She gave him a fleeting glance as he worked the shirt off his arms.
“I don’t know,” she said, grasping behind her on the bed. She stood and slipped the black cashmere overcoat that he’d once bought her over her nakedness. He didn’t like it. Her naked body was a blessing to his eyes—curving, firm, exquisitely feminine, the very shape and form of his dreams. He looked forward to laying her on that bed and returning all the pleasure she’d just given him in spades. He caught her hand, scowling. She’d better not be planning on running off again—
“That’s not an answer, Francesca.”
She sighed, seeming to genuinely struggle to explain herself. “I meant it, I don’t know why I feel different. For all I know, I will be angry at you again sometime soon for leaving the way you did. But something . . . happened.”
“What happened?” he demanded, still holding her hand.
“I talked to your grandmother and she . . .”
“What?” he asked. He pulled her into his lap, disliking her distance. He opened the coat impatiently, exposing her naked breasts, belly, and thighs to his gaze, an admittedly cavemanlike gesture to demonstrate her availability to him . . . a probably useless but stark reminder of their intimacy. His love for her swelled when he saw her small smile. She really did understand him shockingly well. He opened his hand at the side of her jaw and tilted her face toward his in a silent prompt to continue.
“She seems to understand you better than I do,” she said, perhaps a little regretfully, her fragrant breath softly fanning his face.
His eyebrows tilted up. “I think we both know it’s not the same. She’s my grandmother. Not my lover.”
“Am I? Your lover?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.
“Always,” he said, brushing his lips against hers. “Whether you’re in my arms or not.”
He saw her swallow thickly and wondered if she fought back tears. Her voice was strong enough, however, when she continued.
“Anne reminded me of how you always need focus . . . have to have a clear picture . . . concise understanding. I don’t agree with you in thinking that Trevor Gaines is somehow important, Ian. I think you give him far too much significance.”
“I know you think that,” he replied evenly, his thumb brushing her cheek.
“But I do understand how comprehending your past is so crucial to you.”
Their stares held. Her dark brown eyes glistened. “I know you’ve been suffering, and I hate the idea, with everything I’m worth, of you doing it alone. I haven’t stopped being furious at you for shutting me out.”
“But?” he prompted quietly.
“But I’m tired of pretending that your actions are incomprehensible to me,” burst out of her throat. “Because I love you doesn’t give me the right to demand that you be different than what you are . . . who you are. Because I disagree with you, and because I believe you’re dealing with your grief in a self-defeating way doesn’t change the fact that I love you. And always will.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Ian wasn’t sure he breathed.
“If I were to be honest with myself,” she continued in a more measured, hushed tone, “I would have to say that it didn’t entirely shock me, your reaction over Trevor Gaines and your mother’s death. I may not agree with how you dealt with your grief, but I understand it. I understand you. I can’t go around pretending self-righteousness when your biggest crime was not grieving in the way I wanted you to grieve, in a way that was convenient for me.”
He studied her flushed cheeks and slightly averted eyes. He wanted to thank her, but he found it hard for some reason. His voice box had stopped working. He stroked her face, and maybe she understood, because she turned and kissed his palm.
“That doesn’t mean I think you should go off and obsess about Trevor Gaines,” she added with a sharp glance.
“I’m not obsessing about him,” he said, finding his voice. “I want to understand my origins, Francesca.”
“Granted,” she replied. “But I can’t agree with you that it’s a positive step, Ian. I think it’s a futile, senseless search into the past, one that’s compromising your future. I only have to look at you to know that it’s hurting you, not helping.”
“I disagree,” he said, despising the necessity to differ with her in this moment when she was being so much more generous than he deserved.
She studied his face. He met her stare, determined not to flinch in this, but it took more effort than he liked.
“You’re still not going to tell me what you were doing, precisely, are you?” she whispered.
“I can’t. Not you, above all else,” he said, unable to keep misery from entering his tone. What Lucien had said was true. He accepted that now. If he told Francesca about the dirty, ugly search in that hovel of a mansion, if he told her what he’d discovered thus far, she’d be furious . . . disgusted. She thought she understood him, but she wouldn’t understand that. He knew she would beg him not to go back to Aurore alone. He knew he would listen to her above all else . . . and he just might concede to her wishes.
She shut her eyes, and he sensed her pain. He was dimming her glorious, light-infused spirit. God, he hated this. He pulled her against him, her head against his face, and inhaled the scent of her hair. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he would go. He’d monitor her well-being from a distance, perhaps hire a bodyguard to protect her. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than he had, but he couldn’t say what she needed to hear. Not yet he couldn’t. But before he could utter a word, she struggled to get off his lap and stand.