by Andrea Kane
"Renewing. Exciting. Arousing. We've determined I'm all that."
Ashford's teeth gleamed in the darkness. "All that and more."
"Then my youth shouldn't deter you. After all, it's hardly a permanent condition. Why, in four or five years I'll be positively ancient." She raised her chin, boldly met his gaze. "And you'll be weary of aimless liaisons with shallow women."
"I'm certain I shall be. I already am. But that doesn't change my earlier claim: you know nothing about me."
"I know you aren't nearly as rakish as your reputation suggests. I know you adore your family, especially the children, and that they adore you. I know you investigate stolen items—together with the people you suspect have stolen them. I know Franco Baricci is one of those people."
Ashford's breath expelled in a rush, and he dropped her lock of hair as if it had scalded him. "Baricci. What made you bring up his name?"
"I'm making a point," Noelle explained, taken aback by Ashford's oddly vehement response. "You say I don't know you. I maintain that I do. In your carriage, on the way to Waterloo Station, you told me you'd visited the Franco Gallery as a routine check, because a recently stolen, privately owned painting had been auctioned off there. Well, I believe there was far more to your visit than that. Especially given Mr. Baricci's apprehension over the fact that you were my escort, the inordinate number of questions he asked me that pertained to you. I believe you suspect Baricci himself of being involved in the theft you were investigating. What's more, I'll wager that's not the only theft you suspect him of. I think you believe he's involved in several thefts. Perhaps even all the art robberies that have struck London these past months. Am I right?"
Ashford had gone deadly still. "I'll ask you again," he said in a steely voice, "why did you bring up Baricci's name?"
Noelle started at the hardness of his tone, concluding that she'd touched upon a nerve that was far more sensitive than she'd realized. "I just told you. I—"
"I investigate a lot of people. Why did you mention Baricci in particular?"
"Because he's the only one of your suspects whose identity I'm aware of. Ashford, why are you interrogating me?"
"I'm not. I'm merely asking—"
"No, you're not merely asking. You're firing questions at me as if I were a suspect in a crime." Noelle searched his face, trying to make out his expression through the limited light cast by a nearby gas lamp. "Is it the confidentiality of your work? I didn't mean to violate that. Nor will I repeat any of my theories to another soul. I was just using them to make a point."
"It has nothing to do with secrecy. Although I am curious how you drew your rather extreme conclusions."
"They're not extreme. Not when it comes to you. I do know you, Ashford—perhaps by instinct. You don't ask routine questions, especially not of a scoundrel like Baricci. And he, in turn, doesn't fear many people. Yet he fears you. The two add up to only one thing: he's the fly and you're the spider."
"You know him well then?"
"I never met the man before two weeks ago."
"Did you correspond?"
"No." Noelle's small jaw set. "That's it. The interrogation is over. At least until you explain why you're conducting it. And please give me an honest answer. I think I deserve one."
For a moment, Ashford said nothing, visibly debating how to respond to her demand. Then he leaned forward and caught Noelle's shoulders in his hands. "You're right. You do. But so do I. I need you to answer one question for me. Now, before I provide you with an explanation—and before things go any further between us."
"Very well," she replied warily.
"Why did you really go to London two weeks ago?"
Whatever Noelle had been expecting, it hadn't been this. Nevertheless, it was obvious from Ashford's tone that he already knew there had been an ulterior motive behind her sudden excursion into Town and that the very existence of that ulterior motive angered him. Well, neither of those details should surprise her. After all, she was a dreadful liar and he was a very shrewd man—and a man who valued honesty in others. Wasn't he always applauding her candor? Clearly, her evasiveness on this one subject had been apparent throughout their day in London—a fact that had probably troubled him for a fortnight.
Well, it was time to alleviate his anger. She'd intended to tell him the truth anyway, not only to keep things open and honest between them, but to lend credibility to—as Ashford termed it—the extreme conclusion she'd drawn with regard to his suspicions of Baricci.
Extreme? Hardly.
Once Ashford knew the ugly details to which she was privy, he would understand why she was so ready to mistrust that scoundrel, to add her own suspicions to the ones Ashford obviously harbored. Given Baricci's sordid character, his unscrupulous conduct and total disregard for anything other than self-gratification—a blackguard such as that was capable of anything.
Ashford wanted the truth? Now was as good a time as any to disclose it.
Noelle opened her mouth, intent on revealing all when, abruptly, she was struck by just how closely Ashford was watching her, just how challenging was the look in his eyes.
An unsettling realization slammed into place.
"You already know why I went to London," Noelle pronounced in amazement. "It's written all over your face. You know exactly where I went and whom I went to see. So why are you asking? What's more, how did you learn of my intentions? Who told you?"
"No one." Ashford's reply was clipped, although he didn't insult her with a false denial. "You're right; I'm fairly sure I do know where you went—and to whom. Why am I asking? Because I need to hear it from you."
"Very well. I went to see Franco Baricci. Now I repeat, how did you find out? No one knew my destination or its purpose except Chloe. Unless you've spoken to Baricci since then. Have you?"
Ashford bypassed her questions, instead firing more of his own. "For what purpose did you visit Baricci? Why would you seek out a man who, by your own admission, you'd never met or corresponded with?"
Noelle pursed her lips, suddenly loathe to reveal anything of consequence without receiving some answers of her own. "He factored heavily into my past," she said carefully. "A truth I'd only recently discovered. I needed to affirm what I'd learned about him—rather, what I'd implored others to learn."
To her astonishment, Ashford relaxed, emitting an audible sigh of relief. "So I was right. You'd just found out what Farrington's investigators had unearthed over a long period of time—an investigation you appealed to your father to initiate. And you went to confront Baricci."
Noelle's eyes widened like saucers. "How did you know about Papa's investigation?"
"I know everything there is to know about Baricci." A meaningful pause. "Everything."
"Including his relationship to me," Noelle supplied in a wooden tone.
"Yes, including that. Baricci was the man who impregnated Liza Bromleigh nineteen years ago, a pregnancy that resulted in your birth. What I couldn't figure out was why you'd never confronted him in the past, yet suddenly decided to do so now, after all this time. Knowing how bright you are, how curious, it didn't make sense—unless you'd only just found out the truth. Which is clearly what happened. But I had to be sure."
"And that's what you're doing now—being sure?"
"Not only now," Ashford returned quietly. "From the onset. It began when I introduced myself to you and continued throughout our day in London."
"The train," Noelle determined in a stunned voice. "You intentionally shared my compartment." She shook her head. "But that makes no sense. How could you have known I'd be on the railroad that day? How could you deduce I'd be riding in to see Baricci when I'd only just made the decision to do so—and shared that decision with no one but my sister?"
"I didn't. That part was pure coincidence, though not an unwelcome one. As it happens, I was headed for London the same time you were. I spotted you on the train. From the detailed descriptions I've amassed of Liza Bromleigh, I recognized you instantly.
"
A sickly knot formed in Noelle's stomach. "So that is why you befriended me—because you knew who I was and hoped to speak with me."
Ashford never looked away. "Initially, yes. I'd hoped to gain whatever information I could from you. But then our affinity for each other took on a life of its own. By the time I asked my parents to invite you to Markham, I'd put whatever concerns I had to rest."
"Concerns? What concerns? And what information would I have had that you didn't already possess? You just said you're aware of everything that pertains to Baricci. Certainly that knowledge surpasses anything that I, who had never met the man, could have offered. In addition, why didn't you just ask me your questions straight out, tell me what you already knew and what you were curious to—"
The harshest reality of all crashed into place, and Noelle gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You weren't just trying to verify if I was going to see Baricci. You were checking to see if there were any other missing pieces you might have overlooked—pieces that involved me. You thought it possible that I contacted Baricci in secret, that I was now aiding him in his thefts and whatever else it is you're trying to prove him guilty of. You actually believed—" She wrenched herself away, slapping at Ashford's arms as he reached for her. "You contemptible fraud!"
"Noelle, stop." Ashford pulled her to him, ignoring her struggles to free herself. "I never believed you guilty of anything. I was simply doing my job. Dammit, stop fighting me," he commanded as her fist struck his chest. "And stop imagining things that aren't true."
"You don't know what I'm imagining," she shot back, still battling his grip. "You don't know anything about me except who sired me."
"You're wrong," Ashford said definitively, forcing her to meet his gaze, to see the frustration reflected in his compelling eyes. "Not only in what you said but in what you're envisioning in that beautiful, impulsive head of yours. You're doubting my reasons for pursuing you, doubting the existence of the sparks that shimmer to life when we're together. Well, don't. What's happening between us is real—and it has nothing to do with Baricci. What's more, you know it. So don't do this. Not now." Abruptly, Ashford's voice grew tender, his grip caressing as he enfolded Noelle close, buried his lips in her hair. "Please, tempête—don't."
Covering her cold hand with his own, Ashford repeated his words—over and over—stroking her fingers until they relaxed, until her struggles ceased and she allowed herself—however tentatively—to lean against him. "Just listen to me," he insisted. "Hear me out and consider my position as objectively as you can."
Silence.
"You might as well agree," he stated flatly. "Because I'm not letting you go until I've gotten through to you. I don't care if your father storms out here, finds us like this, and shoots me dead."
Despite her anger and hurt, Noelle couldn't suppress a smile at the image Ashford's declaration conjured up. "Papa doesn't shoot people. He'll probably just shatter a few bones and leave you bleeding."
"Very funny." He tipped up her chin, gazing deeply into her eyes. "This is just what I was afraid of. Noelle, you met me a fortnight ago. How can I possibly ask you to trust me? Yet that's precisely what I'm asking you to do. I'm an insurance investigator. A damned good one. My intuition is rarely wrong. It wasn't wrong about you. And it's not wrong about Baricci. Your conclusion was correct: I believe in that bastard's guilt with every fiber of my being. Every bloody move he makes is suspicious and bears investigating. Especially when that move is unexpected and unprecedented."
"Like summoning his only child—unacknowledged for eighteen years—to his office when she makes a sudden, yet timely visit to his place of business," Noelle muttered grudgingly.
"Right—like that."
"You had to investigate, to uncover my motives."
"I was almost positive you two had never met; my own delving would have revealed it if you had. But I couldn't be sure you hadn't corresponded by post. And if you had, it was possible that Baricci had communicated his intentions to you, even cajoled you into aiding him. After all, were you the unscrupulous type, you might have exploited the fact that you could open up countless avenues for that blackguard. Your father—your real father," Ashford clarified, "…Eric Bromleigh—has many contacts. Wealthy contacts. With lavish homes."
"And lavish paintings," Noelle continued for him. "I could have provided Baricci with lists, even locations within specific households of where he could find numerous art treasures."
"I didn't know you then," Ashford said softly, his fingers sifting through her hair. "When I boarded that train at Southampton, saw you sitting there—Baricci's only blood child rushing off to London for some hidden purpose—I had no idea what type of person you were, what you might be capable of."
"When did you make up your mind?"
"Instantly. Five minutes in your company and I'd all but abandoned my suspicions. I admit I followed them through to be certain. I kept an eye on your activities at the gallery, pressed you for information on our way back to Waterloo Station, even asked you point-blank just now. But I never actually believed you were capable of deception or criminal acts, especially after talking to you, finding out how bloody honest you are." His lips twitched. "Except, of course, when it comes to card-playing."
"What does that mean?" Noelle demanded, smiling yet again. Her anger had gradually dissipated beneath the logic of Ashford's explanation, and now she rose to meet his challenge. "Are you accusing me of cheating?"
"Um-hum." There was a smug grin in his tone. "No one beats me at piquet. Certainly not by such a wide margin. You must have cheated. It's the only possible explanation for your overwhelming victory."
"Arrogant man." Noelle rubbed her cheek against his coat. "It just so happens, I didn't cheat. I'm simply an extraordinary player."
All humor vanished. "You're just extraordinary. Period." Ashford moved aside her sable mane, cupped the nape of her neck. "Tell me you understand."
"I understand."
"Then tell me I'm forgiven."
"That depends." Noelle's arms crept up his lapels, her palms resting on his shoulders as she tilted her face up to his.
"On what?"
"On whether or not you kiss me," she replied, an impish twinkle in her eyes. "If you do, you're forgiven."
Ashford's gaze fell to her mouth. "I should bring you back to the house. Your father—" His breath caught as her fingers trailed up his neck, whispered across his jaw. "God, Noelle, you tempt me beyond reason." His mouth swooped down, seizing hers in a hot, bottomless kiss that surged through her veins like warm brandy.
Noelle sank into the moment—a moment heightened by the emotional exchange that had preceded it. She let her senses guide her, every one of them clamoring for things she'd never experienced but suddenly wanted. Her tongue met Ashford's with utter, eager abandon; her arms tightened about his neck as the kiss blazed higher, grew consuming.
With a muffled groan, Ashford lifted her from the ground, crushed her closer, their bodies melding as closely as their clothing would allow. Noelle reveled in his hardened contours, thrilled to the answering pulse that throbbed deep within her.
A pulse that went wild as Ashford's hand crept around, slid inside her mantle to find her breast, caress it through the fine silk of her gown.
"Ashford." She uttered his name on a moan, skyrockets of sensation shooting through her, and instinctively she arched closer, seeking more of his touch. His thumb circled her nipple, stroking it again and again, and Noelle stopped breathing entirely, wondering if she were going to die.
"God, I want you," Ashford rasped, his hand shaking as he continued to tease the hardening peak that was budding beneath his touch. "I want to lay you down in the grass, right here, right now, and make love to you. Ah, Noelle…" His hips shifted forward of their own volition, seeking the warm haven between her thighs, and Noelle wanted nothing more than to comply, to lie with him precisely as he'd just described and give in to these staggering sensations.
Again
, it was Ashford who pulled away, sagging against a tree, Noelle clasped against him, as he desperately tried to bring himself under control.
It took long minutes to accomplish that, and when he spoke, his breathing was still labored, uneven. "What the hell is happening to me? Am I losing my mind? My senses? My reason? I'm seducing you outside my parents' house. With your parents happily visiting within. After promising them I'd be the model escort."
Noelle couldn't speak. She had yet to stop trembling, much less regain her balance or quiet her senses. She was weak with yearning, with unquenched desire, with physical awakening. Her breasts ached, her body tingled, and an unknown pulse between her thighs throbbed with liquid longing.
Dear God, was this passion? Was this what drove couples into each other's arms, made them loathe to separate?
If so, who could blame them?
"Noelle?" Ashford touched her hot cheek, raised her chin so he could make out her expression. "Are you all right?"
"Never again," she breathed in wonder. "I'll never be all right again."
Warring emotions darted across his face. "You should be slapping me."
"I'd prefer to keep doing all the glorious things we were just doing."
"So would I." Ashford feathered soft kisses across her brow, down the bridge of her nose. "But we can't. Not now. As it is, we'd better start walking back. Thankfully, the wind has picked up. It will explain your unusually rosy complexion, tousled hair, and breathless state."
"And yours?"
"Yes, tempête—and mine." He combed his fingers through her sable tresses, trying to rearrange them in some acceptable manner.
"You felt it, too, didn't you?" Noelle asked him quietly, her gaze wide with discovery.
His magnificent eyes delved into hers. "Yes, Noelle. I felt it. More than you can imagine. More than I ever believed possible." A muscle worked in his jaw. "So much for those bloody boundaries of mine. I crossed them about ten minutes ago."
"Never to return. I hope," Noelle murmured, her fingertips tracing the solemn line of his mouth.