She laughed and his smile widened. It felt so good, sharing a lover’s inside joke with him.

“May I come along?” she asked impulsively.

He hesitated, glancing at the heavy, carved front door. She had the impression he’d rather keep her behind that locked entrance.

“It’ll be a quick trip, and boring to boot,” he warned.

“No it won’t. I’ll be with you.”

His mouth tilted. His gaze was so warm on her. He was considering denying her, nevertheless; she could tell. She went up on her toes, brushing the front of her body against his solid form, and pressed her mouth to his, shameless in her attempt to convince him. That’s all it took, and his arms were satisfyingly surrounding her as he took control, returning her kiss with blistering heat.

“You shouldn’t take so much pride in being convincing,” he said a moment later, his gaze scanning her face. Her toes had curled from his kiss. She forced them to relax now while she waited anxiously to see if he’d take her along.

Triumph zipped through her blood when he sighed, took her hand and led her to the front door.

* * *

The front door closed. Gerard walked out from behind the grand staircase and crossed the hall. He opened a paneled door and slipped into James’s private office. It was empty. He walked over to James’s large desk—an antique that had been passed from one Earl of Stratham to the next for the past five generations. It should have been one of Gerard’s many belongings when James was gone. As things stood, although Gerard would be the next earl, James had decreed that this treasured desk along with everything else would be Ian’s.

The Noble ancestors must be turning in their graves.

Screw James, Gerard thought as he slid open the right-hand drawer and lifted the lid of a red leather box. He smiled grimly upon seeing what was stored there.

He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Brodsik’s number.

“This is it. They’re going into town. Francesca is with him,” he merely said when a man answered the phone. He listened, frowning. “You idiot. I told you to stay close by to take advantage whenever the opportunity arose. Well it’s not my fault you partnered with a fool. How do I know where Stern has disappeared to? He’s your friend. No, no,” Gerard interrupted bitterly. “I will not discuss your little blackmail scheme at the moment.” He was outraged at the concept of a such a grubby, moronic criminal trying to manipulate him, but Brodsik would pay. In fact, Stern had already outlived his use, and Brodsik would very soon.

He paused, listening to Brodsik’s defense for asking him for extra money beyond his fee. “Well I’d certainly call it a bribe, considering you’re threatening me with exposure if I don’t agree to your demands,” Gerard replied wryly. “I’ve told you I’d have your money tomorrow. It takes more than a few hours to come up with that much cash. For now, do you still work for me, or not?” He paused, his mouth curled into a snarl. “Good. You know what to do right now. You’ll have time to make it back to Stratham while they’re at the tailor in town. Noble shouldn’t be in there for more than an hour. The sun will still be up if you get your ass back here quick enough. Remember, I want Francesca to see you. What? Yes, we’re still meeting tonight at the usual place in town. I’ll have a Belford passkey for you. Were you able to purchase it?” He listened for a moment. “Good, because you’ll need that gun tomorrow, won’t you?”

He hung up and checked his watch. He had at least an hour, probably closer to two. Ian’s paranoia was such that he locked the door to his suite even in his childhood home. Whatever he kept on his computer must be valuable, indeed. In his illicit observance thus far, Gerard saw little else being kept in the room that might warrant so much caution on Ian’s part. Most of Gerard’s allotted time would be spent using his inexpert knowledge of lock picking to get past the door. Still, the locks on the Belford suites were not complicated mechanisms, intended for privacy from servants more than actual security. He’d manage it, he thought grimly as he hurried up the stairs.

* * *

She enjoyed the short visit to the tailor, not at all agreeing with Ian’s warning that she’d find it boring. What could be boring about watching a beautiful, sexy man be expertly fitted for a suit?

Mr. Rappaport, the owner of the haberdashery, seemed very eager indeed to provide a service to the Earl of Stratham’s illustrious grandson. Francesca came to understand that he’d occasionally made suits for Ian when he was a child and young man. Mr. Rappaport pulled a chair up for Francesca in the luxurious working area outside the dressing rooms. He politely provided her with a magazine and a cup of tea, which held her interest, until Ian came out of the dressing area, that is, and stood in front of the triple mirrors. The magazine article was forgotten as she watched the gray-haired tailor—who was so petite, Ian looked like a giant in comparison to him—scuttle about, taking measurements and marking up the suit. Ian lifted his stark white shirt while the tailor took his waist measurement, and Francesca’s attention redoubled. The pants hung on his frame loosely, emphasizing his lean, cut abdomen and the narrow trail of dark hair that ran from his taut belly button beneath the waistband of the pants.

Ian had been present on several occasions when he’d had dressmakers come and fit her for clothing, and had somehow found his quiet, focused observance of the ritual arousing. She’d never had the privilege of watching him endure the process, however.

She sensed Ian’s eyes on her in the mirror as Mr. Rappaport began to measure his inseam.

“And you dress to the left, if I recall correctly?” the tailor asked briskly.

“Correct,” Ian said, holding Francesca’s stare. She frowned slightly, confused by the tailor’s question. It took her a second to puzzle out that the tailor was asking which way Ian’s cock rode in his pants, so as to allot for the volume in his measurements. Ian must have noticed her eyes widening as understanding struck, because she saw his lips tilt in amusement in the mirror.

After he’d finished, Mr. Rappaport scurried out of the dressing area when an assistant called to him. Francesca blinked in surprise at the vision of Ian stalking over to her, now wearing only the trousers and a partially buttoned shirt.

Her breath caught. She recognized that gleam in his blue eyes.

He leaned down, trapping her by placing his hands on the arms of the velvet chair. He swooped, capturing her mouth in a scalding kiss that soon had her forgetting where they were and everything but his possessive mouth and addictive taste.

“You’re going to get it later, for getting me hard while I was in such a vulnerable situation,” he muttered against her lips a moment later.

“I was just watching,” she defended breathlessly.

He stood, his absence disorienting her.

“It was enough. Plenty,” he added with a hard glance before he walked behind a door to change. Mr. Rappaport scurried back into the room a few seconds later, immune to her flushed cheeks and erratic breathing.

When Ian had finished at the haberdasher, they got some coffee to go at a quaint little tea shop and returned to the car. She relished in Ian’s relatively relaxed mood. While Ian was never one to smile frequently, she was encouraged to see his small half grin with increasing regularity. Was he, perhaps, rising out of this pervasive depression that seemed to have weighted his spirit since his mother had died? It struck her that while they had danced around the incendiary topic of Trevor Gaines, they’d carefully avoided the sad topic of Helen’s unexpected death last summer.

She studied him driving as they left the town of Stratham behind and headed for Belford on the narrow country road, the setting sun casting his profile in a reddish-gold glow.

“Ian, where are you keeping your mother’s ashes?” she asked, referring to the fact that Helen had requested in one of her more lucid periods to be cremated.

He glanced at her swiftly, his blue eyes cool in his sunlit face.

“Grandmother has them. She’s holding them for me. I didn’t want to take them where I was going.”

She absorbed his answer for a moment, blindly staring at the frozen-looking road before them.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

The silence swelled. She glanced at him reluctantly. He stared fixedly out the windshield. Her throat felt tight. She could guess at how much guilt he carried for his decision to give permission for Helen to receive a medication that possibly had led to her liver failing, and ultimately death.

“You’ve given permission dozens of times over the years for medication changes and alterations in your mother’s treatment. She was very ill. She wasn’t eating. The medication was supposed to not only help with her depression and psychosis, but also increase her appetite. It was the doctor’s recommendation, Ian,” she said when she saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. “She would have died if she didn’t start eating more.”

“They could have kept her alive with a feeding tube,” he said.

“Yes. They could have, I suppose. But the doctor recommended this course of action first, and I agreed with her recommendation. I know you did, too. You didn’t want her kept alive on a feeding tube. You wanted to make a decision that respected her rights as a human being as much as you could. There’s no way you could have known the reaction she’d have to that medication. The fact of the matter is, there’s no clear-cut proof her decline was due to that medicine. You know how ill she was . . . how weak.”