When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine 2)

“No. What is it?” Elise asked, the back of her neck prickling with awareness.

“Helen Noble was able to give him his mother’s name. At first, she couldn’t. She was barely conscious when they first arrived. But she rallied just a bit before she passed and became somewhat lucid. Ian and his grandparents got to say their good-byes.” A sad expression settled on her face. “Apparently, even though she was so weak, and so easily disorganized from her psychosis, she seemed to recognize something about Lucien. It sounds as if she’d been very fond of Lucien’s mother, because she smiled and reached for him, and said his mother’s name. It’s funny, the memories that can linger so sharply, even in a mind that was so ravaged like Helen’s.”

“That’s amazing that she connected him to his mother without ever seeing him before . . . like a miracle,” Elise breathed. “He must look so much like her. And what is it? What’s her name?”

“Fatima,” Francesca said. “Fatima Rabi, I believe he said her name was. Helen Noble was even able to give him the name of the town where she’d grown up in Morocco. With that, and her name, there’s a good chance he’ll be able to find her . . . or at least other members of his family.”

Her heart leapt and then throbbed as she thought of Lucien getting his prize. “He must have been so happy . . . so relieved to get that news. All these years, he’s waited for it. He’s waited for family. I know it came at a heavy price, with Helen passing, but . . .”

Francesca tightened her hand on Elise’s.

“Lucien’s search had nothing to do with Helen Noble’s illness or death. Absolutely nothing. He may not see it right now, Elise, but if it hadn’t been for you setting off that chain of events, he would never have his mother’s name. He would never have had even the remotest opportunity to meet her. Helen Noble was the last link. Because of you, he’s been given that chance.”

Elise made a show of smiling. She was ecstatic that Lucien had a clearer path to his biological mother. But she couldn’t help feeling bereft as well, knowing he was likely on his way to Morocco even as she and Francesca spoke.

Not knowing when she’d see him again . . . if ever.

* * *

She returned to finish her duties at Fusion after talking to Francesca. When she arrived at the penthouse late that night, she stood in the opened doorway to the bedroom suite. Since Lucien’s absence, the room had taken on a funereal feel. His elusive scent remained like an insubstantial ghost, haunting her.

A pang of longing went through her—so sharp, it stole her breath. God, she missed him.

She should leave. Of course she should. She’d been engaging in wishful thinking by remaining at all, hoping for that opportunity to meet with him face-to-face . . . to beg for his understanding. But what was the point? She’d proven to him that she deserved his lack of faith in her. She’d illustrated precisely why he shouldn’t trust her. In fact, she’d ended up behaving in the precise manner he’d always accused her of.

Impulsive. Impetuous. Self-indulgent.

Tears stung her eyes as she pulled out her suitcase. It hadn’t been long ago that Lucien had packed it for her there in that rundown hovel where she’d been staying. Where would she stay now? She knew she should make plans, but a pressure seemed to be pushing down on her chest, a weight of grief, making the ability to make such a huge decision seem like an utter impossibility.

She tossed item after item into her suitcase, straining to keep control, but increasingly seeing the interior of Lucien’s luxurious suite through a film of tears.

Impulsive. Impetuous. Self-indulgent. The words kept repeating in her head like a bully’s chant.

She sunk onto the edge of the bed and shuddered with grief. It was the first time she’d wept since Lucien had left Chicago. She’d even been reckless in falling in love, doing so deeply. Irrevocably. Now she’d done it, and there was no going back—only forward, into a future that looked bleak and lonely without Lucien.

But she’d learned something about herself since coming to Chicago, hadn’t she? She was a hard worker. She had a passion for cooking. And despite everything that had happened recently, she still felt that newly found kernel of strength in herself—impossible to deny or ignore.

She wouldn’t fold. She would endure. No matter how difficult that might be.

Wiping off her face with the back of her hand, she stood and continued with her packing, determined to proceed one minute at a time. One second, if need be. Plans needed to be made, and they would be. No matter how hollow she felt on the inside.

* * *

The penthouse had a flat, lifeless quality to it when Lucien opened the front door the next day. It was early in the morning on a Sunday. He hadn’t slept except for a few hours on the plane, and his eyes were gritty from exhaustion. It’d been a heart-wrenching past few days, watching Ian and his grandparents at Helen’s side, seeing her fade from this life ever so slowly.

He’d left as soon as he’d assured himself he’d done everything he could. He had an overwhelming desire to look upon Elise’s luminous face . . . to find solace in her vibrant presence.

If he had to guess, he’d say the penthouse was empty. Perhaps she’d gone for a run?

Anxiety built in him as he walked back to the bedroom suite to check and make sure his assumption was correct. Sure enough, the large bed was empty and made—a very depressing sight after his increasingly frequent fantasies of finding Elise in it, warm, soft, and pliable from sleep.