When I'm With You: The Complete Novel (38 page)

Chapter Twelve

She fumbled in her backpack for her cell phone, starting to back out the door. She’d call the police and wait with the doorman downstairs until the authorities went up to check things out and hopefully arrest the interloper. Her cell phone screen flickered on. She’d missed a text from Lucien, she observed distractedly as she started to close the door behind her.

She halted the door when it was an inch from closing. Lucien’s message said that he’d rushed to finish his work and would be on a plane by six p.m. Paris time. Given the time difference, he’d have been in Chicago now for hours.

She warily reentered the penthouse and moved down the hallway, her tread silenced by the thick carpeting. A flicker of relief went through her when she heard Lucien’s voice, although she couldn’t make out exactly what he said. A moment later, she stood outside Lucien’s closed office door.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she heard Lucien say clearly.

“The prison lifestyle isn’t a healthy one.”

Elise’s mouth went dry. She’d been wrong to think the voice of the man Lucien spoke to was unfamiliar. She’d heard that German-accented voice once before, in Paris. It sounded like the same man Lucien spoke to that night she’d eavesdropped at Renygat.

Were they talking about Adrien Sauvage? Dear God, he wasn’t dead, was he?

She should back away. It was wrong to eavesdrop again. But what if she could learn something about Lucien’s secrets . . . about what was plaguing him? She held her breath, listening.

“I’ll say this for him. He never tried to blackmail any of you, and that’s twenty in all. The bastard hinted there was more, both to me and the police, although he was always coy and clever about offering anything of substance, lest it bring him to trial again.”

“Your powers of interview and interrogation must be huge. He opened up to you like no other.”

“He was vain. I was someone to brag to. Besides, it gave him a chance to learn about you. He soaked up that information.”

“And yet he refused to speak to me in person.”

“Perhaps he possessed a sliver of a conscience. His guilt wouldn’t let him face you.”

“That man didn’t know the meaning of guilt. What a sick fuck.”

Elise started at the amount of venom in Lucien’s usually level tone. He sounded intimidating in that moment. Frightening.

“Well, he’s gone now,” the man said.

“Too bad he couldn’t take his twisted legacy with him.” Her heart began to pound in the ensuing silence. What could make Lucien sound so bitter? Was Lucien truly that angry at his father that he would speak of him this way if he died? No . . . there was something about that possibility that didn’t fit somehow.

“What of the other matter? Do you think you’ll be able to locate the stolen funds?”

“The signs are good. I think I’ll have something to report to you by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good,” she heard Lucien say, something about his brisk tone making her think he was concluding the meeting. “Herr Schroeder, thank you again for coming to Chicago. As always, your thoroughness and quick execution is appreciated.”

“Not at all. I was in the States when you called, so it wasn’t difficult to meet with you. I’ll leave for Switzerland to continue the investigation and call you as soon as I know anything—”

Elise jumped when she heard a totally unexpected sound—a quick, light tread on the stairs that led to the rooftop deck. She hastened guiltily from her spot in front of Lucien’s office toward the master bedroom.

“Elise!” Maria Oronzo, Lucien’s maid, squeaked when she saw Elise standing in the hallway. Elise had met the friendly middle-aged woman several times before and got along well with her. “You startled me. Lucien told me you wouldn’t be home until later.”

Elise smiled, trying to look calm even through her heart was racing. “I was due to come home later, but—”

The door to Lucien’s office snapped open.

“Elise?”

She turned, her breath burning in her lungs. Lucien stepped into the hallway, his gaze boring into her. “You’re home early,” he said.

“So are you,” she murmured, unable to keep her eyes off him. He looked tall and awesome in the shadowed hallway, his white shirt and light eyes a contrast to his dark gray pants and black blazer. Stubble shadowed his jaw, giving him a dark . . . slightly dangerous air. Someone cleared their throat and Elise blinked, realizing it was Maria, and that she’d been staring at Lucien and he’d been staring back.

“I must be going,” she heard Herr Schroeder say from just inside Lucien’s office. “The plane you have ordered for me will be waiting.”

“I’ll be going, too,” Maria said, giving Lucien a nod. “Everything is ready, Lucien.”

“Thank you. Thank you both,” Lucien said, pulling his gaze off Elise and glancing into his office. “Maria, would you mind seeing Herr Schroeder out before you go?”

“Of course,” Maria said, smiling at Herr Schroeder as Lucien stepped aside and the other man walked out. Elise caught a glimpse of a silver-haired, elegantly dressed man of about sixty before Maria was leading him down the hallway. Lucien and she stared at each other without speaking. A moment later, Maria called a good-bye and the front door closed.

“Come in,” Lucien said. He nodded toward his office. Elise stepped inside the luxurious, masculine, leather-clad room. “Have a seat,” he murmured, waving at one of two leather wing-back chairs that faced each other, a toasty brown walnut table between them. Lucien sat across from her. Elise searched for what to say. Would he suspect she’d overheard part of his conversation with Herr Schroeder?

“He’s a private investigator.” Lucien spoke before she had decided how to broach what had just happened. “Herr Schroeder is looking into the location of the embezzled funds for me. As you likely already realize, he’s worked for me on several occasions in the past.”

“He’s the man I overheard you talking with in Paris years ago. Lucien, what’s going on? The man you mentioned dying in prison, it wasn’t Adrien, was it?” she asked, anguished.

He blanched. “No, of course not. I was referring to a man you don’t know. A man you have no connection to whatsoever, and never will.”

“Then what has that man—Herr Schroeder—got to do with Ian Noble? You two were discussing Ian in Paris years back, and then you came here to Chicago.
Please
tell me,” she added softly when she saw how glacial his stare became.

“How will I ever cure you of this proclivity for eavesdropping,” he mumbled after a moment.

“You seem to have a talent for it yourself,” she returned quickly, referring to catching him listening to Ian while he’d been on the phone. He frowned. She heard the brass clock on his desk ticking quietly in the ensuing silence. Lucien remained unmoving, his arms reclining loosely on the arms of the chair. His gaze on her didn’t waver. She sensed his tension despite his relaxed pose, sensed him studying her with that laser-like stare. Suddenly he stood.

“I need a drink,” he said, walking toward a sideboard with several decanters and glasses set on a tray. “Will you have a glass of cognac with me?”

“All right,” she said, even though she didn’t really want a drink. She was anxious to hear what Lucien would say. She watched him as he deftly poured the golden-brown liquid from a crystal decanter into two snifters.

“Do you remember years ago, in Nice, when you asked me if I was curious about my biological mother?” he asked a moment later as he came toward her with the glass in his hand.

She started in surprise before she accepted the snifter. “Yes. Of course. You said that you didn’t think about her often. That you had nothing to miss, never having a devoted mother figure.”

His smile struck her as poignant. “And you informed me you were adopted as well—just as confident and sure of yourself as a princess.”

“You told me that I was the spitting image of my mother. I was so hurt by that,” she said softly. “But then you reminded me that it was what was on the inside that counted . . . that I could choose who I wanted to be. I’ve always remembered that.”

He sat again and took a sip of his cognac. “Now here you are, creating a meaningful life, proving that there’s more to our destinies than our biology.”

Her cheeks heated in pleasure at his compliment. “You’re the one who first taught me that lesson.”

“And do you believe it?” he asked, his intensity mounting her confusion over his puzzling manner.

“Yes. I do. I think our parents influence us, but as human beings, we can choose what we want our life to mean. Lucien, what’s this all about? What does it have to do with that man—Herr Schroeder—and Ian Noble?”

He seemed to hesitate. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. He finally took another sip of cognac and set down his snifter on the table.

“During that same conversation in Nice, I told you that I didn’t think much about my biological mother. I wasn’t being completely honest with you.”

Something squeezed tight in her chest. “You
did
think about her, didn’t you? You wondered,” she said in a hushed voice.

“It wasn’t an easy topic for me to discuss. Then or now. Of course I wondered about the woman who bore me. What had made her give me up? What were the circumstances that she needed to? Did I have other family? Brothers? Sisters? Aunts? Uncles? Did I look like them? I wondered. Incessantly. I’ve been trying to find her for eight years now,” he admitted starkly.

“You have?”

He nodded slowly. Something about his rigid expression made compassion flood through her. She sat forward in her chair. “Have you found anything yet?”

He exhaled and shut his eyes briefly. She sensed his frustration. “Most leads have been dead ends, for one reason or another. I know a few things. I know that my mother gave me up for adoption in Cabourg, and that she was of Moroccan descent. Apparently, she worked as a domestic in northern France.”

“Moroccan. Moroccan and French. Fusion,” she muttered, her mind whirling. He’d been thinking of his ethnic heritage when he’d named his restaurant and designated the type of food to be served.

His hard mouth softened a fraction. “Yes. A moment of fancy on my part.”

“What else did you find out about her?”

“Bloody little,” he replied bitterly. “Herr Schroeder was unable to procure any helpful documents. We only found out what we know because of his careful, painstaking investigative work and interviews of people in Cabourg who worked in the hospital where my mother gave birth, in the adoption agency . . . and around the vicinity. The name she gave them at the hospital was an alias. My mother’s Moroccan accent was still very strong, leading the people who remembered her to believe she hadn’t been in France all that long. She spoke Arabic and English, but apparently very minimal French. She made an impression on many of the people she encountered, though. Apparently, she was very beautiful.”

“Of course she was. Look at you,” Elise said with a tremulous smile.

“Two of the nurses formed attachments to her. They remembered how frightened she was. How alone. She was very young.”

“How terrible for her. She must have been so afraid, with her homeland and family so far away. Do you . . .” Elise hesitated, studying every nuance of his face. “Do you have any indication she’s still alive?”

“The chances are, she is. She was likely in her late teens when she had me. She’d still be in her forties . . . fifty at the oldest.”

“Lucien, I can’t believe you’ve been going through all this.” She set down her snifter and stood, going to him. She sat on the edge of his chair and hugged him. He returned her embrace, tightening his hold until she slid into his lap. Her cheek pressed against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her upper arm.

“Is Herr Schroeder still trying to locate her?” Elise asked after a moment, not lifting her head from his chest.

“His investigation is ongoing,” she heard him say, his deep voice reverberating from his chest into her cheek. She sat up slightly when he brushed his fingertips beneath her chin and applied a slight pressure. She met his stare, sensing he was about to tell her something important.

“We do have one lead. A crucial one.”

“What?”

“One of Herr Schroeder’s most important witnesses told him that there is a single individual who could likely give me the true name and background of my mother. That person is Helen Noble, Ian Noble’s mother.”

Elise’s mouth fell open. “But . . . wasn’t Ian’s mother the daughter of the Earl of Stratham? I met the earl and countess once at a charity function in London. I thought I’d heard that their only child had died, and that Ian’s grandmother and grandfather raised Ian.”

Lucien nodded. “That is what Ian tells people. Helen Noble is still alive, though. I first suspected it from some cryptic comments Ian made after we became friends in Paris. I sensed his sadness when he spoke of his mother, his bitterness . . . his grief, as if his feelings for her and what had happened to her were fresh emotions, not the far-distant memories of a ten-year-old boy. Between Herr Schroeder and myself, we discovered that she is, indeed, alive. I came to Chicago to see if I could uncover anything else about Helen and her fate. We’ve located her whereabouts in London.”

“But . . . why would
Helen Noble
know about your biological mother?” Elise asked.

“She worked for Helen. She was her maid. Apparently she only left her service when she discovered she was pregnant with me.”

“Have you spoken with Helen then?” Elise asked, thoughts racing through her head. “And
why
would Ian and his grandparents say that Helen was dead?”

“She’s very ill,” Lucien said quietly. “Very fragile. The hospital where Ian has her being cared for is private, with very high security. In fact, Ian owns the facility. It’s impossible to get inside unless you’re staff, family, or an invited guest. As for why Ian says his mother is dead, I don’t believe it was he who first fabricated that story. He was only ten years old when he went to live with his grandparents. His grandparents must have told him his mother was dead to save him the anguish of seeing her so unwell. I don’t know when Ian found out the truth about her.”