Just be sure the madness doesn’t get you before the method ever works.
He snarled at the sound of the sardonic, taunting voice—his voice, his own doubts about his mission breaking through the surface. He turned away from the vision of the disturbing image in the mirror.
Just a little longer.
He’d search just a little longer. Surely there was something in this old ruin that would help him pigeonhole Gaines, categorize him like a neat, labeled forensic specimen; something that would allow him to wrap his brain around the enigma of a man that had become like a spear piercing deep within him, its handle broken so that he couldn’t get an adequate hold to extract it and allow the wound to heal cleanly.
He muttered a curse and threw himself on the dusty, sagging canopy bed, staring up at the ceiling. His fury had become his constant companion. It was the only thing that ever penetrated his numbness, coming upon him in frightening, savage waves.
No. There was one other thing that made him feel, even here in this gray wasteland: the sharp pain of desire. Against his will, Francesca’s beautiful, anguished face rose in his mind’s eye as he’d seen her last night on his computer screen, the image rising to torture him. He clamped his eyelids tightly, trying to banish the evocative, haunting image . . . and failing.
As usual.
He did this for her, he recalled with furious desperation. If he didn’t exorcise his demons, how could he present himself to her with any honor? How could he offer himself to her with a stained spirit? She was lightness and warmth. Every casual glance she sent his way conveyed more love than he’d ever known, more than he’d ever even been capable of envisioning before she entered his life.
No . . . he wouldn’t be set off balance by Kam Reardon, another one of Trevor Gaines’s leavings. He wouldn’t be knocked off his path by his mad half brother.
If you’re not like your pervert father, how come you want to do what you want to do this very second?
He grimaced at the silent, sarcastic question. He should get up from this bed, perhaps go for a late-night run. He could delve into more of the research he’d collected about Trevor Gaines, try to connect the disparate clippings of information he’d gathered, looking for a meaningful outline . . . do anything to focus his mind away from the computer that sat on the desk.
For the next minute, he remained on the bed, stiff and unmoving, an invisible battle warring inside him. A sweat broke out on his temple at the effort he expended.
Still, no amount of rationalizations and silent bids for self-control could stop him from rising from the bed and grabbing his computer. He was what he was, and this, at least, he could not control or banish. With a sense of grim inevitability—not to mention a wild hunger combined with a healthy dose of self-disgust—he sat on the bed and opened the video.
It was the equivalent of masochistically flailing himself, but he did it anyway, knowing from experience it was impossible to resist the urge. Maybe Reardon was right. Maybe he was like his father.
Moments later, he stared, utterly transfixed by the image of Francesca’s sublime face as ecstasy overcame her.
He continued to watch even after he’d climaxed. He received no real satisfaction from his masturbation, but it did make him feel. It was the equivalent of cutting his own skin, one of the few things that penetrated his numbness.
He only roused when his emissions cooled on his belly and he experienced vague discomfort. He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he cleaned up, once again reminded of Kam Reardon’s nasty insinuation.
Once again thinking of Kam Reardon, period.
Of course.
Reardon was another one of Gaines’s biological children. Perhaps his mother had lived somewhere near here. One thing was certain, the people in the local village insinuated that Kam had lived illegally on the Aurore property for a while now. Reardon, out of all Gaines’s ill-gotten children, would likely know more secrets and insights about Gaines then anyone. He was bound to give Ian some answers.
He tossed aside the towel and left the suite with a newfound sense of grim purpose.
* * *
The next morning, Francesca hurried down the hallway toward the penthouse entrance, eager to greet her visitor.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said when the elevator door opened before she even saw Lucien. “I really didn’t want to interrupt, though, with Elise just returning home.”
“I figured you might feel that way, so I brought her along,” Lucien said, stepping off the elevator along with a stunning blond woman with large sapphire eyes.
“Elise,” Francesca muttered, torn between discomfort at her sudden appearance after such a significant break in their friendship and the genuine happiness she felt at seeing her. Elise’s warm, gamine grin was, as always, a striking contrast to her elegant beauty. It also went a long way in helping Francesca forget her embarrassment.
“Don’t be mad at him. He couldn’t shake me,” Elise said, eyes sparkling as she glanced up at Lucien. “I latched onto him and wouldn’t let him come without me.”
“I’m so glad you did,” Francesca said, a smile breaking free. The two women hugged. Francesca blinked several times when they broke their embrace and she looked at Elise’s beaming face. “I understand you just came from your parents? You must be . . . exhausted.”
Elise’s lips trembled in amusement. She’d shared stories with Francesca in the past about her . . . colorful, trying parents. Louis and Madeline Martin had been a large part of what Elise had fled when she’d come to Chicago, looking for a way to make her life worthwhile. It wasn’t always easy for a gorgeous heiress who had been handed every material luxury on a platter to make a meaningful existence, Francesca had learned. With Lucien’s guidance and love, and Elise’s determination and talent, she’d done just that, however.