“Lucien’s been telling me about your concept for the restaurant. Sounds very interesting,” Ian said as the phone on his desk began to ring. He made no move to answer it. “I have a friend from my college days who is a recovering alcoholic, and he’s told me point-blank he finds the sight of alcohol and people drinking challenging. I worry at times, meeting him out at restaurants. And as you can see”—he nodded toward the well-stocked sideboard against the wall that contained several crystal decanters of cognac, brandy, and bourbon—“this is hardly a safe meeting environment, either. I have to ask Mrs. Hanson to move all the alcohol before I have him here.”
“Speaking of Mrs. Hanson, she must be busy. I’ll get the phone,” Francesca said.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” Ian said, standing. He caressed Francesca’s shoulder warmly as he passed. Lucien came around the table as well, and the three of them sat down on the facing sofas, Francesca across from them.
“When do you think you’ll be able to open the new hotel?” Francesca asked.
“Probably not for at least a year. It requires extensive rehab,” Lucien replied, draping his arm over the back of the couch and skimming his fingertips across Elise’s upper arm. Her skin prickled beneath his touch and she met his gaze. It seemed so strange—and wonderful—to have him touch her in public so comfortably.
“Plus I have to finish my training—”
She cut off short at a sharp question from Ian, who stood behind his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. Alarm swooped through Elise when she saw his fixed expression of shock. His face had gone very pale next to the contrast of his dark hair.
“But how did this happen, Julia? She was stable when we spoke yesterday,” Ian said loudly.
“Oh no . . .” Francesca whispered, standing and staring at Ian. Elise glanced at Lucien anxiously, but he was also looking at Ian, his brow furrowed.
“Was it because of this new medication? Is that what’s causing her liver to fail?” A horrible pause. “Of course you can say definitively. What else could have caused it?” he demanded. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m able,” Ian said tensely after a moment. He hung up the phone. Lucien slowly stood and Elise rose next to him. Francesca remained frozen in place, a wide-eyed stare of anxious dread on her face as she watched Ian approach. Ian’s gaze bore into Francesca, and it was as if Lucien and Elise weren’t even in the room.
“My mother is experiencing acute liver failure,” he said, the stark, hollow quality of his voice indicative of shock. “Julia told me she likely only has days to live.”
“Oh my God,” Francesca whispered, reaching for him. Ian stepped back, though. Francesca’s hand fell in the air before his chest. He looked like a man who had just had his soul stripped from him . . . a man who thought he didn’t deserve the solace of his lover’s touch. “It’s my fault. I agreed to that godforsaken medication.”
“Ian, don’t say that. You had no choice. She was refusing to eat,” Francesca implored.
Ian’s gaze flickered over to Lucien and Elise. Elise felt like an interloper on an intensely private moment of grief.
“I’m sorry, Lucien. You must think this is all odd. I led you to believe my mother was dead—”
“That’s the last thing you should be concerned about right now,” Lucien said. “Besides, I suspected she was alive.”
Ian’s gaze narrowed. For some reason, Elise’s pulse began to throb at her throat. The atmosphere of the room suddenly felt charged by the unexpected turn of events.
“Why would you suspect that?” Ian asked slowly.
Lucien looked entirely calm, but Elise sensed his rising tension. Her thoughts were coming a mile a minute as she stared at his stoic profile. What must he be thinking? The one link to his mother was about to be silenced forever . . .
“Lucien?” Ian prodded.
“Just tell him,” Elise said. “It might be your only chance.”
Elise’s eyes widened in horror when Lucien looked over at her, a startled expression in his eyes. Had those pressured words really come out of her mouth?
“Just tell me what?” Ian said, taking a step toward them.
A muscle jumped in Lucien’s cheek.
“Lucien? Tell me what?” Ian prompted, louder this time.
Lucien inhaled slowly. “I have good reason to believe that your mother knows the identity of my biological mother.”
For a terrible moment, the silence rung in her ears. Francesca looked startled, but Ian and Lucien seemed eerily calm.
“Why in the world would you think that?” Ian asked.
Lucien gave the other man a searching look before he spoke. “I learned it from my biological father,” he said evenly. “A man named Trevor Gaines. I hired a private investigator years ago to discover the identity of my biological mother, and the trail led him to where Trevor Gaines resided—Fresnes Prison.”
Elise’s heart felt as if it stopped beating for several seconds as she stared at Lucien’s profile, aghast. This isn’t what she’d expected him to say.
Ian’s reaction was possibly stranger than Elise’s. His cobalt-blue eyes looked like glowing slits between narrowed lids. He reminded her a little of a sleepwalker as he took a step toward Lucien. All the color had left his face, but his expression was strangely focused and rapt upon Lucien, almost as if he existed in a particularly lucid dream . . . or a nightmare that was unfolding fully for the first time.