Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(17)

Francesca blushed. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I just—”

“I don’t think you were being impertinent,” Mrs. Hanson assured, patting her hand where it rested on the counter. “It’s just that I’m afraid Ian has a rather sad family history, despite all his blazing fame and fortune as a grown man. His mother was quite rebellious as a young woman . . . wild. The Nobles couldn’t control her,” Mrs. Hanson said with a significant glance. “She ran away in her late teens and was missing for more than a decade. The Nobles feared she was dead but never had any proof of it. They kept searching. It was a black time in the Stratham household.” Pain flickered across Mrs. Hanson’s countenance at the memory. “The lord and lady were frantic to find her.”

“I can only imagine.”

Mrs. Hanson nodded. “It was a terrible, terrible time. And it didn’t get much better when they finally did locate Helen living in some kind of hovel in northern France, almost eleven years after she’d first disappeared. She was quite mad. Sick. Delusional. No one could understand what had happened to her. To this day, no one seems to know. And there was Ian with her—ten years old going on ninety.”

Mrs. Hanson made a choking sound of distress. Francesca hastened off her stool.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said, her mind swirling with a combination of curiosity for more information about Ian and stark concern for the kind housekeeper. She located a box of tissues and brought it to Mrs. Hanson.

“It’s all right. I’m just an old fool,” Mrs. Hanson mumbled, taking a tissue. “Most would say that the Nobles are nothing but my employers, but to me, they’re my only family.” She sniffed and blotted her cheeks.

“Mrs. Hanson. What’s wrong?”

Francesca jumped at the sound of the stern male voice and spun around. Ian stood in the entryway to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hanson looked around guiltily. “Ian, you’re home early.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, his face tight with concern. Francesca realized that Mrs. Hanson’s comment about considering the Nobles her family went both directions.

“I’m fine. Please pay me no mind,” she said, laughing airily and throwing away her tissue. “You know how old women can get maudlin.”

“I’ve never known you to be maudlin,” Ian said. His gaze flicked off Mrs. Hanson and landed on Francesca.

“May I speak to you a moment, in the library?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she said, lifting her chin and forcing herself not to cringe in the face of his blazing stare.

A minute later, she turned anxiously at the sound of Ian shutting the heavy walnut door of the library behind him. He stalked toward her with the smooth, graceful stride of a predatory animal. Why was it she was always comparing such a sophisticated, contained male to a wild thing?

“What did you say to Mrs. Hanson?” he demanded. She suspected it was coming, but she still bristled at the subtle inflection of accusation in his tone.

“I didn’t say anything! We were just . . . talking.”

His gaze bore into her. “Talking about my family.”

She resisted heaving a sigh of relief. Apparently, he’d only heard their last comments and hadn’t realized what Mrs. Hanson had revealed about his mother. And him. Somehow, she knew for a fact he’d be far less contained than he was if he knew Mrs. Hanson had been loose-lipped about those particular details.

“Yes,” she admitted, straightening and meeting his stare, though it cost her a great deal of effort. Sometimes those angel eyes became the avenging-angel variety. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I asked her about your grandparents.”

“And that made her cry?” he asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.

“I don’t really know the details of what made her cry,” she snapped. “I wasn’t prying, Ian. We were just talking, having polite conversation. You should try it sometime.”

“If you want to know about my family, I would prefer if you asked me.”

“Oh, and you’ll dish out all the details, no doubt,” she countered, her tone just as sarcastic as his had been earlier.

A muscle jumped in his cheek. Abruptly, he walked toward the large, gleaming desk and picked up a small bronze statue of a horse, toying with it. Francesca wondered in mixed irritation and nervousness if he wanted something to do with his hands besides strangle her. With his back to her, she had the opportunity to study him for the first time. He wore an impeccably cut pair of trousers, a white dress shirt, and a blue tie that matched his eyes. Since he always wore suits to the office, she assumed he’d removed the jacket. The starched shirt perfectly fit his wide shoulders. The pants draped his narrow hips and long legs: elegant, raw masculinity defined. He really is a beautiful male animal, she thought resentfully.

“Lin said she contacted you this morning,” he said, the change in topic taking her off guard.

“She did. I’d like to speak to you about what she said,” Francesca replied, anxiety now trumping her anger.

“You painted today,” he said rather than asked.

She blinked in surprise. “Yes. How . . . how did you know?” She’d had the impression he’d come directly to the kitchen upon entering the penthouse.