When I'm With You Part VI: When You Trust Me Read online

  “What of the other matter? Do you think you’ll be able to locate the stolen funds?”

  “The signs are good. I think I’ll have something to report to you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Good,” she heard Lucien say, something about his brisk tone making her think he was concluding the meeting. “Herr Schroeder, thank you again for coming to Chicago. As always, your thoroughness and quick execution is appreciated.”

  “Not at all. I was in the States when you called, so it wasn’t difficult to meet with you. I’ll leave for Switzerland to continue the investigation and call you as soon as I know anything—”

  Elise jumped when she heard a totally unexpected sound—a quick, light tread on the stairs that led to the rooftop deck. She hastened guiltily from her spot in front of Lucien’s office toward the master bedroom.

  “Elise!” Maria Oronzo, Lucien’s maid, squeaked when she saw Elise standing in the hallway. Elise had met the friendly middle-aged woman several times before and got along well with her. “You startled me. Lucien told me you wouldn’t be home until later.”

  Elise smiled, trying to look calm even through her heart was racing. “I was due to come home later, but—”

  The door to Lucien’s office snapped open.

  “Elise?”

  She turned, her breath burning in her lungs. Lucien stepped into the hallway, his gaze boring into her. “You’re home early,” he said.

  “So are you,” she murmured, unable to keep her eyes off him. He looked tall and awesome in the shadowed hallway, his white shirt and light eyes a contrast to his dark gray pants and black blazer. Stubble shadowed his jaw, giving him a dark . . . slightly dangerous air. Someone cleared their throat and Elise blinked, realizing it was Maria, and that she’d been staring at Lucien and he’d been staring back.

  “I must be going,” she heard Herr Schroeder say from just inside Lucien’s office. “The plane you have ordered for me will be waiting.”

  “I’ll be going, too,” Maria said, giving Lucien a nod. “Everything is ready, Lucien.”

  “Thank you. Thank you both,” Lucien said, pulling his gaze off Elise and glancing into his office. “Maria, would you mind seeing Herr Schroeder out before you go?”

  “Of course,” Maria said, smiling at Herr Schroeder as Lucien stepped aside and the other man walked out. Elise caught a glimpse of a silver-haired, elegantly dressed man of about sixty before Maria was leading him down the hallway. Lucien and she stared at each other without speaking. A moment later, Maria called a good-bye and the front door closed.

  “Come in,” Lucien said. He nodded toward his office. Elise stepped inside the luxurious, masculine, leather-clad room. “Have a seat,” he murmured, waving at one of two leather wing-back chairs that faced each other, a toasty brown walnut table between them. Lucien sat across from her. Elise searched for what to say. Would he suspect she’d overheard part of his conversation with Herr Schroeder?

  “He’s a private investigator.” Lucien spoke before she had decided how to broach what had just happened. “Herr Schroeder is looking into the location of the embezzled funds for me. As you likely already realize, he’s worked for me on several occasions in the past.”

  “He’s the man I overheard you talking with in Paris years ago. Lucien, what’s going on? The man you mentioned dying in prison, it wasn’t Adrien, was it?” she asked, anguished.

  He blanched. “No, of course not. I was referring to a man you don’t know. A man you have no connection to whatsoever, and never will.”

  “Then what has that man—Herr Schroeder—got to do with Ian Noble? You two were discussing Ian in Paris years back, and then you came here to Chicago. Please tell me,” she added softly when she saw how glacial his stare became.

  “How will I ever cure you of this proclivity for eavesdropping,” he mumbled after a moment.

  “You seem to have a talent for it yourself,” she returned quickly, referring to catching him listening to Ian while he’d been on the phone. He frowned. She heard the brass clock on his desk ticking quietly in the ensuing silence. Lucien remained unmoving, his arms reclining loosely on the arms of the chair. His gaze on her didn’t waver. She sensed his tension despite his relaxed pose, sensed him studying her with that laser-like stare. Suddenly he stood.

  “I need a drink,” he said, walking toward a sideboard with several decanters and glasses set on a tray. “Will you have a glass of cognac with me?”

  “All right,” she said, even though she didn’t really want a drink. She was anxious to hear what Lucien would say. She watched him as he deftly poured the golden-brown liquid from a crystal decanter into two snifters.

  “Do you remember years ago, in Nice, when you asked me if I was curious about my biological mother?” he asked a moment later as he came toward her with the glass in his hand.

  She started in surprise before she accepted the snifter. “Yes. Of course. You said that you didn’t think about her often. That you had nothing to miss, never having a devoted mother figure.”

  His smile struck her as poignant. “And you informed me you were adopted as well—just as confident and sure of yourself as a princess.”

  “You told me that I was the spitting image of my mother. I was so hurt by that,” she said softly. “But then you reminded me that it was what was on the inside that counted . . . that I could choose who I wanted to be. I’ve always remembered that.”

  He sat again and took a sip of his cognac. “Now here you are, creating a meaningful life, proving that there’s more to our destinies than our biology.”

  Her cheeks heated in pleasure at his compliment. “You’re the one who first taught me that lesson.”

  “And do you believe it?” he asked, his intensity mounting her confusion over his puzzling manner.

  “Yes. I do. I think our parents influence us, but as human beings, we can choose what we want our life to mean. Lucien, what’s this all about? What does it have to do with that man—Herr Schroeder—and Ian Noble?”

  He seemed to hesitate. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. He finally took another sip of cognac and set down his snifter on the table.

  “During that same conversation in Nice, I told you that I didn’t think much about my biological mother. I wasn’t being completely honest with you.”

  Something squeezed tight in her chest. “You did think about her, didn’t you? You wondered,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “It wasn’t an easy topic for me to discuss. Then or now. Of course I wondered about the woman who bore me. What had made her give me up? What were the circumstances that she needed to? Did I have other family? Brothers? Sisters? Aunts? Uncles? Did I look like them? I wondered. Incessantly. I’ve been trying to find her for eight years now,” he admitted starkly.

  “You have?”

  He nodded slowly. Something about his rigid expression made compassion flood through her. She sat forward in her chair. “Have you found anything yet?”

  He exhaled and shut his eyes briefly. She sensed his frustration. “Most leads have been dead ends, for one reason or another. I know a few things. I know that my mother gave me up for adoption in Cabourg, and that she was of Moroccan descent. Apparently, she worked as a domestic in northern France.”

  “Moroccan. Moroccan and French. Fusion,” she muttered, her mind whirling. He’d been thinking of his ethnic heritage when he’d named his restaurant and designated the type of food to be served.

  His hard mouth softened a fraction. “Yes. A moment of fancy on my part.”

  “What else did you find out about her?”

  “Bloody little,” he replied bitterly. “Herr Schroeder was unable to procure any helpful documents. We only found out what we know because of his careful, painstaking investigative work and interviews of people in Cabourg who worked in the hospital where my mother gave birth, in the adoption agency . . . and around the vicinity. The name she gave them at the hospital was an alias. My mother’s Moroccan accent was
still very strong, leading the people who remembered her to believe she hadn’t been in France all that long. She spoke Arabic and English, but apparently very minimal French. She made an impression on many of the people she encountered, though. Apparently, she was very beautiful.”

  “Of course she was. Look at you,” Elise said with a tremulous smile.

  “Two of the nurses formed attachments to her. They remembered how frightened she was. How alone. She was very young.”

  “How terrible for her. She must have been so afraid, with her homeland and family so far away. Do you . . .” Elise hesitated, studying every nuance of his face. “Do you have any indication she’s still alive?”

  “The chances are, she is. She was likely in her late teens when she had me. She’d still be in her forties . . . fifty at the oldest.”

  “Lucien, I can’t believe you’ve been going through all this.” She set down her snifter and stood, going to him. She sat on the edge of his chair and hugged him. He returned her embrace, tightening his hold until she slid into his lap. Her cheek pressed against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her upper arm.

  “Is Herr Schroeder still trying to locate her?” Elise asked after a moment, not lifting her head from his chest.

  “His investigation is ongoing,” she heard him say, his deep voice reverberating from his chest into her cheek. She sat up slightly when he brushed his fingertips beneath her chin and applied a slight pressure. She met his stare, sensing he was about to tell her something important.

  “We do have one lead. A crucial one.”

  “What?”

  “One of Herr Schroeder’s most important witnesses told him that there is a single individual who could likely give me the true name and background of my mother. That person is Helen Noble, Ian Noble’s mother.”

  Elise’s mouth fell open. “But . . . wasn’t Ian’s mother the daughter of the Earl of Stratham? I met the earl and countess once at a charity function in London. I thought I’d heard that their only child had died, and that Ian’s grandmother and grandfather raised Ian.”

  Lucien nodded. “That is what Ian tells people. Helen Noble is still alive, though. I first suspected it from some cryptic comments Ian made after we became friends in Paris. I sensed his sadness when he spoke of his mother, his bitterness . . . his grief, as if his feelings for her and what had happened to her were fresh emotions, not the far-distant memories of a ten-year-old boy. Between Herr Schroeder and myself, we discovered that she is, indeed, alive. I came to Chicago to see if I could uncover anything else about Helen and her fate. We’ve located her whereabouts in London.”

  “But . . . why would Helen Noble know about your biological mother?” Elise asked.

  “She worked for Helen. She was her maid. Apparently she only left her service when she discovered she was pregnant with me.”

  “Have you spoken with Helen then?” Elise asked, thoughts racing through her head. “And why would Ian and his grandparents say that Helen was dead?”

  “She’s very ill,” Lucien said quietly. “Very fragile. The hospital where Ian has her being cared for is private, with very high security. In fact, Ian owns the facility. It’s impossible to get inside unless you’re staff, family, or an invited guest. As for why Ian says his mother is dead, I don’t believe it was he who first fabricated that story. He was only ten years old when he went to live with his grandparents. His grandparents must have told him his mother was dead to save him the anguish of seeing her so unwell. I don’t know when Ian found out the truth about her.”

  “So Ian doesn’t realize that you know all this?”

  “No,” Lucien said, briefly closing his eyes.

  “Can’t you just explain the circumstances? Ask him if you can speak to Helen Noble?”

  “At one time, I considered it. But it’s . . . a very complicated situation, Elise,” he said, looking away.

  “In what way? Lucien?” she asked when he remained turned in profile to her. He met her stare.

  “I believe that Helen Noble’s health has taken a downturn. Ian seems worried lately, and I’ve overheard a few conversations. If his mother is so fragile, he won’t want me there asking her questions about her past.”

  Elise frowned. “That’s understandable, but surely it wouldn’t be too taxing on Helen to have you ask her a few questions about a woman she knew thirty-odd years ago.”

  “No,” Lucien said with finality.

  “But finding your mother means so much to you,” she said in a pressured fashion. “You’ve altered your entire life in order to find her. You can’t give up now.”

  A shadow of frustration crossed his features. “I’m not giving up. Far from it. But other people’s lives are complicated and difficult, too. I can’t force or trick Ian into acting in compliance with my wishes. I don’t want to. He’s a friend. He has his own concerns. He has a family that he worries about as well.”

  “If he is a friend, he’d at least want you to tell him the truth.”

  “He’s likely to think my purpose is completely mercenary and selfish.” He exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “And in fact, it was in the beginning. I specifically asked a common acquaintance to introduce Ian and me in Paris because I hoped to find out more about both Ian and his mother. I’ve come to care about him since then, but if Ian knows the truth, he’ll likely discount all that. He’ll just think I’ve used him.”

  She studied his face soberly, sensing the weight of his burden. She could tell by the well-practiced way he said the words that the logic had been replayed in his mind again and again. How hard it must be for him, to feel so close to the source of his mother’s identity and yet have it remain just out of reach.

  “God, Lucien. I had no idea finding your birth mother was so important to you.” Realization struck her and her facial muscles convulsed with emotion. Of course true family was important to him. He’d always insinuated he felt like an outcast in his adopted family. He’d even commented on that similarity between Elise and him.

  “I should have known,” she said shakily.

  He opened his hand along her jaw, cradling it. He was so large in comparison to her. She always felt so encompassed when he touched her . . . so cherished.

  “Why should you have known? I wasn’t comfortable speaking my wish aloud. I told no one, save Herr Schroeder, and only then in a business sense.”

  “You . . . you’ve never told anyone else about your search for your mother?”

  He shook his head, his silvery-gray eyes steady on her. She experienced a sense of humbleness that he’d opened up to her.

  “I’ll help you find her, Lucien. I’ll do whatever I can. I know how important family is to you,” she whispered through a swollen throat.

  “You have no idea how important,” he said, his gaze running over her face. “But I want you to promise me you won’t do or say anything in regard to this business. I have it all under control. Trust me.”

  “I do, but—”

  “Come here,” he interrupted gently. His tone was in stark contrast to his embrace. He crushed her to him, his arms surrounding her, holding her tight against his body, almost as if he wanted to absorb her. She clamped her eyes shut as a rush of emotion went through her. What was that powerful feeling that kept rising in her, stealing her words and her wits? She’d felt the seed of it toward Lucien, even as a girl. It’d sprouted since they’d come together again, mounting and growing and flowering. Tonight, it’d seemed to swell and bloom at his honesty, at his willingness to trust her with his vulnerability. Whatever this feeling was, it felt as if it’d suffocate her if she didn’t release it.

  Love. It’s love.

  She clenched her eyelids together tighter, as if she could vanquish that knowing voice. It frightened her, to think of it being true. She would be so weak, so helpless if she admitted to that need. But she couldn’t keep it locked inside her much longer. . . .

  Lucien’s warm lips moved against her hairline and nuzzled her ear, the shar
p shivers of excitement shooting through her making her forget her anguish . . . making her forget her unanswered questions.

  “Let’s forget about Helen Noble for now. I have a surprise for you,” he said, his low voice in her ear making her shudder with pleasure. She shifted her hips ever so slightly, feeling his cock swell beneath her bottom and thigh. It seemed like ages since she last felt his embrace.

  “What is it?” she whispered, tilting her chin and finding his jaw. She rained tiny kisses over his whiskers, thrilling to the abrading sensation against her sensitive lips.

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I just told you, would it?”

  She pressed her mouth against his moving lips, fitting their contours together delicately. He growled softly at her teasing and seized her mouth in a voracious kiss.

  She gave herself to that kiss wholesale, sensing how much he wanted to forget his anxieties and unanswered questions. His heat melted away her doubts as well, her insecurities about losing control . . . about falling in love.

  “I’d like to go and shower after the trip,” he muttered next to her lips a moment later. “I’ll clean up in the spare bedroom bath so you can bathe if you like. I’ll come and find you in a few minutes.”

  “Will I get my surprise then?”

  “You’ll get it then all right,” he replied in a hard, dry tone that made her eyebrows go up. “You’ll get your surprise and something extra for eavesdropping again,” he said, the grin pulling at his lips intoxicating her.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping . . . I mean . . . not necessarily. Just because I was passing in the hallway and overheard you doesn’t necessarily equate to eavesdropping.”

  He shook his head. “When are you going to learn I read your lies like a neon sign, ma fifille?” He cut off her protest with his mouth and tongue. She whimpered into his mouth and clutched his shoulders when he gathered her to him and stood, bringing her along with him. His kiss was so hot, so all-consuming, she thought he’d throw his plans to the wind and get into the shower with her. Instead, he set her down on the master suite bathroom floor and pressed his lips to her nose.