Francesca’s throat swelled uncomfortably. How horrible she was, not to have visited Mrs. Hanson or even called. She knew how much the housekeeper doted on Ian. She must be so lonely.

“I look forward to seeing her then,” Francesca said, her heart beating very fast. When she noticed Lucien’s gaze on her, she knew her anxiety hadn’t escaped him.

“Will you be there, too, Lucien?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not. Elise is returning from Paris this evening after a visit to her parents.”

“Please give her my love,” Francesca said regretfully, thinking of all the concerned e-mails and texts she’d trashed from Lucien’s vibrant, beautiful wife. Francesca’s friend. Pain rushed through her as if a floodgate had been opened. She’d even missed Elise and Lucien’s wedding.

“I will do that,” Lucien said, his brow furrowing. He clearly saw her sudden distress. He quickly strode toward her and took her hand.

“Lucien, I’m sorry—” she began, her voice cracking when he pulled her to the far side of the sprawling office.

“Don’t be. I understand. We all do,” he interrupted quietly. He glanced at the others, who were chatting in subdued tones several feet away. She swallowed down her sudden swell of emotion with effort.

“It just struck me all of the sudden that I’ve never asked you about your mother,” she said in a thick voice, searching his face. When Lucien had broken his life-altering news that he and Ian were half brothers, one result had been Ian’s plunge into darkness. The other, much happier one, was that Helen Noble, who had been Lucien’s mother’s employer for a period of time, had been able to tell Lucien his biological mother’s name and the location of the city where her family resided in Morocco. “Have you found her, Lucien?”

His sudden smile was a familiar flash of brilliance that made her chest ache, but heartened her as well. “Yes. Elise and I located her together last summer. Not only her. My grandmother, my grandfather, an aunt and uncle who both have huge families. My mother never married, so I don’t have any brothers and sisters in Morocco, but I have more cousins than I can count. My mother is well. It was a very . . . special moment, meeting her for the first time. She’s been to visit Elise and me twice already, and we’ve made several trips back.”

She drank in his exultant expression like a much-needed medicine. Yes, she’d been avoiding the pain by shutting herself off from those she cared about, but she’d missed out on some wonderful things in the process as well.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said feelingly. “An entire family—all in one fell swoop.”

“It is pretty amazing,” he agreed.

“You deserve it, Lucien.”

His focus narrowed on her. “Francesca, listen,” he continued in a pressured tone. “I’m at your disposal in regard to this deal. In regard to anything,” he said pointedly, eyebrows arched. “All you have to do is call, and I’ll come by or do whatever you need to make sure you’re comfortable making this decision.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I definitely will call you after I’ve read over the proposal and contract. I want to hear about these potential risks you spoke of.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Lucien cupped her shoulder with his hand.

“Are you sure you want to go to Ian’s penthouse?” he murmured, for her ears only.

“No,” she said. “But if I keep running from my past, I’ll never have a future.”

Lucien said nothing, his gray eyes looking concerned in his otherwise somber face.

* * *

Francesca accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Hanson with a smile and shoved back a mound of papers.

“It’s chamomile. It’ll help you sleep. You look like you could use it. I’ve never seen you so thin, and you look tired,” Mrs. Hanson said, her gaze moving concernedly over her face.

“Thank you. You take such good care of me,” Francesca said, taking a sip of the soothing, hot liquid, hoping to make light of Mrs. Hanson’s maternal worry.

The four of them—Gerard, James, Anne, and she had convened in Ian’s large library-office following dinner in order to get down to work. Anne sat near the fireplace, reading portions of the proposal through a pair of stylish glasses, a knitted afghan spread across her knees. James and Gerard sat at the oval table with Francesca, perusing different portions of the contract and pausing frequently to answer Francesca’s queries. They never once grew impatient with what she suspected were very novicelike questions. Their kind support humbled her.

“We’ve been at it for hours,” Gerard said, leaning his long body back in the chair and accepting the tea from Mrs. Hanson with a gracious thank-you. He checked his watch. “It’s two in the morning. You do look dead on your feet, Francesca. You should rest. We can resume picking this apart in the morning.”

“I am a little sleepy,” Francesca said, rubbing her eyes and feeling the burn. Mrs. Hanson glanced at her hesitantly.

“I had originally thought to put you in the blue room,” the housekeeper said, referring to a guest room with which Francesca was familiar. “But Gerard thought—”

“You’re the rightful mistress of this home, so the master suite is yours,” Gerard interrupted. “I had been staying in it, but I moved everything out earlier, and Mrs. Hanson has readied it for you.”

Anne’s head came around sharply. “I hadn’t realized that,” she called across the room, sounding mildly alarmed. “Gerard, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“No?” Gerard asked, bewildered. He looked at Francesca, realization dawning. “It will only take us a moment to switch. I was only thinking of your comfort. Many of your things are still in there . . .” he faded off.

“Of course you were. Thank you,” Francesca said, giving both Gerard and Anne a reassuring smile. “I’m not that fragile. But I am tired. I’ll say good night.” She stood and went to Anne, kissing her cheek.

She was proud of herself for walking so calmly out of the room.

* * *

She paused in front of the elaborately carved wood door of Ian’s suite, memories assailing her. She could see Ian’s arresting face as he looked down at her, desire gleaming in his eyes, speaking in a hushed tone.

“You’ve never done anything like this before, have you?” he’d asked.

“No,” she replied, equally as anxious as she was excited. “Is that all right with you?”

His mouth had twisted slightly in an expression she’d since identified as irritation at something he considered a personal weakness. “It wasn’t at first. I want you so much, I’ve had to come to terms with your innocence, however.”

She’d taken that step across the threshold that night into a world of untold emotional challenges and sensual delights . . . into a realm of indescribable love. Her life had changed forever.

And here she stood again, now as empty and bereft as the rooms where Ian had once lived and breathed and loved.

He had loved, hadn’t he?

Finding the question unbearable, she inhaled for courage and twisted the knob. The door swung open.

It looked much as it ever had: the luxurious seating area before the fireplace, the rare paintings, the decadently rich four-poster bed, the lush fresh flower arrangement behind the couch, this one of white hydrangeas and purple lilies. She couldn’t imagine how it all could look so familiar and unchanged, when she felt so different.

Five minutes later, she walked out of the bathroom, hesitating by a gleaming, antique writing desk. Moving quickly, as if she knew she must endure the pain but wanted to get it over with, she opened a narrow drawer. She flipped back a folded square of black silk and stared, her breath lodged in her lungs, at the exquisite platinum and diamond ring. She recalled perfectly how cool the metal felt as Ian had slipped it on her finger, the sound of his low, rough voice uttering those precious words forever burned into her memory.

Yes, she’d replied simply, the vision of Ian blurring through a veil of tears.

I’m afraid I’m being selfish, he’d said starkly.

She blinked and his image came into focus. Loving is never selfish. You’re taking a risk. Don’t think I don’t know it. Personally, I think it’s the least selfish thing you’ve ever done, she’d whispered, touching his hard jaw, wishing she could soften him . . . make it so that he was just a little gentler on himself.

The drawer slammed shut.

She sat on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but the tank top she’d had on under her blouse and a pair of panties. She had nightgowns in the dressing room, but she was too weary to go in there tonight, too fragile to inhale Ian’s scent. The smell that lingered there was one she always associated most with him—his spicy, unique cologne, the fresh-laundered fragrance of his dress shirts, the leather from the rows upon rows of shoes, the cedar scent from the hangers and shoe trees.

She’d dare the closet tomorrow. Tonight, she used all her resources just to perch on the bed where they’d slept in each other’s arms, whispered endearments, and made love countless times.

It hurt so much, but for some reason, she craved that pain tonight.

She shut out the bedside lamp and hurried beneath the covers before she could second-guess herself. This was good for her, she told herself. Therapeutic to confront her memories head on. Maybe after she’d stayed here for another night or two while they hashed out the details of the Tyake acquisition, she’d gain some perspective . . . some freedom for herself. It wasn’t unlike visiting a grave, was it? She needed to accept the emptiness of this suite, of this bed.