Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(26)

Davie glanced at her face and did a double take. He smiled when Francesca gave him a quizzical look.

“It just took me by surprise. It’s nice to see you smile again,” Davie said.

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to Christmas, which comes as a bit of surprise. I was far from being able to say that two weeks ago.”

Davie nodded as he searched her profile for a moment. “Do you think you’re getting over Ian?” he asked quietly.

Her smile faded. The void in her chest cavity ached as she focused on it. She didn’t speak for a moment as they approached a cross street, keeping her gaze averted from Davie’s. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ‘over’ Ian. I doubt I’ll ever be able to . . . you know. Feel about anyone the way I did him,” she said, purposefully avoiding the loaded word.

Love.

“Well, time is the key. You never know what the future will bring,” Davie said briskly. “So . . . what’s it been like for you working with Ger—”

The sound of screeching brakes cut Davie off. Both of them slowed and came to a halt several feet before the street, confused as to why the car had stopped so abruptly at a green light. Their bewilderment only mounted when the back door swung open and a man with sandy blond hair, a craggy face, and wide shoulders sprung out.

“What the hell?” Davie muttered.

Something about the man’s expression as he stared fixedly at Francesca sent an alarm going off in her head. He charged them with a rapid single-mindedness that stunned her—like a walking tidal wave. Davie instinctively put out his hand and pushed back on Francesca.

“Go . . . run,” he said.

But the man was already upon them. He grabbed Francesca’s arm in a brutal grip and tried to pull her back toward the street. The jolt of pain she experienced sliced through her confusion at the turn of events. Anger and panic rolled through her. She jerked her arm backward, but the man’s grip was like steel.

“Let go of her!” Davie yelled, throwing his weight against the man’s arms and attempting to come between them. But the man just snarled and batted sideways with his massive forearm and hand, like he was swatting at a fly. Davie was thrown back. The man now had both of Francesca’s arms in a vicelike hold. He started to turn her roughly, as if to secure her in his arms from the back. Francesca took her chance while she still faced him and made a haphazard jab in his crotch area with her knee. By pure luck, she hit him bull’s-eye. Air whooshed out of her assailant’s lungs. His khaki-green eyes bulged.

She experienced a jolt of pure fear when she saw the hatred that entered his gaze. He lifted one of his hamlike hands and curled it into a fist. She twisted in his hold, desperate to escape what she suspected would be a painful blow. But then Davie reentered the fray, sinking a punch into the side of the man’s belly. The man grunted. In his momentary weakness, Davie shoved him away from Francesca. The man reacted by angrily thrusting Francesca in the opposite direction. She landed hard on the sidewalk, scraping her hand as she stopped herself from going all the way down. She barely noticed. All of her attention was on the two men.

“No, Davie! Don’t,” she shouted in panic when she looked up and saw Davie pursuing the thug as he ran toward the still-stationary car. Davie was trim and in good shape, but the man was a monster in size compared to him. Her friend hauled up short when the man clambered into the backseat and slammed the door hard. The driver punched the gas. The vehicle spun, brakes shrieking. Davie backed out of the road frantically, nearly falling in his haste.

The car shot off in the opposite direction of North Avenue and the traffic.

Davie turned and stared at her, face white and eyes wide with shock. “What the hell was that?”

Francesca just shook her head, too shocked by the abrupt storm of unexpected violence to speak.

* * *

Ian entered the dingy suite he occupied at the Aurore mansion and immediately stripped off his shirt. He’d combined his exercise with a search in the property’s many lanes, meadows, and woods, but Kam Reardon’s place of residence continued to elude him.

“You can’t hide forever, brother,” he muttered sarcastically under his breath, swiping at the glaze of perspiration on his ribs and abdomen. As he headed toward the bathroom to shower, he considered where he should search this afternoon. He came up short when he noticed the red light blinking on the answering machine. The device must have been twenty years old. Ian had hooked it up to the residential phone line and given the number to only one person.

He hit a button, sudden wariness making his sweat slickened skin roughen.

“Ian, it’s me. I know you haven’t been feeling up to returning calls, and you said you didn’t want me to contact you on this line unless there was an emergency. But something’s happened. . . .something I knew you’d want to know about right away . . .”

He listened, his backbone going stiff. After the beep signifying the end of the message, he listened to it again.

He went into the bathroom, where he rapidly extricated a pair of scissors from his grooming kit. He raised them to his neck and began to cut off his beard with a single-minded purpose.

* * *

They paused at a security gate, but the man on duty just waved them through. Francesca sat forward and looked out the window when the driver started down a long lane that ran through a forest.

“You’ll get a view of Belford Hall once we round this bend up here,” the Nobles’ driver—a man named Peter—said, noticing her piqued interest through the rearview mirror. She’d met Peter before when she’d stayed with the Nobles in London.