One of them didn’t. She clicked it on it, glancing warily to the side to ensure Jacob wasn’t there to observe her nosing into Ian’s business.
The Genomics Research and Treatment Institute—a highly respected research and treatment facility located southeast of London in a lovely wooded landscape. Francesca studied the sylvan scenery and large ultramodern building. It took her a moment of reading to understand that the facility was a world leader in the research and treatment of schizophrenia.
She thought of Ian’s mother and her heart sank. Did he keep up on the research for cures for the cruel, debilitating illness in memory of Helen Noble? Did he, perhaps, fund some of the research?
“Jacob? What’s the Genomics Research and Treatment Institute?” she asked the driver in a false casual tone when he came and sat down next to her a few minutes later.
“No idea. Why?”
“You don’t know? It’s a sort of research facility and hospital. You’ve never heard of it in association with Ian?”
Jacob shook his head. “Never. Where’s it at?”
“Southeast of London.”
“That explains it then,” Jacob said matter-of-factly as he folded his newspaper. “If it’s one of Ian’s British companies, I wouldn’t know much about it.”
“Why’s that?”
“He never has me drive in London. He keeps his own car at his apartment in the city.”
“Oh,” Francesca said lightly, hoping she was hiding her rabid curiosity adequately. “And is there any other place where he keeps a car and doesn’t take you?”
Jacob considered for a moment. “No, not really, now that I think about it. I go everywhere but London. But that’s not too surprising. Ian’s a Brit, isn’t he? It’d make sense he doesn’t need a driver in London. That’s why I’m not driving him right now.”
“Right,” Francesca agreed, nodding, her pulse racing at this unexpected news. Ian was in London. Ian hadn’t told her, of course, and Mrs. Hanson either didn’t know his location or was keeping mum about it on orders from Ian. It was odd. Ian Noble was at home anywhere. He could maneuver around any city. He didn’t need a driver. He just wanted one for convenience. He was the cat who walked alone, after all. All places were alike to him. She recalled how she’d captured that aspect of his character in her painting so many years ago, and compared it to the Rudyard Kipling story. She knew from experience that everywhere he went, he was confident, sure, utterly the master of his environment . . . determinedly alone.
So why was London different? Why did he leave his trusted driver, Jacob, behind?
Her head swung around when her name was called.
“This is it,” she said, barely restraining her excitement at getting her license—not to mention hardly stopping herself from pressing Jacob with more questions about Ian and London.
“You’re driving home,” Jacob said.
“You better believe I am,” she said, smirking.
* * *
The next afternoon, she sat on a bench alone in the Noble Enterprises lobby. The entry managed to convey a sense of sleek, modern efficiency, luxury, and warmth—thanks to the beige-pink marble floors, rich woods, and tan walls. The security guard at the circular desk in the center of the lobby kept glancing her way with increasing suspicion. She’d been there for almost two hours, studying the light on the large swath of wall where her painting would hang, occasionally taking photos with her cell phone.
She wanted to make sure she was taking into account the lighting in the painting’s soon-to-be home.
The security guard finally decided she was up to no good and left his circular booth. Francesca stood, stowing her phone in her back pocket.
She didn’t really feel like explaining herself. “I’m going,” she assured the youngish man who had a face like a boulder and huge hands. His eyes were alert and not unkind, however.
“Is there some way I can help you, miss?” the guard pursued.
“No,” she hedged, walking backward. When he took a step toward her as if to follow, she sighed. “I’m the artist doing the painting that’s going to go right there,” she said, pointing at the large expanse of wall overhanging the guard’s desk. “I was watching the light change in the lobby.”
When the guard gave her a skeptical, incredulous look, she glanced sideways and noticed the restaurant Fusion. “Er . . . excuse me. I’m just going to dash into Fusion and say hello to Lucien.”
For a second, she thought the security guard would follow her when she ducked into the restaurant, but when she glanced around after approaching the elegant bar, the glass doors remained closed and the guard was nowhere to be seen. She gave a sigh of relief.
“Francesca!”
She recognized Lucien’s French-accented voice.
“Hi, Lucien. Zoe! Hi, how are you?” Francesca greeted the pair, happy to see the beautiful young woman who had tried to make her feel at home at the cocktail party in her honor. Zoe and Lucien stood side by side. It was three o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday and the bar was empty except for the three of them. She paused uncertainly when she saw Lucien’s arm fall away from Zoe’s waist and the slightly guilty cast to both of their expressions. Why should they be self-conscious about touching each other?
“Really good,” Zoe said, shaking her hand. “How is the painting going?”
“As good as can be expected. I’m having some trouble with the lighting. I was sitting out in the lobby studying what the light would be like on the painting throughout the day, and the security guard sort of ran me off,” she said, giving them a sheepish smile. “I ducked in here hoping to escape him.”