When I'm With You: Part Eight: When We Are One

WHEN I’M WITH YOU

Part EIGHT

WHEN WE ARE ONE

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Also By

About the Book

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Because You Are Mine . . .

Wicked Burn

All it takes is . . .
One Night of Passion
. . .

Beth Kery
lives in Chicago where she juggles the demands of her career, her love of the city and the arts, and a busy family life. Her writing today reflects her passion for all of the above. She is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of
Because You Are Mine
. Find out more about Beth and her books at BethKery.com or Facebook.com/Beth.Kery.

Chapter Fifteen

Elise raised her eyebrows in delighted surprise the next evening when she accompanied Francesca into the kitchen and saw “Ian’s favorite meal” being checked by Mrs. Hanson.

“Roast beef and vegetables and Yorkshire pudding,” Mrs. Hanson said with an impish grin when Elise leaned over the roasting pan and inhaled deeply of the delicious aroma.

“I was expecting something much more chic, given we’re talking about Ian Noble. I’m pleasantly surprised,” Elise said, grinning. Francesca laughed behind her and Mrs. Hanson smiled.

“Well, perhaps I should have specified that it was Ian’s favorite when he was a twelve-year-old,” Mrs. Hanson said.

“It still is. And it’s quickly becoming mine,” Francesca said. “Mrs. Hanson is a wonderful cook.”

“Will you call me when you start to prepare the pudding? I’d love to watch you, and help out if you’ll let me,” Elise asked Mrs. Hanson, her mouth watering. She was suddenly famished. Ian had called Lucien earlier and asked if it was all right if they arrived an hour later than their original plan. In addition to the later hour, she never really had caught up on her eating since last night. Lucien had gotten an emergency call from Monsieur Atale in regard to the Three Kings hotels in Paris this morning, and Elise had gone for a long run along Lake Michigan while he worked. When she’d returned, her body had been too overstimulated and overheated to eat. Lucien had been too busy with the Three Kings accounts to take a break as well. Besides, she’d sensed his preoccupation, his somberness, and wondered how much of it had to do with what he’d said last night just before they’d fallen asleep.

A sense of familiar uneasiness went through her at the thought.

Was he withdrawing from her, by chance? Flinching away from the intimacy they’d shared, and the truth he’d
almost
revealed to her, the truth she suspected related to his mother? Every time she thought of the thread of pain in his voice, her heart seemed to squeeze in anguish. Why didn’t he just end his painful wait and speak to Ian Noble to find out where his mother was once and for all? It must be torture for him to be so patient when his prize was so close. It was increasingly becoming unbearable for her, this cautious waiting.

“By all means.” Mrs. Hanson’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts as she returned her gorgeous roast to the oven. “I’ll come and find you in a little bit. But it’s really nothing special. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“I’m a chef. My nose is as much an expert as my tongue, and I can already tell this is going to be
very
special,” Elise assured.

Francesca hastened to the refrigerator, where she extricated two bottles of club soda. Elise had turned down a glass of wine when they’d first arrived, explaining she was a little dehydrated from her long run.

“Come on,” Francesca said. “I think Lucien and Ian went into Ian’s office—Lucien is showing Ian some online photos of the new property he bought in the South Loop—and there’s something I want to show you in there,” she added as she twisted off the cap from the soda and handed it to Elise.

“What?” Elise asked, following her out of the enormous kitchen and down a wide, gallery-like hallway.

“You said you wanted to see more of my paintings? There are several hung in Ian’s office—including
The Cat That Walks By Himself.
Remember, I mentioned that one to you?”

Elise recalled how Francesca had told her about unknowingly painting Ian on a desolate city street years before she’d ever met the elusive billionaire entrepreneur in person. She recognized the paneled door Francesca led her through. This was the room where she’d come upon Lucien listening to Ian on the phone that night. They entered a large room lined with stained walnut bookcases filled with volumes. Two comfortable-looking leather couches faced each other. A large desk and a long, conference-like table had a laptop on it along with a decanter of wine and a glass. Ian sat in front of the computer screen while Lucien stood looking over his shoulder, a glass of bloodred wine in his hand.

Elise had noticed that Ian had seemed preoccupied and tense when they arrived, but he currently laughed unrestrainedly at something Lucien had said. Francesca gave her a quick, pleased smile before she led her over to the fireplace mantel. Elise stared with wide-eyed wonder at Francesca’s painting.

“I can’t get over how talented you are,” Elise praised sincerely. “And to think . . . you painted Ian all those years before you ever even met, and he recognized himself and bought the painting without knowing you. Talk about fate, the way you two ended up together. It’s very romantic.”

“A more unlikely couple you wouldn’t find anywhere. And yet . . . once we got together, nothing could have been more right,” she said for Elise’s ears only.

“I suppose you could say the same of Lucien and me,” Elise said, looking back at the two men as they chatted. Lucien glanced up and caught her staring. He gave her that small, secret smile that always made her cheeks heat and her heartbeat escalate.

Oh Lord. She really did have it bad.

“You and he actually have similar backgrounds, though,” Francesca pointed out quietly.

“Yes, but he’s the most disciplined man I know. And I’m about as controlled as a tornado,” Elise murmured before she took a sip of soda.

Francesca laughed warmly. “Somehow, I suspect that’s precisely what Lucien loves about you. Sometimes oil and water really do mix for the best results.”

Elise blinked at the word
love
but she quickly hurried to hide her discomposure. “In Lucien’s and my case, the more apt analogy is more like a match and dynamite,” Elise muttered under her breath.

Francesca chuckled, but her gaze was fixed on Ian across the room. She wore a worried expression.

“Is Ian doing all right?” Elise asked delicately.

Francesca sighed. “He’s had a lot on his mind lately. I told you Lucien has a good effect on him.”

Elise glanced at the men, glad to see Ian lean back in such a relaxed manner and nod in interest. She and Francesca walked across the large room to the long, oval table.

“I understand Lucien has already found himself a very talented executive chef for his new restaurant,” Ian said with just a hint of a smile as they approached. Elise was learning that for Ian Noble, that ghost of a grin was the equivalent of beaming for the average person.

Francesca looked around, a delighted expression on her face. “You?”

Elise nodded.

“Really? How exciting. Why didn’t you say something?” she said accusingly.

“Well, we’re still in talks,” Elise said, meeting Lucien’s warm gaze. “And I still have to finish my stage. But I think all the details can be worked through. I’m no fool, to turn down such a wonderful opportunity.” His eyebrows arched slightly as if in interest at what she’d said. She hadn’t been so forthright with him but had hedged, worried she was taking advantage of his generosity. Elise broke into a smile.

Lucien shrugged negligently, bringing her attention down to his broad shoulders draped in a bluish-gray button-down shirt that did marvelous things for his eyes. “I’m the one who took advantage of a wonderful opportunity.”

“Lucien’s been telling me about your concept for the restaurant. Sounds very interesting,” Ian said as the phone on his desk began to ring. He made no move to answer it. “I have a friend from my college days who is a recovering alcoholic, and he’s told me point-blank he finds the sight of alcohol and people drinking challenging. I worry at times, meeting him out at restaurants. And as you can see”—he nodded toward the well-stocked sideboard against the wall that contained several crystal decanters of cognac, brandy, and bourbon—“this is hardly a safe meeting environment, either. I have to ask Mrs. Hanson to move all the alcohol before I have him here.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Hanson, she must be busy. I’ll get the phone,” Francesca said.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” Ian said, standing. He caressed Francesca’s shoulder warmly as he passed. Lucien came around the table as well, and the three of them sat down on the facing sofas, Francesca across from them.

“When do you think you’ll be able to open the new hotel?” Francesca asked.

“Probably not for at least a year. It requires extensive rehab,” Lucien replied, draping his arm over the back of the couch and skimming his fingertips across Elise’s upper arm. Her skin prickled beneath his touch and she met his gaze. It seemed so strange—and wonderful—to have him touch her in public so comfortably.

“Plus I have to finish my training—”

She cut off short at a sharp question from Ian, who stood behind his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. Alarm swooped through Elise when she saw his fixed expression of shock. His face had gone very pale next to the contrast of his dark hair.

“But how did this happen, Julia? She was stable when we spoke yesterday,” Ian said loudly.

“Oh no . . .” Francesca whispered, standing and staring at Ian. Elise glanced at Lucien anxiously, but he was also looking at Ian, his brow furrowed.

“Was it because of this new medication? Is that what’s causing her liver to fail?” A horrible pause. “Of course you can say definitively. What else could have caused it?” he demanded. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m able,” Ian said tensely after a moment. He hung up the phone. Lucien slowly stood and Elise rose next to him. Francesca remained frozen in place, a wide-eyed stare of anxious dread on her face as she watched Ian approach. Ian’s gaze bore into Francesca, and it was as if Lucien and Elise weren’t even in the room.

“My mother is experiencing acute liver failure,” he said, the stark, hollow quality of his voice indicative of shock. “Julia told me she likely only has days to live.”

“Oh my God,” Francesca whispered, reaching for him. Ian stepped back, though. Francesca’s hand fell in the air before his chest. He looked like a man who had just had his soul stripped from him . . . a man who thought he didn’t deserve the solace of his lover’s touch. “It’s my fault. I agreed to that godforsaken medication.”

“Ian, don’t say that. You had no choice. She was refusing to eat,” Francesca implored.

Ian’s gaze flickered over to Lucien and Elise. Elise felt like an interloper on an intensely private moment of grief.

“I’m sorry, Lucien. You must think this is all odd. I led you to believe my mother was dead—”

“That’s the last thing you should be concerned about right now,” Lucien said. “Besides, I suspected she was alive.”

Ian’s gaze narrowed. For some reason, Elise’s pulse began to throb at her throat. The atmosphere of the room suddenly felt charged by the unexpected turn of events.

“Why would you suspect that?” Ian asked slowly.

Lucien looked entirely calm, but Elise sensed his rising tension. Her thoughts were coming a mile a minute as she stared at his stoic profile. What must he be thinking? The one link to his mother was about to be silenced forever . . .

“Lucien?” Ian prodded.

“Just tell him,” Elise said. “It might be your only chance.”

Elise’s eyes widened in horror when Lucien looked over at her, a startled expression in his eyes. Had those pressured words really come out of her mouth?

“Just tell me what?” Ian said, taking a step toward them.

A muscle jumped in Lucien’s cheek.

“Lucien? Tell me
what
?” Ian prompted, louder this time.

Lucien inhaled slowly. “I have good reason to believe that your mother knows the identity of my biological mother.”

For a terrible moment, the silence rung in her ears. Francesca looked startled, but Ian and Lucien seemed eerily calm.

“Why in the world would you think that?” Ian asked.

Lucien gave the other man a searching look before he spoke. “I learned it from my biological father,” he said evenly. “A man named Trevor Gaines. I hired a private investigator years ago to discover the identity of my biological mother, and the trail led him to where Trevor Gaines resided—Fresnes Prison.”

Elise’s heart felt as if it stopped beating for several seconds as she stared at Lucien’s profile, aghast. This isn’t what she’d expected him to say.

Ian’s reaction was possibly stranger than Elise’s. His cobalt-blue eyes looked like glowing slits between narrowed lids. He reminded her a little of a sleepwalker as he took a step toward Lucien. All the color had left his face, but his expression was strangely focused and rapt upon Lucien, almost as if he existed in a particularly lucid dream . . . or a nightmare that was unfolding fully for the first time.

“What has Trevor Gaines got to do with my mother?” he asked, a sandpapery quality to his voice.

“We can discuss it at another time,” Lucien said after a moment. “You don’t look well. You’re in shock, and I’m sure you want to make arrangements to go to London.”

“How do you know my mother is in London?”

Francesca stepped forward and put a hand on Ian’s arm. “Ian, Lucien’s right. This isn’t the time—”

“How do you know?” Ian repeated harshly, his gaze still locked with Lucien’s. There was a strange paradox to him of wild desperation covered by a steely armor of complete control. Only his blazing eyes and pallor betrayed his internal battle. Lucien seemed entirely calm as the target of that focused torment—almost as if he thought he deserved it. For a moment, he just stared at Ian, not saying anything, seeming to gauge his options given the unexpected turn of events.

“I know all about Helen,” Lucien said finally. “As I said, I hired a private investigator years ago to discover the identity and whereabouts of my mother. Helen Noble was identified as being a key to the answers I was seeking. I’ve known where she was since last year—”

“You were spying on me,” Ian said.

Elise glanced from Lucien to Ian and back to Lucien again. A shivery feeling went through her, as if someone had poured ice water over her, starting at the top of her head. She’d noticed it before, but idly—their height and build, their self-containment, the similar nuances of their profiles.

“Ian, please,” Francesca urged. “This hardly seems like the time or place. You’re in shock over your mother.”

“You were spying on me, weren’t you?” Ian demanded.