Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (25 page)

“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.”

The detective shrugged. “I’ve learned in my line of work you shouldn’t give these criminal types more intelligence or fortitude than they’re due. When things grow a little tough, they’ll more than likely run for it.”

Ian looked far from convinced. Guilt wriggled in her belly at the sight of his rigid, anxious visage. She hadn’t seen that expression on his face since the difficult months before his mother died, when he was consumed with worry. He hadn’t wanted to take her off Belford’s grounds, but she’d persuaded him. He’d been worried about her since he arrived, and now she had firsthand proof he hadn’t just been paranoid.

Anne stood to see the detectives out. Elise patted Francesca’s hand. “Are you doing okay?’ she asked in a hushed tone.

“I’m fine. I was just more startled than anything,” Francesca assured the others, including Ian, who was studying her.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to hold the press conference tomorrow with this criminal hanging about?” Gerard asked.

“I’ve increased the security around Belford until we can find out more about this man’s location. Hopefully he’ll be apprehended soon,” James said.

“Lin has checked out everyone coming. No one other than authorized visitors will be allowed onto the grounds,” Ian said, sitting back down in his chair. “If we cancel now, it’ll only fuel the rumors that are flying about in regard to Noble Enterprises being in choppy waters.”

“I agree,” Lucien said. “The business world needs to see Ian securely back at the helm.”

James nodded, looking up when Anne returned to the sitting room.

“I’ve asked the staff to go ahead and serve dinner. We’ll go in as we are,” she said, referring to the fact that none of them were dressed for dinner. They’d all gathered upon hearing Ian and Francesca’s alarming news, and hadn’t left the room since the police had arrived to take their report.

It felt strange, but somehow comforting, to sit in the Belford formal dining room wearing her Cubs T-shirt and surrounded by so many concerned faces. It struck her later as she ate Mrs. Hanson’s delicious raspberry tart for dessert, listening to the others talk, that she was surrounded by her true family. The familiar ache started in the vicinity of her chest as she watched Ian conversing somberly with James and Lucien that there was a good chance she’d never officially be part of that family.

Not if Ian couldn’t come to terms with his demons.

Later that night, she said a quiet good night to Anne and kissed her on the cheek. Ian said her name as she was walking through the Great Hall alone toward the stairs. She turned to him.

“Were you planning on going up without saying good night?” he asked, approaching her.

“Of course not. I was going to say good night in your suite in a little while.”

The almost indistinguishable lightening of his expression told her he’d liked her answer.

“I’ll come with you if you want to get anything in your room, and then you’re coming with me. I’m not in the mood for letting you out of my sight at the moment,” he said, taking her hand and leading her toward the stairs.

“You’ll have to at some point,” she said, half-exasperated by his diligence and half-touched by it. “You don’t want me at the press conference tomorrow, and I have to meet with the sketch artist, for instance.”

“I’ve already arranged all that.”

“Of course,” Francesca said, giving him dry sideways glance. He seemed unaffected by her fond sarcasm as they ascended the stairs.

“Lucien has agreed to sit with you while I’m occupied. And after that, I’ve spoken to Lin. She’s beginning a search for someone for you.”

“Someone
for
me,” Francesca said warily, her feet slowing as the neared her room in the arch-ceilinged hallway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Full-time security personnel,” Ian said briskly, urging her with his hold on her hand to commence down the hallway. She pulled back. He dropped her hand, his expression going flat.

“Ian, I am not having someone follow me around twenty-four hours a day!” she exclaimed with heated restraint.

His eyes flashed back at her. “Just until we can get this situation under control. After that, if you only agreed to live at the penthouse, my worries would vanish. Well . . . decrease a good deal anyway.”

She gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “I refuse to have you lock me up like a pet, Ian. Especially . . . given our circumstances,” she added, leaving things vague on purpose. She was done hashing out his obsession with his past and what it meant to his present and future. For today, she was.

He came to an abrupt standstill. She faced him.

“You make it sound like I’m purposefully insulting you . . . demeaning you,” he bit out.

“You
are
demeaning me by making all these decisions about me without even giving me the respect of talking to me about it. It’s my life. Stop trying to take control of it. I have a right to my privacy, among other things.”

“I’m very well aware it’s your life,” he replied ominously. “I’m just trying to make damn sure you go on living it in good health.”

“Here’s an idea,” she replied heatedly, straining to keep her voice quiet in the resonant hallway, but not succeeding. “Ask me how I feel about it next time instead of just planning my life for me. It’s not that hard, Ian!”

The sound of footsteps caught her attention. Her cheeks flushed when she glanced down the hallway and saw James, Gerard, and Elise rising up the stairs. They looked a little uncomfortable at accidently hearing Ian and her arguing, and kept their gazes averted before they disappeared from view down a corridor that led to their right.

She jerked the knob on her door. She plunged into the suite, leaving Ian standing in the hallway, not bothering to close the door. He’d come in anyway. She wasn’t trying to send him away, no matter how sharp she’d just sounded or how arrogant he had. Francesca wanted to be with him that evening. She’d been affected by that harrowing experience on the road as much as him. His heavy-handedness, his single-mindedness in arranging her life just peeved her. Not that she was unused to it.

Not that he was unused to struggling with her over such things.

By the time she came out of her bathroom after washing up, wearing an ivory silk gown, robe, and slippers, much of her irritation had eased. He sat on the couch in her sitting area, flipping through her sketchbook.