He smiled against her lips when he felt a slight shudder go through her, and she began to participate.
Somehow, her kisses were even sweeter now than they had been from a willing mouth.
* * *
Francesca had debated how to tell James and Anne that she was leaving and had finally left a letter, apologizing profusely for her departure and explaining that it related to Ian, assuring them at the same time there was no cause for worry. She said she would return to finish her sketch as soon as she could. She felt guilty about hiring a ride and sneaking out so secretly, but was worried that Anne and James would try and talk her out of going. Ian had told his grandparents he wanted her to stay there, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to disguise her concern for Ian if she spoke to them face-to-face. In conclusion, she promised them to be in touch very soon, and begged them again not to worry.
While she was at the airport, she researched the location of Trevor Gaines’s home. She was able to find a local article about Gaines’s arrest years back that mentioned his address. With the address in hand, she flew into a small airport in northern France and rented a car from there.
Aurore Manor was an hour and a half drive from the airport. She didn’t reach the remote mansion until the sun was beginning to set. Even though Aurore and Belford Hall were both fine, aristocratic homes, the setting couldn’t have been more different, Francesca realized as she drove down an untended, crumbling road through unkempt, wild-looking woods. Her gaze was caught by an odd vision within the shadowed trees where the sunset light penetrated. What appeared to be half of large a man—the upper portion only, the waist of his figure at ground level—moved. Then the shadow lowered and vanished completely. Francesca blinked in shock, her hand jerking on the wheel and she nearly lost control of the rental car. She shivered, unnerved by the impossible sight, strange associations to ghosts and fairy folk and mythical forest people popping into her brain.
Half a man melting into the ground? What in the world had she seen?
That impossible vision added to the oppressive quality of her surroundings—not to mention the knowledge of who had once owned the property—and only mounted her unease on arriving.
The house itself reminded her of some kind of dark, giant bird of prey hovering against the brilliant sunset, a patiently waiting vulture. She felt a little weak with relief at the vision of the two very normal-looking, luxury sedans parked in the weed-infested circular drive before the house. She was starting to feel like the only living thing in a landscape of death and ghosts. Her eyes widened when she realized a tall man wearing a dark coat stood in the arched stone portico leading to the front door, his body eerily still. He moved into the evening light when she pulled her economy rental car behind the sleek silver one.
Ian.
She watched him in rising amazement as she put the car into park. He stalked toward her, his dark, unfastened overcoat billowing out behind his tall, honed body. He wore a pair of jeans that fit his long legs and lean hips to perfection, brown work boots, a simple white T-shirt, and an unbuttoned overshirt. His jaw was darkened by whiskers. She was poignantly reminded of the lonely, noble savage she’d painted on a desolate Chicago city street years ago. His blue eyes blazed as he pinned her with his stare through the front windshield. He did not look pleased to see her.
He also looked as if he’d been expecting her. How had he known she’d arrive?
He opened her car door.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded without preamble.
She recoiled slightly at his rough question, but her chin went up defiantly. “I came looking for you, of course. How did you know I’d be here?”
“Short,” he muttered, his mouth rigid. A cold breeze howled through the open door. She shivered, but Ian seemed unaffected.
“Arthur Short? James’s employee? But how—”
He reached for her elbow. “Come inside.”
“Let me get my bag,” she said when he drew her out of the car and slammed the door shut.
“Leave it. You’re not going to need it,” he bit out.
“Ian, I’m not leaving,” she said with conviction as he bustled her to the front entrance. He didn’t reply, but his thundercloud expression was answer enough as to what he thought of her plans.
He opened the door and urged her forward. Francesca stumbled across the threshold, pulling up short when she saw Lucien enter the large, cavernous foyer where they all stood. Unlike Ian, he appeared as well-groomed and calm as always. The door slammed shut behind her, making her jump. She glanced back at Ian and then over at Lucien.
“How could James’s business associate have told you I planned to come to France?” Francesca asked.
Lucien just raised his eyebrows in a wry expression and glanced at Ian.
“Because he’s not Grandfather’s business associate. He’s the security guard I hired to watch over you,” Ian said with barely subdued, blistering heat.
“Security guard? But I told you—”
“We said we’d discuss it,” Ian interrupted. “But we never got the chance before I had to leave, so—”
“You just took it upon yourself to do whatever you wanted without bothering to consult me.”
Ian scowled darkly. “It doesn’t matter. You left so abruptly, Short barely had time to follow you. It took him by surprise. He followed you to the airport in London—”
“He followed me?” Francesca asked, spinning around to face Ian, appalled at the idea of being spied upon without her knowledge.
“For as long as he could,” Ian said bitterly.