His slight scowl remitted when she settled, the soft down pillow pressed between her arm and resting cheek. He must have thought she was going to get up and flee. For a second, she’d thought about it, but as always, the draw of him was too great. She’d always prized those moments in bed with him when he opened up to her, revealing his depths.
“I considered running away,” he said starkly, bracing his head with hand, his bent elbow still on the mattress.
“Where would you have gone?” she murmured.
His expression flattened. “I fantasized about finding my mother’s grave. I couldn’t think about much beyond that.”
Her heart went out to him. She knew that Anne and James had told him that his mother had died when he was a child, hoping to protect his already scarred soul from further witnessing her descent into madness. When Ian had finally discovered the truth about Helen being alive when he was a young man, he hadn’t spoken to his grandparents for a year.
“I can understand how you eventually came around . . . came to love Belford,” she said. “Despite all its grandeur, it’s a beautiful home. Your grandparents have made it that way.”
“Gerard helped,” Ian said. He nodded toward the bedside table behind her. She twisted her chin to look. It was a round table with a lamp. Several silver-framed photos were placed on it. She saw one of a dark-haired, solemn boy standing next to a handsome young man wearing a half grin. Ian and Gerard. They looked to be in a garage and were standing in front of an antique roadster. In another, they both posed next to a motorcycle—the first one they’d rebuilt together, no doubt—and in that one, Ian’s smile was every bit as wide and proud as Gerard’s.
She sensed him studying her when she turned to face him again. “Has Gerard been coming on to you?” he asked.
She blinked, startled by his direct question. In a split second, a dozen different answers sprang into her head. She was well aware that if she told Ian the truth, it could permanently damage a relationship that by all reports, had been a very positive one for him. The last thing he needed at this point in his life was another reason for misery.
“Like I told you, Gerard’s been very kind to me. Solicitous. In fact, between Anne, James, and him, I feel as if they’ve been treating me like I’ve just recovered from a terrible illness,” she said with a small smile. She met his gaze levelly when he examined her closely. Ian scowled and she had the distinct impression he knew she’d sidestepped his question.
“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been interested in the same woman,” Ian said.
“Really?”
He shrugged negligently. “The women never mattered that much to me, so it never bothered me until now.” Against her will, warmth flooded her at his words. He was admitting he was jealous because it was her. “Gerard was an orphan, too,” Ian said quietly after a moment. She suppressed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t further pursued the topic of Gerard’s romantic interest in her. “He lost his mother and father when he was barely of age. Officially, Gerard chose to be independent, becoming master of his parents’ home. He was at school most of the time, but when he was ‘home,’ he was usually here at Belford, not Chatham. I guess you could say we learned what it meant to be orphans together.”
“And thanks to Anne and James’s support and love, you both survived the trauma,” she said, turning to face him again.
His dark eyebrows made a flicking motion in acknowledgement of her statement, but he seemed distracted. “What is it?” Francesca asked.
“Nothing. It’s just . . . I was wondering. Were there any more incidents with photographers?”
She stared at him blankly.
“In Chicago. Lin sent me a photograph that was in the Chicago Tribune business section of you at Noble Towers getting off the elevator.”
“Oh,” she said, comprehension rising. “No, that was the only time. Security was a little lax—”
“Because of the Christmas party,” Ian finished for her.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
His eyelids narrowed. “I’m just wondering if that photo had something to do with the attack in Chicago.”
Her eyebrows went up in surprise.
“Maybe some sicko caught sight of you and became obsessed. Or maybe it signaled to someone that you were in a position of power at Noble and they planned a kidnapping. I think it was the latter, given the fact there were at least two men—the man who attacked you and the driver. Two people rarely share a twisted obsession, but will easily team up over greed.”
She came up slowly, bracing herself with her elbow.
“You’ve really been thinking a lot about this, haven’t you?”
“Almost about nothing else,” he admitted grimly.
“And so that really is the reason you came back. The only reason. Because you believed I was in danger.”
He caught the edge to her tone. His expression went carefully blank. “I came back because I was worried about you, yes.”
She just stared at him as her heartbeat began to pound in her ears. “The idea of me being harmed is the only thing that could penetrate your misery in regard to Trevor Gaines,” she stated more than asked.
He didn’t respond, but she saw the flash in his eyes—that one that always hinted at a storm on the horizon.
“What exactly have you been doing since you’ve been gone, Ian?”
There. She’d said it. She couldn’t take it back now, not it or that underlying subtext that accompanied the question. What is more important than me? Than us?