by BETH KERY
“Speaking of Mrs. Hanson, she must be busy. I’ll get the phone,” Francesca said.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” Ian said, standing. He caressed Francesca’s shoulder warmly as he passed. Lucien came around the table as well, and the three of them sat down on the facing sofas, Francesca across from them.
“When do you think you’ll be able to open the new hotel?” Francesca asked.
“Probably not for at least a year. It requires extensive rehab,” Lucien replied, draping his arm over the back of the couch and skimming his fingertips across Elise’s upper arm. Her skin prickled beneath his touch and she met his gaze. It seemed so strange—and wonderful—to have him touch her in public so comfortably.
“Plus I have to finish my training—”
She cut off short at a sharp question from Ian, who stood behind his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. Alarm swooped through Elise when she saw his fixed expression of shock. His face had gone very pale next to the contrast of his dark hair.
“But how did this happen, Julia? She was stable when we spoke yesterday,” Ian said loudly.
“Oh no . . .” Francesca whispered, standing and staring at Ian. Elise glanced at Lucien anxiously, but he was also looking at Ian, his brow furrowed.
“Was it because of this new medication? Is that what’s causing her liver to fail?” A horrible pause. “Of course you can say definitively. What else could have caused it?” he demanded. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m able,” Ian said tensely after a moment. He hung up the phone. Lucien slowly stood and Elise rose next to him. Francesca remained frozen in place, a wide-eyed stare of anxious dread on her face as she watched Ian approach. Ian’s gaze bore into Francesca, and it was as if Lucien and Elise weren’t even in the room.
“My mother is experiencing acute liver failure,” he said, the stark, hollow quality of his voice indicative of shock. “Julia told me she likely only has days to live.”
“Oh my God,” Francesca whispered, reaching for him. Ian stepped back, though. Francesca’s hand fell in the air before his chest. He looked like a man who had just had his soul stripped from him . . . a man who thought he didn’t deserve the solace of his lover’s touch. “It’s my fault. I agreed to that godforsaken medication.”
“Ian, don’t say that. You had no choice. She was refusing to eat,” Francesca implored.
Ian’s gaze flickered over to Lucien and Elise. Elise felt like an interloper on an intensely private moment of grief.
“I’m sorry, Lucien. You must think this is all odd. I led you to believe my mother was dead—”
“That’s the last thing you should be concerned about right now,” Lucien said. “Besides, I suspected she was alive.”
Ian’s gaze narrowed. For some reason, Elise’s pulse began to throb at her throat. The atmosphere of the room suddenly felt charged by the unexpected turn of events.
“Why would you suspect that?” Ian asked slowly.
Lucien looked entirely calm, but Elise sensed his rising tension. Her thoughts were coming a mile a minute as she stared at his stoic profile. What must he be thinking? The one link to his mother was about to be silenced forever . . .
“Lucien?” Ian prodded.
“Just tell him,” Elise said. “It might be your only chance.”
Elise’s eyes widened in horror when Lucien looked over at her, a startled expression in his eyes. Had those pressured words really come out of her mouth?
“Just tell me what?” Ian said, taking a step toward them.
A muscle jumped in Lucien’s cheek.
“Lucien? Tell me what?” Ian prompted, louder this time.
Lucien inhaled slowly. “I have good reason to believe that your mother knows the identity of my biological mother.”
For a terrible moment, the silence rung in her ears. Francesca looked startled, but Ian and Lucien seemed eerily calm.
“Why in the world would you think that?” Ian asked.
Lucien gave the other man a searching look before he spoke. “I learned it from my biological father,” he said evenly. “A man named Trevor Gaines. I hired a private investigator years ago to discover the identity of my biological mother, and the trail led him to where Trevor Gaines resided—Fresnes Prison.”
Elise’s heart felt as if it stopped beating for several seconds as she stared at Lucien’s profile, aghast. This isn’t what she’d expected him to say.
Ian’s reaction was possibly stranger than Elise’s. His cobalt-blue eyes looked like glowing slits between narrowed lids. He reminded her a little of a sleepwalker as he took a step toward Lucien. All the color had left his face, but his expression was strangely focused and rapt upon Lucien, almost as if he existed in a particularly lucid dream . . . or a nightmare that was unfolding fully for the first time.
“What has Trevor Gaines got to do with my mother?” he asked, a sandpapery quality to his voice.
“We can discuss it at another time,” Lucien said after a moment. “You don’t look well. You’re in shock, and I’m sure you want to make arrangements to go to London.”
“How do you know my mother is in London?”
Francesca stepped forward and put a hand on Ian’s arm. “Ian, Lucien’s right. This isn’t the time—”
“How do you know?” Ian repeated harshly, his gaze still locked with Lucien’s. There was a strange paradox to him of wild desperation covered by a steely armor of complete control. Only his blazing eyes and pallor betrayed his internal battle. Lucien seemed entirely calm as the target of that focused torment—almost as if he thought he deserved it. For a moment, he just stared at Ian, not saying anything, seeming to gauge his options given the unexpected turn of events.
“I know all about Helen,” Lucien said finally. “As I said, I hired a private investigator years ago to discover the identity and whereabouts of my mother. Helen Noble was identified as being a key to the answers I was seeking. I’ve known where she was since last year—”
“You were spying on me,” Ian said.
Elise glanced from Lucien to Ian and back to Lucien again. A shivery feeling went through her, as if someone had poured ice water over her, starting at the top of her head. She’d noticed it before, but idly—their height and build, their self-containment, the similar nuances of their profiles.
“Ian, please,” Francesca urged. “This hardly seems like the time or place. You’re in shock over your mother.”
“You were spying on me, weren’t you?” Ian demanded.
“Yes. I admit it.”
“I ought to call the police right now,” Ian hissed. “Why? Why were you doing it?”
“For two purposes only. Whether or not my reasons seem mercenary and selfish, you’ll have to be the judge. One, I needed to discover the whereabouts of the woman who might provide me with unanswered questions. I didn’t think you would easily open up to me about your mother if I just asked. Two, I wanted to get to know you better personally.”
“Why would you want to get to know me better?” Ian asked angrily, looking offended.
“Because family is very important to me,” Lucien replied. “And for better or for worse, you’re the only blood family I know of at this point. You’re my half brother, Ian.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ian collapsed heavily onto the leather couch. For a moment, all four of them didn’t speak. The silence seemed to press on Elise’s chest, making breathing difficult. Ian looked like he’d just been clobbered, but Elise also sensed his mind working . . . churning . . . sifting for answers.
“Trevor Gaines?” he finally asked Lucien.
Lucien nodded once. Elise had never seen him look so sober.
Francesca went and sat down next to Ian. Ian numbly took her hand and squeezed it.
“What was Gaines in prison for?” Ian croaked.
&nb
sp; “I’m not sure you want to know that right now,” Lucien said.
Francesca’s face looked ashen. Something flashed in her dark eyes as she stared at Lucien’s solemn face.
“I agree. Of course we’ll have to hear more about this, but later. We need to go to London, Ian.”
Ian looked into Francesca’s face. She saw the sleety misery in his eyes when he gazed upon his fiancée . . . the dawning emptiness.
“I want to know,” Ian said. “I’ve wanted to know about the son of a bitch that was my father for most of my life. You know that, Francesca.”
“Whoever your biological father was won’t change who you are,” Elise heard Francesca whisper in a pressured fashion.
“It was for rape, wasn’t it?” Ian rasped, seeming not to have heard Francesca. “Trevor Gaines was a rapist.”
A wave of dizziness struck Elise in the short pause that followed. She didn’t know if she swayed or not, but suddenly Lucien was staring at her, his hand on her elbow. She sat automatically when he lowered her to the couch.
“He was indicted on two counts of rape, but by all accounts he was probably guilty of more. It was only the two they had sufficient evidence on to prosecute. But there’s something else. I might as well tell you,” Lucien said. “Now that you know his name, you’ll find out soon enough. In addition to being a rapist, Gaines was a serial reproductionist.”
“What’s that?” Elise asked when no one spoke. Lucien glanced down at her. What she saw in his eyes made her want to weep: a hopeless sadness, a bitter disgust that could never be purged.
“A serial reproductionist has a sick obsession with impregnating women. He does it by seduction and craft—by discovering women’s cycles and sabotaging birth control, perhaps weakening a condom to ensure it breaks during intercourse, increasing the likelihood of impregnation. He might compulsively give sperm for insemination. When his means fall short, he might resort to rape. Trevor Gaines used all three tactics, and quite possibly others that we aren’t aware of. The police suspect that he impregnated close to twenty women, although Gaines often bragged to Herr Shroeder—the private investigator I hired—that there were more. Many more. We were like trophies to him.”
Nausea struck Elise when she realized the we Lucien referred to was all of Trevor Gaines’s offspring.
“Until you understand the psychological profile of such a man, it’s very difficult to comprehend his motives and actions . . . and even then . . .” Lucien shook his head.
“I think I remember reading something about him. The Gentleman Rapist—or something idiotic like that. Isn’t that what the English newspapers called him?” Ian asked.
Lucien nodded. “He was a wealthy man, with supposed noble blood, as well as being a brilliant scientist and inventor. He was also one of the sickest fucks ever born. He wanted nothing to do with his children. He just got some twisted, narcissistic satisfaction out of knowing he proliferated so greatly, planted his seed far and wide. It was all a twisted game to him, the selfish bastard,” Lucien added bitterly under his breath.
“Lucien, this all seems so far-fetched,” Francesca said suddenly. “How can you possibly know that this man is yours or Ian’s father?”
“In my case, I know because he agreed to a blood test. Trevor Gaines definitely is—or was—my biological father.”
Elise made a shaky sound at his barren tone. She hated seeing his pain exposed, and she had no one to blame but herself for what she so unexpectedly witnessed.
“Was?” Ian asked sharply. “Don’t tell me he’s dead.”
“He just died several weeks ago, of a sudden heart attack while in prison.”
“He’d better be thankful from hell that he died naturally,” Ian muttered viciously, his sudden blaze of anger sending a chill through Elise. Francesca’s eyes widened in anxiety as she studied her lover’s profile.
“I’ve had similar thoughts ever since I discovered what he was,” Lucien said, and Elise heard the edge of bitter fury in his tone as well. “Unfortunately, Gaines must have realized his progeny might feel that way, because he refused point-blank to see me. I assume it would have been the same for you. As I’ve learned, a prison can keep people out just as effectively as it keeps people trapped inside.” He paused, holding Ian’s stare. “I’ve wanted to tell you. For a long time now. But how does one go about revealing something like this? It’s not as if it’s happy news. I wasn’t sure how you would take it. I’m still not sure, but after tonight . . .” He paused, glancing at Elise. Her heart plummeted in her chest. “It seemed impossible to keep the truth from you anymore.”
“But again,” Francesca said desperately, “why are you convinced in Ian’s case? Are you only going by Trevor Gaines’s word that Ian was one of his biological children? Surely his word isn’t to be trusted.”
“He knew a great deal of intimate information about Helen Noble. He met up with her first in England. She’d apparently had her first psychotic break there.” Lucien said the last quietly, his gaze still locked with Ian’s. “She had run away from home, and Gaines took her under his wing in Essex. He could be quite charming when he chose, as many sociopaths can be, and your mother was at the beginning stages of schizophrenia, and very vulnerable. He brought Helen back to the north of France, near where he lived, installing her in a small house about fifty miles from his estate—the house where you spent the early years of your life, Ian. He claimed Helen and he were lovers, but if they were, he abandoned her after she became pregnant, despite her increasing illness and disorientation.”
“We never knew how she ended up in France,” Ian said dully. “My grandparents searched far and wide in England and all over Europe. The village where we lived was so remote, though. He must have understood who she was . . . her status. Gaines probably knew it was unlikely anyone would ever find my mother there.”
“My mother was Helen’s maid. Apparently, Helen had hired her during a moment of lucidity, while she was still in England. It was several months after she’d fled Belford Hall,” Lucien explained, referring to Ian’s grandparents’ estate in East Sussex. “He had a penchant for impregnating women that were related somehow. For instance, one of the women he raped that he was finally successfully prosecuted for was one of three sisters. He’d seduced two of them, unbeknownst to each other. He attempted to seduce the third, but when he failed, he resorted to rape. He couldn’t have anything—including a woman’s right to refuse him—stand in the way of his sick goal of having all three sisters pregnant with his child at once. He also had a proclivity for videotaping both his seductions and his rapes. It’s that which finally landed him a guilty verdict without a doubt.”
In the awful silence that followed, Elise noticed Ian’s gaze flash to Francesca. His features were impassive, but Elise thought she saw pure horror in his glance. Francesca shook her head, looking utterly helpless.
“No,” Francesca said with quiet forcefulness, her meaning lost on Elise, but her desperation clear. Ian turned to back to Lucien.
“What else?” Ian prodded doggedly.
“He pulled something similar with our mothers. Not the videotaped rape,” Lucien said quickly when Ian’s look grew wild. “I mean his desire to impregnate women who were associated with one another. Apparently, Gaines was having relations with both of our mothers at once, whether by force or seduction, I don’t know. We’re only six weeks apart in age, I believe.”
Ian just stared.
“But still,” Francesca interrupted. “That’s hardly proof. What makes you so sure Ian is definitely this criminal’s biological son?”
Lucien seemed to hesitate.
“Lucien?” Ian asked.
“You’d find out now anyway,” Lucien muttered. He turned and walked over to the oval table, retrieving the laptop. He returned, sitting next to Elise on the couch. She watched as his long fingers moved fleetly ov
er the keyboard. A black and white photograph appeared. She stared in numb disbelief.
Ian took the computer when Lucien handed it to him. Francesca’s hand flew up to cover her mouth.
“Jesus,” Francesca muttered, sounding like she was about to be sick as she stared at the photograph along with Ian. Elise knew precisely what she meant by her horrified exclamation. The newspaper caption beneath the scanned photograph said it was of Trevor Gaines when he was in his thirties, looking extremely handsome and charming with a small, mysterious smile on his lips—the exact opposite of what one might imagine a rapist and conniver to look like.
Ian Noble was the spitting image of Trevor Gaines.
“That’s why she always got scared of me when she was psychotic,” Ian said with an eerie calmness that sent shivers down Elise’s back. He looked at Francesca’s shocked, puzzled face. “My mother. That’s why she sometimes acted afraid of me—all my life, she’d wince and cower at times at the very sight of me. I never understood why, but I sensed something. Something bad. That’s why my presence could trigger a relapse for her . . . still to this day. Because I looked so much like him. Because I had the face of the man who took advantage of her. I had the face of her rapist.” He looked at Lucien. Lucien looked back, every bit as grim.
Every bit as sad.
Francesca’s mouth hung open. Elise could almost hear the inner workings of the other woman’s mind, sense her searching for words of comfort . . . and finding none. She understood because she herself had gone numb with helplessness.
Ian set the computer on the couch and stood.
“Ian,” Francesca said sharply. He paused and looked back at her. She stared at him . . . mute . . . shattered. He held out his arms and Francesca flew into them, hugging him. He crushed her to him, his eyes clamped tight, every line of his body conveying unspeakable pain.
“You are the best of me,” he muttered. “The very best. But there’s so much more ugliness. The balance is uneven.”