Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(68)
Author: Beth Kery

But again, Gerard was nothing if not flexible. One had to roll with the tide, not fight it. He felt like he’d been rewarded with a major boon, understanding just how vulnerable Ian was. Of course, he’d known his cousin had been weakened after his mother died and he’d disappeared. Gerard had moved quickly to take advantage of Ian’s wounded and absent state. When the opportunity arose with Tyake, Gerard had been ready to strike at that rare weak spot that would have given him an inside hold on Ian’s company. He needed Francesca’s cooperation for that, however, and he’d quickly learned that with Lucien around to coach her, she wasn’t quite as malleable as he’d hoped.

Now he had the ammunition he needed to set off an explosion, and if he was very lucky, he could include the annoying Lucien in that conflagration. Aurore Manor, the place where Ian had been holing up and surely descending into madness, would be the perfect location for him to die. When the story broke about what he’d been doing there, few would doubt that Ian Noble was a walking time bomb. They wouldn’t be surprised at his self-destruction.

With his alternative plans, Gerard no longer wanted Ian at Belford, so it was now necessary to eliminate the apparent threat of Brodsik and clean up some ragged ends in the process.

He glanced up calmly at the sound of the door at the back of the room opening. He’d instructed Brodsik on how to enter, telling him to arrive early and stay concealed in the billiard room until Gerard could conveniently meet with him at a designated time.

“You’re late,” he said, remaining seated in the chair behind James’s large desk.

“I had to be careful. This place is crawling with security,” Brodsik said, walking toward him.

Gerard shrugged. “All due to the press conference. Ian is the god of the Western world of business, after all,” he said sardonically. “Well? Are you ready to get down to business? I’ll instruct you on how to get into Noble’s suite from here. You’ll remain hidden there until he arrives, then take him by surprise. I’ve already described how to get away cleanly afterward.”

“Where’s the money?” Brodsik asked roughly. Gerard threw a contemptuous glance at his hulking form. He pointed at a backpack that sat on the desk in front of him.

“It’s all there. Your fee for the work, more than enough money to disappear and . . .”

“My incentive to keep quiet about my ‘work,’” Brodsik said. He grinned, eyeing the backpack hungrily. Gerard had never seen him smile before. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Something seemed to occur to Brodsik and his grin turned to a menacing scowl. “And if I should find out anything happened to Shell, I’m gonna hold you responsible. That’ll mean more money,” he said, referring to Shell Stern, his partner.

Gerard snarled, hatred and anger flaring in him fast and hot. “How dare you threaten me with more blackmail.”

Brodsik looked a little taken aback by his sudden, intense fury. “Something happened to him. Shell’s not the type to stay quiet for two minutes, let alone go missing for days. I’m not saying it was you who did something to him, but—”

“It certainly sounded that way to me,” Gerard grated out.

Brodsik seemed to regret bringing up the topic as he continued to eye the backpack.

“Let’s just get this show on the road,” Brodsik mumbled, stepping toward the desk, his hand stretched toward the backpack.

Gerard made a halting gesture. “I’ll open it for you in a moment. First, let me see the gun. I have a right to assure myself that you’re prepared.”

Brodsik looked like he was going to argue, his gaze glued covetously to the backpack. He eventually shrugged his linebackerlike shoulders and reached into a deep pocket of his parka, extracting an automatic firearm.

“It worked just like you said. The guy in London asked no questions,” Brodsik said.

“So you needed to tell no lies,” Gerard replied, his gaze running over the familiar gun with satisfaction. He’d used the very same weapon to kill Shell Stern less than a week ago. “Jago Teague is nothing if not discreet. He has to be, in his line of work . . . or lines of work, I should say. Well, let’s get this over with, shall we? The sooner Noble is out of my life, the better. He’s been in it for twenty years too long.”

He unzipped the backpack. It contained no money whatsoever—he would never be bribed by anyone, let alone an idiot such as this—but did contain several of his work files. And something else.

He withdrew James’s handgun and aimed it at Brodsik. Brodsik didn’t have the opportunity to look surprised. Gerard fired point-blank at his head without blinking.

Brodsik’s hulking body hit the floor with a jarring thud. Gerard calmly pulled back the right-hand drawer of James’s desk. The red leather box where James always stored his private firearm was already open.

He gripped the gun tightly in his hand and schooled his face into an expression of blank shock.

* * *

Anne had referred them to the library for a place to do the computerized rendering without interruption. Francesca sat next to the computer artist, a woman named Violet, at a desk, both of them peering at the screen of Violet’s laptop as the man’s face took shape from Francesca’s description. Francesca heard a distant sound like a firecracker going off. The sound itself didn’t alarm her, but the way Lucien leapt up did. He’d been sitting in an armchair and perusing the business section of a French newspaper while Francesca worked with Violet. Now the newspaper lay on the Oriental carpet, forgotten.

“Lucien?” she asked in amazement when she saw his tense expression. A prickle of wariness went down her neck and coursed along her arms when he rapidly strode to the heavy doors and pressed his ear against them, listening.

“Come with me,” he said, turning. “Both of you,” he added, giving Violet a pointed glance. When Francesca stood, but Violet just stared at him in amazement, Lucien added, “Now.”

Lucien pointed to a rear exit and nodded at Francesca, obviously expecting her to walk in front of him.

“Lucien, you don’t think that sound was a gunshot, do you?” Francesca asked.

“I’m almost certain it was.”

Her heart squeezed tight. “But . . . Ian.”

“Is not going to thank either one of us for running out there if there’s a gunman on the loose. Please, Francesca,” he said less harshly. “Do as I say. There are some policemen stationed at the back door in the kitchens. With their communication equipment, they’ll know from the police at the press conference what happened up here quicker than we can find out ourselves. The security and police will need to secure the area anyway. They’ll have enough on their mind.”