Because You Are Mine Part VII: Because I Need To (3 page)

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.”

Lucien chuckled. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked, moving toward the entrance to the large walnut bar. “Club soda with lime, right?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, pleasantly surprised that he’d recalled. Zoe sat next to her on one of the stools, asking her a few more questions about the painting. She noticed Lucien didn’t ask Zoe for her drink order, just automatically placed a bottle of ginger ale in front of her.

“So are you guys going out?” Francesca asked a few minutes later, taking a grateful sip of her soda. She blinked when she saw Lucien’s and Zoe’s startled expressions. “I mean . . . I just thought it looked like. . . .never mind,” she said, taking another gulp and setting her glass back on the counter. “Just ignore me. I’m always saying stupid things.”

Lucien broke into laughter. Zoe gave a faltering smile. “It’s not that. Yes. Zoe and I
are
going out. We’re just trying to fly under the radar about it, that’s all.”

“Radar?” Francesca asked, confused.

“Ian, in a word,” Lucien said, still smiling.

“Ian? Why are you trying to avoid Ian?” Francesca asked.

“It’s frowned upon for Noble Enterprises employees to date, especially a manager and nonmanager,” Lucien said.

“I keep telling Lucien that I’m an
assistant
manager,” Zoe spoke up heatedly, glaring at Lucien. Obviously this was a much-talked-about, incendiary topic between the couple. “I don’t think we’re breaking any rules. We’re in two completely different industries for the company. Surely Ian wouldn’t mind.”

“Who cares if Ian minds?” Francesca blurted out, leaning forward on the bar and frowning. “Why does everyone have to defer to him like he’s the king of the realm or something? You two have the right to live your life based on what
you
want, not Ian Noble’s whims.”

A thick silence followed her outburst. It took Francesca a moment to realize that Lucien was staring behind her and that Zoe was turning slowly in her stool, her expression frozen.

Francesca shut her eyes and inhaled through constricted lungs. “Ian’s behind me, isn’t he?” she whispered to Lucien. Lucien’s flattened expression was her answer.

She twirled around on her stool, anxiety rising in her. He stood between the entrance of the restaurant and the portion of the bar where Zoe and she sat. The sight of him ripped a jagged, deep crack in her defenses. Longing welled up in her, so strong it stole her breath. He wore an impeccable black suit that highlighted the masculine lines of his long body to perfection, one of the crisp white dress shirts he favored, and a pale silver tie. His face was liked carved marble: beautiful, cold, impassive. His eyes gleamed with heat, however, as he studied her—and her alone—from the shadows of the dimly lit restaurant bar.

“When did you get back?” Francesca asked, her mouth dry.

“Just now,” he replied. “Mrs. Hanson said that you mentioned your plan to stop by the lobby. When I didn’t see you, I was headed to my office, and Pete—the security guard—told me about his encounter with a young woman who sat in the lobby all afternoon staring into space, occasionally taking pictures of nothing and who told him she was studying the light.” Did his full lips twitch slightly in amusement at that? “I got the feeling he wasn’t sure if you were a potential threat to security or a fairy.”

“Oh . . . I see,” Francesca said, feeling strangely as if he’d just reached out and caressed her with his last comment. She glanced uncomfortably at Zoe. Had her big mouth just gotten Lucien and Zoe in trouble?

“Taking a break, Ms. Charon?” Ian asked with brisk kindness.

Zoe slid down from her stool and smoothed her skirt, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue. “I was taking a break, but it’s time that I got back to the office.”

Ian nodded, glancing from her flustered appearance to Lucien. “Yes. It’s always best to be discreet in these matters,” he said, meeting Lucien’s stare.

Lucien nodded once. Francesca realized, dazedly, Ian had just told the couple he was okay with their relationship as long as they didn’t flaunt it.

“May I speak with you for a moment? There’s something I want to show you,” Ian said to Francesca. Zoe swept past them, clearly intent on making her escape while the going was good.

“I . . . okay,” Francesca said, feeling a little trapped by the situation, not to mention by Ian’s compelling eyes and her upsurge of raw longing. Had she really believed she could expunge him from her mind and soul so easily because of anger? What was fury to the swelling, inexplicable feelings she had for him?

She said goodbye to Lucien, giving him an apologetic glance in the process. Lucien smiled in reassurance.

“Where are we going?” Francesca asked Ian when she trailed him out of Fusion and they walked toward the exit of the lobby versus the elevators. She’d thought he’d take her to his office, but instead he led her through the turnabout to the sidewalk.

“Back to the penthouse. There’s something I want to show you there.”

She came to an abrupt halt, her gaze leaping to meet his. Something flickered across his stoic features, and she wondered if he’d also recalled how he’d said a similar thing to her weeks ago . . . the night when she’d first met him right here at Noble Enterprises.

“I don’t want to go to the penthouse with you,” she said stiffly. Had it sounded like a lie to him? It certainly had to her. Part of her very much wanted to go to the penthouse with him. Why did she have to find him so irresistible? He was like a drug in her system, but it was worse than that kind of addiction. Worse because her soul was involved. Worse because she couldn’t help but see a part of Ian’s soul as well . . . couldn’t help but be haunted by it.

“I’d hoped you’d changed your mind about what you said before I left,” he said quietly, stepping toward her. Clouds had prevailed over the struggling sunshine. His eyes looked especially brilliant with the dark, low-lying clouds as their backdrop. They stood on a crowded sidewalk as people bustled past, but it was like she was sealed in a bubble with him.

“It wasn’t a matter of me throwing a temper tantrum like you made it out to be last week, Ian,” she said. “You walked out on me.”

“I came back. I told you I would.”

“And I said I wouldn’t be available to you when you did.” Something flashed in his eyes at that. Somehow, she knew Ian wouldn’t like her saying that particular thing.

I like to know that you’re available to me.

Her body stirred at the memory. She broke his mesmerizing stare and gazed blindly in the direction of the river. “The painting is coming along.”

“I know. I went and looked at your progress when I returned home this afternoon. It’s spectacular.”

“Thanks,” she said, still avoiding his eyes.

“Jacob informs me that you passed both of your driving tests. He was very proud of you.”

She couldn’t help but smile a little at that. It’d been a proud moment for her, too—profound in many ways. She owed Ian for that.

“I did. Thank you for encouraging me to do it.” She studied her shoes. “Did you have a good trip to London?”

When he didn’t immediately respond, she looked up at him.

“I hadn’t realized I’d told you where I was going,” he said.

“You didn’t. I guessed. Why do you always go by yourself to London?” she asked impulsively. “Jacob told me you never take him.”

She noticed his expression darken. “Don’t blame Jacob. He didn’t know where you were, either. I was asking him questions about it and he happened to mention he never drives you in London. I figured you must be there, since Jacob was here in Chicago.”

“Why were you so curious?”

She blinked at that. Why indeed, if she was professing not being interested in him anymore?

“What did you want to show me at the penthouse?”

His bland look told her he was very aware she was avoiding answering his question. He put out his hand, prompting her to walk next to him. “It’s something that has to be shown, not described.”

She hesitated for a few seconds. Was she really considering forgiving him for walking out so abruptly Friday without explanation of his errand?

She sighed and fell into step beside him.

She wasn’t conceding defeat, but just like that first night, it was a grueling effort to resist him. Maybe it was because of the lonely days of his absence, or his sudden appearance had caught her off guard, or perhaps it was because of the dizzying rush of warmth and happiness she experienced upon seeing him again.

Whatever the reason, this afternoon her resources for resistance were running very thin when it came to Ian Noble.

Chapter Fourteen

She stepped off the elevator, the entryway to Ian’s foyer striking her as strange, even though she’d grown quite familiar with it in the past weeks. So much had changed since she’d first peered into his world. Yet that feeling of anxious excitement as she entered the hushed penthouse with Ian just behind her was all too familiar.

“This way,” he said, his hoarse, quiet voice like gentle knuckles caressing the back of her neck. Her anticipation and curiosity grew as she followed him to the room she now knew was the library-office where
The Cat That Walks By Himself
hung.

When he opened the door and she first entered the room, the first thing that struck her was the other man turned in profile to her as he attended to his task.

“Davie?” she exclaimed, full-out shocked to see her friend in this unexpected environment.

Davie looked over his shoulder and grinned. He set down the painting he’d been arranging and turned toward her. Her gaze volleyed back and forth between the surprising vision of her friend and the painting he’d been perching on a long table against the wall.

“Oh my God! Where did you get it?” she gasped in disbelief, staring at a cityscape painting she’d done of the Wrigley Building, the Union and Carbide Building, and the Gothic-rocket masterpiece, 75 East Wacker. She’d done the painting when she was twenty years old and sold it for two hundred dollars to a suburban gallery. She’d hated parting with it, but she’d had no choice.

Before Davie could respond, she started to spin on her feet, her mouth hanging open in shock. She couldn’t breathe.

Her paintings encircled the entire library. Davie had placed them all about the room, sixteen or seventeen of them—lost lovers—all of them fanning out from the mantel and
The Cat That Walks By Himself,
which hung above them all. She’d never seen so many of her own pieces together. She’d had to part with them one by one, a piece of her soul splintering away every time she did. Part of her always hated herself for not being able to keep the cherished pieces of her creativity close . . . sacred.

And now here they all were in one room.

She quaked with emotion.

“ ’Cesca,” Davie said, his voice sounding strained. He stepped toward her, his happy smile a thing of the past.

“You did this?” she asked shrilly.

“I did it under request,” Davie said. She followed his significant glance.

Ian stood just inside the entrance to the library, watching her with a hooded gaze that morphed to concern—and something else, something darker . . . sadder—as he studied her face.

Oh, no
. She could protect herself against his arrogance. His controlling manner. His imperiousness.

But
not
against that anxious, vaguely lost expression on his bold, handsome face. It was too much. The weight of her emotions surged like a storm rushing a beach.

She hurried out of the room.

* * *

“Let me,” Davie said when Ian turned to follow Francesca, his gut wrenching at the shadow of anguish on her lovely face. Ian abhorred feeling helpless. He’d fashioned his entire life to avoid the unpleasant sensation. And yet he had to accept that hateful emotion as he stilled his feet with great effort and watched Davie pass him in pursuit of Francesca.

* * *

“How in the world did you ever do it, Davie?” she asked when her friend entered the studio a minute later. She was glad to see it was him and not Ian. Ian had bulldozed her remaining fragile defenses by doing what he’d done. How had he known that giving her back pieces of her past would decimate her walls when it came to him?

Davie shrugged and walked over to the table where she kept her art supplies. He tore off a piece of paper towel and handed it to her.

“Ian gave me carte blanche in order to locate and purchase as many of them as I could. When you have those kinds of resources, it’s not as hard as you might think.”

“That kind of money, you mean,” Francesca said, wiping tears off her cheek with the paper towel.

Davie gave her a soulful glance. “I know you told me last week that this thing between you and Ian was over, but we’d started the ball rolling a while back . . . before you went to Paris, even. Are you mad at me?”

“For going into league with Ian?” she sniffed, smiling mirthlessly.

“I wouldn’t have done it for a lesser cause. You know I’ve been trying to get ahold of some of your older works for ages now. It’s because I think you’re such a talented artist that I wanted to do that, ’Cesca. That was my main motivation for agreeing to help Ian collect the pieces. Not his money.” His attention was diverted. He went to stand before the painting. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he said in a hushed tone. “This is the best work you’ve ever done.”

“You really think so?” she asked, walking over to stand next to him.

Davie nodded solemnly, his gaze traveling over the large painting. He met her gaze. “I know you said that your . . . affair with him was over, ’Ces, but I can’t help but notice that Ian Noble is crazy about you. Granted, I’ve expressed my doubts about your involvement with him in the past. But this wasn’t just about him throwing his money around. You wouldn’t believe the effort and thought he’s put into acquiring your work.”

She was unsure of how she was supposed to feel. Two tears spilled out of her eyes. “He does it because he
can
, Davie.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Davie asked, looking confused. “What is it about Ian Noble that intimidates you so much? I can tell that you’re attracted to him, but torn about it, too. What’s he done to you?” Davie demanded, his bewilderment morphing to worry as he studied her face.

“Oh, Davie,” she mumbled miserably. She’d never told him about the sexual aspect of her and Ian’s relationship . . . about Ian being a sexual dominant and insisting she was a submissive. She suddenly blurted it all out, her explanation coming in uncomfortable fits and starts as she tried to give Davie a PG version and found it nearly impossible to do so.

“Francesca,” Davie said, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Having kinky sex
isn’t
a terrible thing. I know you haven’t had much experience—”

“
Any
 . . . before Ian,” she reminded him.

“Right. But people have all sorts of kinks in the bedroom. As long as it’s consensual and no one is getting hurt . . .” He paled as he faded off. “Ian’s not hurting you, is he?”

“No . . . no, it’s not that,” she exclaimed. “I mean . . . I like . . .
love
the way he makes love to me,” she said, blushing hotly. She’d never had this graphic of a conversation with Davie before . . . with anyone, for that matter. “It’s just that he’s a control freak
all
the time. Look at how he went behind my back and did this whole thing with you! He knew it’d make me want to forgive him for walking out on me last week without an explanation after we’d started to grow close.”

Davie sighed. “I told you. Ian asked me to locate your paintings awhile back. He couldn’t have known you guys were going to have a fight back then and suggested this to make up for it. Look, I’ve spent time dealing with him over the past few weeks as I located your paintings and we negotiated purchase prices. I know he’s domineering, but he’s also thoughtful. Yeah, he’s stubborn, and it’s his way or the highway, but it’s been hard to argue with him about that when he clearly wanted to do this to please you.”

She just stared at her friend . . .
wanting
to believe him . . .

“I only know one other person who’s as stubborn as him,” Davie said in a wry, challenging tone. Francesca laughed. She knew who that other person was.

“If you made it clear to him that his dominance over you could happen solely within the boundaries of sex and the bedroom, would that help?” Davie asked.

“But he shares so little of himself. He can shut me off like a light.”

Davie nodded in understanding. “Well, it’s your decision, of course. I wouldn’t be too sure about his ability to shut you out, though. He’s unreadable most of the time, no doubt about it, but that doesn’t equate to a lack of caring. It just means he’s good at hiding it. Anyway, I wanted you to know how focused and generous he’s been in collecting your paintings. He’s been a man on a mission.” He checked his watch. “I have to get going. I’m closing the gallery this evening.”

“Thank you, Davie,” she said, giving him a big hug. “Both for getting the paintings and for talking to me about Ian.”

“Anytime,” he told her with a significant glance. “We’ll talk more later, if you want.”

She nodded, watching him walk out of the room, leaving her to stew in her doubts and hopes.

* * *

Ten minutes later, she knocked softly on the door to Ian’s bedroom suite. She entered when she heard his distant “Come in.” He sat on the couch in the sitting area, his suit coat unbuttoned, his long legs bent before him, paging through his messages on his cell phone, his gaze steady on her as she approached.

“I was just looking at the paintings again,” she said. “I’m sorry for running off like that.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, setting down his phone on the couch.

She nodded. “I was . . . overwhelmed.”

A strained silence ensued as he studied her.

“I thought they would make you happy. The paintings.”

Her eyes burned and she stared at the Oriental carpet. Damn. She’d thought she’d gotten rid of all the onerous tears.

“They
do
make me happy. More happy than I can say.” She dared to meet his gaze. “How did you know they would?”

“I see how much pride you take in your work,” he said, standing. “I can only imagine how hard it was for you to part with them.”

“Like giving a piece of myself away each time,” she said, attempting a smile, twisting her hands nervously. Her gaze flickered across his face as he stepped toward her, and she was snagged by his stare. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you. I mean . . . I know the paintings are yours. You bought them. But for me to see them all together again is so special. But don’t you think it’s all too much?”

“Why would it be too much? Do you think I’m doing it to get you back in bed?”

“No, but—”

“I did it because you’re singularly talented. You know how much I appreciate art. It would please me to see your work valued as it should be. My patronage would mean nothing if you weren’t so talented, Francesca.”

She exhaled slowly. How could she argue in the face of what appeared to be genuine sincerity. “Thank you. Thank you so much for thinking about me, Ian.”

“I think about you more than you know.”

She swallowed thickly, recalling what Davie had said earlier . . . “
He’s good at hiding it.
”

“I’m sorry that I upset you last week. I really did have an important emergency to attend to. I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” he said. “My feelings about our relationship remain the same. I wish you’d reconsider what you said the other day. I can’t stop thinking about you, Francesca,” he said, his tone at the last making her gaze leap to his.

“If . . . if we do continue in the way we were, Ian . . . would you promise to only try and control me . . . dominate me in the bedroom?” she asked breathlessly. It’d cost her more than she’d been prepared for to say that. When he didn’t immediately answer, her heart dipped in her chest. His expression was impassive, but his eyes gleamed with emotion.

“Do you mean during sex? Because I can’t guarantee that I’ll only want you that way within the confines of a bedroom. As you know from Paris, the urge could arise anywhere.”

“Oh . . . well, yes. That’s what I meant. I admit that I like it when you . . . dominate me during sex, but I don’t want my
life
controlled.”

“You mean like I tried to control Elizabeth’s?”

“You admitted that you trust me more than you did Elizabeth.”

She sensed him considering and felt the need to better explain herself.

“I actually want to thank you for encouraging me to gain better control of my life,” she said, not wanting him to think she was clueless as to the changes he’d already wrought in her during their relatively brief relationship. “I appreciate you doing that. But
I
want to be the one to be in the true driver’s seat, Ian. Outside of sex, I mean,” she added under her breath.

His mouth pressed into a hard line. “I can’t guarantee I won’t tread where you don’t want me.”

“But will you try?”

His gaze ran over her face before he glanced away and exhaled.

“Yes. I’ll try.”

Her heart bounced. She rushed him and gave him a huge hug, squeezing his waist until he grunted. He looked amused when she looked up at him a moment later. He must be noticing the rush of happiness that had gone through her at his words.
I’ll try.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Let me take you for a ride on your motorcycle.”

“I can’t,” he said regretfully, stroking her cheek.

“But Jacob says I’m a really good driver—better than I am in a car.”

He smiled full out, and she blinked at the impact. “That’s not what I meant. I have to get into the office. I’m way behind with work.”

“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. She recovered quickly, though. She understood that he had massive responsibilities.

“But now that you mention it, I did bring home a surprise for you from London,” he said, a grin still ghosting his typically stern mouth.

“What?”

He dropped his hands and walked around her to the closet. When he returned, he held a black motorcycle helmet in one hand, a pair of black leather gloves tucked into the opening, and a hanger with a sleek, superhip black leather jacket suspended from it.

“Oh my God, I
love
it,” she breathed out, immediately going for the jacket. It was hip-length, with a silver diagonal zipper and buttons. She could tell it would fit her tight. Her fingers ran over the supple leather appreciatively. “Should I try it on?” she asked Ian, brimming over with excitement.

“No protests over the gift?” he asked humorously as she rapidly removed the jacket from the hanger.

She flushed at that. “I should protest . . . it’s just . . . they both look like they were made for me,” she said, eyeing the helmet excitedly.