PART THREE

BECAUSE YOU YOU HAUNT ME

Beth Kery

Because You Haunt Me Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery

The right of Beth Kery to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Cover Image © Anton Violin/Shutterstock

Published by arrangement with InterMix Books, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First published in this Ebook edition by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN 978 1 4722 0060 0

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Beth Kery lives in Chicago where she juggles the demands of her career, her love of the city and the arts and a busy family life. Her writing today reflects her passion for all of the above. She is the bestselling author of over thirty books and novellas. She also writes under the pen name Bethany Kane. You can read more about Beth, her books and upcoming projects at www.bethkery.com or follow her on Twitter @bethkery.

By Beth Kery

Wicked Burn

Daring Time

Sweet Restraint

Paradise Rules

Release

Explosive

One Night of Passion series writing as Bethany Kane

Addicted To You

Bound To You (e-novella)

Captured By You (e-novella)

Exposed To You

What are the mysteries of attraction? They’re about to be explored as international bestselling author Beth Kery’s Because You Are Mine continues, drawing two lovers closer and closer . . .

Because You Are Mine, Part Three

Because You Haunt Me

Knowing just how innocent Francesca is, Ian finds himself struggling with whether or not to pursue her. But he has to have her. Because when it comes to this particular obsession, desire trumps all caution.

Unnerved by her own longings, Francesca avoids Ian until he confronts her with a tantalising proposition: a purely physical relationship – her reward, alluring, forbidden pleasure. It may be a mistake, but her need for Ian can’t be denied. Suddenly she’s swept away to Paris, overwhelmed by the beauty of the city, by the irresistible man at her side, Francesca abandons all reservations, and finally opens herself up to the man who has haunted her fantasies.

Don’t miss Because You Must Learn (Because You Are Mine, Part 4), available 21 August 2012

Chapter Five

Two days later, Ian watched out the window of his limo as Jacob Suarez turned down a street lined with attractive brick townhomes. An associate had informed him that David Feinstein had inherited the residence from his deceased parents, Julia and Sylvester, but that David could likely have afforded the affluent Wicker Park residence on his own. Feinstein’s art gallery was doing very well. Apparently Francesca’s roommate possessed excellent taste and good business sense along with a refined, quiet, thorough manner that appealed to many wealthy art connoisseurs.

Ian had also been admittedly relieved to learn that David—or “Davie,” as Francesca called him—was gay. Not that her housemates’ sexual preferences mattered much, Ian thought, as Jacob came to a halt. He’d proved firsthand the other night that Francesca’s housemates weren’t touching anything they shouldn’t.

He’d learned firsthand that he had been touching things he shouldn’t, he added to himself, with the result that he was wearing a frown by the time his driver opened the car door for him.

The image of Francesca’s shattered expression as she’d left his bedroom the other night burned his consciousness for the thousandth time. He’d watched, fuming silently, as she’d fled the penthouse, wanting to stop her but knowing by the fixed, stubborn expression on her beautiful face that she wouldn’t listen to him at that moment. He’d been furious at her for putting them in this situation, and furious at himself for seeing only what had been convenient for him to see.

Yes, he’d understood she was innocent, but not to that degree. He’d known it was best just to let her go. For good.

Yet here he stood.

He rapped at the dark green painted wood door with a strange sense of resigned determination. From where did this strange obsession come? Did it have to do with the fact that Francesca had caught him unaware in her painting years ago? Her possession of him had been fleeting, but alarmingly concise.

He wanted to both punish her and possess her in turn for her innocent infraction.

He understood from Mrs. Hanson that Francesca hadn’t been to the penthouse to paint. Her avoidance of his residence made him angry—irrationally so, but logic didn’t seem to be quieting the emotion. Ian still hadn’t decided, as he knocked again on the door, if he was here to apologize and assure Francesca that she would never again be bothered by his attentions, or if he wanted to convince her at all costs to let him touch her again.

The friction of his uncustomary ambivalence had him so wound up and frustrated, even Lin, who was usually a soothing balm to his occasional bad moods, was steering clear of him like a category-five hurricane.

The front door swung open and a brown-haired man of medium height, who looked younger than his twenty-eight years, regarded him somberly. He must have recently come from his gallery, because he was dressed for work in a dark gray suit.

“I’m here for Francesca,” Ian stated.

Davie glanced into the interior of the house anxiously, but then nodded once and stepped back, granting Ian entrance. He led him into a tastefully decorated living room.

“Have a seat. I’ll see if Francesca’s home,” Davie said.

Ian nodded and unbuttoned his jacket before he sat. He distractedly picked up a catalog from the cushion next to him, listening all the while to the sounds in the large townhome, not hearing footfalls on the stairs. The pages of the catalog had been folded back, as if someone had recently been studying the contents. It was a listing of paintings that would be going up for sale at a local auction house.

Davie reentered the living room a minute later. Ian glanced up and set aside the catalog.

“She says she’s busy,” Davie said, looking vaguely uncomfortable with his messenger errand.

Ian nodded slowly. It’d been what he’d expected.

“Will you please do me the favor of telling her that I’ll wait until she isn’t busy?”

Davie’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He left the room again without replying and returned a minute later, still with no Francesca. He gave an apologetic grimace. Ian smiled and stood.

“It’s not your fault,” he assured. He held out his hand. “I’m Ian Noble, by the way. We’ve never been properly introduced.”

“David Feinstein,” Davie said, shaking his hand.

“Would you sit with me for a bit while I wait?” Ian asked.

Davie looked a little nonplussed by the hint that Ian was, indeed, staying, but was too polite to argue. He sat in a chair across from the coffee table.

“I can understand why she’s upset with me,” Ian said, crossing his legs and once again picking up the catalog.

“She’s not upset.”

Ian glanced up at Davie’s words.

“She’s furious. And hurt. I’ve never seen her so hurt.”

He paused, waiting for the sting that resulted from Davie’s honesty to fade. For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

“I treated her in a manner I shouldn’t have,” Ian admitted finally.

“Then you should be ashamed,” Davie said, anger ringing in his quiet voice. Ian recalled that he’d said something similar to Davie and Francesca’s other two roommates at the tattoo parlor.

“I am,” Ian said, listening carefully. He closed his eyes briefly in regret at what he heard. He thought of Francesca’s freshness the other night, her sweetness. The memory of her pussy had been somehow lodged in his brain like a tenacious virus, only growing more vivid as he tried to rid himself of it: the silky, rose-gold hair between lithesome white thighs; creamy, plump labia; the slickest, tightest little slit he’d ever touched. He recalled spanking her and how he’d loved it . . . how she had. “Unfortunately,” he continued, addressing Davie, “my shame wasn’t sufficient to keep me away. I’m beginning to think no amount of it would.”

Davie looked startled. He cleared his throat and stood.

“Maybe I’ll just go and see how Francesca is coming along on that . . . project she’s working on.”

“Don’t bother. She’s not here anymore,” Ian murmured.

Davie did a double take and paused next to his chair. “What do you mean?”

“She snuck out the back door about twenty seconds ago, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, idly flipping the pages of the catalog. He took advantage of Davie’s apparent shock to hold it up.

“Yours?” Ian asked.

Davie nodded.

“I see what you must have been looking at. When did Francesca paint it?”

Davie blinked and seemed to come to himself. “About two years ago. I sold it at Feinstein last year. I was glad to see it come back on the market at this estate sale auction. I’d like to get it back, sell it for a price that’s worthy of the piece, and give the extra profit back to Francesca.” He frowned. “She’s had to sell a lot of her paintings over the years for practically nothing. I hate to think of what she must have let a couple of them go for before I met her. Francesca was living hand to mouth for years before we became friends. I may not have been able to sell her work for the price I think it’s worth, seeing as she’s still a relative unknown, but at least I gave her more than the price of a bag of groceries.” He nodded at the catalog. “If I can get ahold of this particular piece, I’m convinced I can sell it for an excellent price. Francesca is starting to make a name for herself in art circles. I’m sure the award she won from you, and the subsequent recognition, has helped.”

Ian stood and buttoned his jacket. “I’m certain your support of her work has as well. You’ve been a good friend to her. Would you give me your card? There’s something I’d like to speak to you about, but I’m running late for a meeting.”

Davie looked distinctively undecided, then reached into his pocket with the air of a man who would have to confess something major to a loved one later.

“Thank you,” Ian said, accepting the card.

“Francesca is a wonderful person. I think . . . I think it’d be best if you stayed away from her.”

He narrowly studied Davie’s anxious yet determined expression for several seconds. Davie looked away uncomfortably. Francesca’s friend saw a lot more with those gentle eyes than he must typically reveal to his well-heeled clients. Bitterness rose in him at his own lack of decency by contrast.

“You’re undoubtedly right,” Ian said as he began to move toward the door, unable to keep the note of resignation out of his tone. “And if I were a better man, I’d follow that advice.”

* * *

This is what things had come to: She was working like a thief in the night. The painting had called her back, despite the untenable circumstances surrounding it.

Francesca mixed her colors rapidly, using the glow from the small lamp she’d placed on a desk in order to see, desperate to capture the exact hue of the midnight sky before the light changed. The rest of the room was swathed in shadow, allowing her to better see the brooding, glowing buildings against the backdrop of a velvety night sky. She stopped abruptly and glanced back toward the closed door of the studio, waiting tensely, her heart starting to pound in her ears in the eerie silence. Shadows seemed to thicken and form at the back of the room, tricking her eyes. Mrs. Hanson had assured her that she’d be alone in the penthouse tonight. Ian was in London, and Mrs. Hanson was going to be visiting a friend in the suburbs.

Nevertheless, she hadn’t felt alone for a second since she’d stepped off the elevator into Ian’s territory.

Could a place be haunted by a living person? It was as if Ian lingered in the luxurious penthouse, his presence weighing on her mind, on her very skin, making it prickle in awareness as if from an invisible touch.

Stupid, Francesca chastised herself, putting brush to canvas and making long, energetic strokes. It’d been four nights since she’d stood naked and exposed in Ian’s bedroom. He’d tried to contact her. He’d called her on several occasions, and there had been that embarrassing episode at her house when she’d run out the back door like a fool. She’d been overwhelmed by the idea of seeing him again . . . afraid.

You’re afraid of what will happen if you see him, listen to him. You’re afraid you’ll end up begging him like a fool to finish what he’d started the other night.

Her arm made a slashing motion before the canvas. Never. She’d never beg that arrogant asshole.

The hair on her arms stood up, and she glanced over her shoulder again. Hearing and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she returned her focus to the painting. She shouldn’t have come back here, but she had to finish this piece. She’d never rest if she didn’t, and it wasn’t because Ian had already paid her. Once a painting had gotten in her blood, it gave her no freedom until it was complete.

She told herself to concentrate. The ghost of Ian—her own ghosts—made focusing a trial.

You stood there like an idiot while he whacked you with a paddle; you laid in his lap, stark naked, and let him spank you like a child.

Shame flooded her consciousness. Was she so desperate, following a majority of life spent overweight, to have a man like Ian show desire for her that she was willing to sacrifice her dignity? How else would she have allowed herself to be demeaned that night? How far would she have gone if Ian Noble had said he wanted it?

Her thoughts mortified her. She took out her anguish on the canvas, finally finding the coveted zone of creative concentration she desperately sought. An hour later, she set aside her paint palette and wiped the excess paint off her brush. She rubbed her shoulder to ease the tension from her almost constant sweeping strokes. Her friends were always surprised when she told them how physically taxing painting a large piece could be.

The hair on her nape stood on end and her massaging fingers stilled. She spun around.

He wore a white shirt that coalesced faster out of the shadows than the rest of his dark apparel. He was jacketless, and his sleeves had been rolled back. The gold of his watch glinted from the darkness. She stood there unmoving, feeling as if she were dreaming.

“You paint as if a demon was driving you.”

“You sound as if you know what that’s like,” she replied in a tight voice.

“I think you know I do.”

The image of Ian walking alone through the deserted streets popped into her mind’s eye. She crushed down the wave of compassion and deep feeling the memory always evoked.

She let her hand drop from her aching shoulder and turned toward him. “Mrs. Hanson said you would be in London tonight.”

“I was called back early for an emergency.”

She just stared at him for a moment, speechless, seeing the lights from the skyline reflected in his eyes.

“I see,” she finally said, turning away. “I’ll be going then.”

“How long do you plan to avoid me?”

“As long as you exist?” she countered quickly. Hearing the hint of anger in his voice acted like a lit match to her own fury and confusion. She started to stride past him, her head lowered, but he reached out and wrapped his hand around her upper arm, halting her.

“Let go of me.” Her voice sounded angry, but she was horrified to feel tears burn in her eyes. It was bad enough to see him again, but why did he have to sneak up on her like this, catching her unaware and vulnerable? “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I would if I could, trust me,” he replied, his voice as frigid as a hard winter’s frost. She twisted in order to escape, but he firmed his grip, bringing her next to his body. The next thing she knew her face was pressed to his hard chest and crisp shirt, and his arms surrounded her.

“I’m sorry, Francesca. Truly, I am.”

For a moment, she lost all of her will and leaned into him, giving him her weight, accepting his strength and warmth. Her body shuddered with emotion. She focused on the sensation of his hand stroking her hair. Later, when she analyzed her temporary lapse, she realized that it’d been his tone that’d done it. He’d sounded as barren and as hopeless and as desperate as she felt. He wasn’t the bad guy, she conceded. He hadn’t demeaned her by giving her a glimpse of true desire that night.

She was just furious at him because he didn’t want her. Enough to overlook her inexperience, anyway.

Emotion swelled tight in her chest. She pushed against him, finding the weight of her need unbearable. He released her slowly, still keeping her within the circle of his arms.

She lowered her head and swiped at her cheeks, refusing to look up at him.

“Francesca—”

“Don’t say anything else, please,” she said.

“I am not the man for you. I want to make that very clear.”

“Right. Crystal clear.”

“I’m not interested in the type of relationship a girl of your age, experience, intelligence, and talent deserves. I’m sorry.”

Her heart squeezed in pain at his words, but she knew he was right. Ridiculous to think otherwise. He wasn’t for her. How obvious could that be? Hadn’t Davie been telling her that repeatedly for the past few days? She stared blankly at the pocket of his dress shirt. She longed to escape; she longed to stay there in the shadows with Ian holding her. He caught her chin and applied pressure, forcing her to look up at him. When she did so warily, she saw his slight wince.

She broke out of his arms abruptly, despising the vision of his pity. He caught her forearm, and she paused.

“I am abominable when it comes to women,” he bit out. “I forget dates and appointments. I’m rude. The only thing I’m truly focused on is sex . . . and getting my way,” he stated harshly, making her start and stare back at him in shock. “My work is everything to me. I can’t lose control of my company. I won’t. This is who I am.”

“Why are you bothering to tell me this then? Why did you even come in here tonight?”

His face and jaw tensed, as if he suppressed himself from spitting out something bitter. “Because I couldn’t stay away.”

She wavered for a few seconds, confused. The memory of her mortification the other night swept over her once again, clearing her brain. “If you can’t stay away, you’re going to have to find another artist or move my work space.”

“Francesca, do not walk out on me again,” he said, his tone intimidating. Again, her feet wavered.

She barely grasped at her dignity sufficiently to make it out the door.

* * *

Several nights later, that empty ache still lingered, but Francesca had managed to compartmentalize it . . . contain it in her mind and spirit. It hurt the worst when her phone rang and she saw that it was Ian trying to contact her. It cost her more than she could put into words to ignore those calls.

It was a lot less burdensome to ignore her heartache on a rowdy Saturday night while waitressing at High Jinks. She was so busy, she had no opportunity to consider Ian or the painting or her regret as the lounge swung into high gear at about two o’clock in the morning. High Jinks was a popular last stop on the Wicker Park–Bucktown bar circuit. It catered to young urban professionals and older students. While many bars closed by two, three, or four, High Jinks stayed open until five a.m. on Saturday nights, serving devoted partiers and carousers. Saturdays always exhausted Francesca, and tested her patience, but she tried not to miss opportunities to work one; the tips were typically three times what she’d make on any other night of the week.

She set her tray down at the waitressing station and called out her order to the owner, Sheldon Hays, the older, frequently cantankerous, occasionally cuddly-as-a-teddy-bear owner, who was bartending tonight.

“You’re going to have to tell Anthony to hold them at the door,” she shouted over the loud music and the din of the crowd. “We’ve got to be at capacity.”

She took a sip of the club soda she kept at the station and leaned over the bar when Sheldon waved her in, as if he wanted to say something important. “I need you to run over to the corner and buy all the lemon juice they’ve got on the shelf,” he yelled, referring to the local convenience store that stayed open all night. “That idiot Mardock forgot to put lemon juice on the order, and I’m having a rush on sidecars.”

She sighed. Her feet were already killing her, and she didn’t treasure the idea of walking the required five blocks. Still . . . it’d be awesome to breathe the fresh autumn air for a few minutes and give her eardrums a break from the loud music . . .

She nodded at Sheldon and whipped off her apron. “Tell Cara to pick up my area?” she shouted.

Sheldon’s nod told her not to worry, he’d take care of everything. He handed her a couple twenties from the register, and she plunged through the dense crowd.

There were only four bottles of lemon juice left on the shelf of the convenience store. The sleepy-looking cashier roused himself enough to locate another bottle in the storage room. As she walked back to High Jinks a few minutes later, carrying her purchase, she noticed the sidewalk was crowded with people walking toward their cars and the El stop. Where are they all coming from? Francesca thought in confusion as she reached the block where High Jinks was located. She paused at the corner as she saw a couple dozen more people exit the bar, the heavy wood door slamming shut behind them.

“What’s going on at High Jinks?” she asked a passing trio of men.

“Fire in the storage room,” one of the men said, his sour tone making it clear he didn’t appreciate his late-night carousing being cut short prematurely for safety reasons.

“What?” Francesca called, but the men just passed her and kept walking. She rushed toward the bar, alarmed. She didn’t smell any smoke or hear any sirens. Their bouncer, Anthony, was nowhere in sight when she opened the door and peered inside the establishment.

No one was in sight.

She paused inside the entrance of the bar, staring, aghast. The bar, which had been jam-packed with customers just twenty minutes ago, was now completely empty and quiet. Had she just entered the twilight zone?

She noticed movement behind the bar. Much to her mounting amazement, she saw Sheldon calmly cleaning glasses.

“What the hell is going on, Sheldon?” she demanded as she approached. Surely he wouldn’t be standing there so nonchalantly if there were a dangerous fire in the back room?

Her boss glanced up at her and set down a beer glass. “I was waiting to make sure you got back okay,” he said, drying his hands on a towel. “I’ll just go to my office. Give you a little privacy.”

“But what—”

Sheldon pointed over her shoulder as if by way of explanation. Francesca spun around. She froze when she saw Ian sitting at one of the tables, his long legs bent before him. A large partition had blocked him from her view when she’d entered. Her heart did its typical bounce upon observing him. Even through her shock, she registered that he was wearing jeans and that there was a shadow of whiskers on his jaw. He looked very un-Ian-like, a little scruffy, a lot dangerous. . . . still sexy as hell. Had he been walking the streets alone again tonight?

He pinned her with his stare as he waited calmly.

“He wants to talk to you in private,” Sheldon said quietly from behind her. “He must want to a lot. I’m sorry if you don’t want to talk to him, but he’s not really the kind of man that a guy like me can refuse.”

“It was his money you couldn’t refuse,” Francesca muttered acidly under her breath, anxiety and irritation spiking her tone. What was he doing here? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone so that she could finish the process of forgetting him? Had he actually gone to the trouble of closing down this bar because he wanted to speak to her?

You’ll never forget him. Who are you kidding? she thought bitterly as she turned to deposit the lemon juice on the bar. Sheldon responded to her frown with a sheepish “what’s a man to do?” glance before he walked toward his office. She could only imagine what Ian had paid the bar owner to get him to clear the place out on his most lucrative night.

She took her time unloading the grocery sack and lining the bottles of lemon juice on the counter, her neck prickling with awareness of his gaze on her. Let him put up with the inconvenience of having to wait for a few seconds longer. He couldn’t have everything in the moment that he wanted.

He cleared out the entire bar just to talk to me?

She silenced the excited voice in her head with effort. When she could think of nothing else to do to avoid him, she turned and slowly walked to him.

“Out slumming, are we? This is going a little far to convince me that you don’t disdain a cocktail waitress’s service, isn’t it?” she asked sarcastically as she approached.

“I didn’t come here to have you serve me. Not tonight.”

Her gaze shot angrily to meet his stare at his innuendo. She expected to see his usual subdued amusement at her defiance. Instead, she saw fatigue and . . . was it resignation? In Ian Noble?

“Sit down,” he said quietly.

They regarded each other silently for a moment once she’d sat. A thousand questions zoomed around her brain, but she stifled them. He’d behaved outrageously, clearing out hundreds of people from the bar and shutting down a business in order to see her at the precise moment he desired it. He was going to have to be the one to break the silence after all that; she refused.

“It just won’t do,” he said. “I know that I’ll hurt you. I know there’s a good chance you’ll end up despising me . . . fearing me, even. But I still can’t stop thinking about you. I must have you. Completely. Frequently . . . and at all costs.”

She listened to her heart drumming in her ears for several strained seconds, trying to gather herself. How could she be so furious at a man and still want him so much it was like some kind of biological mandate, like breathing?

“I’m not for sale,” she finally said.

“I know that. The cost I’m referring to can’t be paid with money.”

“What are you talking about?”

Leaning forward, he rested his forearm on the table. He wore a dark blue cotton T-shirt shirt with short sleeves. The Rolex was absent. She recalled vividly how stirred she’d been the first time she saw his large hands and muscular forearms. She still was. More so now that she knew what he could do with them.

“I suspect I’ll lose a bit of my soul in this thing with you. I already have, just by the fact of my being here tonight,” he spoke intently, his stare boring into her. “I know I’ll take a piece of yours.”

“You know no such thing,” she countered, even though she feared he was right. “Why are you so convinced that you’ll hurt me?”

“Many reasons,” he said so surely that her heart sank another inch. “I already told you one—I’m a control freak. Did you know that when I sold Noble Technology Worldwide in a public offering, I was offered the job of CEO?” he asked, referring to the hugely successful social-media company that he’d founded and built, then sold. “It was a very cushy position, but I turned it down. Do you know why?”

“Because you couldn’t stand the idea of a board of directors being able to veto your decisions?” she asked irritably. “You have to be in complete control at all times, don’t you?”

“That’s right. You’ve come to understand me better than I’d realized.” Why was his smile both bitter and pleased? “I’ll tell you something else that you should know. I was with a virgin once. She became pregnant and I ended up marrying her. It was a catastrophe. She couldn’t abide my controlling manner, and I’m not just talking about in the bedroom, although that arena was bad enough. She thought I was the worst kind of pervert.”

Her lips parted in amazement. There could be little doubt, given his intense, almost angry expression, that he was telling the truth.

“What happened to the baby?” she asked, her brain sticking on that morsel of unexpected information about Ian Noble’s life.

“Elizabeth lost it. According to her, it was because of me.”

She stared, seeing the disdain in his expression, the flicker of anxiety in his eyes. He was quite sure that Elizabeth had been wrong in her assertion. Still . . . the seed of doubt remained.

“By the end of our marriage, my wife was afraid of me. I believe she considered me the devil incarnate. Perhaps she was partially right. But mostly, I was a fool. A twenty-two-year-old fool.”

“And I’m a twenty-three-year-old one,” she replied.

His expression flattened; his brow furrowed. She could tell he hadn’t quite understood her meaning. Some instinct inside her warned her of what he was about to say. The sinking feeling of inevitability she also experienced told her, loud and clear, how she would respond.

His mouth hardened. “To make things clear—I want to possess you sexually. Totally. On my terms. I offer you pleasure and the experience. Nothing else. I have nothing else to offer.”

She swallowed with difficulty upon hearing the words she’d both anticipated and dreaded. “You make it sound like you want to do this to get me out of your system.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“That’s not very flattering, Ian,” she said, sounding exasperated when she was truly stung.

“I didn’t come here to flatter you. I will make the experience as rich and rewarding as I can for you, but I’m not offering you false promises. I respect you that much, at least,” he added under his breath.

“And this experience will end whenever you’ve had your fill?”

“Yes. Or whenever you have, of course.”

“When will that be? After one night? Two?”

His smile was grim. “I think it might take longer than that to purge you from my mind. A good deal longer. But again, I can’t say for certain. Do you understand me?”

Her heart now threatened to burst out of her rib cage, as if it were on the front line of the war that raged inside her. It was a mistake, and she knew this. And yet . . .

“Yes,” she said. The tension coiled tighter with every erratic beat of her heart.

“And do you agree to this?”

“Yes.” What the hell was she doing?

“Look at me, Francesca.”

She looked up, her chin tilted at a defiant angle. His gaze ran over her, searching. “I told you once before that you shouldn’t let your anger make you foolish,” he said softly.

This, more than anything, infuriated her.

“If you think I’m too much of a child to make a wise decision, then you shouldn’t have asked the question,” she grated out. “I’m giving you my answer. It’s up to you whether you accept it or not. Yes,” she repeated.

He closed his eyes briefly.

“All right,” he said after a moment, calmly, and it was as if she’d imagined all the conflict in him. “That’s settled then. I have an important meeting in Paris on Monday morning that I can’t delay. I’d like to leave first thing in the morning.”

“Okay,” she said dubiously, thrown off by his abrupt change of topic. “So . . . I’ll see you when you get back.”

“No,” he said, standing. “Now that things have been decided, I can’t wait much longer. I want you to come with me. Can you get away for a few days?”

Was he serious?

“I . . . I think so. I don’t have class on Mondays, but I have one on Tuesday. I suppose I could miss one class, though.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at your house at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“What should I bring?”

“Your passport. You have one, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I studied for a few months in Paris during my senior year. It’s current.”

“Just your passport and yourself then. I’ll supply everything else you need.”

She countered her breathlessness at his reply with practicality. “Can’t we leave later? It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning already.”

“No, seven o’clock. I have a timetable. You can sleep on the plane. I have work I need to do on the flight anyway.” His gaze flickered over her face as he stood. His hard expression softened slightly. “You will sleep on the plane. You look exhausted.”

She started to say that he looked tired as well, but realized he no longer did. All the fatigue she’d sensed in him at the beginning of their conversation seemed to have vanished . . .

Now that he’d gotten his way.

“Come here, please.”

Something about his quiet, authoritative tone made her breath freeze in her lungs. She’d just agreed to stop running from him, and he knew it. Did he want to prove his power over her?

She stood up and approached him slowly. He opened his hand at the side of her skull, his fingers furrowing through her upswept hair. His gaze traveled over her face, those dark-angel eyes glittering with an emotion she couldn’t understand.

He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. He bit at her lower lip and she opened, gasping. His tongue sunk into her mouth. Heat rushed through her sex. Ah, God. This, she could understand. Wisdom shriveled in the heat of this kind of desire. She moaned, the freshness, the immediacy of her need stinging her like a slap against tense muscle.

By the time he lifted his head a moment later, things were damp and warm between her thighs.

“I want you to know,” he said next to her quivering, sensitized lips, “that I would have stopped it if I could. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She stood there, unable to take a full breath until after the front door of the bar had slammed shut behind him.

Chapter Six

Francesca got into bed that night, but she never dropped off into sleep. Her mounting excitement wouldn’t let her. She got up before her alarm went off, made and drank coffee, ate some cereal, and showered. Staring into her closet, she felt a sinking sensation. What did she have to wear that was suited to a getaway with Ian Noble?

Since absolutely nothing she owned was probably appropriate, she ended up picking her favorite pair of jeans, boots, a tank top and a sage-green tunic that did good things for her complexion. If she couldn’t be sophisticated, she might as well be comfortable. She took time styling and straightening her long hair—which was rare for her to do—and applied some mascara and lip gloss. She studied herself in the mirror when she was done, shrugged, and left the bathroom.

It would have to do.

Despite the fact that he’d told her she wouldn’t need anything, she did pack a duffel bag with underwear, a few changes of clothing, jogging apparel, some toiletries, and her passport. She set her bag and her purse by the door and walked into the kitchen, where Davie and Caden sat at the kitchen table. Davie was always an early riser, even on a Sunday, but Caden was not. Francesca recalled that he was burning the midnight oil this weekend to get a project done for work.

“I’m glad I caught you guys,” she said, pouring herself another cup of coffee, even though she knew she shouldn’t drink it; nervousness about Ian being there in a few minutes was starting to make her stomach roil. “I’m going away for a few days,” she said, turning to face her friends.

“Going to Ann Arbor?” Caden asked before he sliced his fork into a syrup-drenched waffle. Her parents lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

“No,” she said, avoiding Davie’s curious stare.

“Where, then?” Davie asked.

“Um . . . Paris.”

Caden stopped chewing and blinked at her. She started when she heard a brisk knock at the front door. She set down her coffee cup on the counter with a loud thud, causing coffee to splash up on her wrist.

“I’ll explain when I get back,” she assured Davie as she used a towel to dry her forearm. She began to edge out of the kitchen.

Davie stood. “Are you going with Noble?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, wondering why she felt so guilty at the admission.

“Then call me as soon as you can,” Davie insisted.

“All right. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she assured.

The last image she saw as she left the kitchen was Davie’s worried expression. Damn. If Davie looked concerned, it was usually with good reason.

Was this one of the stupidest choices she’d ever made in her life?

She flung open the front door and all of her thoughts about Davie and wisdom versus foolishness vanished. He stood on the front steps, wearing a pair of dark blue pants, a white button-down shirt open at the collar, and a casual hooded jacket. Well, even if he did look good enough to eat, at least he wasn’t wearing one of his immaculate suits, given how she’d dressed.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his blue eyes running over the length of her.

She nodded and reached for her duffel bag and purse. “I . . . I didn’t know what to wear,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said as he took her bag. He glanced back at her as she followed him down the steps. Her heart leapt when he gave her one of his rare smiles. “You’re perfect.”

Her cheeks turned hot at his compliment, and she was glad he turned away. He introduced her to his driver, Jacob Suarez, a middle-aged Hispanic man with a nice smile. Jacob immediately took and stowed Francesca’s bag while Ian opened the car door for her.

She slid onto one of the sofalike seats, absorbing the luxurious surroundings of the elegant limo. The impressions that struck her the most were the cushy, buttery softness of the seat and the smell—leather mixing with Ian’s spicy, clean male scent. The screen on the built-in television monitor was off, but Ian’s laptop was opened on the table between the two leather seats. Classical music resounded sedately from the surround sound stereo. Bach—the Bradenberg concertos, she recognized after a few seconds. It seemed a perfect choice for Ian—the man and the music were both mathematically precise and intensely soulful. A chilled, newly opened bottle of her preferred brand of club soda sat on the table near his computer.

Ian removed his jacket and slid into the seat across from her.

“Did you sleep much?” he asked her once he was settled and the car began to move smoothly down the street.

“A little,” she lied.

He nodded, his gaze skimming over her face. “You look pretty. I like your hair that way. You don’t usually straighten it, do you?”

Her cheeks warmed again, this time in embarrassment. “It takes a lot of time.”

“You have a lot of hair,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. Perhaps he noticed her blush. “Don’t worry, I’m not complaining. I’m fond of every strand of it. Would you mind very much if I worked?” he asked her with abrupt reluctance. “The more I can get done here and on the plane, the better I can totally focus on you when we get there.”

“Of course,” she assured, set a little off balance by his rapid change of topic.

She didn’t mind him working. She liked being able to watch him while his singularly intense focus was elsewhere. He wore glasses? She watched him don a pair of sleek, stylish lenses. His fingers flew over a keyboard fast enough to make the most proficient administrative assistant envious. Strange . . . to think that those large, masculine hands could move with so much fleet precision.

He would use those hands to make love to her sometime very soon. She couldn’t believe it. Her first lover was going to be Ian Noble.

A heavy, warm sensation settled in her lower belly and sex. She took a swig of her icy club soda and forced herself to stare out the window. A swarm of questions buzzed in her head. By the time they’d passed the Skyway and headed several miles into Indiana, she couldn’t contain one any longer.

“Ian, where are we going?”

He blinked and glanced up, giving her the impression of rising out of a deep trance of concentration. He glanced out the window.

“To a small airport where I keep my plane. We’re nearly there,” he said, hitting a few buttons on his computer and lowering the monitor.

“You own a plane?”

“Yes. I have to travel quite a bit, sometimes on the spur of the moment. A plane is an absolute necessity.”

Of course, she thought. He would never be satisfied waiting for anything.

“I want to show you something tonight in Paris,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said, his shapely, firm lips forming a small smile.

“I don’t really like surprises,” she said, unable to look away from his mouth.

“You’ll like this one.”

She looked up into his eyes and saw the sparkle of amusement there, along with something else . . . white-hot heat. She had a feeling his stark declaration about her desires was dead-on.

As usual.

A few minutes later, she stared out the window, her mouth hanging open. “Ian, what are we doing?” she exclaimed as Jacob drove them up a ramp.

“Driving onto the plane.”

They rose into the sleek jet that sat on the tarmac of a small airport. She felt like Jonah going into the belly of the whale. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

She stared at him, stunned, when he chuckled, the low, rough sound causing the skin at the back of her neck and along her arms to prickle in awareness. He reached for her hand across the table and drew her onto the seat next to him. He placed his hand on her jaw, lifted it, and swept down to cover her mouth with his, sandwiching her lower lip between his own, nibbling at her. He dipped his tongue into her mouth and moaned, his coaxing kiss transforming into a voracious one.

He lifted his head when he heard Jacob’s door slam. The car had come to a full halt. She stared up at him, half-slain by his unexpected kiss.

He leaned up and grabbed his briefcase at the same moment Jacob rapped once and then opened the door. Francesca followed him out of the car, feeling dazed, excited, and extremely aroused.

The jet was unlike anything she’d ever seen. They took an elevator up to a second level and entered a luxurious compartment with a wet bar, a full entertainment center and shelving unit, a built-in leather couch, and four luxurious, wide chair recliners. Expensive drapery covered the windows. She would never have guessed in a million years she was on a plane.

She followed Ian into the compartment, her hand in his.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you.”

He chose a pair of recliners that faced each other, a table between them.

“Sit there,” he said, nodding at the chair to the left. “There’s a bedroom, but I’d prefer if you rested here. The chair fully reclines, and there’s a blanket and pillows in that drawer there,” he said, pointing at the gleaming mahogany entertainment center.

“There’s a bedroom?” she asked, experiencing a ridiculous wave of embarrassment at just saying the word.

He sat in his own chair, immediately pulling his computer and some files out of his briefcase. “Yes,” he murmured, glancing up at her. “But I would prefer if you slept where I can see you. You are free to use the bedroom, however, if you prefer. It’s in there,” he said, pointing to a mahogany door. “And so is the bathroom, if you should need it.”

She turned away so that he wouldn’t notice her breathless reaction to his words. She returned a moment later carrying the soft blanket and pillow she’d retrieved from the drawer. He said nothing, but she noticed his small smile while he started up his computer.

She sat and studied the electronic control panel on the arm of the lounger, figuring out how to recline it. She started to do so.

“Oh, and Francesca?” Ian asked, not looking up from his computer screen.

“Yes?” she asked, lifting her finger from the control button.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

For several seconds, she just stared. Her heartbeat began to throb in her ears. Perhaps he’d noticed her frozen state, because he glanced up, his expression calm. Expectant.

“You can put the blanket on while you sleep,” he said.

“Then why do you want me to take off my clothes, if I’m going to be covered up anyway?” she blurted out, confused.

“I’d like to know you’re available to me.”

Liquid heat surged through her sex. God help her. She must be as much of a sexual deviant as Ian was, to respond so wholly to a few uttered words.

Slowly, she rose on trembling legs and began to strip.

* * *

He hit the Send button on his computer, zooming off a detailed memo to his senior staff. For the fiftieth time in the past five minutes, he glanced over at the outline of the shapely feminine form curled beneath the blanket. The tiny, even rise and fall of the cover told him she still rested soundly. He could have guessed within seconds the precise moment Francesca had finally succumbed to sleep about five hours ago. He was that aware of her. If he was having trouble concentrating—if he suffered—he could blame no one but himself. He’d been the one to insist she take off her clothes. He’d been the one to sit and stare, hypnotized, as she’d removed item after item, while his mouth went bone-dry and his heartbeat began to throb along the shaft of his cock.

Every time he recalled her lowered gaze and pink cheeks, her long, glorious hair swishing next to her narrow waist, her bare, thrusting breasts and luscious, fat nipples, legs that could make a man weep they were so long, shapely, and supple—and worst of all—the soft-looking, red-tinted, golden hair at the juncture of her thighs, the amount of it sparse enough so that he could clearly see her plump labia and slit, the blood began to pound fiercely again in his cock. Since he was thinking of the vision constantly, he’d pretty much sustained an erection for the past five hours.

It would be hell not to touch her until tonight, but he’d promised himself to make this experience as special for her as he could. An even worse torture would be to touch and not take her. He whipped off his glasses and stood.

It would be a delicious torture. And he was used to suffering.

He lowered onto the seat next to her. She lay on her side, facing him, her face still and lovely in repose. Her lips were a shade deeper in color than their usual lush pink hue. His cock leapt against the restraining fabric of his boxer briefs. Was she, by chance, aroused as she slept?

He grabbed the blanket at her shoulder and gently, slowly lowered it all the way to her knees, teasing himself as her splendor was fully revealed inch by tantalizing inch. He smiled to himself when he saw that her nipples were, indeed, puckered and tight. What sorts of erotic journeys did an innocent like Francesca take in her sleep? His gaze flickered and stuck on the trim, strawberry-blonde thatch of hair between her white thighs. Was that moisture gleaming in the slit? Surely it was his imagination . . . wishful thinking after hours of tortuous arousal.

He spread his hand over the smooth expanse of her flat belly. She said that she’d been overweight as a child, but he could see no evidence of it. Losing the weight so young must have saved her from stretch marks. Her skin looked flawless. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her face tightening momentarily, before she sighed and sunk back into slumber. His hand lowered across her satiny, warm skin. He reached, sliding his finger into that silky hair, burrowing it between those sex lips that had been haunting him night after night.

He grunted in satisfaction. It hadn’t been his imagination. Her juices coated his finger. He moved, finding her clit, teasing it with his fingertip, calling her to him from the realms of her dreams. He spread his hand for a moment over her outer sex, arousal stabbing at his cock. Things were warm, wet, and divine in the crevice.

His gaze was on her face when she opened her eyes. For a second, they just stared at each other as he stimulated her clit with his finger. He watched as fresh color rushed into her cheeks and full lips.

“Is this what you wanted me available for?” she muttered, her voice low and thick with sleep.

“Perhaps. I can’t stop thinking about your pussy. I’m looking forward to spending as much time as possible buried in it.” He flicked her clit with extra pressure, and watched, fascinated, as she gasped and bit her fleshy lower lip. Christ. He was going to kill himself feasting on her. She was a never-ending orgy of delight all encapsulated in one gorgeous, fascinating woman.

“Roll onto your back,” he said, his finger still plucking and stroking between her creamy labia, his gaze intent on her face as he tightly examined her subtle reactions to his manipulations, gauging her . . . learning her. His hand moved with her as she lay on her back. “Now spread your legs. I want to look at you,” he instructed gruffly.

She widened her slender thighs. His gaze fixed between her legs, he reached for the control panel, lowering the footrest of her recliner. He knelt before her, his body between her spread knees. He removed his hand and stared at her sex, utterly spellbound.

“I usually ask women to shave for me,” he said. “It increases the sensitivity. Makes a woman totally available to me.”

“Is that what you’d like me to do?” she asked. His gaze zoomed up to her face. Her dark, velvety eyes shone with arousal.

“I don’t want you to change a thing. You have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. I may be demanding, but even I know better than to mess with perfection.”

Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. He reached and used his fingers to widen her sex lips, exposing glistening dark pink folds and the tiny slick opening to her vagina. His cock lurched viciously, knowing precisely where it wanted to be at that moment. He longed to push his tongue into that hole, as well, to have her juices sliding down his throat. He craved it.

But if he tasted her, he’d take her, there and now. That was a certainty.

He reluctantly rose and sat again next to her on the wide seat of the lounger. He leaned down and kissed her parted lips lightly as he resumed stroking her clit.

“Does this feel good?” he asked, his gaze running over her flushed face.

“Yes,” she whispered, the fervency of her response convincing him as much as her pink-stained lips, cheeks, and heaving breasts. He flicked at her clit, giving it a rapid, gentle, back-and-forth lashing with the ridge of his forefinger. She gasped, and he smiled. She was so wet that he could hear himself moving in her creamy flesh.

“You’re so responsive. I can’t wait to see what heights of pleasure I can evoke out of your beautiful body.”

He rubbed her clit hard, pulsing her.

“Oh . . . Ian,” she moaned, twisting her hips, lifting her pelvis against his hand to increase the pressure.

“It’s all right, lovely,” he whispered next to her mouth, plucking at her lips as she panted. “I grant you what I deny myself for now. Come against my hand.”

He watched, raging in an inferno of arousal, as the tension in her sleek, soft body broke, and she cried out in pleasure. He smelled it—the unique perfume that rose off her skin when she climaxed. Unable to stop himself, he seized her mouth with his own, silencing her whimpers almost angrily, slaking his thirst on her sweetness.

When her shudders of orgasm finally quieted, he tore his mouth from hers and buried his head in the crook of her shoulder and neck, panting nearly as much as she was. After a moment, he acknowledged that he wouldn’t be able to quiet his raging erection while inhaling her intoxicating scent.

He straightened and rose, walking back over to his lounger.

“We’ll be arriving in Paris soon,” he murmured, tapping his keyboard and noticing that the finger he’d used to make her come still gleamed with her abundant juices. He closed his eyes briefly to shut out the arousing image. It lingered, seemingly burned into the back of his shut eyelids. “Why don’t you go into the bedroom, wash up, and change.”

“Change?” she asked.

He nodded and dared to look at her naked beauty flushed from climax. Christ, she was beautiful: the dark eyes of a nymph, the pale, soft skin of an Irish maid, the lithe, voluptuous body of a Roman goddess. He resisted a nearly imperative, dark urge to pounce and sink his cock into the heaven of her like some kind of wild animal.

“Yes. I’m taking you out to dinner,” he said, shortly, instead.

“You bought me something to wear?” she asked, nymph eyes going wide in surprise.

He smiled grimly and returned his attention to his work with monumental effort. “I told you I’d give you everything you needed, Francesca.”

***

She must be becoming jaded, because when she saw the opulent, surprisingly large aircraft bedroom suite, she wasn’t stunned. Maybe that was because she was getting to know Ian better and knew he’d never be satisfied with anything but tasteful perfection. She opened the closet door, as he had instructed her to do, and saw a black knit evening dress hanging in the closet.

“Lin says to tell you that everything else you’ll need is either inside the top drawer in the bureau in the closet or on top of it,” Ian had said a moment ago. “She says the temperature in Paris will be a pleasant sixty-five degrees tonight, so the hosiery is optional,” he added, glancing at his cell phone, clearly reading a text from his efficient assistant.

Inside the built-in mahogany drawer, she found an exquisite black lace panty-and-bra set. She held up another ebony lace item, confused, before realizing it was a garter. A wave of embarrassment went through her at the thought of Lin arranging to have this intimate apparel made available to her. Perhaps she ran such errands for Ian all the time?

Her fingers ran over the last item in the drawer—silk stockings. She glanced nervously at the closed door to the bedroom and stuffed the garter back into the drawer. More than likely, Ian would want her to wear them, but she had no idea how to put on a garter and stockings. Besides, Lin had said hosiery was optional, hadn’t she?

On top of the bureau were two boxes—one made of cardboard and one of leather. She opened the shoe box first and gave a muted oooh of pleasure when she saw a black suede, super-sexy pair of pumps nestled in tissue. Francesca wasn’t a shoe hound by any stretch of the imagination—her jogging shoes were the most prized and expensive item of clothing that she owned—but a woman’s heart must beat in her breast after all, because she couldn’t wait to try on the sophisticated heels. She noticed the brand and winced. The shoes probably cost more than she paid for three months’ worth of rent.

Feeling both thrilled and wary, she opened the last box. The pearls shone luminously against the black velvet lining. The necklace was an exquisite double strand, the earring studs simple. Both items epitomized understated class.

Was this all part of her payment for agreeing to let Ian possess her sexually for a period of time? The thought sickened her a little.

Setting aside the leather box, she hurried to the bathroom and dropped the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. A hot shower would ground her, help her cast off this surreal sense that kept creeping upon her stealthily. She twisted a towel around her head to keep her hair dry and turned on the water.

She walked out of the bathroom several minutes later, her skin gleaming with the scented moisturizer she’d found on the counter. She still hadn’t decided about what to do with all the expensive clothing and jewelry Ian had provided.

“We’re about an hour out. We got lucky. Conditions were perfect,” an electronic-sounding male voice said, making her start in shock. She realized it was the pilot, who spoke through a microphone somewhere. She thought of Ian out in the other compartment, glancing up, rising out of his concentration as he worked when he heard the pilot.

He expected her to wear the clothing he’d bought for her. He would be irritated if she refused. She didn’t want to do battle with him. Not tonight. Besides, hadn’t she agreed to this mad venture?

Hadn’t she sold her soul to the devil in order to fully experience his touch?

She discounted the melodramatic thought and went over to the drawer and withdrew the silk-and-lace panties.

Twenty minutes later, she walked out of the bedroom, feeling extremely self-conscious and quite sure she was going to fall on her face in the luscious heels she wore. Ian gave a brief sideways glance when she approached, then did a double take. His expression went flat as his gaze ran over her.

“I . . . didn’t know what to do with my hair,” she said stupidly. “I have some plastic clips in my purse, but they didn’t seem—”

“No,” he said, standing. Even wearing the heels, she was still a good three or four inches shorter than him. He reached out and ran his fingers through her unbound hair. At least she’d straightened it this morning, and it wasn’t too wild after her sleep. It looked smooth and lustrous next to the black dress after she’d combed it, but even Francesca—a complete fashion idiot—knew that the outfit she wore called for an upswept style. “We’ll get you something suitable to put it up tomorrow. But for tonight, you can wear it down. A crown of glory like that is never out of place.”

She gave him an uncertain smile. His blue-eyed stare flickered over her breasts, waist, and belly, making her flush with heat. Francesca had been part horrified, part thrilled to see how closely the thin knit wraparound dress hugged her figure. The dress was elegant sexiness defined—or at least it would have been on somebody else, she amended as she studied Ian’s face anxiously.

Was he pleased? She couldn’t quite tell from his shuttered expression.

“I’m not going to keep any of these things,” she said quietly. “They’re too much.”

“I told you that I could offer you two things in this venture.”

“Yes . . . pleasure and experience.”

“It gives me great pleasure to see your beauty revealed. As for you, the clothing is part of the experience, Francesca.” His gaze sunk over her, and he released her hair, his jaw looking tight. “Why don’t you just enjoy it? God knows I will,” he said roughly before he turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a brisk click.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Francesca sat in the midst of the Palais-Royal, at a private table at the historic Le Grand Véfour restaurant. She was so overwhelmed by the voluptuous artwork, the sumptuous food, the anticipation of what was to happen later that night . . . by Ian’s steady, heavy-lidded gaze on her that she could barely swallow the food, let alone appreciate it as she should have.

The entire experience was a barely restrained seduction.

“You hardly ate,” Ian said when the waiter came to clear the remains of their entrées.

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, cringing inwardly at the mere thought of how much money and effort had been wasted on her sublime meal of beef bourguignon and mashed potatoes with oxtails and black truffles that was about to be tossed into the garbage. The waiter spoke inquiringly to Ian in French, and he replied in kind, never removing his gaze from her. One thing was for certain: She’d barely been able to take her eyes off him ever since he’d emerged from the plane’s bedroom earlier, wearing a modern version of a classic tuxedo with a black necktie instead of a bow, a pristine white shirt, and a handkerchief tucked into his pocket. He’d turned every head in the exclusive restaurant while escorting her to the table.

“Are you nervous?” he asked quietly once the waiter had walked away.

She nodded, intuiting his meaning. She stared at his long, blunt-tipped fingers idly circling the base of his champagne flute and repressed a shiver.

“Would it help you any to know that I am as well?”

She blinked and looked into his face. His blue eyes were like gleaming crescents beneath hooded lids.

“Yes,” she blurted out. And after a pause, “You are?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “With good reason, I think.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“Because I’m so excited to have you, there’s a chance I’ll lose control. I never lose control, Francesca. Never. But I might tonight.”

A thrill of anticipation went through her at the hint of dark warning in his tone. Why did the thought of seeing Ian undone by passion stir her to her very core? She glanced up in surprise when the waiter returned and placed a beautiful dessert before her and a silver coffee service before Ian.

“Est-ce qu’il y aura autre chose, monsieur?” the waiter asked Ian.

“Non, merci.”

“Très bien, bon appétit,” the waiter said before he walked away.

“I didn’t order this,” Francesca said, staring dubiously at the dessert.

“I know. I ordered it for you. Eat some. You’re going to need the energy, lovely.” She glanced up from beneath her lashes and saw his small smile. “It’s the house specialty, palet aux noisettes. Even if you were stuffed to the gills, you’d want this. Trust me,” he urged softly. She picked up her fork.

She gave a small moan of sensual delight a moment later as the combination of cake, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and caramel ice cream blended on her tongue. He smiled, and she smiled back impishly, forking another portion with more enthusiasm.

“You speak French very well,” she commented before she slid the fork between her lips.

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t. I’m a French citizen, as well as one of the United Kingdom. It’s a tie-up as to whether my native tongue is French or English. The townspeople spoke French where I grew up; my mother English.”

She paused in her chewing, recalling what Mrs. Hanson had told her about Ian’s grandparents finally finding their daughter in northern France and discovering a grandson as well. She longed to ask him more about his past.

“You never speak of your parents,” she said cautiously, taking another bite.

“You never speak of yours, either. Aren’t you close with them?”

“Not really,” she said, hiding her scowl at the realization he’d changed the topic away from himself. “My whole life I thought they disapproved of me because I was overweight, or so I thought. Now that I’m not overweight anymore, I’ve had to come to the conclusion that they just don’t get me. Period.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, toying with her fork. “We get along all right. We’re not feuding or anything dramatic. It’s just . . . painful to be around them.”

“Painful?” he asked, pausing as he raised his cup to his mouth.

“Not painful, I guess. Just . . . awkward,” she said, lifting her fork.

“Don’t they appreciate what a gifted artist you are?”

She closed her eyes briefly in gustatory bliss as the flavors melted on her tongue. “My artwork just annoys them. My father more than my mother,” she said after she’d squeezed every last bit of sweet succulence out of the confection and swallowed. She slicked her thumb along her lips, capturing a dollop of milk-chocolate mousse with the tip of her tongue. God, it was delicious.

She glanced up when Ian tossed his napkin on the table.

“That’s it. Time to go,” he said, pushing his chair back.

“What?” she asked, startled by his abruptness.

He came around to help her with her chair. “Never mind,” he said grimly, taking her hand. “Just remind me the next time I’m grasping for restraint not to order you chocolate.”

Pleasure flooded through her at his comment, the potency of it far greater than even that conferred by the delectable palet aux noisettes.

***

“Where are we staying?” Francesca asked him several minutes later as Jacob zoomed down a darkened, nearly deserted rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Unlike their trip from the airport to the restaurant, when he’d sat next to her in the limo, her hand fast in his, Ian now sat across from her, his manner distant as he stared broodingly out the window.

“At the Hotel George V. But we’re not going there yet.”

“Then where—”

The car slowed. He nodded significantly out the window. Her eyes widened as she recognized the shape and ornate architecture of the Second Empire building that overtook the entire city block.

“The Musee de St. Germain?” she asked, joking. She was familiar with the museum of Greek and Italian antiquities from her undergraduate days of study in Paris. The museum was housed in one of the few remaining privately held palaces left in the city.

“Yes.”

The laughter died on her lips. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” he said calmly.

“Ian, it’s past midnight in Paris. The museum is closed.” Jacob halted the limo. A moment later, the driver rapped once on the back door before he opened it. Ian got out and took her hand as she alighted on the tree-lined, dimly lit street. He smiled when she stared dubiously up at him, and then took her hand.

“Don’t worry. We won’t stay long. I’m as eager to get back to the hotel as you are. More so,” he added under his breath. He guided her onto the sidewalk and to a door couched within a deep stone arch. Much to her surprise, an elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair immediately answered when Ian knocked on the thick wooden door.

“Mr. Noble,” he greeted with what appeared to be a mixture of pleasure and respect. They entered, and the man closed the door behind them before tapping his fingers over a keypad. Francesca heard a lock click loudly. A green light began to blink on what appeared to be an elaborate security system.

“Alaine. I can’t thank you enough for this special favor,” Ian greeted warmly when the other man turned. The two men shook hands within a dimly lit, white marble entryway as Francesca glanced around, confused but curious. This was not an entrance on the public tour.

“Nonsense. It is nothing,” the man said in a hushed tone, as if this were some kind of clandestine nighttime mission.

“How is your family? Monsieur Garrond is well, I trust?” Ian asked.

“Very well, although we are both like displaced cats at the present moment as we have major renovations done on our apartment. We’re getting too old to have our routines disrupted, I’m afraid. How is Lord Stratham fairing?”

“Grandmother says he’s a bear following his knee surgery, but his stubbornness is an asset in this case. He’s recovering well.”

Alaine chuckled. “Please give both of them my regards the next time you see them.”

“I shall, but you will likely see them before I do. Grandmother plans to attend the opening of the Polygnotus exhibit next week.”

“We are fortunate,” Alaine said, beaming, and Francesca couldn’t help but feel he meant it entirely. His gaze landed on Francesca with polite interest. She clearly sensed his intelligence and curiosity.

“Francesca Arno, I’d like you to meet Alaine Laurent. He’s the director of the St. Germain.”

“Ms. Arno, welcome,” he said, taking her hand. “Mr. Noble tells me you are quite a talented artist.”

Warmth rushed through her at the knowledge Ian had complimented her behind her back. “Thank you. My work is nothing to what you come into contact with every day in your work here. I loved coming to the St. Germain when I was an undergraduate studying in Paris.”

“It’s a place of inspiration as well as art and history, no?” he said, smiling. “I hope the piece that Ian shows you tonight will provide its own special inspiration. We are quite proud to have her here at the St. Germain,” he said mysteriously. “I will leave you to your own devices then. I have everything arranged for you. Please be assured that you won’t be disturbed. I have shut off surveillance of the Fontainebleau salon for your short visit to afford you some privacy. I’m working in the east wing, if you should need me,” Monsieur Laurent said.

“We won’t. And I want to thank you again for this consideration. I know it was an unusual request,” Ian said.

“I have complete faith that you wouldn’t make it without excellent reason,” Monsieur Laurent said smoothly.

“I will call you when we are finished with the viewing. It won’t be long,” Ian assured.

Monsieur Laurent gave a slight bow that seemed completely natural and graceful and walked away.

“Ian, what are we doing?” Francesca whispered heatedly as he started to lead her down a dim, arched passage in the opposite direction from which Monsieur Laurent had departed.

He didn’t immediately reply. It was difficult to keep up with his long-legged stride in her stiletto heels. They quickly started to penetrate the passages into the bowels of the huge, venerable building, eventually entering museum areas that she recognized. It was a salon-style museum versus a gallery. The St. Germain’s interior as a palace residence had been preserved. Walking through the rooms gave the impression of going back in time to a posh, elegant, lived-in seventeenth-century palace showcasing priceless furnishings and incredible pieces of Grecian and Roman art.

“Do you want me to paint something else for you, and the inspiration is here at the St. Germain?” she prodded.

“No,” he said, not looking at her as he pulled her along, the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoing off the high ceiling and sweeping marble arches.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” she asked incredulously.

“Because I told myself I wanted to give you this experience, but I’m also eager to get you alone at the hotel.” He’d said it so matter-of-factly that she was rendered speechless as they passed salons to her right and left, the images of frozen statuary only increasing her sense of unreality. She’d thought things had been surreal all day, but walking through a mostly deserted, hushed palace’s halls at Ian’s side had her truly disoriented. He marched into a familiar long, narrow salon and suddenly came to a halt.

He’d stopped so suddenly, she nearly spilled forward in her high heels, her hair falling into her face. She noticed where Ian was staring and glanced up, dazed. Her mouth fell open in awe.

“Aphrodite of Argos,” she gasped.

“Yes. The Italian government has sent her on loan to us for six months.”

“Us?” she whispered in a hushed tone as she stared at the priceless statue of Aphrodite. Moonlight shown through the arched column of skylights built into the ceiling, bathing the salon and statue with soft luminescence. The gracefully twisted torso and sublime expression worked into the cold white marble was breathtaking as it glowed from the draped shadows.

“The St. Germain Palace belongs to my grandfather’s family. James Noble is the patron of the museum. His collection is one of his many contributions to the public—an offering to those who share in his love of antiquities. I sit on the board for the St. Germain, as does my grandmother.”

She stared up at him, his open admiration and reverence as he studied the statue taking her by surprise. Pleasant surprise. He was typically so stoic. There were depths to Ian Noble she couldn’t fathom.

“You adore this piece,” she stated more than asked, recalling the miniature of it in his Chicago penthouse.

“I would own it if I could,” he admitted. His smile struck her as a little sad. “But you can’t own Aphrodite, can you? Or so they tell me.”

She swallowed. A strange, light-headed feeling came over her as she stood there with this compelling, enigmatic man.

“Why do you love this particular piece so much?” she asked.

He glanced down at her, moonlight making his bold features as compelling as Aphrodite’s.

“Aside from the artistry and beauty? Maybe because of what she’s doing,” he said.

Her brows knitted together as she looked again at the statue. “She’s bathing, isn’t she?”

He nodded. She sensed his gaze on her face. “She’s partaking of her daily ritual of purity. Every day, Aphrodite washes herself clean and arises anew. It’s a nice fantasy, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” she asked as she looked up at him, ensnared by his shadowed visage and the moonlit gleam in his eyes. He reached up. His fingertips were warm on her cheek, but she shivered nonetheless.

“That we could wash away our sins. I just keep compounding mine, Francesca,” he said quietly.

“Ian—” she began, compassion going through her at his tone. Why was he so convinced he was tainted?

“Never mind,” he said, interrupting her. He turned to fully face her, putting his hands on her waist and pulling her against his body. Her eyes widened. With her heels on, she was aligned higher on his body than usual. She could feel his firm testicles pressing against the top of her mons and the dense ridge of his cock riding along his left thigh. How could he possibly be so hard when they’d barely been touching? Was this Aphrodite’s work? She wondered in a flight of fancy.

His hand opened along the side of her jaw, lifting her face to the moonlight. Her heart started to drum out a primal beat against her breastbone. He thrust his hips, making the air pop out of her lungs at the evidence of his full arousal. His fingers flexed into her hip. His head dipped, and he brushed his lips against hers, as if he tried to inhale her gasp.

“God I want you,” he said almost angrily, before he captured her mouth with his, his tongue parting her lips. Coming into full contact with him was like suddenly being submerged in a fire. The sheer force of him, his taste, inundated her. She staggered slightly in the heels, and he caught her tighter against him, her body molding against stark, unrelenting muscle and rigid male arousal. She’d never experienced so much concentrated male desire. Had this inferno been building in him all day? All week?

She moaned into his mouth, her female flesh melting against his hard male heat. His hands shifted to the belt of her wrap dress. When he sealed their kiss roughly a moment later, Francesca felt dizzy with excitement. He stepped back. The sides of her dress gaped open, exposing her bare skin to moonlight. He pushed the material aside, exposing her near-nude body. His gaze ran over her. Her breath stuck in her lungs when she saw the reverence in his rigid features mingling with blazing lust. His nostrils flared slightly.

“I want you to remember this for the rest of your life,” he said abruptly.

“I will,” she replied without hesitance—who could possibly forget such a charged experience?—although she was bewildered by the meaning behind his words.

“Sit here,” he said, putting his hands on her hips.

She opened her mouth to express her confusion, but he was guiding her to the marble pedestal surrounding Aphrodite. She sat and felt the cold, hard marble beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Ian put his hands on her knees and spread them. He knelt before her.

“Ian?” she asked confusedly.

Were his hands shaking as he slid her panties down her thighs and over her knees? Her sex clenched tight in rising anticipation.

“I thought I could wait. I can’t,” he muttered, and she heard the harsh regret in his tone. He looked into her face as his hands caressed her thighs and hips, and she felt herself heating the cool marble. “If I don’t taste you now, I think I’ll die. And I if taste you, I won’t be able to stop. I’m going to have to fuck you here and now.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned shakily. She felt the increasingly familiar surge of liquid heat between her thighs. His dark head lowered to her lap. His hands parted her farther for his ravishment. Her eyes sprang wide at the sensation of the tip of his warm, sleek tongue burrowing between her labia, rubbing and stabbing at her clit.

She grasped at his thick, crisp hair and whimpered. Her head fell back. In the hazy midst of her voluptuous ecstasy, she glimpsed Aphrodite watching her initiation with calm, supreme satisfaction.

Read more of Francesca and Ian’s electrifying romance in
Part Four of BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE

BECAUSE YOU MUST LEARN

Available from Headline on 21 August 2012