by Kery, Beth
He wasn’t looking at the mortifying image of her on the screen. His eyes blazed as he stared at Gerard.
“I’ll kill you for this,” Ian said.
Gerard snarled and tapped a finger. Another image leapt onto the screen, this one of her masturbating while tears wet her cheeks, one hand filled with a breast, the other between her thighs, her face tight with anguish. Another, this one not at Ian’s penthouse, but in her suite at Belford Hall.
Another . . . no, it couldn’t be.
She saw the image of her face transformed by surrender and bliss as she told Ian she loved him. Always. It was the video he’d taken of her on the night before he’d discovered he was Trevor Gaines’s child . . . on the night before he’d left her.
“No,” she ground out between clenched teeth, lunging toward the computer, her only thought to extinguish the image of herself at such a vulnerable moment. Ian sprung after her, halting her with a hand on her shoulder when Gerard started at her sudden movement. He shoved aside the computer, letting the lid drop, the illicit sounds of their recorded lovemaking continuing. Gerard stepped closer to where they now sat on the bed, the gun extended threateningly.
“I didn’t want to show you, Francesca. But you had to see. I knew you’d want to know he’s not that different from his father—that criminal, Trevor Gaines.”
“How do you know about Gaines’s past?” Francesca asked incredulously.
“He thinks he knows everything,” Ian said quietly. “But he’s wrong.”
“I’m not wrong,” Gerard bit out, his glassy eyes flashing in fury.
“I didn’t take those videos of you, Francesca. Not most of them,” Ian said, not looking at her, but at Gerard. “The one I did, but you knew that. I would never do that to you,” he said steadily through a tense jaw.
“I know that.”
The gun jerked slightly in the air at Francesca’s words.
“What?” Gerard asked, stunned. “Don’t tell me you believe him, just like that?”
“Of course I do,” Francesca whispered, examining Gerard in rising horror. “Ian would never do that to me. He’d never record me without my permission. And Ian would never want to see me that miserable.”
Ian glanced over at her rapidly. She saw the gratitude and relief in his blue eyes. Sadness and compassion flashed through her. He’d worried she’d believe Gerard.
“He was watching you masturbate, you fool. He was getting off on it, spying on you,” Gerard bellowed.
“No. You were,” Francesca spat. She couldn’t stop the shivers of revulsion and horror from rippling through her body at the idea.
Gerard’s face grew red and mottled. Her point-blank refusal to believe Ian was a pervert who was spying on her without her permission and using the footage for sexual titillation seemed to exponentially amplify his rage.
“God you’re a fool. You deserve him,” he said, his mouth twisting. He suddenly shrugged. “I was going to have to kill you anyway, so what does it matter?”
“Then why did you even show it to me?” Francesca asked bitterly.
“Because it would have been all that much sweeter for him to see you betrayed by me before he killed us both. He couldn’t let you live. He knows I’ve left you everything if I die.”
“You did?” Francesca asked numbly. Everything seemed surreal. Is this how it felt when you realized you were about to die? She thought she’d be more panicked.
Ian nodded. “With Grandfather as the follow-up. But that works just fine for Gerard, because he’s Grandfather’s heir after my grandmother, if I die. All he has to do is wait, and he’s proven he can be patient. What did you do to Lucien?” Ian switched topics seamlessly. “Is he dead?”
“No, but he will be. I hit him hard enough on the back of the head to fell a horse. When the fire starts later, he’ll never wake up in time to get out.”
Francesca made a choked sound. Why was Ian behaving so calmly? It was eerie to see, in these circumstances.
“You plan to . . . what, make it look as if I finally went over the edge, and shot Francesca and then myself before bringing this place down.” He glanced coldly at the dusty, ancient canopy. His calm manner completely bewildered her, adding a touch of the surreal to unfolding events. “Not a bad idea. I thought of burning the place down a half a dozen times. It’ll go up like a matchstick.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Gerard said levelly. “I brought along some fuel. It’s precisely the type of thing a madman would plan.”
“True,” Ian said. “And I suppose you engineered some kind of alibi, just in case suspicion fell on you?”
“Of course,” Gerard replied. “But it won’t. Everyone at Belford has expressed concern for your mental stability. Even she,” he waved the gun at Francesca. “Had her doubts.”
“There’s only one problem,” Ian said.
Gerard looked both amused and insulted. “There’s no problem,” Gerard assured.
“There is, unfortunately. His name is Edward Shallon. He’s the man I hired to tail your every move. He called me earlier when you flew into Paris, where he followed you.”
Gerard’s expression sagged. “You’re lying,” he said numbly.
“I’m not. Unfortunately, he lost you in traffic. I didn’t realize you knew about Aurore or Trevor Gaines, or I would have expected you here. As things were, I assumed you were in Paris on business.” He glanced at the computer at the foot of the bed. “Obviously, your surveillance equipment was in my room at Belford as well. You figured out my password on my computer. That’s how you got the information about Gaines. I had file upon file of information I’d compiled so far saved on it. And the video of Francesca, which you added to your surveillance tapes in order to convince her I was as sick as Gaines. Or you, as the truth would have it.”
Francesca glanced nervously at Ian when he said the last, hearing the cold fury in his tone.
“But Shallon definitely trailed you to Paris. He’ll be able to testify to that. Do you have an alibi in Paris?” Ian persisted. “It’s my understanding you left Clarisse in Stratham.”
“Clarisse?” Francesca mumbled, confused by the reference.
The color drained from Gerard’s face. He swallowed thickly, his expression nowhere near as confident as it’d been. Hope flickered through Francesca, but then his face darkened again with rage. She’d always thought him handsome, but he looked truly revolting in that moment. A wild thought struck her that his hatred for Ian had been brewing for a long, long time. How had he possibly disguised it so well?
“It doesn’t matter,” Gerard said. “I’ll figure something out. It’s too late to turn back now. I’d continue at this point, only for the pleasure of finally getting rid of you. Bloody nuisance.” He raised the gun. Francesca started at what she saw behind Gerard, but Ian tightened his hold on her shoulder, sending a desperate, silent command for silence. It felt like her own heart was going to choke her, it seemed to swell to take up her entire chest cavity.
“One other thing,” Ian said as Gerard took aim at Ian’s head, and Francesca’s lungs burned in gripping terror.
“What?” Gerard asked derisively, clearly done talking.
“You may have disabled Lucien, but I have more than one brother.”
Gerard’s vaguely puzzled glance turned to wide-eyed shock when Kam Reardon jerked his head back in a chokehold at the same moment that he wrenched the arm that held the gun, pointing it away from Ian and Francesca. Ian leapt from the bed so fast it was like he’d been ejected from a coiled spring. She followed him instinctively, unwilling to just sit there in bed, stunned. Ian rushed the struggling pair, but Gerard wasn’t defeated yet. He jabbed his elbow into Kam’s solar plexus hard and threw his head back viciously. The two men were close in height, Kam being a few inches taller. The back of Gerard’s head smashed into his face, jarring him. Kam grunted and stumbled ba
ck, dazed, losing his hold, crimson blood shooting from his nose. Ian plowed into Gerard, reaching for Gerard’s gun arm to restrain it. But Gerard had already been lifting it to an upward angle. They grunted as they vied for control.
The gun went off. Ian and Gerard stood as if frozen in some kind of bizarre dance. She stood there next to them, horrified. She gave a muffled scream when the gun fell from Gerard’s hand and he fell to his knees. Ian backed away slightly and she saw the small circle of blood on Gerard’s white shirt in the area of his abdomen. He wore a blank expression, his brown eyes wide. Ian ducked to retrieve the weapon, but Gerard was closer to it.
She saw it as if in slow motion. Fortified by years of hatred and a desire for revenge, Gerard must have had one last surge of adrenaline in him. Gerard whipped the gun away before Ian could grab it, grunting in pain. He jerked the weapon wildly in Ian’s direction, but he paused for what must have been the smallest fraction of a second. A malicious glint fired in Gerard’s face as he met Ian’s stare.
Gerard swung the gun in Francesca’s direction.
The sound of the gun going off seemed to rattle the entire room. She hit the floor so hard, her breath was knocked out of her. She didn’t know what had happened. She was lying on the floor, the gunshot still ringing in her ears. Her lungs wouldn’t expand. Her brain vibrated in shock. Was she shot? Was that why she felt so weighted down and unable to move?
She lifted her head, completely disoriented. Ian lay on top of her. She inhaled raggedly, her body starved for oxygen. He’d thrown himself in front of her. It’d been him that forced her down onto the floor. She was covered by his body. He lay facedown, his head next to hers, his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder.
“Ian?” she shouted. She ran her hands over him frantically. He lifted his head. She heard scuffling where Gerard had been and lifted her head as well, tensing in panic. She saw Kam leaning over Gerard’s motionless body. Relief swept through her.
“Ian? Are you okay?” she asked in a shaky voice.
He met her stare calmly, only his head moving, and nodded.
“Is he dead?” Ian asked Kam.
“No. Not yet anyway,” Kam added indifferently.
Kam stepped over Gerard. Using the bottom of his long coat, he flipped the lock on the gun and pried it out of Gerard’s loosening grip. Over Ian’s shoulder, she saw him set the weapon on the dresser, far from Gerard’s reach. She gasped for air, her lungs still having trouble expanding.
“Ian . . . I can’t breathe. Can you . . . can you . . .”
He rolled off her. With his weight off her, she inhaled with effort. Her relief and getting her lungs full of air lasted for as long as it took her to notice the blood on her right hand.
She sat up and stared in rising horror at Ian, who lay on his back, blinking as he stared up at the ceiling.
“He’s been shot,” Francesca said shrilly, scrambling up on her hands and knees and kneeling next to his body. “Call someone,” she said to Kam, pointing at Ian’s cell phone, which sat on a dresser not far from the gun. “Call emergency services.”
Kam lunged toward the dresser and snagged the phone. He walked over to her and handed her the phone. “You call. Dial 1-1-2,” he said roughly. He knelt on the other side of Ian. “I’m going to have to roll you on your side to have a look,” he said to Ian.
“Do you have a doctor’s license?” Ian asked sardonically, wincing slightly when Kam rolled him onto his left side. Francesca grimaced sympathetically as she dialed the phone.
“No,” Kam rasped. “But I graduated from medical school. Unfortunately for you, I never finished my residency.”
Ian gave a dry bark of laughter. Francesca had the strangest feeling Kam was serious, but she was too numb with shock to be surprised. Kam bent, examining the wound. The phone began ringing.
“What are you doing?” she asked anxiously when Kam stood and walked to the bathroom. He returned a second later with several folded towels. “Applying pressure to the wound.” He knelt again behind Ian, who was still conscious. Her eyes widened in panic when a woman answered the phone in French. She’d never mastered the language. Kam’s sharp gaze flickered to Francesca’s face. He grabbed the phone. He began to speak in rapid French, holding the towel tightly against Ian’s shoulder all the while.
A moment later, she jerked her gaze from Ian’s when Kam brushed her arm with a towel. She looked up. She realized he was off the phone.
“They’re coming,” Kam said. She glanced at the towel he was handing her in confusion, and for the first time in several moments realized she was nude. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as she whipped the towel Kam offered around her, covering herself. She noticed Ian’s slightly raised brows and amused expression when she looked up again. Kam Reardon was clearly much, much more than the local wild man.
“Kam?” Ian muttered. “Maybe you should go and check on Lucien. He’s just down the hall, third door on the left.”
Kam nodded. He looked at Francesca. “You’ll have to apply the pressure,” he said, looking down at the towel pressed to Ian’s shoulder.
She nodded willingly, replacing Kam’s hand with hers. He rose and left the room.
“Francesca,” Ian said intently. “Listen to me. Erase the video from the computer and put the computer back in Gerard’s briefcase. Now.”
“What?” she asked, confused.
“Use something to cover your fingerprints and erase the files of Gerard’s surveillance on the computer.”
“But . . . won’t the police protest about me altering evidence at a crime scene? What about if Gerard lives? What if he goes on trial for attempted murder?”
His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. “I don’t care what the hell the police think. Do you want other people seeing that video? A courtroom? It would kill you, and so it would kill me in turn. If the truth comes out that the tapes were erased, I’ll take the blame.”
A shudder went through her as the full impact of what he was saying hit. She nodded dazedly. “But I’m supposed to press on the wound.”
“I’ll do it while you’re gone,” he muttered, moving his left hand on top of hers, wincing at the movement. “Go on.”
She returned a minute later, having followed his instructions as best she could. They’d just have to deal with it if Gerard had other copies of the video somewhere and they came to light in the investigation.
“Now get dressed,” he said, his rigid jaw making her think he was in increasing pain.
She lowered next to him after she’d hastily dressed, taking over pressing on the wound and using the towel she’d discarded to cover him. She was glad to see the circle of blood on the towel on his shoulder hadn’t grown much in her absence. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be all right.”
“I know,” he said.
She stifled a bark of hysterical laughter. Arrogant even now. “How do you know?”
“Because I didn’t go through all this, only to die now,” he said dryly. “It’s just the shoulder,” he said, wincing as he moved slightly. “It burns like hell.”
“Keep still,” she scolded. She lowered her head, kissing his lips softly. Fervently. She raised her head until their faces were only inches apart.
“Do you want to know who you are, Ian?” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion. “This is who you are. This.”
His eyes glittered as their gazes locked. He didn’t speak, but she knew he’d understood. It might have been his last act on this earth, for all he’d known, covering her body with his to protect her, an act of selflessness.
Of love.
* * *
Francesca swam in a woozy dream world, aware of several people talking. Her exhaustion was such that she had to struggle for all she was worth to surface into consciousness.
It’s important. Wake up.
She blinked open her
eyes at her own voice in her head. It took her a second to recall where she was—in the hospital in Cabourg where the ambulances had taken Ian, Lucien, and Gerard after they’d arrived on the scene. The images and horror of what had occurred—the blood seeping from Ian’s wound, the arrival of the emergency personnel, being questioned by police at the hospital while she was so distracted, worrying about Ian and Lucien. Ian had lost consciousness while they’d been in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, amplifying her anxiety and fear. She’d worried he was wounded more severely than his manner led her to believe just following the shooting. He stabilized quickly once at the hospital, however, and was soon declared ready for surgery to extract the bullet in his shoulder.
It was now the second morning after the whole bizarre nightmare. Ian was recovering well following surgery. Lucien was fine, and was discharged from the hospital last evening soon after Elise had arrived. Gerard, on the other hand, had not yet regained consciousness. The doctors had been struggling to stabilize him before attempting surgery, but his condition was severe. The bullet had entered his abdomen, causing a great deal of internal organ damage and bleeding, but the trajectory had been upward, hitting one of his lungs as well.
The nurse last night had taken pity on Francesca when she saw her slumped in an upright chair near Ian’s bed. She’d refused to leave his side, despite Anne and James’s arrival and insistence she should check in to a hotel and get a few hours sleep. The nurse had encouraged Francesca to sleep in the extra bed in Ian’s room at around three-thirty in the morning. Once Ian had awakened following his surgery and conversed with her a little, she’d been better prepared to rest. She’d staggered over to the empty bed and fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
“No, of course I understand,” she heard Ian saying as she pushed herself off the mattress. She was heartened to hear that his voice sounded strong and rested, if concerned. “You needn’t have asked my permission. Of course you should go.”