Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(58)

“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been interested in the same woman,” Ian said.

“Really?”

He shrugged negligently. “The women never mattered that much to me, so it never bothered me until now.” Against her will, warmth flooded her at his words. He was admitting he was jealous because it was her. “Gerard was an orphan, too,” Ian said quietly after a moment. She suppressed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t further pursued the topic of Gerard’s romantic interest in her. “He lost his mother and father when he was barely of age. Officially, Gerard chose to be independent, becoming master of his parents’ home. He was at school most of the time, but when he was ‘home,’ he was usually here at Belford, not Chatham. I guess you could say we learned what it meant to be orphans together.”

“And thanks to Anne and James’s support and love, you both survived the trauma,” she said, turning to face him again.

His dark eyebrows made a flicking motion in acknowledgement of her statement, but he seemed distracted. “What is it?” Francesca asked.

“Nothing. It’s just . . . I was wondering. Were there any more incidents with photographers?”

She stared at him blankly.

“In Chicago. Lin sent me a photograph that was in the Chicago Tribune business section of you at Noble Towers getting off the elevator.”

“Oh,” she said, comprehension rising. “No, that was the only time. Security was a little lax—”

“Because of the Christmas party,” Ian finished for her.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

His eyelids narrowed. “I’m just wondering if that photo had something to do with the attack in Chicago.”

Her eyebrows went up in surprise.

“Maybe some sicko caught sight of you and became obsessed. Or maybe it signaled to someone that you were in a position of power at Noble and they planned a kidnapping. I think it was the latter, given the fact there were at least two men—the man who attacked you and the driver. Two people rarely share a twisted obsession, but will easily team up over greed.”

She came up slowly, bracing herself with her elbow.

“You’ve really been thinking a lot about this, haven’t you?”

“Almost about nothing else,” he admitted grimly.

“And so that really is the reason you came back. The only reason. Because you believed I was in danger.”

He caught the edge to her tone. His expression went carefully blank. “I came back because I was worried about you, yes.”

She just stared at him as her heartbeat began to pound in her ears. “The idea of me being harmed is the only thing that could penetrate your misery in regard to Trevor Gaines,” she stated more than asked.

He didn’t respond, but she saw the flash in his eyes—that one that always hinted at a storm on the horizon.

“What exactly have you been doing since you’ve been gone, Ian?”

There. She’d said it. She couldn’t take it back now, not it or that underlying subtext that accompanied the question. What is more important than me? Than us?

“Ian? What were you doing in France?” she prompted when he didn’t speak, just watched her with those dark-angel eyes.

“I told you,” he said. “I’ve had business there.”

A chill seemed to settle in her heart, but unfortunately, it didn’t numb off the flash of pain she experienced. “I see,” she said quietly. “So you don’t trust me enough—or care enough—to tell me, in other words.”

“Francesca, it’s not that—” he said sharply, but she interrupted him by flipping back the sheet.

“Excuse me,” she murmured before she left the bed and hurried to the bathroom, walking past her discarded clothing on the floor. She’d find a towel to cover her nakedness before she retrieved them. The last thing she wanted to do at that moment was expose herself to Ian any more than she already had.

Chapter Eight

It was a cool, crisp, windless morning. She went for a long walk with Anne and Elise on the grounds after a light breakfast. She struggled to focus and take part in the conversation as they walked through fields, gardens, and woods, but could tell from the other women’s concerned glances that her distracted, withdrawn state hadn’t gone unnoticed. At Elise’s request, they stopped in the ultramodern stables on the return to the house.

“You’re very quiet this morning,” Anne said privately to Francesca as Elise stroked a russet-colored mare in the distance.

Francesca blinked, rising out of her ruminations. She gave Anne a smile. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the painting.”

“You’ve been thinking a lot about Ian.”

She started. She saw Anne’s sad, knowing smile. “Is he coming around any?” the older lady asked hopefully.

Francesca ground her teeth together at the question. “No. He won’t budge. He’s determined to be miserable.”

Anne sighed. “In my experience, people are seldom determined to be alone and depressed. It’s more that they feel they can’t escape it.”

Regret sliced through her. “I know,” she assured, frustration edging her tone. “But why is he so insistent that Trevor Gaines matters? Ian never even knew him! He’s dead, thank God,” she muttered bitterly under her breath.