When I'm With You: The Complete Novel (5 page)

He began to wonder about that, however, when Ian continued to sit in morose silence.

“I’ve been considering asking Francesca to marry me. In fact, I’m more than considering it. I plan to choose her ring tomorrow,” Ian said abruptly, his crisp, British-accented voice somehow not matching his almost tangible tension.

Lucien blinked. “That’s wonderful.”

“You’re surprised, aren’t you,” Ian stated, studying him from beneath a brooding brow.

“No. I know how much you two love each other. It’s a wonderful thing to witness, seeing you and Francesca together.” He didn’t flinch under Ian’s laser-like stare.

“You’re telling the truth, but still . . . you doubt that I could make a commitment like that. Deep down, you thought you and I were alike in that way.”

Lucien grinned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ian gave him a droll glance and stood, pacing in front of the desk and reminding Lucien very much of a trapped tiger. “We both like women, but neither of us has ever been the settling type. What about that woman—Zoe Charon? You were serious about her last year. But when her manager offered her a promotion in Minneapolis you let her go without a second glance.”

“That’s not true. I glanced.”

Ian gave him a skeptical look, but Lucien didn’t blanch. He
had
hesitated about letting Zoe Charon walk away last winter. He’d liked her a lot. But in the end, there was always an unavoidable rift between him and intimacy. Now more than ever.

“What has my past experience with women got to do with the fact that you’re considering asking Francesca to marry you?” Lucien wondered.

“Nothing, of course,” Ian said. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, fell again into one of the chairs, and crossed long legs. “It’s just that . . . I have never once in my life considered myself to be the marrying type. I’d assumed the same thing about you. Perhaps I was wrong?”

“No, you weren’t,” Lucien replied. “But again, I hardly see how my preferences—or shortcomings as a man—apply to you.”

“Because I have
more
shortcomings.”

“You worry that you can’t be faithful to Francesca?”

“No,” Ian responded grimly. “It’s not that at all. She’s everything I want. Another woman would never do, now that I’ve touched Francesca.”

Lucien experienced a flicker of envy.

“I don’t understand your hesitance, then. If you know you can be faithful to Francesca, what’s the problem?”

Ian grimaced and glanced away. Lucien sensed his hesitation . . . his bitterness. “I feel that I might poison her somehow after a lifetime of association with me. I thought you might understand. I know how ashamed you are of what your father did, of his crimes. I, too, have a sort of . . . taint on me that I feel I can’t make disappear. It’s in my blood,” he added irritably, glancing at Lucien. “I know. I realize how melodramatic I sound. But Francesca is so . . .”

“Fresh. Genuine. Lovely,” Lucien supplied when Ian faded off.

“She is light itself. And I’m not.”

For a second, neither of them spoke as Lucien absorbed Ian’s words. A powerful kinship with the other man rose in him, an amplification of a connection that neither of them spoke of but seemed to mutually sense from their first meeting. They shared dark souls, stained from the moment they first drew breath in this world.

“I just feel that if Francesca and I marry, no matter how happy we are, a dark cloud hovers on the horizon. My decision to bind her to me could change things, open up”—Ian paused as if trying to find the words—“
un sac de nœuds
.”

Lucien smiled sadly at the French phrase—a sack of knots. He thought of Elise out there in the kitchen. He sighed resignedly. Well, sometimes there was nothing for it. Knots must be untied, one by one, no matter how intimidating the task. He would not back down from his personal
sac de nœuds
now that it’d been shoved in his face so provocatively by gorgeously packaged trouble.

“Who isn’t afraid of the future when making such an important decision?” Lucien asked quietly. “You must believe in yourself and your ability to make your own fate. Everything else is bowing down to fear.”

A strange look came over Ian’s fierce expression, a distant light dawning in shadow. “You think it’s just a matter of cold feet then?”

“I do. You must trust in yourself. You must trust in Francesca.”

Ian’s glance was like a blue-skied storm. “In Francesca, I have complete trust.”

In myself, I have precious little.

Lucien remained seated as his friend gave his thanks and left the room, the unsaid words ringing like a familiar echo in his head, the voice his own—not Ian’s.

* * *

The lunch rush had died out by the time the elegantly dressed woman who had introduced herself as Sharon Aiken entered the kitchen.

“Lucien has asked to see you in his office, Ms. Martin.”

Elise paused in the process of arranging vegetables on a plate of grilled shrimp and pearl couscous.

“Can’t it wait?” she asked warily. She’d been expecting the summons from his royal highness, but that didn’t make hearing it now any easier.

“Lucien says Evan can finish up for you. There’s only one table left to serve. He says for you to report to him immediately. He has a polo match later this afternoon, and he wants to speak with you before you become involved in the dinner prep.”

“Of course,” Elise said, taking pains to keep her voice cool and professional when she noticed the pointed curiosity in Sharon’s expression. Obviously Lucien had warned the manager that Elise might try to wriggle out of a meeting with him.

You have given me no other choice. Consider your challenge accepted,
ma fifille.

The memory of Lucien’s low, ominous threat played back in her head for the hundredth time. Well, the moment had come. What was he going to say? What was he going to
do
about her bold decision to show up here today, pretending to be his new chef? Part of her still couldn’t believe she’d done it. Another part—the part that had stared hopelessly at the rundown décor in the Cedar Home Extended Stay Hotel last night—told her that she’d
had
to do something, no matter how crazy or brash, to try to keep her dream for a future from dying. She would not concede failure this time. Lucien was a fearsome presence, but he was a familiar face in a country full of strangers. He was furious at her, but he would help her when no one else would.

Wouldn’t he? He sent you away once before.

Yes, but he’d said something about the dinner prep to Sharon, as if he expected Elise to be completing her day there. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Her brain had been spinning in overdrive ever since Ian Noble had walked into the kitchen earlier. She’d sensed Lucien’s edginess, even though he’d outwardly appeared calm. The voice of the strange man she’d heard in Paris echoed yet again in her brain.

You’re not feeling guilty, are you? About what you plan to do with Noble?

Had Lucien relocated his entire life to Chicago because of
Ian Noble
? If so, why? What did Noble have that Lucien wanted? It made no sense to her, given everything she knew of Lucien. Lucien was an extremely wealthy man in his own right, so she couldn’t imagine that his motives were financially motivated. Although extreme wealth never vanquished greed. If anything, it did the opposite, she thought, reminded of Lucien’s father.

One thing was certain. Lucien hadn’t denied it when Ian assumed that Lucien had hired her as an interim chef. Clearly, Lucien hadn’t wanted the compelling billionaire to know about their past connection . . . or about what she’d overheard in Paris.

But what did Lucien’s father’s crimes have to do with Ian Noble?

She washed her hands, her anxiety mounting by the second. Irritation spiked through her when she saw that Sharon waited for her when she turned to wipe off her hands. Did she plan to escort her like a jailer to Lucien’s office?

“Thank you, I know the way,” she said, even though it was a lie. Mario had disappeared alone last night when he’d apparently gone to raid Lucien’s private store of premium cognac. She lifted her chin and breezed past the manager, noticing from the corner of her eye that Sharon followed her out of the kitchen. In the main dining room, she paused next to a busboy.

“Which way to Lucien’s office?” she muttered without moving her lips.

“All the way at the end of the rear hallway, last door on the left,” the busboy said so loudly that she grimaced and rolled her eyes.

She started down the long, empty hall, hearing the sounds of the restaurant becoming muted until she could hear only the throb of her escalated heartbeat in the thick silence. By the time she knocked on the massive carved door of Lucien’s office, she felt as if she were willingly walking to her own execution.

She started when the door whipped open suddenly. He looked dark and intimidating standing there, wearing a pair of black trousers that hung elegantly on his tall, athletic form, a dark gray shirt, a black and silver silk tie . . . and an unreadable expression. He nodded once and she entered the room, glancing around nervously at the masculine, luxurious office. The heavy door closed behind them with a loud click. She heard another snick of metal and spun around, alarmed.

“Did you just lock that door?” she asked, her already rapid heartbeat redoubling its tempo.

His nostrils flared slightly as he stared at her. “If you decide to stay, I think you’ll prefer that the door was locked.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come. Sit down,” he said, waving his hand at the chairs before his desk. She sat slowly, watching him warily as he leaned against the edge of his desk directly in front of her. He had beautiful thighs—long and powerful. She had a sudden urge to see them naked, to run her hands over the sleek, hard muscles, to absorb his strength. . . .

She blinked, shocked by the thought in this tense situation, and looked away. Feeling vulnerable, she thought the best defense might be a strong offense.

“Lucien, did you come to Chicago because of Ian Noble?”

“Of course I did,” he said. “He asked me to open the restaurant in his new tower. I did it as a personal favor to a friend.”

“How long have you two known each other?”

“I didn’t ask you back here to discuss Ian.”

“But why didn’t you deny to him that I was the interim chef?” she asked suspiciously.

“Why do you think?”

She glanced at his face skittishly.

“Because you didn’t want me to mention anything about our past association, your past identity . . . about your father?” It wasn’t precisely what she’d meant to say. She meant that conversation she’d overheard. On that night in Paris several years ago, she’d hidden in the rear entrance area of Renygat when she’d realized the mysterious German man was taking his leave, glimpsing only the back of the man as he left Lucien’s office. Then she’d approached Lucien, who was now alone in his office, and confronted him about what she’d overheard. He’d been furious at her when he realized she’d been eavesdropping on his conversation.

She didn’t want to specifically mention it presently for fear he’d send her away again.

His expression was bland. He crossed his arms below his chest and shifted his hips, bringing her attention downward to his crotch area. Her cheeks heated. Had he suggested she sit in the chair as he towered over her, his blatant masculinity right at eye level as a subtle power play? She wouldn’t put it past Lucien.

“Why should it matter to you what Ian Noble thinks?” she pushed.

“I own a business in his tower. It matters.”

“But I don’t think your father’s crimes say anything about—”

“What you think isn’t of consequence here. I had to make a decision quickly out there, given what you pulled, and I think it’d be the best—the cleanest—solution for no one here in Chicago to know about our past connection for now.”

She leaned back in the chair, considering. “No wonder you wanted me to disappear so fast last night,” she mused. What was Lucien up to? It made her uncomfortable. She didn’t like to think of Lucien getting himself into any trouble. And yet—this was powerful information that had fallen so unexpectedly into her lap. . . .

He narrowed his gaze, studying her. “Don’t even think about it, Elise.”

“Don’t even think about what?”

His gray eyes flashed. “Blackmail. Don’t give me that innocent look. You were thinking you have something to hold over my head now, something to use to control me. You were thinking that you would promise to keep quiet if I didn’t interrupt this fantasy-of-the-week of yours about becoming a chef.”

“I was thinking no such thing,” she lied hotly.

He laughed softly. “Do you think I’m a fool? I know how you operate. You learned manipulation from the cradle.”

“I’m just trying to make a life for myself, Lucien. A good life . . . an honest one. I’m willing to work hard. Have you truly grown so callous that you would turn your back on a friend?”

“Friend? You never had
friends.
You had sycophants that thronged around society’s aristocratic darling; you had the bucks lining up, panting to be the next one or two or three you chose for your bed—”

“How dare you!”

“You probably had the most elite drug dealers in the Corsican mafia at your beck and call—”

“I never used illegal drugs—or legal ones, for that matter.”

“My point is, you
never
had friends, Elise.”

She flung herself out of her chair.

“Well maybe I need one now.”

For a few seconds, they faced off in silence, her breathing slightly escalated. She listened to her heartbeat throb in her ears. He pinned her with his stare.

“I didn’t ask you into my office just now because I want to be your
friend
.”

She found herself staring at his hard, gorgeous mouth, wondering if she’d imagined what he’d said . . . his tone. She thought about what he’d proposed last night, when he’d dared her to stay there with him. Her gaze skittered to the door he’d locked and back to his face. Her heartbeat grew impossibly louder, until it felt like the thundering drum of it became her whole world. Was he saying what she
thought
he was saying?