Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (30 page)

“I
do
want you to meet my mother someday,” Lucien said fiercely. “Of course I do. I’m just trying to convey to you the complexity of the whole thing.”

“I would never let her anywhere near me, if I were you,” Ian said, walking past Lucien to the Great Hall.

He suddenly wanted nothing more than for this whole conversation to be over. Lucien halted him with a hand on his upper arm. Ian looked at his brother, anger—that old, familiar companion—starting to bubble beneath the surface of his calm façade. Not anger at Lucien, but at some unknown, vague grayness that seemed to return in that moment to press down on him like a suffocating pall.

I can’t escape it, no matter how hard I’ve been trying to for the past week, since the second you looked into Francesca’s startled, glistening eyes as she stood in that reception line.

“You’re my brother. She’s my mother,” Lucien hissed. “Of course I want my family to meet someday.
You’re
not Trevor Gaines, Ian.”

The fury reared in him, seeming to constrict his throat. He jerked Lucien’s hold off him, a snarl shaping his mouth. He had that tight, hot feeling in his chest again that made breathing difficult. When he turned, he saw Francesca standing in the hallway, a startled expression on her face. He froze. Half of her face was radiant from sunshine, the other cast in a shadow from the grand staircase.

“Lucien? The car is here.” Her gaze narrowed on Ian. She took a step toward him.
“
Ian?
Are you all right? What is it?”

He didn’t reply. Too much emotion had erupted in him too quickly. He walked ahead of both of them to the Great Hall and started up the stairs, taking two at a time. He’d already said his good-byes to Elise, and he couldn’t force himself to take part in small talk at the moment. He did his best to ignore the sensation of Francesca’s dubious, worried stare at his back.

* * *

It was technically too cold to ride a motorcycle, but Ian dressed for it, and the winter day was sunny and unseasonably mild, the temperature inching up to the high thirties. When he saw more than a half dozen press vans outside the main entrance security gate, he cursed bitterly under his breath and thought of turning around. His grandfather had told him that several news stations had called his secretary this morning about the shooting at Belford Hall yesterday, asking for interviews and a statement. James had denied requests for interviews, but he and Ian had come up with a basic statement, saying that all the visitors at the press conference and the family were safe, and deferring to the Stratham police for official news of the crime. The break-in and shooting had been made all that much more sensationalistic because it involved an earl, his heir to the title, and Ian himself, who had been making a reappearance on the business scene. In addition, the crime had happened during a well-publicized and well-attended press conference, the gunshot itself being picked up by press cameras. According to Anne, the press conference and chilling gunshot interruption were being replayed continually on national and local stations.

Screw it, Ian thought, waving a hand at Cromwell at the security gate, and turning onto the road a moment later. The press didn’t know who was behind the black helmet with the face visor. Although certainly many of the people who lived locally knew that the earl’s grandson was fond of motorcycles, he noticed that the majority of the vans were from London stations. If they chose to chase him, let them. He was edgy and restless enough to crave a challenge. Besides, he’d blow them away on the sleek MV Agusta he straddled.

He ripped past the vans parked on the side of the road at a lightning-fast pace, actually half hoping one or several would follow. He saw only a couple surprised, pale faces peer at him from the vehicle windows, none of them alight with the thrill of a chase, however.

The chill air rushing past him as he roared down the country roads was sufficient for clearing his head, though, seeming to blow out some of his anger and crystalize his thoughts.

He craved some numbing off.

By the time he returned to Belford, he felt frozen to the bone, but calmer, and more resolved. He used a back entrance to the grounds. Although relatively few people knew about the gravel road through the trees, Ian was gratified to see one of the security guards his grandfather had hired manning it. He returned the motorcycle he and Gerard had once mechanically enhanced to the chauffeur and mechanic, Peter. While he and Peter were talking about the Agusta’s performance, he received a phone call. Seeing it was Detective Markov calling, he walked away to take it.

Twenty minutes later, he found James alone looking over some ledgers in the sitting room.

“I’m working in here instead of my office for the time being,” James explained after they’d greeted one another. “Anne wants to send off the carpet in my office to have it cleaned . . .” He faded off reluctantly, and Ian knew he meant cleaned of Anton Brodsik’s blood. “But I spoke to Detective Markov about it, and he said to hold off making any major changes or using the room until they’ve finalized their investigation.”

“I just got off the phone with Markov.”

“Did you?” James asked, immediately interested. “Any news?”

“Yes. Considerable,” Ian said, sitting down in an upholstered chair near the desk where James worked. “They’ve done ballistics reports, and it seems that the gun Brodsik pulled on Gerard yesterday was definitely the same weapon that killed Shell Stern.”

“So . . .” James said slowly. “Brodsik decided he didn’t want to share any of the pie with his partner.”

“Either that or they had a falling out over something else,” Ian said.

“Does Markov have any indication whatsoever that another person was involved?”

“No. None.”

James’s astute gaze narrowed on his grandson. “But you don’t believe him?”

Ian paused, thinking. “Given the pair’s history of petty crimes, I just find it hard to believe that they’d engineer this whole thing themselves. I suppose it’s possible, though.”

“I’d hardly call the attempted kidnapping of the Henes heir a petty crime.”

“Exactly my point,” Ian murmured. “I doubt they were the main instigators of that one, either. Although considering the whole thing was botched, who knows?”

“Well, they’re dead, so I suppose we’ll never know the full truth. Ian?”

Ian blinked. He realized he’d been scowling, lost in thought at his grandfather’s words.

“Are you still worried about Francesca’s safety?” James asked, his forehead furrowed.

“Always,” Ian admitted before exhaling. “But at least I’ve taken back control of the company, and hopefully she’s been moved out of the limelight.”

James nodded. “She’s a very beautiful woman. Match her eye-catching looks with the thought of millions of dollars of ransom money, and there’s bound to be some sickos out there who scheme up havoc like this. Brodsik and Stern must have seen that photo of her in the papers and conjured up the idea.”

“That’s what Markov and the police in Chicago are thinking,” Ian said distractedly.

“Well I’m just glad to have it in the past. It’s good news, what Markov told you. We should share it as soon as possible. Maybe I’ll take everyone out for dinner tonight in town.”

“I don’t think the furor has died down sufficiently yet,” Ian said dryly. “The entry road is swamped with media vans.”

“I know, Cromwell has informed me,” James said, referring to the security guard at the front entrance with a weary wave of his hand. “They’ll give up and go home soon after they get bored enough.”

“I plan to address the press again. Not about the investigation, per se,” Ian added when he saw James’s dubious expression. “That’s the police’s arena. I need to make a general statement, though, assuring that everything is steady with Noble Enterprises and that the threat is well contained. I’ll do it in London. I was waiting for the results of Markov’s investigation, but now that I have that, I can’t put it off any longer,” he said, feeling a bizarre mixture of determination and ambivalence. It was like his rational brain was telling him he needed to get on with his duty to his company and his mission in regard to Trevor Gaines, but his body was protesting, wanting to stay, longing to remain at Francesca’s side. He inhaled when he noticed James’s slanted brows, steadying himself . . . hardening his resolve. “Lin is insisting I need to move on another press conference, but I’d already realized the necessity. Here I was hoping to show my face to the public, quell any doubts about Noble’s leadership and show the steadiness of the ship, and all hell breaks loose while I’m doing so.”

“When will you go to London?” James asked, sitting forward in his chair.

“As soon as I can pack.”

“Well,” James said briskly, “if you leave as soon as possible, perhaps you’ll be able to take care of business and return to us for the New Year.”

“No,” Ian said evenly.

The single syllable rung like a struck drum in the quiet room. He hated the flash of alarm that crossed his grandfather’s features.

“What do you mean?” James laughed uncomfortably. “You’ll be several days? A week?”

“I’ll do the press conference later this evening. It won’t take long. But I won’t be returning to Belford Hall in the foreseeable future. I need to return to what I was doing, Grandfather. I must. Everything here—everything that’s happened—doesn’t change that.”

He waited tensely. He hadn’t told his Grandfather specifically what he’d been doing during his absence, merely saying he’d needed time to himself to regroup and examine his life after the death of his mother. He knew perfectly well that Anne and James knew it was more than that, although they weren’t sure precisely what his motives were. Like Francesca, he knew his grandparents wouldn’t approve, however, so he’d saved them the pain of worrying.

“But . . . Francesca,” James said weakly. “Are you taking her with you?”

Expose Francesca to the dark, dirty, shameful house of a pervert? “No. I’d never want her to see where I’m going. Never.”

“Ian—”

“You’ll keep her here, won’t you? Make sure she’s safe?”

“I can’t
keep
her here, Ian! She can make up her own mind where she wants to be,” James said incredulously.

“I’ll speak with her first. I’ll ask her to stay, as a favor to me. She has to work on the painting anyway. Isn’t the canvas being delivered today?” Ian asked smoothly.

James sighed. He knew Ian’s tactics to avoid difficult topics all too well. “Yes, it’s being delivered as we speak,” he admitted, despite his scowl. “Anne is having them set it up in the reception room, since there’s plenty of room there for Francesca to work, and we don’t use it much. Francesca was insisting upon the canvas being delivered to the cottage—she can’t get a view when she’s inside her subject. I knew you wouldn’t want her out there alone until everything is settled, though, so I contradicted her.”

“Thank you,” Ian said pointedly. “Because you and Grandmother care about her so much, I’m confident leaving her with you.”

“I hardly think—”

“I’ll speak with her. She’ll agree to it,” Ian interrupted. “The only thing I ask is that you encourage her to stay and continue to make her feel at home here.”

James looked solemn. “Well you don’t need to ask that as a special favor. As far as I’m concerned, Belford Hall
is
that girl’s home.”

“You’ll contact me? At the first hint that anything is amiss?”

James gave him a hard, arch look.

“I’m going to be available,” Ian assured. He knew his grandfather was thinking of those months when Ian had cut himself off from the world. “It’s not like before. I’ll be in contact.”

James’s face was rigid with worry, but he exhaled with relief at this. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. And Francesca? Will you remain in contact with her?”

Ian glanced away from James’s worried gaze. “No,” he said. “Where I plan to go, what I plan to do . . . I can’t allow Francesca into that world.”

Into that part of me.

“There’s something else. I’ve hired a man, a retired American Army officer who used to act as a security guard for a top official in Afghanistan to watch over Francesca and things at Belford Hall. His name is Arthur Short. Lin found him for me. He arrives this afternoon. Do I have your permission to allow him to stay here at Belford?”

“Of course,” James replied. “But I gathered from what I overheard last night in the hallway that Francesca was against your hiring security personnel for her.”

Ian schooled his face into impassivity. “She’s not keen on the idea, no. That’s why I thought it’d be best if you invited Short here as a guest. Perhaps you can say that he’s a member of your New York staff, here to discuss business? It will make things easier.”

James gave an exasperated snort. “Francesca will be furious if she finds out.”

“I know,” Ian said, rising from his chair. “But I’d rather have her furious and safe than clueless and at risk. Do me a favor, though, and don’t tell anyone else but Grandmother who Short really is? It’ll make things easier for Short to maneuver. May I tell him you’ll be expecting him?”

James agreed, albeit grudgingly. “Thank you,” Ian said sincerely a moment later as he bid his grandfather good-bye, giving the elderly but still-vibrant man a hug. He wished he hadn’t seen the stark concern tightening James’s features before he left the room.

* * *

Ian packed and then asked a maid to request Francesca meet him in his quarters. He regretted packing first, as he had nothing to do afterward but wait for her knock on the door. With a sharp pang of remorse, he realized that every other time he’d awaited her knock, it’d been with a sharp sense of anticipation of what was to come. Now, he experienced dread that seemed to grow heavier by the moment.

He’d been using her vibrant, luminous spirit to stanch his wound, breathing her sweetness to chase away his shadows. It was just like he’d always feared. He would drain her, taint her . . . all because he was too weak to stay away from her. Over and over again while he’d been in France in Gaines’s dark, rotting mansion, he’d told himself that he did all of this for Francesca. It was for her that he strived to understand his origins, to separate himself once and for all from the twisted character of his biological father.