“What has Trevor Gaines got to do with my mother?” he asked, a sandpapery quality to his voice.
“We can discuss it at another time,” Lucien said after a moment. “You don’t look well. You’re in shock, and I’m sure you want to make arrangements to go to London.”
“How do you know my mother is in London?”
Francesca stepped forward and put a hand on Ian’s arm. “Ian, Lucien’s right. This isn’t the time—”
“How do you know?” Ian repeated harshly, his gaze still locked with Lucien’s. There was a strange paradox to him of wild desperation covered by a steely armor of complete control. Only his blazing eyes and pallor betrayed his internal battle. Lucien seemed entirely calm as the target of that focused torment—almost as if he thought he deserved it. For a moment, he just stared at Ian, not saying anything, seeming to gauge his options given the unexpected turn of events.
“I know all about Helen,” Lucien said finally. “As I said, I hired a private investigator years ago to discover the identity and whereabouts of my mother. Helen Noble was identified as being a key to the answers I was seeking. I’ve known where she was since last year—”
“You were spying on me,” Ian said.
Elise glanced from Lucien to Ian and back to Lucien again. A shivery feeling went through her, as if someone had poured ice water over her, starting at the top of her head. She’d noticed it before, but idly—their height and build, their self-containment, the similar nuances of their profiles.
“Ian, please,” Francesca urged. “This hardly seems like the time or place. You’re in shock over your mother.”
“You were spying on me, weren’t you?” Ian demanded.
“Yes. I admit it.”
“I ought to call the police right now,” Ian hissed. “Why? Why were you doing it?”
“For two purposes only. Whether or not my reasons seem mercenary and selfish, you’ll have to be the judge. One, I needed to discover the whereabouts of the woman who might provide me with unanswered questions. I didn’t think you would easily open up to me about your mother if I just asked. Two, I wanted to get to know you better personally.”
“Why would you want to get to know me better?” Ian asked angrily, looking offended.
“Because family is very important to me,” Lucien replied. “And for better or for worse, you’re the only blood family I know of at this point. You’re my half brother, Ian.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ian collapsed heavily onto the leather couch. For a moment, all four of them didn’t speak. The silence seemed to press on Elise’s chest, making breathing difficult. Ian looked like he’d just been clobbered, but Elise also sensed his mind working . . . churning . . . sifting for answers.
“Trevor Gaines?” he finally asked Lucien.
Lucien nodded once. Elise had never seen him look so sober.
Francesca went and sat down next to Ian. Ian numbly took her hand and squeezed it.
“What was Gaines in prison for?” Ian croaked.
“I’m not sure you want to know that right now,” Lucien said.
Francesca’s face looked ashen. Something flashed in her dark eyes as she stared at Lucien’s solemn face.
“I agree. Of course we’ll have to hear more about this, but later. We need to go to London, Ian.”
Ian looked into Francesca’s face. She saw the sleety misery in his eyes when he gazed upon his fiancée . . . the dawning emptiness.
“I want to know,” Ian said. “I’ve wanted to know about the son of a bitch that was my father for most of my life. You know that, Francesca.”
“Whoever your biological father was won’t change who you are,” Elise heard Francesca whisper in a pressured fashion.
“It was for rape, wasn’t it?” Ian rasped, seeming not to have heard Francesca. “Trevor Gaines was a rapist.”
A wave of dizziness struck Elise in the short pause that followed. She didn’t know if she swayed or not, but suddenly Lucien was staring at her, his hand on her elbow. She sat automatically when he lowered her to the couch.
“He was indicted on two counts of rape, but by all accounts he was probably guilty of more. It was only the two they had sufficient evidence on to prosecute. But there’s something else. I might as well tell you,” Lucien said. “Now that you know his name, you’ll find out soon enough. In addition to being a rapist, Gaines was a serial reproductionist.”
“What’s that?” Elise asked when no one spoke. Lucien glanced down at her. What she saw in his eyes made her want to weep: a hopeless sadness, a bitter disgust that could never be purged.
“A serial reproductionist has a sick obsession with impregnating women. He does it by seduction and craft—by discovering women’s cycles and sabotaging birth control, perhaps weakening a condom to ensure it breaks during intercourse, increasing the likelihood of impregnation. He might compulsively give sperm for insemination. When his means fall short, he might resort to rape. Trevor Gaines used all three tactics, and quite possibly others that we aren’t aware of. The police suspect that he impregnated close to twenty women, although Gaines often bragged to Herr Shroeder—the private investigator I hired—that there were more. Many more. We were like trophies to him.”
Nausea struck Elise when she realized the we Lucien referred to was all of Trevor Gaines’s offspring.
“Until you understand the psychological profile of such a man, it’s very difficult to comprehend his motives and actions . . . and even then . . .” Lucien shook his head.