by Kery, Beth
“Where’s the money?” Brodsik asked roughly. Gerard threw a contemptuous glance at his hulking form. He pointed at a backpack that sat on the desk in front of him.
“It’s all there. Your fee for the work, more than enough money to disappear and . . .”
“My incentive to keep quiet about my ‘work,’” Brodsik said. He grinned, eyeing the backpack hungrily. Gerard had never seen him smile before. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Something seemed to occur to Brodsik and his grin turned to a menacing scowl. “And if I should find out anything happened to Shell, I’m gonna hold you responsible. That’ll mean more money,” he said, referring to Shell Stern, his partner.
Gerard snarled, hatred and anger flaring in him fast and hot. “How dare you threaten me with more blackmail.”
Brodsik looked a little taken aback by his sudden, intense fury. “Something happened to him. Shell’s not the type to stay quiet for two minutes, let alone go missing for days. I’m not saying it was you who did something to him, but—”
“It certainly sounded that way to me,” Gerard grated out.
Brodsik seemed to regret bringing up the topic as he continued to eye the backpack.
“Let’s just get this show on the road,” Brodsik mumbled, stepping toward the desk, his hand stretched toward the backpack.
Gerard made a halting gesture. “I’ll open it for you in a moment. First, let me see the gun. I have a right to assure myself that you’re prepared.”
Brodsik looked like he was going to argue, his gaze glued covetously to the backpack. He eventually shrugged his linebackerlike shoulders and reached into a deep pocket of his parka, extracting an automatic firearm.
“It worked just like you said. The guy in London asked no questions,” Brodsik said.
“So you needed to tell no lies,” Gerard replied, his gaze running over the familiar gun with satisfaction. He’d used the very same weapon to kill Shell Stern less than a week ago. “Jago Teague is nothing if not discreet. He has to be, in his line of work . . . or lines of work, I should say. Well, let’s get this over with, shall we? The sooner Noble is out of my life, the better. He’s been in it for twenty years too long.”
He unzipped the backpack. It contained no money whatsoever—he would never be bribed by anyone, let alone an idiot such as this—but did contain several of his work files. And something else.
He withdrew James’s handgun and aimed it at Brodsik. Brodsik didn’t have the opportunity to look surprised. Gerard fired point-blank at his head without blinking.
Brodsik’s hulking body hit the floor with a jarring thud. Gerard calmly pulled back the right-hand drawer of James’s desk. The red leather box where James always stored his private firearm was already open.
He gripped the gun tightly in his hand and schooled his face into an expression of blank shock.
* * *
Anne had referred them to the library for a place to do the computerized rendering without interruption. Francesca sat next to the computer artist, a woman named Violet, at a desk, both of them peering at the screen of Violet’s laptop as the man’s face took shape from Francesca’s description. Francesca heard a distant sound like a firecracker going off. The sound itself didn’t alarm her, but the way Lucien leapt up did. He’d been sitting in an armchair and perusing the business section of a French newspaper while Francesca worked with Violet. Now the newspaper lay on the Oriental carpet, forgotten.
“Lucien?” she asked in amazement when she saw his tense expression. A prickle of wariness went down her neck and coursed along her arms when he rapidly strode to the heavy doors and pressed his ear against them, listening.
“Come with me,” he said, turning. “Both of you,” he added, giving Violet a pointed glance. When Francesca stood, but Violet just stared at him in amazement, Lucien added, “Now.”
Lucien pointed to a rear exit and nodded at Francesca, obviously expecting her to walk in front of him.
“Lucien, you don’t think that sound was a gunshot, do you?” Francesca asked.
“I’m almost certain it was.”
Her heart squeezed tight. “But . . . Ian.”
“Is not going to thank either one of us for running out there if there’s a gunman on the loose. Please, Francesca,” he said less harshly. “Do as I say. There are some policemen stationed at the back door in the kitchens. With their communication equipment, they’ll know from the police at the press conference what happened up here quicker than we can find out ourselves. The security and police will need to secure the area anyway. They’ll have enough on their mind.”
It felt entirely against all that was natural to walk in the opposite direction of where Ian was when a gunshot had just been fired, but Francesca forced herself to do it. The rear door led to a dim corridor. She was starting to learn that many of the great rooms had a family entrance and a staff entrance, the staff entrance with access to the basements, kitchens, and servant’s dining area. Lucien had been right. One officer was racing up a flight of stairs she’d never before used. They weren’t the ones that led from the dining room.
“Get downstairs. Officer Inez is down there with the kitchen staff,” the officer said.
“What’s happened?” Lucien demanded.
“Someone’s been shot. An intruder, we think. Things appear to be secure, but we’re still not sure. Go on down with Inez, please.”
He raced past them. The officer’s terse, vague explanation seemed to leave more questions than answers, mounting Francesca’s anxiety. Nevertheless, she mechanically followed Violet down the stairs, Lucien bringing up the rear, her calm actions belying a mind buzzing with fear.
* * *
Officer Inez had Francesca, Violet, Lucien, and the rest of the staff gathered in the dining room while they waited to hear if the house had been secured from the threat. There was only one entrance to the room, so it was easier for the policeman to guard, she supposed. Francesca was both nervous and thankful when she saw Officer Inez move into the outer corridor to stand guard with his weapon drawn.
She hadn’t brought her cell phone with her into the library, and she’d never regretted a decision more. She sat next to Mrs. Hanson at the oak dining table, her hand in the older woman’s. It was the worst time she’d ever spent, not knowing what was happening above them. Where was Ian? What was he doing? What about Elise, Anne, James, and Gerard? It was unbearable, wondering. She caught Lucien’s stare, noticing how anxious and tense he appeared. He stared and took his cell phone out of his pocket, examining the screen. He exhaled in relief.
“Elise?” Francesca called to him, interpreting his expression.
“Yes,” Lucien replied, tapping out a quick message on the phone. “She’s fine.”
Compassion for him went through her. He, too, had been waiting on pins and needles for news of Elise. She realized fully for the first time that he wouldn’t be standing there at all if he hadn’t given Ian his promise he’d look after her while Ian was at the press conference. If it weren’t for that pledge to his brother, Francesca was certain Lucien would be upstairs despite police orders, searching for his wife.
Question after question churned around inside her, every one like a scraping knife. In the end, it was probably only a minute or two before they got news, but to Francesca it felt like an eternity. She squeezed Mrs. Hanson’s hand extra hard, and Mrs. Hanson squeezed back, when Officer Inez’s cell phone burbled just outside the room.
“Yes?” Inez answered, his deep voice echoing from the corridor just a few feet outside the dining room. Francesca didn’t breathe in the pause that followed. “Yes, Ms. Arno is down here with us, along with Mr. Lenault. They’re fine. Everyone is waiting in the staff dining room. It’s all quiet down here.” Another pause. “Yes. I’ll tell them.”
The balding officer stuck his head into the servant’s dining room. “That was Markov. Mr. Noble wanted him to find out where
you two were,” Inez said, glancing from Francesca to Lucien. “And he wanted everyone to know that the family is safe. No one was injured. It’s the intruder who was shot. He’s dead, apparently.”
“Who shot him?” Lucien asked from where he leaned against the sideboard, his casual pose belying a palpable tension in every line of his powerful body.
“It seems he came upon someone in the family when he broke in, and was taken by surprise. They didn’t give me any more details, but Markov said they’d want you to go up there in a moment,” Inez said, looking at Francesca. “They’re still trying to get all the reporters and camera crew off the premises.”
“They want me?” Francesca asked numbly.
“Yeah. They want you to identify the body, see if it’s the same guy who tried to run you off the road yesterday.”
A cold wave ran over her making her shudder. Mrs. Hanson put her arm around her and hugged her tight.
* * *
Francesca sprang up from her chair a while later when she heard Ian’s rough voice in the corridor, identifying himself to Officer Inez. He crossed the threshold of the staff dining room a second later, his face rigid with tension, his eyes blazing when he saw Francesca racing toward him. Her legs felt weak with relief at seeing him alive and well, looking so tall and solid and wonderful to her in his dark suit and an ice-blue tie. Her arms flew around his neck. He held her tight against him, his hands moving over her back, rubbing her almost frantically, as if he wanted to make sure her flesh was real. She, too, needed that reassurance, gripping his shoulders, inhaling his clean, spicy scent deeply, as if she wanted to absorb it and store it for a lifetime.
“Thank God you’re all right,” he said, his breath hitting her neck in warm, pressured puffs of air.
“Thank God you are,” she muttered feelingly. She backed up enough to look into his face, needing to see him. His dark brows were slanted as his blue-eyed gaze ran over her face. He seemed just as eager to soak in every detail of her. “When I heard that shot, all I could imagine was you in front of that crowd of people. I kept thinking—”
“Shhh, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine,” Ian said quietly, brushing back her hair with his hand and palming her skull.
“Ian,” Mrs. Hanson said weakly from just behind Francesca.
“Mrs. Hanson,” Ian broke free sufficiently to give Mrs. Hanson a hug. “We’re all okay,” he assured the older lady. He glanced around at the rest of the gathered staff’s pale, worried faces. “No one from the family or staff has been hurt. The police are evacuating the press and securing the area.”
“Lucien.”
Ian, Francesca, and Mrs. Hanson started and looked around at the sound of Elise’s anxious cry. Officer Inez was obviously not as familiar with Elise’s appearance as he was Ian’s. He was holding her in the corridor, and having more than a little difficulty doing so despite the fact that he had about hundred pounds on Elise.
“It’s all right,” Lucien said sharply, striding out of the room toward her. “That’s my wife!”
Another wave of relief went through her at seeing Lucien lift Elise into his arms. Francesca caught a glimpse of her friend over Lucien’s shoulder, her eyelids closed tight, an intense, grateful expression on her beautiful face. She knew precisely how Elise felt.
“Everyone is really all right?” Francesca whispered to Ian shakily, needing confirmation of Officer Inez’s report “Anne? James? Gerard?”
“Yes, we’re all fine,” Ian assured. “None of the press were hurt, either. Only the intruder was shot. Detective Markov has the family waiting in the sitting room,” Ian said, his mouth pressing into a hard line. “He wants you up there. He’d like you to identify the man’s body.”
“Okay,” Francesca said, nodding. “Where . . . where is it . . . Him, I mean?” she muttered, flustered. It seemed surreal that she was talking about a dead man . . . a corpse. She’d never seen a dead person in her life.
“In Grandfather’s office.”
She nodded. Ian studied her intently.
“Francesca, I said that the police want you to do it, but . . . it’s not a pretty sight. You’re not obligated. I was able to identify him as the man who tried to run us off the road yesterday.”
“But don’t they want me to confirm if he was the man in Chicago, as well?”
“Yes,” Ian said, a frown shaping his lips. “But you told me yesterday the man in the car was the same man in Chicago. Perhaps the coroner’s photos would be sufficient for identification. I could speak to Markov about it.”
She realized he was trying to protect her and caressed his jaw. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly. “Just . . . come with me?”
“Of course,” he replied, as if there had never been any doubt of that.
Ian opened the dining room door to the Great Hall for her a moment later. Sunlight flooded into her eyes, temporarily blinding her and only adding to the surreal sensation plaguing her. She realized the sun streamed in from the open front door. Police personnel stood around the hall, a couple of them talking intently into their cell phones. Through the open door, she saw several cars parked in the circular driveway and heard the distant squawk and mechanical voices from police radios.
She started to walk toward the door where she thought James’s office was, but Ian halted her with his hold on her hand. He pulled her over to the shadowed edge of the hall.
“Francesca, there’s something you should know first if you do plan to go in there,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Gerard shot him. The intruder came upon Gerard unexpectedly while he was working in Grandfather’s office. The man drew a gun on Gerard. Grandfather keeps a gun in his desk, where Gerard was working. It’s usually not loaded. According to Gerard, he thought to load it when the press conference got started. It seems he was spooked by what happened yesterday, and acted on impulse. Rightfully so, it seems. If he hadn’t thought to load the gun, he’d be the one lying in there dead right now instead of the man. And who knows what would have happened if the intruder ever found you.”
“Oh my God,” Francesca mumbled, icy shivers clawing at her back and shoulders. “Are you sure Gerard is all right?”
“Physically, yes. But he’s in a state of shock. The police are still questioning him.” She saw doubt in his blue eyes as he studied her face. “Are you certain you want to go in there?”
She nodded, inhaling slowly to steady herself. “Yes. I’d like to get this ugliness over with and in the past.”
He didn’t look thrilled about her decision, but he led her to his grandfather’s study nevertheless, staying close by her side.
Chapter Thirteen
Everybody stayed up late that night, the fading adrenaline in their blood making sleep difficult. Anne seemed especially concerned about Gerard, who was quiet and subdued by the time the police eventually concluded their investigation that evening, leaving two men behind to keep watch at Belford. For the second night in a row, they sat down to dinner without dressing, everyone rehashing the day’s events. Ian was waiting for a call from Markov that might shed light on the intruder’s identity and possible motive.
By the time they gathered in the sitting room after dinner, Anne seemed to be of the opinion that they’d discussed the alarming events of the day sufficiently. Francesca guessed from her worried glances at Gerard and her subtle altering of the topic of conversation that she worried her nephew had experienced quite enough for the time being. Francesca couldn’t have agreed more. The image of that man’s lifeless face covered in a shocking amount of blood kept flashing before her mind’s eye. That was a real hole in his head and real blood. Her consciousness couldn’t quite grasp it, even yet. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Gerard was experiencing.
Something about the jarring events of the day seemed to melt away her reserve about the family knowing she and Ian were involved again. All
afternoon and evening, he’d been by her side, her hand in his or his arm around her. It’d seemed entirely natural to Francesca, so much so that she didn’t even think about it until that evening at around eleven when Ian’s phone began to ring. She’d been sitting in the circle of his arm on one of the couches in the sitting room, her cheek resting on his chest, lulled by the comfort of his steady heartbeat and the warmth of the fire. He dug into his pocket and checked his phone.
“I’m going to take this,” he said gruffly, kissing her on the temple before he stood. Everyone’s gaze seemed to follow him out of the room as he stepped out into the Great Hall to take the call. A strained silence ensued while they waited for him to return, only broken by Anne asking if anyone wanted anything else to drink.
“That was Markov,” Ian said, stating what they all had suspected. “They’ve discovered the identity of the man,” he said, his gaze on Gerard. “His name is Anton Brodsik. He has a record with the Chicago area police that goes back almost thirty years—assault, minor drug convictions, robbery. He’s suspected of having mob connections. He had a passport on him with a fake name.”
“Is there any clue as to his motive?” Gerard asked, sitting forward in his chair.
“Not anything concrete. But for the past ten years or so, Brodsik has been associated in his crimes a lot with a man named Shell Stern. They were both arrested in a high-profile case three years ago—an attempted kidnapping of a sixteen-year-old boy in Winnetka, Illinois.” Ian glanced at Francesca. “The police didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute, though. No one was ever convicted for the crime. The boy was Sheridan Henes’s son.”
“Henes? The oil company heir?” James asked.
