The Noble ancestors must be turning in their graves.
Screw James, Gerard thought as he slid open the right-hand drawer and lifted the lid of a red leather box. He smiled grimly upon seeing what was stored there.
He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Brodsik’s number.
“This is it. They’re going into town. Francesca is with him,” he merely said when a man answered the phone. He listened, frowning. “You idiot. I told you to stay close by to take advantage whenever the opportunity arose. Well it’s not my fault you partnered with a fool. How do I know where Stern has disappeared to? He’s your friend. No, no,” Gerard interrupted bitterly. “I will not discuss your little blackmail scheme at the moment.” He was outraged at the concept of a such a grubby, moronic criminal trying to manipulate him, but Brodsik would pay. In fact, Stern had already outlived his use, and Brodsik would very soon.
He paused, listening to Brodsik’s defense for asking him for extra money beyond his fee. “Well I’d certainly call it a bribe, considering you’re threatening me with exposure if I don’t agree to your demands,” Gerard replied wryly. “I’ve told you I’d have your money tomorrow. It takes more than a few hours to come up with that much cash. For now, do you still work for me, or not?” He paused, his mouth curled into a snarl. “Good. You know what to do right now. You’ll have time to make it back to Stratham while they’re at the tailor in town. Noble shouldn’t be in there for more than an hour. The sun will still be up if you get your ass back here quick enough. Remember, I want Francesca to see you. What? Yes, we’re still meeting tonight at the usual place in town. I’ll have a Belford passkey for you. Were you able to purchase it?” He listened for a moment. “Good, because you’ll need that gun tomorrow, won’t you?”
He hung up and checked his watch. He had at least an hour, probably closer to two. Ian’s paranoia was such that he locked the door to his suite even in his childhood home. Whatever he kept on his computer must be valuable, indeed. In his illicit observance thus far, Gerard saw little else being kept in the room that might warrant so much caution on Ian’s part. Most of Gerard’s allotted time would be spent using his inexpert knowledge of lock picking to get past the door. Still, the locks on the Belford suites were not complicated mechanisms, intended for privacy from servants more than actual security. He’d manage it, he thought grimly as he hurried up the stairs.
* * *
She enjoyed the short visit to the tailor, not at all agreeing with Ian’s warning that she’d find it boring. What could be boring about watching a beautiful, sexy man be expertly fitted for a suit?
Mr. Rappaport, the owner of the haberdashery, seemed very eager indeed to provide a service to the Earl of Stratham’s illustrious grandson. Francesca came to understand that he’d occasionally made suits for Ian when he was a child and young man. Mr. Rappaport pulled a chair up for Francesca in the luxurious working area outside the dressing rooms. He politely provided her with a magazine and a cup of tea, which held her interest, until Ian came out of the dressing area, that is, and stood in front of the triple mirrors. The magazine article was forgotten as she watched the gray-haired tailor—who was so petite, Ian looked like a giant in comparison to him—scuttle about, taking measurements and marking up the suit. Ian lifted his stark white shirt while the tailor took his waist measurement, and Francesca’s attention redoubled. The pants hung on his frame loosely, emphasizing his lean, cut abdomen and the narrow trail of dark hair that ran from his taut belly button beneath the waistband of the pants.
Ian had been present on several occasions when he’d had dressmakers come and fit her for clothing, and had somehow found his quiet, focused observance of the ritual arousing. She’d never had the privilege of watching him endure the process, however.
She sensed Ian’s eyes on her in the mirror as Mr. Rappaport began to measure his inseam.
“And you dress to the left, if I recall correctly?” the tailor asked briskly.
“Correct,” Ian said, holding Francesca’s stare. She frowned slightly, confused by the tailor’s question. It took her a second to puzzle out that the tailor was asking which way Ian’s cock rode in his pants, so as to allot for the volume in his measurements. Ian must have noticed her eyes widening as understanding struck, because she saw his lips tilt in amusement in the mirror.
After he’d finished, Mr. Rappaport scurried out of the dressing area when an assistant called to him. Francesca blinked in surprise at the vision of Ian stalking over to her, now wearing only the trousers and a partially buttoned shirt.
Her breath caught. She recognized that gleam in his blue eyes.
He leaned down, trapping her by placing his hands on the arms of the velvet chair. He swooped, capturing her mouth in a scalding kiss that soon had her forgetting where they were and everything but his possessive mouth and addictive taste.
“You’re going to get it later, for getting me hard while I was in such a vulnerable situation,” he muttered against her lips a moment later.
“I was just watching,” she defended breathlessly.
He stood, his absence disorienting her.
“It was enough. Plenty,” he added with a hard glance before he walked behind a door to change. Mr. Rappaport scurried back into the room a few seconds later, immune to her flushed cheeks and erratic breathing.
When Ian had finished at the haberdasher, they got some coffee to go at a quaint little tea shop and returned to the car. She relished in Ian’s relatively relaxed mood. While Ian was never one to smile frequently, she was encouraged to see his small half grin with increasing regularity. Was he, perhaps, rising out of this pervasive depression that seemed to have weighted his spirit since his mother had died? It struck her that while they had danced around the incendiary topic of Trevor Gaines, they’d carefully avoided the sad topic of Helen’s unexpected death last summer.