When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine #2)(103)
“Remember I told you that a very important witness had informed Herr Shroeder that Helen Noble likely knew details about my mother’s identity and possible whereabouts?”
“Yes.”
“The man who died was that witness.”
“And he was in prison?” she asked, sounding a little less sleepy now.
“Yes.”
“What for?”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she lifted her head from his chest. “Lucien?”
“Rape.” He expelled the word bitterly. “Worse than rape.”
He felt her mounting concern swelling in the silence.
“Did that man . . . rape your biological mother?” she whispered.
He winced. He put his hand on the back of her head and guided her back down to his chest. He’d tried to prepare himself for it. But when he heard the thick dread in Elise’s voice just now, he knew he was a fool for thinking he could accustom himself to such an ugly truth.
“I’ll never know for certain, until I find her . . . or until I speak with Helen Noble.”
“Oh, Lucien—”
“Not now, Elise. Please,” he whispered hoarsely when she tried to lift her head again. “Let me enjoy this moment with you. Let’s not ruin it.”
He felt her open her lips, but perhaps she registered a hint of his pain, because her lips closed again next to his skin. He hugged her tighter, and she reciprocated. Something swelled inside him, thick and hot, when he felt how she squeezed him with an almost desperate strength.
“I want to help,” he heard her say in a strangled voice.
“You are,” he assured her gruffly, trailing his hand along her spine, pressing her to him even more tightly. “Your being here with me is all the help in the world.”
PART VIII: When We Are One
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.