,” he said, his forehead creasing. “Still, I don’t understand why the man didn’t stick around and finish things off while he had the chance. He did the same thing in Chicago. It makes no sense.”
