Contents

Also by Beth Kery

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Special Excerpt

About the Author

Because You Are Mine

PART I: BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME

PART II: BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST

PART III: BECAUSE YOU HAUNT ME

PART IV: BECAUSE YOU MUST LEARN

PART V: BECAUSE I SAID SO

PART VI: BECAUSE YOU TORMENT ME

PART VII: BECAUSE I NEED TO

Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery

WICKED BURN

DARING TIME

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery

SWEET RESTRAINT

PARADISE RULES

RELEASE

EXPLOSIVE

One Night of Passion series

ADDICTED TO YOU (WRITING AS BETHANY KANE)

EXPOSED TO YOU

One Night of Passion eSpecials

BOUND TO YOU

CAPTURED BY YOU

Because You Are Mine

Part VII

Because I Need To

Beth Kery

InterMix Books, New York

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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BECAUSE I NEED TO

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / September 2012

Because You Are Mine Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

Excerpt from Wicked Burn Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-60855-5

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Chapter Thirteen

Ian unbound her, then gently helped her out of the harnesses, still raw from shattering climax and a brew of emotion he couldn’t quite identify. When her feet touched the floor, he immediately took her into his arms, wincing in pleasure at the sensation of her silky naked skin pressed against his.

He placed his hand on her jaw and tilted her face up to his. He kissed her deeply, wondering how he could feel so much driving, almost harsh, desire for her and this swelling tenderness all at once. Had he been too hard on her? She was so soft, so feminine, so exquisite, he thought dazedly as he caressed her firm, taut curves. He’d been gauging his reaction from hers. When she’d squeezed his cock rhythmically as she whimpered in orgasm minutes ago, he’d hardly thought of her as delicate.

She was a mystery to him—a compelling, tormenting, sweet one that he couldn’t resist.

He lifted his head a moment later and grabbed her hand. He shut the door behind them as they left the room, and then led her to the bathroom. Without speaking, he opened the glass door to the steam shower and twisted the handle. When the temperature was comfortable, he stepped aside and nodded for her to get in. He followed her, shutting the door behind them.

She seemed to have caught his subdued mood, because she said nothing as he meticulously washed her beautiful body in the minutes that followed. He felt her gaze on him, though, as his lathered hands whisked over satiny skin. Steam curled around his knuckles as he washed . . . worshipped. A small part of him still wanted to withdraw like he had in Paris, when he’d been so overwhelmed by her sweetness and generous response.

The experience tonight had choked his defenses, though, making it impossible for him to maintain his sanity and resist her.

He washed himself in a much more cursory, if thorough, fashion and shut off the water. After drying them both with a towel, he again took her hand and led her to his bed. He whipped back the duvet and turned to her, releasing the clip on her hair. The heavy weight of it fell, tumbling around her shoulders and back. His fingers immediately furrowed into the silky, unbound glory.

Her large dark eyes made something clench tight inside his gut.

“Get into the bed,” he murmured.

She lay down, curling onto her side, her front facing him. He came down next to her, his belly brushing against hers, and whipped the sheet and cover over them. He stroked the silky length of her hip as the heavy, pregnant silence settled upon them. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two, even though he sensed her alert attention on him.

Then she touched his mouth with soft fingertips. He closed his eyes, trying and failing to shelter himself from a rising tide of unwanted but unstoppable feeling.

He rarely allowed a woman to touch him so intimately, but he let Francesca. Her eager, searching fingertips tormented him for the next several minutes as she charted his face, neck, shoulders, chest, and belly. When she gently scraped a nipple with her nails, he hissed in a burst of sublime pleasure. He held her stare as she wrapped her hand around his cock a moment later.

Her touch was so gentle. Why did it feel like she ripped a bandage off a wound deep inside him when she began to move her arm, pumping him?

Unable to take anymore of her sweet torture, he twisted around and located a condom in the bedside drawer, longing for the day when Francesca had been on the pill long enough, when he could be inside her naked.

A moment later, he lay on top of her, their bellies heaving against each other in tandem, his cock fully sheathed in her warm, clasping pussy. He opened his clenched eyelids and saw her staring up at him.

“Do I wrong you, Francesca?” he demanded toughly.

She didn’t answer for a moment, but he knew from the somber expression in her eyes that she understood he’d meant not just tonight but everything—his inability to resist this vibrant, talented, beautiful woman despite the fact that he’d inevitably taint her brilliance with his darkness . . . eventually make her turn away in hurt.

The thought of seeing rejection of him on her beautiful face sliced at him deep.

“Does it matter?”

A spasm clenched his facial muscles at her soft reply. He began to move, fucking her with long, thorough strokes, shuddering at the distilled blast of pleasure.

No. It didn’t matter.

He couldn’t stay away from her, no matter the consequence to her . . . or to himself.

* * *

After they made love again, he held her and they talked like lovers—or at least that’s what Francesca suspected lovers talked like, not having any experience herself. It was a heady experience, listening to him talk about his childhood growing up at Belford Hall, his grandfather’s estate in East Sussex. She wanted to ask him about what his experience had been like with his mother in northern France—surely it had been a night-and-day experience in comparison with the luxury and privilege of an earl’s grandson—but she couldn’t muster the courage.

She anxiously brought up the topic of Xander LaGrange again. Ian was adamant, however, that her behavior hadn’t been the primary issue with the business deal going sour.

“It was just the final straw,” Ian said. “I hated having to court him in order to get that software. I’ve always despised him, ever since I was seventeen years old. It grated, having to smarm up to him. I’ve been avoiding meeting with him in person for weeks now.” He blinked as if in memory. “Actually, I was supposed to meet with him that first night we met, the night of your cocktail party at Fusion. I asked Lin to cancel.”

Her heart jumped at that. “I thought you looked annoyed when Lin approached you at Fusion because you didn’t want to have to waste time with meeting me.”

He nudged her chin softly as she looked up at him. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. I just imagined you had a lot better things to do than meet me.”

His low chuckle warmed her. He pressed gently on her head, and she contentedly rested it back on his chest.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Francesca. I had been looking forward to meeting you ever since I saw your entry painting and recognized you as the artist who painted Cat,” he said, shortening the name of the painting that hung in his library . . . the painting she’d inadvertently done of him. She pressed her mouth to his skin and kissed him, thrilled to the core by this little revealed truth. His fingers tightened in her hair.

“But what will you do about the software you need for your start-up company?” she asked after a moment.

“I’ll do what I should have done to begin with,” he said briskly, his fingertips massaging her scalp, making her shiver in delicious pleasure. “I’ll design my own. It’ll be an effort, and it’ll take extra time, but I should have gone that route to begin with instead of bothering with that ass. It’s never good business to deal with a man like LaGrange. I’d been kidding myself.”

Later, she told him about when she first began to understand she was an artist, during a camp for overweight children when she was eight years old.

“I didn’t lose a pound at that camp, much to my parents’ dismay, but I learned that I was an ace at sketching and painting,” she murmured, lying still with her head on his chest and feeling content and drowsy as Ian stroked her hair.

“Your parents seemed obsessed with your weight,” he commented, his deep voice vibrating up through his hard chest and tickling her ear. She stroked his biceps with curious fingertips, wondering at how dense and hard the muscle was.

“They were obsessed with controlling me. My weight was one of the few things they couldn’t manipulate.”

Did his muscles tense when she said that?

“Your body became a battleground,” Ian said.

“That’s what all those psychologists used to say.”

“I can just imagine what those same psychologists would say about you becoming involved with me.”

She lifted her head from his chest and met his stare. The lighting was at a dim setting in his bedroom suite. She couldn’t quite make out his expression.

“You mean because you’re so controlling?” she asked.

He nodded once. “I told you that I practically drove my former wife over the edge.”

Francesca’s pulse began to throb as she stared at his stark male beauty. She knew how rare it was for him to speak of his past. “Did you . . . did you care about her so much that you were always worried about her well-being?”

“No.”

She blinked at his rapid, absolute response. He winced slightly and glanced away. “I wasn’t in love with her or anything, if that’s what you’re asking. I was twenty-one years old, still in college, and a fool for having gotten involved with her. I’d had an argument with my grandparents at around that time. A big one. We hadn’t spoken for months. I suppose I was a little vulnerable for the possibility of being blinded by a woman like Elizabeth. I met her at a fund-raiser at the University of Chicago—one that my grandmother happened to attend while trying to mend fences with me. Elizabeth was a gifted ballet dancer who came from an affluent American family. She was taught to crave the type of status my grandmother represents.”

“And you,” Francesca said softly.

“That’s what Elizabeth thought at first—before we married and she actually got to know me, and she came to realize what a mistake she’d made. She wanted a prince charming and got stuck with a bastard devil,” he said, a small, mirthless smile twisting his mouth. “Elizabeth may have been a virgin, but she was far from innocent in the art of getting what she wanted. She designed to snare me in her trap, and I was stupid enough to let her.”

“She . . . she got pregnant on purpose?”

Ian nodded, his gaze flickering over her face. “I know a lot of men say that, but in our case, it was a proven truth. After she became pregnant and we married, I discovered her old pill packs in the bathroom. She appeared to be taking them very irregularly. When I confronted her about it, she admitted that she’d stopped taking the pill once we began seeing each other. She claimed it was because she wanted to have my child, but I didn’t believe her. Or I should say, she did want to become pregnant in order to marry, but I don’t believe she truly wanted the experience of motherhood.”

She experienced a sinking feeling. “Aren’t you worried about the possibility of me doing the same thing? With the birth control, I mean?”

“No.”

“Why are you so certain?” Francesca asked, although warmth flooded her at his quick, confident reply.

“Because I’m a much better reader of character at thirty than I was at twenty-one,” he stated dryly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “So what happened after you confronted Elizabeth?”

“I was convinced she would do something to harm the child once I discovered how she’d manipulated me. The pregnancy had served its purpose. We were married. She was very beautiful, physically anyway, and a dedicated dancer. Despite her need for a pregnancy, I think she despised the idea of what it would do to her body . . . how it would change her life. She was hardly the maternal type. I thought she might do something to end the pregnancy. I wouldn’t have put it past her, anyway.” He met her stare steadily. “It wasn’t Elizabeth I was so worried about protecting. It was the child she carried. So yes, I did become overly controlling. You know how I can be.”

“But you said once that she tried to blame you for the loss of the child,” she recalled.

He nodded. “She said it was because I rode her so hard about taking care of herself, because I was so controlling about her daily activities and schedule. She felt I restricted her freedom . . . made her a prisoner to my anxiety. She was undoubtedly right about that. It’s what I do when I care about someone, and I cared about that child.”

“Even so, that doesn’t sound like a viable reason for someone to lose a child. One out of five women miscarry, right? Why couldn’t it have just been a natural thing versus something you did?” Francesca asked, puzzled and little annoyed with this Elizabeth. She sounded like a manipulative wimp.

“We’ll never really know for certain. It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said.

Francesca thought it did matter—very much. It related to why he considered himself so tainted when it came to relationships, so broken.

“Why did you marry her if you didn’t really love her?” she couldn’t resist asking.

He gave a small shrug, and she couldn’t help but touch a muscular shoulder. She wanted to soothe him. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. Who knew when he’d let her touch him so freely again?

“I would never allow a child of mine to be a bastard,” he said.

Her caressing fingers stilled at that. It was only the second time he’d ever mentioned his illegitimacy to her. She recalled that he’d called himself a bastard the first night they’d met, at the cocktail party in her honor.

“Your father,” she whispered, noticing the gleam in his blue eyes. Was that a warning glint, a silent message for her to tread carefully? She continued despite the potential risk. “Do you know who he is?”

He shook his head. She definitely felt the tension in his muscles now, but he stayed put in the bed. She decided to take courage that he didn’t excuse himself and walk away, as she suspected he might have before tonight.

“Were you curious about who he is? Are you?”

“Only insofar as I’d like the knowledge in order to kill the bloody bastard.”

Her mouth fell open in shock. She hadn’t expected his focused, intense aggression. “Why?”

He closed his eyes briefly, and she wondered if she’d gone too far. Would he retreat now?

“Whoever he was, he must have taken advantage of my mother. I don’t know if that means out-and-out rape or the seduction of a very vulnerable, sick woman, but whatever the case, I definitely carry the genes of a fucking degenerate.”

“Oh, Ian,” she whispered, her heart swelling with compassion. What a nightmare for a young boy to live with. What a nightmare for an adult man. “And you never saw him, he never came around?”

He shook his head, his eyelids still closed.

“And your mother, she never—”

He opened his eyes and met her stare. “She grew anxious every time I brought it up as a kid, started doing some of her repetitive, ritualistic behaviors. After a while, I avoided the topic of my father’s identity like the plague. But inside, I grew to hate him. He’d done that to her, made her that scared and nervous. Somehow I just knew it.”

“But she already was ill . . . schizophrenic . . .”

“Yes, but there was something about the mention of him that never failed to send her into a bad period . . . a dark one.”

She couldn’t stand that expression on his face. It pierced her from the inside out. She hugged him tight. “Ian, I’m so sorry.”

He grunted at her energetic embrace, and then chuckled softly. He resumed stroking her hair. “Do you think squeezing me like a python is going to make it all better, lovely?”

“No,” she muttered, her mouth moving next to his bare chest. “But it couldn’t hurt.”

He encircled her in his arms and laid her on her back, coming down over her. “That it couldn’t,” he murmured, before he leaned down and kissed her in that masterful Ian-like way that made her forget everything for a period of time . . . even his suffering.

* * *

Francesca knew she’d remember that night spent in Ian’s arms, and in his bed, forever. It’d been sublime to have him open up to her . . . even a little. In the past, he’d told her that their relationship would be a purely sexual one, and there could be little doubt that their attraction—their obsession—with each other sexually was powerful stuff.

But that night, their exchange had been more than about sex. Or so Francesca had thought . . .

She woke up to brilliant golden sunlight filtering around the lush drapery. She blinked sleepily, noticing she was alone in the luxurious mussed bed where she’d spent so many erotic, intimate hours with Ian last night.

“Ian?” she called, her voice still rough from sleep.

He came walking out of the bathroom, looking amazing in a pair of dark blue trousers, a stark white button-down shirt, a black silk tie with pale blue stripes, and that belt buckle that always distracted her so much riding low on his lean hips. Had she really seen him completely naked last night, truly seen his awesome reflection in those mirrors, all of those lean, bulging muscles flexed tight as he fucked her?

Had it been a dream, having him hold and make love to her all night?

“Good morning,” he said, walking toward the bed and fastening a cuff link with deft fingers.

“Good morning,” she said groggily, smiling up at him, feeling content in the warm sunshine, sublime at the sight of him.

“I’m afraid I have to leave town for a while. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

Her giddy grin faded. His words echoed around her skull like a ricocheting gunshot.

“I’ve spoken to Jacob, and he’s going to give you a lesson on motorcycles. I’d like you to get that license at the same time he takes you to get your vehicle license. Lin is sending you the “Rules of the Road” for motorcycles. I’m leaving you my tablet to use for studying,” he said, pointing to the table in the sitting area of his bedroom suite. His brisk no-nonsense manner only furthered her stunned disbelief.

“Excuse me, Ian? I’m still sort of stuck on ‘I’m leaving town, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back,’” she said, sitting up partially in bed, propping her upper body on her elbow.

“I received a call this morning.” Was he avoiding her eyes? “I have an emergency to attend to.”

“Ian, don’t.”

He paused at her sharp tone, his hand still at his shirt cuff. His eyes flashed.

“Don’t what?” he asked.

“Don’t leave,” burst out of her throat.

For an anxious, awful moment, silence reigned.

“I know you probably feel vulnerable about last night, but don’t run away,” she pleaded, a little shocked at herself. Had she secretly feared this very thing all night as they talked and made love and truly shared of themselves? Had she been worried all along he would abandon her in the aftermath of intimacy?

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he said, dropping his arms. “I have no choice but to leave, Francesca. Surely you understand I have business that takes me away at times.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, emotion bubbling in her breast. “You’re flying away right now has nothing to do with what happened last night.”

“No. It doesn’t,” he said sharply. “Where is all this coming from?”

She stared down at the bedsheet, not wanting him to see the tears that stung her eyes. She wanted to spit in anger . . . in hurt. “Yes. Where’s it coming from?” she mused bitterly. “Stupid, naive Francesca. Why didn’t I remember this was just a sexual thing, a matter of convenience for you? Oh, and your cock, of course. Let’s not forget that crucial player in the game.”

“You’re acting foolishly. I got a phone call. I must leave. That’s all there is too it.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What’s the emergency? Tell me.”

He blinked, obviously taken aback by her blunt demand. She noticed the corners of his mouth had gone pale in anger. “Because I need to. There are certain things that are unavoidable, and this is one of them. I’m not leaving for any other cause than that. It should be reason enough for you. Besides, your sullen behavior hardly makes me want to confide in you,” he added under his breath, striding away. Fury rose in her. It was too much, having him dismiss her in this way yet again, especially after she’d laid herself open to him last night . . . after she’d thought he’d done the same to her.

“If you leave right now, I won’t be waiting for you. It’ll be finished.”

He spun around, his nostrils flared in anger. “Are you daring me, Francesca? Are you throwing down the gauntlet? Are you truly so vindictive?”

“How can you ask me that when you’re the one who is running away because of what’s happening between us?” she exclaimed, sitting up in bed, holding the sheet over her breasts.

“The only thing that’s happening between us is that you’re acting like a selfish brat. I have an emergency to attend to.”

“Then tell me what it is. At least give me that courtesy, Ian. Or do you think that given the rules of this godforsaken relationship, because of my supposed submissive nature, that I don’t even have the right to ask that?” she seethed.

He reached for the jacket he’d placed on the back of an armchair. Belatedly, she noticed his packed leather suitcase next to his briefcase. He really was leaving. She felt blindsided all over again. He shrugged on his suit jacket and regarded her with a glacial stare.

“As I said, I have no desire to explain myself to you when you’re behaving this way.” He picked up his luggage. “I’ll call you this evening. Maybe you’ll feel better about things by then.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t feel better. I can guarantee that,” she said with as much dignity . . . as much coldness as she could muster.

The color seemed to rush out of his face. She had a wild urge to take back what she’d said, but her stubbornness—her pride—wouldn’t let her. He nodded once, his mouth set in a hard line, and stalked out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a brisk click that sounded horribly final in her ringing ears.

Francesca clamped her eyelids shut as misery settled upon her like a weight.

* * *

Three days later, she sat in the Department of Motor Vehicles office in Deerfield, Illinois, studying the motorcycle “Rules of the Road” on Ian’s tablet. Yes, she still planned never to see Ian again on any sexual basis, and no, he’d definitely believed what she’d told him on that sunny Friday morning, because he hadn’t tried to contact her since he’d left. She kept trying to tell herself she was glad he wasn’t calling her, but somehow, her self-convincing didn’t feel all that persuasive.

What was that expression that had shadowed his face when she’d told him not to call her? Why is it that both in that situation three days ago and also on that occasion when he’d freaked out upon finding she was a virgin that he’d been the one who looked abandoned, not the other way around? The thoughts made it feel as if her heart was being squeezed by a giant invisible hand.

No, she wouldn’t dwell on such things. It was impossible to pierce the dark, complex inner workings of Ian’s soul. It was folly to even try.

It surprised her a little that she’d continued on with her driving lessons with Jacob, given her and Ian’s break. But she’d become strangely fixated on the idea of getting her license. Maybe part of her believed what Ian had told her. It was an important milestone of development that she’d passed up because of her emotional issues as a child and teenager. Her compulsion to drive somehow related to her wanting to take full control of her life for the first time. School was going well. Her painting for Ian would soon be finished.

For the first time in her life, she really did feel like she was starting to gain control . . . not just fumbling along, surviving from day to day. She wanted to be in the driver’s seat of Francesca Arno’s life, just like Ian had suggested. If it was destined to be a train wreck, well . . . at least she could say who was responsible.

Her eyes burned from all her studying on the tablet. She’d already passed the regular driver’s test, but the motorcycle test remained.

“Feeling confident?” Jacob asked from where he sat next to her, reading a newspaper. The DMV was packed. They’d been waiting for almost two hours now to be called so that Francesca could take her test.

“For the written part anyway,” she said. “Maybe we should have practiced for more than one day on Ian’s motorcycle?”

“You’ll do fine,” Jacob assured. “You’re actually more of a natural on a motorcycle than you are behind the wheel of a car, and you passed that test with flying colors.”

She gave him a wry glance. “I barely passed the driver’s portion. The first thing I did when I pulled onto the road was cut off another driver.”

“But that was the only mistake,” Jacob reminded her. Sweet man.

Someone called her name.

“Wish me luck,” she said anxiously to Jacob as she stood.

“Luck isn’t necessary. You can do this,” he said with far more confidence than was warranted, in her opinion.

She took the driving portion of the motorcycle test on Ian’s motorcycle: a sleek, badass European bike. Jacob had told her over the past few days that Ian had a long-term love of motorcycles.

“I think he told me he used to fix motorcycles when he was a kid. He’s got a scary natural talent for it. Guess it all goes with that math, computer brain he’s got. All I know is, he can fix a car in twice the time I can, and I’m nearly twice his age,” Jacob had told her a few days ago, a hint of pride in his tone.

She also learned from Jacob that Ian was part owner in an increasingly popular, innovative French company that made superexpensive high-tech bikes and scooters.

The only reason she’d agreed to Jacob’s motorcycle training is that she suspected Ian recalled what she’d said about those motor scooters in Paris. And in truth, one of those scooters fitted with her limited budget, her transportation and parking needs in a busy city, not to mention her burgeoning sense of independence and desire to better run her life. Her plan was to buy an inexpensive scooter after she got her license, and screw it if she’d taken advantage of what Ian offered after he’d abandoned her.

She’d accept the hundred thousand dollars she’d earned on the commission. She’d take everything he’d offered and walk away from him, just as he’d walked away from her.

That’s what she told herself anyway. It comforted her to imagine she was as callous about Ian as he’d been about her.

Bloody bastard. Up and leaving town after she’d bared herself to him . . . after he’d seemingly done so to her.

“Well?” Jacob asked, standing when she approached him in the waiting room after taking her motorcycle test, her expression somber. He studied her face anxiously, his eyes springing wide. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it again as soon as you’ve practiced more.”

Francesca grinned. “I was ribbing you. I passed. With true flying colors this time.”

He gave her a quick hug and congratulations, Francesca laughing, ebullient with relief. She’d done it! Better late than never.

Jacob excused himself to secure Ian’s motorcycle in the back of the limo—she’d been shocked at how much room was in the cab of the luxurious car once Jacob broke down and stored the table between the couch seats. Francesca sat in the waiting room, held up again until she was called to get her photo for her license. The DMV was a synonym for waiting. After a few minutes of growing impatient and bored, she opened up Ian’s tablet, glad to be able to look at whatever she wanted to pass the time instead of having to study the rules of the road. She clicked for a search and several items came up on the drop-down menu . . . obviously sites Ian visited regularly. Feeling a little guilty, she studied the history. Where did Ian surf on the Internet? Most of the topics made sense—businesses and people he was doing background searches on.

One of them didn’t. She clicked it on it, glancing warily to the side to ensure Jacob wasn’t there to observe her nosing into Ian’s business.

The Genomics Research and Treatment Institute—a highly respected research and treatment facility located southeast of London in a lovely wooded landscape. Francesca studied the sylvan scenery and large ultramodern building. It took her a moment of reading to understand that the facility was a world leader in the research and treatment of schizophrenia.

She thought of Ian’s mother and her heart sank. Did he keep up on the research for cures for the cruel, debilitating illness in memory of Helen Noble? Did he, perhaps, fund some of the research?

“Jacob? What’s the Genomics Research and Treatment Institute?” she asked the driver in a false casual tone when he came and sat down next to her a few minutes later.

“No idea. Why?”

“You don’t know? It’s a sort of research facility and hospital. You’ve never heard of it in association with Ian?”

Jacob shook his head. “Never. Where’s it at?”

“Southeast of London.”

“That explains it then,” Jacob said matter-of-factly as he folded his newspaper. “If it’s one of Ian’s British companies, I wouldn’t know much about it.”

“Why’s that?”

“He never has me drive in London. He keeps his own car at his apartment in the city.”

“Oh,” Francesca said lightly, hoping she was hiding her rabid curiosity adequately. “And is there any other place where he keeps a car and doesn’t take you?”

Jacob considered for a moment. “No, not really, now that I think about it. I go everywhere but London. But that’s not too surprising. Ian’s a Brit, isn’t he? It’d make sense he doesn’t need a driver in London. That’s why I’m not driving him right now.”

“Right,” Francesca agreed, nodding, her pulse racing at this unexpected news. Ian was in London. Ian hadn’t told her, of course, and Mrs. Hanson either didn’t know his location or was keeping mum about it on orders from Ian. It was odd. Ian Noble was at home anywhere. He could maneuver around any city. He didn’t need a driver. He just wanted one for convenience. He was the cat who walked alone, after all. All places were alike to him. She recalled how she’d captured that aspect of his character in her painting so many years ago, and compared it to the Rudyard Kipling story. She knew from experience that everywhere he went, he was confident, sure, utterly the master of his environment . . . determinedly alone.

So why was London different? Why did he leave his trusted driver, Jacob, behind?

Her head swung around when her name was called.

“This is it,” she said, barely restraining her excitement at getting her license—not to mention hardly stopping herself from pressing Jacob with more questions about Ian and London.

“You’re driving home,” Jacob said.

“You better believe I am,” she said, smirking.

* * *

The next afternoon, she sat on a bench alone in the Noble Enterprises lobby. The entry managed to convey a sense of sleek, modern efficiency, luxury, and warmth—thanks to the beige-pink marble floors, rich woods, and tan walls. The security guard at the circular desk in the center of the lobby kept glancing her way with increasing suspicion. She’d been there for almost two hours, studying the light on the large swath of wall where her painting would hang, occasionally taking photos with her cell phone.

She wanted to make sure she was taking into account the lighting in the painting’s soon-to-be home.

The security guard finally decided she was up to no good and left his circular booth. Francesca stood, stowing her phone in her back pocket.

She didn’t really feel like explaining herself. “I’m going,” she assured the youngish man who had a face like a boulder and huge hands. His eyes were alert and not unkind, however.

“Is there some way I can help you, miss?” the guard pursued.

“No,” she hedged, walking backward. When he took a step toward her as if to follow, she sighed. “I’m the artist doing the painting that’s going to go right there,” she said, pointing at the large expanse of wall overhanging the guard’s desk. “I was watching the light change in the lobby.”

When the guard gave her a skeptical, incredulous look, she glanced sideways and noticed the restaurant Fusion. “Er . . . excuse me. I’m just going to dash into Fusion and say hello to Lucien.”

For a second, she thought the security guard would follow her when she ducked into the restaurant, but when she glanced around after approaching the elegant bar, the glass doors remained closed and the guard was nowhere to be seen. She gave a sigh of relief.

“Francesca!”

She recognized Lucien’s French-accented voice.

“Hi, Lucien. Zoe! Hi, how are you?” Francesca greeted the pair, happy to see the beautiful young woman who had tried to make her feel at home at the cocktail party in her honor. Zoe and Lucien stood side by side. It was three o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday and the bar was empty except for the three of them. She paused uncertainly when she saw Lucien’s arm fall away from Zoe’s waist and the slightly guilty cast to both of their expressions. Why should they be self-conscious about touching each other?

“Really good,” Zoe said, shaking her hand. “How is the painting going?”

“As good as can be expected. I’m having some trouble with the lighting. I was sitting out in the lobby studying what the light would be like on the painting throughout the day, and the security guard sort of ran me off,” she said, giving them a sheepish smile. “I ducked in here hoping to escape him.”

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.

“That’s because they were,” he murmured. She gave him a smile over her shoulder as she hurried into the bathroom, wanting to see her reflection wearing the jacket. How did he always know the perfect gift? She wished she could do the same for him in return. She heard Ian’s phone ring in the distance as she zipped the coat and turned from side to side. It fit her perfectly—tight, sleek, and sexy.

She walked back into the bedroom suite, beaming. He sat on the couch again, talking on the phone. His eyebrows went up in subdued admiration as she modeled the jacket for him, his blue eyes running over her from head to toe.

“Let’s look into a bond issuance,” he was saying to whomever was on the other line. She walked toward him, feeling ridiculously happy after her conversation with Ian. Had she made a mistake in reneging on her dare to be finished with him?

But he’d said he’d try to not be so controlling. That’d meant a lot to her. She knew people couldn’t change their stripes overnight, and in Ian’s case, his desire to control and monitor those around him went all the way back to his childhood, when he’d been forced to look out for his mother versus the other way around.

Maybe that was what was partially behind her willingness to accept his gift. If he was going to try and bend a little, she should, too. Of course, the darling jacket and helmet were definitely easy gifts to accept, she acknowledged to herself, her hands running over the sleek lines of the jacket. Something sparked in Ian’s eyes when she caressed the leather just beneath her breasts.

Something flashed in her blood, as well. She took another step toward him. He watched her fixedly, his nostrils flaring slightly. The absence from each other—her deep down fear that she’d never touch him again—suddenly flared bright in her awareness.

“Let’s see the interest on the bonds and the filing costs, and we’ll compare that to a bank loan,” Ian said into the phone.

A strange brew of daring, gratitude, and desire stirred inside her chest. He’d given her the incalculable gift of her paintings. He’d given her back her past.

She wanted to give him something in return.

His expression flattened when she came before him and gently nudged apart his knees. His eyes widened when she knelt between them. He caught her hand when she reached for his silver belt buckle. She met his stare, imploring silently, and his grip on her slackened.

She unbuckled his belt and unfastened his pants with fleet fingers.

“But the bond issuance would give us more flexibility for future acquisitions where we want to use bank loans,” Ian was saying into the phone. Her knuckles brushed across his brief-covered balls as she tried to lower the waistband of his pants. He grunted and then cleared his throat to cover it. She glanced up at him thankfully when he lifted his hips slightly, assisting her in getting his pants and briefs down to his thighs.

She held his cock in her hand a moment later, studying it with fascination. He was as soft as she’d ever seen him. A wave of tenderness and lust swept through her at the vision of him, at the sensation . . . at his male scent filtering into her nose. Within seconds, she felt him stiffen, saw him lengthen and thicken.

Amazing.

She closed her eyes and slid him into her mouth, wanting to feel him grow harder there. Oh, I like this, she thought as a haze of desire surrounded her. When she took him into her mouth before he was fully erect, she could swallow more of him. Her head bobbed in his lap as she became more enthusiastic. His cock swelled, stretching her squeezing lips wide. She thrilled as his fingers ran through her hair, and then spread across her skull. In the distance, she heard him say, “Uh . . . what was that, Michael? Yes, just price out the two scenarios.”

He was fully tumescent now, filling her mouth . . . overfilling it, his hand on the back of her head gripping into her hair, using his hold to gently guide the rhythm. She began to use her hand in tandem with her mouth, stroking the thick stalk upward as she slid him out of her mouth, fisting it strenuously in a downward motion as she sunk down again over his cock.

He made a muted choking sound and coughed.

“Uh . . . yes, do me a favor Michael, and just get me the price scenarios for a ten-year bond issuance and a twenty. I’ll make a decision when I see all the data. Yes, that’s all for now, thank you.”

She was vaguely aware of his phone dropping to the couch cushion. She looked up at him, his cock embedded at half-staff in her mouth.

“Don’t give me that innocent look,” he murmured, using his hold on her hair to move her up and down on the staff of his cock, controlling her. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” he asked more firmly even as he encouraged her to move faster. She nodded and hummed an affirmation. He hissed. “You make it your goal to torture me, Francesca.”

She sucked with all her might and shook her head slightly. He gasped.

“No need to deny the obvious, lovely,” he said, his voice growing rough.

She moaned feverishly, losing herself in the magic of giving him pleasure.

She took him into her throat. He hissed in pleasure and then pulled up on her hair, demanding she suck him fast and shallow. She pumped with her fist, avid to please him, wild to feel him succumb, desperate to taste him. He pushed her head down on him, and she took him into her throat again, her nostrils flaring for air. His hips lifted slightly off the couch, and he gasped. His restrained moan became a growl as he began to come. She felt him swell huge, her eyes going wide as he began to ejaculate, bypassing her gag reflex by coming directly in her throat.

He backed out after only a second or two, plunging back and forth between her clamping lips, emptying himself onto her tongue.

After a moment, his tight grip on her hair loosened as he massaged her scalp. His big, solid body slumped into the couch cushions. She slid him out of her mouth with a wet popping noise.

“You deserve a pink ass for that,” he said, watching her with a narrow-eyed gaze as she licked her lips of his residue. She saw his small smile and returned it. He hardly looked angry. More like a well-pleased, utterly satiated male.

“Are you going to give me one?” she asked, a shiver of excitement going through her.

“Without a doubt. You’re going to get a good paddling. I can’t have you distracting me while I do business, Francesca,” he murmured, his actions belying his words as he stroked her hair with one hand and caressed her cheek with the other, his manner tender. Cherishing. She couldn’t help but feel that he’d quite enjoyed being distracted.

“Go into the bathroom and put on a robe,” he said.

She stood and followed his instructions, her pulse fluttering at her throat. When she reentered the suite a few minutes later, she paused at the sight of Ian waiting for her, wearing only a pair of pants, his muscular, ridged torso bare.

“Follow me,” he said, taking her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw him extricate the keys from his briefcase.

“What I did wasn’t that bad, was it?” she asked anxiously as he unlocked the room where he said she’d receive her more severe punishments.

“You compromised my ability to think rationally while I was making a business decision,” he mused as he led her into the inner chamber and closed the door behind them, locking it.

He led her over to the tall stool she’d noticed on her first night in the room, the one that was situated before the balletlike bar on the wall and was curved unusually at the back. The front of it was normal enough, like a half circle. But the rear of it dipped inward, as if a crescent of the circle had been cut out. Ian left her and went over to the cherry cabinet, opening a drawer. She studied the stool, puzzled and increasingly excited. When she saw that Ian carried the jar of clitoral stimulant and the black leather paddle, her sex clenched tight.

He watched her face intently a moment later as he rubbed the cream on her clit.

“I’m going to give you fifteen good whacks. You deserve more for what you did.”

Her cheeks heated with defiance and arousal. “You were hardly complaining.”

His stern mouth twitched at that.

“Sit down on the stool, your face toward the wall,” he commanded. She did so, staying forward on the chair in order to avoid the crescent cutout at the back of the stool. “Scoot back so that your bottom falls over the edge. Lean forward and put your hands on the bar. That’s right.”

A rush of realization went through her as she leaned over and gave the bar her upper body weight and her ass fell over the edge of the chair into the cutout. The cream started to make her clit burn as she watched in the mirror as Ian moved behind her, the black leather paddle gripped in his large hand.

Oh, no. Her bottom was utterly exposed and vulnerable . . . and right at the perfect location for his swinging arm.

Whack.

A whimper popped out of her throat at the quick sting and the lingering burn.

“Shhh,” Ian soothed, turning the paddle and rubbing her ass with the fur. “Too much?”

“I can take it,” she said breathlessly.

He caught her gaze in the mirror and smiled.

He swung his arm back and landed another smack, and then another. This time, he used his hand to soothe her bottom, caressing her and gently squeezing each buttock in his palm.

“It’s too bad you have such a gorgeous ass,” he muttered as he watched himself stroke her.

“Why?”

“Perhaps if you didn’t, I wouldn’t have to punish it so much.”

Her snort altered to a moan when he swung again, stinging the lower curve of her buttocks. She saw his cock leap against the fabric of his pants. He hissed and grabbed at it through the material.

“I thought I was being punished for distracting you while you worked,” she said, watching wide-eyed as he stroked his cock while he swung the paddle again. “Ouch,” she said in a beleaguered tone a second later when he paddled her in the same smarting area—the lower curve of her buttocks. He really did like spanking her there. Despite the quick sting, her clit pinched tight in arousal.

“Sorry,” he muttered, now landing the paddle higher up on her cheeks. “You are being paddled for distracting me. I’m just saying . . . such a gorgeous ass is destined to be punished often,” he said, a small smile pulling at his mouth. She suppressed a moan when he landed another blow. She could see that her ass was starting to blush pink in the mirror to her right.

She couldn’t suppress a moan of pure arousal when he unzipped his trousers and shoved them and his briefs beneath his balls and his erection.

“Ian,” she groaned upon seeing his exposed cock.

“You see what I mean?” he asked, paddling her again and making air pop out of her lungs. He stroked his cock and smacked her again. She couldn’t keep her gaze off his hand moving up and down on the delineated shaft of his rigid penis. “I hadn’t planned to fuck you, just punish you. But your sweet ass has made me change my mind.”

“Ooh,” erupted out of her throat when he paddled her ass again. Her bottom was starting to burn. She gritted her teeth when she saw him swing his arm back.

“How many more?” she asked, whimpering her when he smacked her again.

“I don’t know. You’ve distracted me again,” he said grimly, landing another blow. She saw him stroke his now fully erect cock faster, wincing as he did so. He paddled her on the lower curve of her bottom again, making the flesh bounce upward with the stringent blow. He cursed hotly and tossed the paddle onto the couch, surprising her.

“My punishment is done?” she asked, put off by the abruptness of his action.

“No,” he said, walking rapidly over to the cabinet and extracting a condom. “But my cock is just about,” he said tensely. She watched in breathless anticipation as he removed his clothing hastily and came toward her, rolling the condom on his enormous erection as he did so.

“Stand up,” he said, walking up behind her.

Her clit simmered between her thighs as she did his bidding. Her bottom burned. She resisted an urge to rub it to soothe the sting.

“Hold onto the bar and bend over,” he said, his touch on her hip gentle. She followed his order. Almost as soon as she’d firmed her upper body by holding onto the bar, he parted her buttocks and drove his cock into her.

“So wet. So willing,” he grated out, staring down at her ass.

“Ahhhhh,” she moaned, her eyes springing wide at his sudden, total possession.

“I told you,” he muttered darkly, firming his hold on her hips and starting to pump in and out of her pussy. “You do this to me, Francesca. You have to accept the consequences. I will take you for my pleasure alone.”

She felt like he rattled her entire universe for the next several minutes as he fucked her. She watched him in the mirror, her mouth sagging open, as he crashed into her again and again, every muscle in his beautiful body rigid, his cock a well-lubricated piston driving into her drenched pussy at a relentless pace.

He wasn’t concerned for her pleasure, but watching him take his own, the delicious pressure his cock built in her, the clit cream . . . it was all too much. She broke in climax, shuddering around him, moaning uncontrollably. He cursed and slapped her bottom before he firmed his grip on her, holding her ass against him as he roared in orgasm.

They remained joined like that for what felt like minutes, although she suspected later she was wrong about that. Ian was typically so careful of spilling from the condom after sex. He certainly did stroke her back, hips, and ass tenderly for what seemed like a delicious eternity, though. Their breathing slowed.

Finally he withdrew, a harsh groan ripping at his throat as he did so. He helped her to stand, turning her in his arms.

His mouth closed over hers. Francesca shut her eyelids, giving herself as fully to his kiss as she had his lovemaking.

“Do you know what I want to do with you now?” he asked gruffly against her lips a moment later.

She licked his taste off her lips and looked up at him with a heavy-lidded gaze.

“What?” she asked throatily.

Something flashed in his blue eyes and she wondered if the flame in him hadn’t been completely extinguished. He shook his head once, as if to clear it, and grabbed her hand. They left the inner chamber, and he locked it behind him.

“Get dressed and wait for me,” he said. She watched, her expression one of mixed puzzlement at his behavior and admiration for the sight of his god-awful-sexy, taut bare ass—a sight she hadn’t been treated to as much as she would have liked. When he stepped out of the room a moment later, she was fully dressed. She stared at him in pleasant surprise.

He was wearing a pair of extremely well-fitted jeans that rode low on his lean hips, one of the tight white T-shirts he wore beneath his fencing gear, a leather jacket slung in the crook of his arm. Her breath caught at the sight of his lean, muscular body displayed to such stunning effect. She’d never grow tired of looking at him.

“What are you doing?” she asked incredulously.

“I changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“About going into work. Let’s go riding. I want to see you in action.”

Her mouth dropped open, a bark of laughter popping out of her throat. She couldn’t believe it. He was going to do something so spur of the moment . . . so spontaneous? Ian?

She put on her sleek jacket, excitement mounting in her, and went to pick up her new helmet and gloves.

“You’re in for quite a ride,” she told him before striding to the door.

“You think you’re telling me something I don’t know?” she heard him say wryly from behind her, causing her grin to widen.

How was it possible for this day to have started out so dull and dreary and end up so ecstatic? she wondered as she stood across the elevator from Ian a moment later. He looked drop-dead sexy in his jeans and jacket, his helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. He noticed her stare and smiled, slow, delicious . . . a little devilish. The elevator door dinged open in the garage basement, breaking her mesmerized stare on his gorgeous mouth.

She headed into the parking garage, familiar with it from her lessons with Jacob. A whole area of the garage was cordoned off for Ian’s vehicles. Jacob kept an office of sorts down there, along with all the tools and electronics he used for mechanical maintenance and keeping the vehicles clean.

She paused a moment later when Ian straddled his black motorbike with confident ease.

“Well? Climb on,” he said softly, noticing her staring at the motorcycle next to his. It was slightly smaller than Ian’s bike, but fierce-looking in its own right, featuring glittering chrome and a shiny black cowling with red racing stripes.

“Where did that come from?” she asked, dazed.

He shrugged, planting his booted feet on the ground and tilting up the bike between powerful thighs. How could he look as natural on a badass bike as he did wearing an impeccable suit ensconced in the lap of luxury? The sight of his hands covered by tight black leather made her inexplicably shiver.

“It’s yours,” he said, referring to the bike.

“No! I mean . . .” She paused, regretting her outburst. She looked at him, silently pleading. The afternoon had gone so well. The paintings. Ian’s agreement to try and not control her outside the bedroom, his gift of the jacket and helmet, and her returned, heartfelt one of pleasure, his forceful possession . . . her loving it. She didn’t want to ruin it by arguing, but a motorcycle. It was too much, wasn’t it? Especially after the paintings and her new biking gear.

Before she could word her protest, however, Ian superseded her.

“Okay, it’s mine. I have several bikes. I’m loaning this one to you for the time being,” he said, giving her a dry glance. “Can you accept that, Francesca?”

She grinned and stepped over to the bike, excitement frothing in her chest as she straddled the leather seat and gloated over the sweetness of Ian’s sleek machine.

Oh yes. This she could accept.

* * *

Jacob had told him that Francesca was a natural on a motorcycle when he’d consulted with him on the type of bike to buy her. He was glad to see just how correct Jacob had been. Watching her race down city streets, take tight turns, and zoom through country landscapes was a true pleasure. When he realized that the feeling he had watching was pride, he mentally laughed at himself. Why should it matter that he’d introduced her to something she loved? The important thing was that she’d found it . . . that she’d delved into another layer of what was undoubtedly a deep, rich vein of her many talents and glories.

He glanced sideways and saw Francesca at his side as they reentered the city on Lake Shore Drive that evening. She gave him a thumbs-up and he could just picture her grin behind the black visor of her helmet. Something about a motorcycle highlighted her natural physical strength, her fresh, vital energy . . .

. . . a jean-encased ass that made him want to drag her back to the penthouse every time he looked at it, which was pretty much constantly.

He signaled and called for her to pull over at a parking garage near Millennium Park. A few minutes later, they strolled out of the garage onto Monroe Street, between the Art Institute and Millennium Park. The clouds had scattered, and it was turning into a pleasant, crisp fall night.

“Where are we going?” she asked him, grinning from ear to ear, a tendril of rose-gold hair brushing her cheek. He pushed it off her face and took her hand.

“I thought I’d take you to dinner.”

“Excellent.” Her enthusiasm made her sound adorably breathless. He yanked his gaze off the windswept, glowing vision of her with effort.

“You’re a fantastic rider,” she said. “You look so natural on a bike. How old were you when you first rode?”

“Eleven, I think,” Ian said, his eyelids narrowing as he tried to recall.

“So young!”

He nodded. “When I first came to England from France, I had a tough time making the transition—a whole new world. A whole new way of life. My mother gone,” he said, his lips pressed into a grim line. “It was hard to acclimate. I have a cousin who is older, so I always called him uncle. Uncle Gerard figured out one day that I loved engines. When I discovered an old broken-down motorcycle in the garage at his estate, which was nearby my grandfather’s home, I begged him to let me rebuild it. My fascination with motorcycles began. My grandfather joined in, and I began to bond with both Uncle Gerard and him.”

“And you started to come out of your shell?” Francesca asked, studying him as they walked along.

“Yes. A bit.”

Some strains of music resounded in the crisp, clear air when they reached Michigan Avenue. Ian noticed a crowd on the sidewalk.

“Oh, Naked Thieves are playing in Millennium Park tonight. Caden and Justin are in that crowd somewhere,” Francesca said.

“Naked Thieves?”

She did a double take. “The rock band? Naked Thieves?”

He shrugged, feeling a little foolish, although he knew he didn’t show it. From the expression on her youthful face, he definitely was supposed to know who Naked Thieves were. His gaze fixed on her curving pink lips, and he forgot his fleeting embarrassment.

“How can you not know who Naked Thieves are? You’re an icon among young people, but it’s like . . .” She shook her head. Her laugh seemed both sad and incredulous. “It’s like you came out of the womb in a suit, briefcase in hand.”

That stung a little. He, of all people, would have loved a childhood—a true youth—summer afternoons that stretched on forever without a care in the world, teenage rebellion against helicopter parents whom he supposedly couldn’t stand, and in reality, loved like crazy and knew would always be there for him . . . escaping to a rock concert in the park with a gorgeous girl like Francesca.

“What are you doing?” Francesca asked when he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket.

“Calling Lin. Since you want to go to the concert, she’ll be able to procure us last-minute tickets for the seated section.”

“Ian, the seated section has been sold out forever. Trust me, Caden and I tried to get tickets.”

“We’ll get some,” he said, locating Lin’s number.

He paused and looked up when Francesca put her hand on his forearm. The setting sun and the reflection from her hair gave her cheeks and lips an extra-rosy hue. Her dark eyes shone with just the hint of a challenge.

“Let’s just go sit on the lawn.”

“The lawn,” he repeated dryly.

“Yeah, you can’t see much, but you can hear pretty well. And anybody can go,” she said, grabbing his hand and urging him toward the park.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Oh stop being so British.”

A sharp retort flew to his throat—a knee-jerk reaction. He really wasn’t used to having people speak to him in the way that Francesca did without a blink of an eye. He saw the excited sparkle in those nymph eyes of hers, however, and exhaled his protest. He could get used to being teased and subtly reprimanded—very easily—if it was her doing it.

“I really do spoil you,” he said as they walked toward the writhing mass of youth ahead of them. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else. I want you to know that.”

He came to an abrupt halt when she spun around, went up on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. He caught her scent and taste, and his surprise faded. Her soft moan when he deepened the kiss was as delicious as the rest of her. Her face struck him as sublime as she looked up at him with a heavy-lidded gaze a moment later.

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she breathed.

Maybe because you’re the sweetest thing that’s ever happened to me.

The flash of regret he experienced as they entered the packed park a minute later surprised him.

He should have said the words out loud.

He wasn’t at all sure that he could have been so unguarded and honest, however, and that truth bothered him more than it ever had in his life.

* * *

“Best. Day. Ever,” she emphasized, brimming over in enthusiasm as they entered Ian’s bedroom suite later. “First my paintings—thank you again for that, Ian. I’m still stunned. Then that motorcycle ride—what an awesome bike—and then Naked Thieves in the park!”

“We could hardly hear anything at the concert. It sounded like someone screaming bloody murder to static,” Ian murmured amusedly as he held up his hands in an expectant gesture. She turned so he could remove her jacket. Despite his dry comment, she’d noticed his small smile and knew he wasn’t as unimpressed by the experience as he let on.

“That’s just because you don’t know the songs,” she said, refusing to be anything but happy.

“Is that what they call that noise?” he asked mildly as he laid her jacket on the back of a chair and Francesca turned to face him.

“You seemed to have a nice enough time.”

He caught her challenging expression and shook his head. She laughed. She referred to the fact that they’d spent a majority of the concert making out, both of them getting so steamy and aroused that Ian had abruptly declared it was time to leave unless they wanted to get arrested for public indecency.

He’d surprised her when they’d first entered the park and found a rare open patch of earth. “Hold on for a few seconds,” he’d said. “Don’t sit yet.”

She’d watched, curious and amazed, as he’d approached a particularly well-stocked group of picnicking young people who were sitting twenty or so feet away. He spoke to them and pointed to a few items. Money had changed hands. A moment later, Ian had walked away, leaving the people looking bemused and very pleased. He obviously hadn’t given them a small amount of money for his prize—two blankets, a couple bottles of chilled water, and a napkin-covered paper plate that she’d discovered later contained four pieces of delectable fried chicken.

“I’m thinking you liked your first rock concert ever,” she teased, recalling a truth he’d told her as they lay cozily beneath one of the blankets, the wild crowd just feet away seemingly miles from their insulated, private world.

“I liked touching you,” he replied simply, making her cheeks heat in pleasure. His gaze dropped over her. “Why don’t you go and get ready for bed?”

She shivered at the sound of his low voice and the heated gleam in his stare. She headed toward the bathroom.

“And Francesca?”

She turned to face him. Her brows pulled together in puzzlement when he didn’t speak for several seconds.

“It was for me, too,” he finally said.

Her bewilderment deepened.

“The best day ever.”

She stood there watching as he disappeared into his dressing room, her heart throbbing in disbelief and something much more profound at his unexpected honesty. From the dark, fear-shrouded recesses of her brain, a memory rose to taunt her. She hated the dread that tainted the wondrous feeling she’d experienced at Ian’s words.

I offer you pleasure and the experience. Nothing else. I have nothing else to offer.

How long could something so amazing endure given that she shared the experience with a man who so reluctantly shared himself . . .

. . . given that she’d risked her heart to an enigma like Ian Noble?

* * *

The next several weeks passed in a blur, everything cast in the glow of Francesca’s deepening feelings for Ian. She grew used to his moods, understanding that often when he appeared distant, he was in fact processing massive amounts of information, planning for his various companies on multiple levels, making decisions in a startlingly concise and rapid manner. He continued her lessons in the bedroom, Francesca flourishing under his tutelage. Ian was as demanding and intense as ever—perhaps even more so—but as she gained comfort with sexual submission and her trust in him grew, their exchanges altered, somehow becoming sweeter, a true give-and-take of power, caring, and pleasure. She suspected that the deepening level of intimacy in their exchange was responsible for the richer experience, and wondered if Ian felt it too.

He taught her lessons outside the bedroom as well, coaching her on fencing, which she took to with pleasure. They spent several Sundays poring over the basics of investing, Ian challenging her to come up with a feasible plan for her money given what she’d learned from her lessons. She’d showed him two options on two separate occasions. Ian’s polite queries and slight frowns had made her go back to the drawing board both times. On her last investment-planning presentation, she’d earned a small, proud smile and knew she’d finally learned something valuable about how to handle her own finances. Thus, Ian taught her not only about passion and love but some basic lessons of life.

He wasn’t the only one who taught, either. With Francesca’s encouragement, he continued to be spontaneous once in a while, to live in the moment . . . to experience life like a thirty-year-old instead of a jaded, weary man several decades his senior.

The problem was, he never really came out and told her in so many words how he was feeling about her—about them—and she was too shy and afraid to tell him she’d fallen in love with him. Wasn’t that precisely the opposite of what he’d said their relationship would be about? Would he think her a naive fool for mistaking lust and infatuation for something much deeper?

The thought haunted her. She pushed it back repeatedly when she spent time with him, not wanting to ruin the moments she had, worried she’d waste them by ruminating about anxieties that weren’t for now, but the future. It was a little like doing a high-wire act, always striving to keep her balance on the narrow edge of their passionate affair, constantly worried she’d find herself falling away from Ian . . . or him flying away from her.

One cool late fall evening, that jarring moment came.

Francesca worked in the studio at the penthouse, anguishing over the last final detail of the painting. She pulled her hand back from the canvas, her breath sticking in her lungs as she studied the tiny black figure—a man in an opened black trench coat, walking along the river, head lowered against the cold Lake Michigan wind.

Would Ian notice she’d inserted him again into one of her paintings? It made sense to her somehow, she thought as she wiped off her brush. He’d twined himself indelibly into almost every thread of her life.

Her heart swelled as she studied the painting.

Finished.

By tradition, once the word hit her brain with a note of finality, she would never put paint to that particular canvas again. Feeling ebullient with her accomplishment, she hurried out of the studio in search of Ian. It was a Sunday, and he’d opted to work in the library rather than go into the office.

She was about to round the corner of the hallway that would lead to the library when she heard a door open and low, tense voices—a man and a woman talking.

“. . . all the more reason for me to act quickly, Julia,” Ian said.

“I want to emphasize again that there are no guarantees, Ian. Just because it’s a particularly good period doesn’t mean lasting results, but we at the Institute are hopeful . . .”

The woman’s British-accented voice faded as she and Ian proceeded down the hallway toward the elevator, but not before Francesca caught a glimpse of her. It was the attractive woman Ian had breakfasted with in Paris, the one he’d called a friend of the family. Her heart sank as she once again registered the thick tension in the exchange, similar to what she’d felt in the hotel lobby. Like that other time, she retreated, scurrying back to her studio.

She didn’t know how she knew, but she just knew Ian wouldn’t want her observing him right now . . . asking him questions . . . trying to care for him.

Even though she wanted to do just that more than anything else in the world.

She spent more time than was necessary cleaning up her work space in the studio, trying to give him time to recover. Eventually, she again went in search for him, but came up empty-handed.

She found Mrs. Hanson in the kitchen scrubbing the kitchen counters.

“I was looking for Ian,” she said. “I’ve finished the painting.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news!” Mrs. Hanson’s excited expression fell. “But I’m afraid Ian’s not here. He had to leave Chicago for a while. An emergency came up.”

Francesca felt as if an invisible force had pummeled her in the chest. “But . . . I don’t understand. He was just here. I saw him with that woman . . .”

“Dr. Epstein? You saw her arrive?” Mrs. Hanson asked, looking surprised.

Dr. Julia Epstein. So. That was her name. “I saw her leave. What was the emergency? Is Ian all right?”

“Oh dear yes. Don’t alarm yourself over that.”

“Where did he go?” she demanded, her hurt and incredulity over the fact that Ian had left and hadn’t even bothered to come into the studio and tell her good-bye was still vibrating unpleasantly in her flesh.

Mrs. Hanson avoided her gaze and resumed her scrubbing. “I can’t say for certain—”

“Do you truly not know, or are you saying that because Ian told you to?”

The housekeeper glanced at her, startled. Francesca fiercely held her gaze. “I truly don’t know, Francesca. I’m sorry. There’s a tiny part of Ian’s life that he’s always kept to himself, even from me, who knows his every habit and idiosyncrasy.”

Francesca patted the older woman’s arm. “I understand,” she said.

And she did. If Mrs. Hanson didn’t know where Ian had gone, it could only mean one thing.

He’d gone to London—the location of that secret corner of his universe, the place that Jacob had never been invited, nor Mrs. Hanson . . . and certainly not Francesca. That Dr. Epstein, though . . . she almost certainly knew about that part of Ian’s life. She kept hearing Ian’s tense tone ringing in her head, saw his lost expression as he stood in the lobby of the hotel.

The woman was a doctor? What if Ian wasn’t well? No, it couldn’t be that. He was the ideal specimen of male health and vibrancy. If she couldn’t tell that just by looking at him, he’d presented her with proof when he’d handed her the results of his latest physical a while back in order to prove to her he was clean for sex.

“Do you know Dr. Epstein well?” Francesca mused.

“No. I’ve only met her briefly a time or two when she’s visited here at the penthouse. I got the impression she practices somewhere in London, but I’m not certain what sort of a doctor she is, come to think of it. Francesca? Is everything all right?” Mrs. Hanson asked anxiously, making her wonder what the housekeeper had seen on her face.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she squeezed Mrs. Hanson’s forearm in reassurance and let go, starting to back out of the kitchen. Just how much would a ticket from Chicago to London cost? “But I think I might have to leave town for a few days as well.”

Read the conclusion of Francesca and Ian’s red-hot romance in

Part VIII of BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE

BECAUSE I AM YOURS

Available from InterMix on September 18, 2012

Want to know what all the buzz is about? Keep reading

for a taste of Beth Kery’s popular novel

WICKED BURN

Available now from Berkley Sensation!

The goddamned walls in his temporary apartment residence might as well be made of cardboard, Vic Savian thought as he came into full wakefulness at the low, mellow sound of a voice emanating from the hallway. He’d never actually heard the mystery woman who lived across the hall from him speak, but he recognized her immediately, nonetheless.

Weird. Just her voice made his cock stir and stiffen against the cool sheets.

He’d seen her twice now, once in Louie’s—the steak-house located in the lobby of Riverview Towers. The other time they’d been alone on the elevator together.

He’d have bet the finest stallion in his stable that she was as aware of him on that elevator ride as he was of her.

Sort of an understatement, actually, to say that Vic had been aware of her. He’d noticed everything about her . . . the light sprinkling of freckles on her nose, the movement of her lips when they closed and parted, the pulse at her elegant throat, the shape of her breasts beneath the conservative yet sensual silk blouse she wore.

She was beautiful. Vic knew better than most how overused that word was when it came to women. But other descriptors—pretty, attractive, sexy—fell far short when it came to the woman across the hall.

She was luminous.

He liked women. He liked them smart, feisty, sexy, skilled, and hot. But this woman’s beauty irked him. He steered clear of beautiful women. Ever since the debacle with Jenny.

His head came up off the pillow when he heard her speak again. Did her voice sound strained?

When he heard a man respond in an angry tone, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his jeans.

“Evan, I’ve made it very clear where I stand with you. I’ve never played coy. And no, I can’t give you some kind of timeline as to when I might feel differently,” she said before Evan had the chance to say the predictable.

What was it about getting dressed up for a black-tie affair that made a man think he was going to get laid? Niall Chandler wondered dispiritedly. God, she was an idiot. She should never have agreed to accompany him to the Chicago Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art fund-raiser tonight. As a member of the museum’s board of trustees, Evan Forrester had the potential to make her job very difficult if he chose to play the part of a rejected lover.

“You’re not even giving this a chance. Look, I don’t have any of the details, but I’d have to be an idiot not to know that I’m supposed to treat you like fine china, given all the vague references and dirty looks your boss is always giving me, not to mention that secretary of yours. But sometimes the only way to get over something is to just take the plunge. Come on, Niall . . . jump off that pedestal of ice, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “The weather down below is nice and hot.”

Niall’s eyes widened in disbelief not only at his knowing, almost sly tone but the fact that he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back, sandwiching her between the door and his body. She twisted her face away when he tried to kiss her, but he merely transferred his attentions to her neck.

“You were driving me crazy tonight in this dress,” he muttered against her skin. His hands began to press and slide along her back and waist.

“Evan, stop it,” Niall insisted. When he brushed aside her wrap and planted a kiss on the top of her right breast, her hand rose instinctively. He looked up when she gave him a hard, flat-palmed thump to the side of his head.

“Why . . . you little bitch, that hurt!”

Niall barely had time to register the tall shadow out of the corner of her eye before Evan cried out and winced in pain. He crashed loudly into the far wall of the hallway, then bounced forward, looking stunned and dazed. He grabbed frantically for his ear, as if to assure himself that it was still attached to his head. Niall realized that the man who stood with them in the hallway must have twisted it viciously before he threw Evan off her.

“Get out of here,” the stranger said tersely.

Niall stared up at the man in amazement. His tone had been one of annoyance and profound distaste, as if he’d just come out into the hallway and seen a dog humping her leg instead of a man pawing her body without her consent. It was especially striking, that tone, since Evan was the picture of urbane sophistication in his tuxedo and black cashmere overcoat.

Her savior, on the other hand, brought to mind comparisons to ruthless cowboy outlaws and primitive, raw sex.

Niall blinked in surprise at her turn of thought. Well, it wasn’t the first time her mind had strayed that way against her will. It had done the same on the other two occasions she’d seen the man who lived across the hall from her, especially when she’d been forced to breathe his spicy male scent in the six-by-six-foot confines of an elevator.

He made her nervous, agitated . . . stirred up.

At least on the elevator he’d been wearing clothing, though. Tonight he wore nothing but a partially fastened pair of faded jeans that looked like they’d been washed and worn so many times that they’d shaped themselves perfectly to his lean hips, tight butt, and long, hard thighs.

Niall forced her eyes away from that compelling sight when she heard Evan speak.

“Who the hell are you to think you can tell me to leave like that?” Evan sputtered in furious disbelief. He took several rapid steps down the hallway, however, almost tripping on his own feet, when Niall’s neighbor abruptly lunged toward him. The tall man never responded verbally, but Niall thought she saw Evan’s answer in his rigid profile and steely gaze.

He’s the guy who looks like he’s ready to kick your ass from here to next week if you don’t get a move on, Niall thought.

“You’d better just go, Evan,” she managed shakily. “Please,” she added when Evan opened his mouth like he was going to argue. He finally turned, keeping the grim, tall figure that menaced him in the corner of his eye until the last second before he headed down the hallway.

Niall exhaled unevenly when she heard the ding of the elevator door as it closed. She found it difficult to meet her neighbor’s stare.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You okay?”

His voice reminded her of a stark landscape of open plains domed with the vast mystery of a starlit sky.

“Sure.” She laughed a little unevenly. “Feeling a bit dense, actually. I didn’t see it coming.”

“How about a drink?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m all right. He just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t asking if you wanted to have a drink with me in order to calm you down.”

Her eyes snapped up to his. For the first time, she saw that they were a light gray, the outer rim edged by a defining black line.

A second passed . . . then several. A tiny smile pulled at his well-shaped lips, softening the hardness of his mouth infinitesimally.

Had he really just propositioned her so casually? Niall questioned herself. And was she really considering taking him up on the offer?

Something flamed to life inside of her as she met his steady stare . . . something Niall had assumed had been snuffed out of existence three years ago. His lips twitched slightly, and she realized she’d been wrong.

What she experienced at that moment wasn’t anything she’d ever known in her thirty-three years of life on this planet.

“All right,” she agreed softly.

He stepped back so that she could move past him toward the door of his apartment. Niall noticed that he didn’t look smug at her acceptance.

Nor did he seem even vaguely surprised.

Niall smiled a moment later as she glanced around his living room while he moved about in the kitchen.

“I see we have the same decorator,” she said through the little window over the counter that overlooked the kitchen. She heard the anxious tremor in her voice and admonished herself for it. Just because she had agreed to have a drink didn’t mean that she was going to sleep with him—a complete stranger.

His dark brown hair fell over his brow as he bent to retrieve a bottle from a lower shelf. When he stood, her gaze brushed appreciatively across his ridged abdomen, the sweep of his wide shoulders, and the hard, defined muscles of his upper arm. Most of the men that she knew would have put on a shirt in this situation. But Niall was glad that he hadn’t.

He was such a beautiful, sinuous male animal that it seemed a shame to cover his body.

He never responded to her attempt at small talk, but Niall found that his silence didn’t make her feel awkward. When he handed her a glass through the window, she held it up in a brief salute and took a drink. Her sensual appreciation of the taste must have shown on her face, because he gave a small smile before he took a swallow of his own. Heat expanded in Niall’s lower belly at the sight of the muscular movement of his throat.

“You approve,” he stated rather than asked.

Niall blinked. Had he been reading her mind? A modicum of common sense returned to her, however, and she realized that he’d been referring to the liquor, not his beautiful body.

“I don’t drink much, but when I do, I’m a Scotch drinker. This happens to be my favorite brand,” Niall said. She realized that her voice had become unintentionally husky as she stared at his mouth. His upper front tooth slightly overlapped the one next to it. She thought of what it would feel like to run her tongue over that sexy little imperfection, and then wondered how many women he encountered every day who had the exact same fantasy.

She forced her eyes away from him and transferred her gaze to the windows. It unnerved her, this strong, unprecedented physical reaction to him. She felt awkward and foolish, like a gangly teenage girl.

She took a deep, uneven breath and tried to focus on what she saw.

His apartment faced east, granting him a spectacular panoramic view of Chicago. The lights of the high-rises shimmered in the black, winding river. The Riverview Towers offered their residents every luxury and convenience: a concierge, a dry cleaner, grocery delivery, shopping, and a central location in downtown Chicago. Residents and the corporations for which they worked paid sky-high prices for the flexibility and conveniences of the apartments. But to Niall the temporary residences felt depressingly sterile. She longed for the stability of a home again.

“So what’s your excuse for staying in this god-awful place?” she asked him when he came around the corner into the living room. She glanced up when he leaned his hip against the counter next to where she sat on a stool.

“I’m working in the city for a while. I sleep here Tuesday through Thursday nights and drive home on Friday.”

“To the suburbs?” Niall asked as she took another sip of Scotch. With him standing and her sitting, her eye level was at his chest. His nipples were dark brown and even more erect than she’d speculated when he was feet away from her instead of inches. She inhaled slowly, and the male scent that she recalled all too well from sharing the elevator with him filled her senses, more subtle, but nevertheless more potent, than the fumes of the Scotch.

The desire that he’d awakened in her reared its head, causing a shimmering sensation of heat to spread along her tailbone, only to surge and swell at her sex, liquefying her in a matter of seconds.

His singular gray eyes flickered down to her lap when she stirred restlessly on her stool.

“I have a farm downstate. You?”

She blinked. “Oh . . . I’m waiting for my condominium to be finished. Hopefully, I’ll be out of here in a month or two, but they keep putting me off.” She shrugged and gave a shaky laugh. “It could be worse. I work downtown at the Chicago Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art, so Riverview Towers are convenient. If it weren’t for the fact that I feel like I live in a beige and white nightmare, things would be great,” she added with a chuckle.

“What’s your name?”

She paused in her mirth. “Oh, sorry. I’m Niall. Niall Chandler.”

She started to put out her hand for a friendly handshake but paused in surprise when he began to laugh. “What’s so funny?” she asked in amazement.

He set his drink on the counter as he stilled his mirth. “Your name. You’re the most feminine thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and you’ve got a boy’s name.”

Niall inhaled sharply. He was usually so terse and impassive that it unsettled her to hear him compliment her—for that was undoubtedly what it had been, given the warm, husky tone of his deep voice.

Her anxiety mounted when he took her glass from her stiff hand and set it next to his on the counter.

“I’m Vic.”

His hand rose to cradle her chin, lifting her face until she met his gaze. Niall’s pulse throbbed madly at her throat when she saw the heat in his gray eyes as they fixed on her mouth.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way . . .” His head dropped slowly. “Let’s get down to the good stuff, Niall.”

From the very first, Vic incinerated her. The thought of pushing him away never entered her mind, Niall realized the next day. It should have, logically. Not ten minutes before, she’d put a halt to Evan’s attempts to get her into bed.

But this was different. Vic seduced her so effortlessly. The strength of her desire for him burned away the few remaining insubstantial shadows of rational thought.

The hand that wasn’t already holding her chin came up to join its twin, holding her steady for the onslaught of his kiss. His tongue drove between her lips without preamble. He didn’t seem particularly interested in mutuality at that moment. He probed deeply, sweeping his tongue everywhere, establishing dominance over her body with a stunning attack on her senses.

Niall moaned as his taste registered in her brain. Her hands clutched desperately at his back as he continued to fuck her mouth with his tongue. He tasted like premium Scotch with just a hint of mint. Her fingertips explored the sensation of smooth skin stretched tautly across dense muscle. Heat resonated off his body. Niall pressed closer, wanting to share that heat, needing to be thawed . . . desperate to be burned.

Her hands began to move over him greedily. He groaned, deep and savage, and tore his mouth from hers. For a tense moment, he just stared down at her. Then he lifted her in his arms. Niall held on tightly to his shoulders. A kaleidoscope of images from his apartment spun before her eyes as he quickly moved toward his bedroom, adding to her chaotic emotional state.

He tore off the wrap she wore around her shoulders before he lowered her to his bed. The zipper of her sophisticated little black cocktail dress came down next.

“Arms up,” he muttered.

She complied. He tossed aside her black dress a second later.

Niall’s hips moved restlessly on the bed, instinctively trying to relieve the pressure growing at her sex when his gaze dropped over her. She wore a black bra and panty set and some thigh-high stockings. And her pearls. As if that counted for anything, she thought with a touch of hysteria.

Vic’s expression didn’t alter much, but his eyes blazed so hot as they toured her body that she felt sexually scorched.

“Take off your panties and move back on the bed.”

She felt like she was in a dream as she did exactly what he’d demanded. But it was a very hot, exciting dream . . . and she hadn’t the slightest desire to resist the carnal allure of it.

He covered her body with his own by the time her head hit the pillows. He palmed her thighs, spreading them to accommodate his body in the process. He immediately took possession of her mouth again. Their tongues tangled and mated wildly. His hands ran down her sides, one pausing at a silk-covered breast, the other sliding down her waist and cradling her hip.

He tilted her pelvis up and pressed himself to her, forcing her to feel the strength of his desire.

Niall moaned into his mouth. He felt so vibrant next to her, so alive. It was a dizzying sensation for someone who had been one of the walking dead for the past three years to suddenly awaken as if from a jolt of sexual electricity. He molded her breast in his palm gently, then roughly . . . always surely. Niall strained up, desperate for more of the sensation of him. Her hands ran over his back and shoulders, sliding and rubbing, consuming him with her touch.

Vic grunted at the feeling of her slender, curvy body pressing to him so tightly. Her skin felt like warm silk. Her nipple pressed into the center of his palm like a hard little dart, maddening him. The feeling of her hands moving anxiously over him blinded him with lust.

He rolled off her onto his left hip, ripping at the button fly of his jeans. He shoved them down his thighs with precise, rapid movements. His cock sprang free, stiff, tight, straining toward her. His eyes caressed her body. She was the color of pale honey, looking like she could tan easily if she chose, but refrained. She’d tasted so good . . . her skin, her mouth, her sweat.

He couldn’t wait to eat her pussy.

He winced in agonized pleasure when he moved and his cock brushed the bare, satiny skin of her thigh. She whimpered.

She reached for him, but he stopped her by grabbing both of her wrists, then transferring both of them to one hand.

The feeling of her small, cool hands on his body had enflamed him earlier. Vic didn’t think he could take it right now and maintain his control. He pushed her wrists down over her head at the same time that he reached between her thighs.

He watched her face while he burrowed his fingers through damp, silky pubic hair, dipping into the warm cream of her pussy before he spread the abundant moisture between her labia, sliding and pressing against her clit.

Her back arched up off the bed. She squirmed frantically at the restraint of his binding hand.

But he only gripped her wrists and held her tighter. He played a hard, ruthless rhythm with his fingers, plucking and strumming the nerve-packed flesh until the tension in her body broke and she cried out sharply in stunned ecstasy. Two of his fingers plunged into her tight sheath. He watched her intently as her body clamped and convulsed around him.

She was ready for him so quickly. It excited him to know that she was as hungry for him at that moment as he was for her. He stretched, reaching for a condom in the drawer of his bedside table. His excitement to be inside her made him roll it on his cock in record-breaking time.

Without a word he spread her thighs and arrowed into her. Her body resisted him, but he was crazed by the sensation of her hot, narrow channel as it enclosed the thick head of his penis.

“You’re tight,” he grated. He held the base of his cock with one hand, working it into her clamping channel with subtle up-and-down motions while his hips provided a steady, hard pressure. She moaned, still in the aftershocks of her climax. Her slender body undulating and straining against him made him desperate. He thrust.

Hard.

He might have been half-crazed with lust, but he paused when he heard her cry out. His cock had burrowed less than half its length into her.

“Shhh, try to relax, baby,” he soothed. His head dropped next to hers. He pressed hot kisses along her neck, pausing to run the elegant strand of pearls that she wore between his lips, licking at the smooth globes lightly before he nipped at her tender skin. Her lips were parted when he found them, the taste between them sweet and addictive. His cock throbbed painfully inside of her as his tongue sank into her warm cavern.

Pearls and honey.

She was driving him right over the edge. Her pussy gripped at him mercilessly.

He pushed back a smooth thigh, opening her body to him, demanding admission. His thumb found her clitoris, circling, plucking, and coaxing. She groaned into his mouth and pushed up for more pressure, seating his cock farther into her body in the process.

“That’s right,” he whispered gruffly next to her damp lips. “Let me in, Niall.”

Niall cried out in sharp desire as he began to pulse his hips. His cock felt too large to be in her body, invading her, forcing her to make room for him . . . but indescribably good as well. His pressing thumb on her clit drove her further into a frenzy of lust. A friction began to build in her unlike anything she’d ever known. She began to push and rotate her hips around his cock, up and down, around, in and out, desperate to feed the mounting flame that grew and expanded in her sex and belly. Niall saw the way his lip curled, the way his light eyes gleamed as a result of her actions. She mewled in pleasure and increased the pressure against him, desperate with need.

She writhed and whimpered beneath him, begging him in a primitive fashion to take total possession of her. He accepted her wordless invitation. He drove his cock into her, pressing his balls tightly to her damp hilt, grunting in animal like pleasure. When she cried out and arched her back, he secured her wrists tighter, pushing her back to the bed.

He began to thrust into her with tight, concentrated strokes.

“You’ve got a hot little pussy, but you’re teasing me with it, aren’t you, Niall?”

Niall just shook her head when he growled out the question ominously. She was too tight with mounting pleasure, too full of him . . . too close to orgasm to speak. His cock massaged her more deeply than she’d ever been touched, stimulating her with a hard, relentless pressure. He pried her body open to make way for him, but she was wild to get him back deep every time he withdrew from her, needing to have the thick, hard knob of his penis stabbing and rubbing and demanding something from her that she had only just learned she could give.

She gasped loudly when he leaned down and encircled her silk-covered nipple in the heat of his mouth. The suction that he applied made the inferno at her sex flame higher. When he bit at the tender morsel and thrust into her hard, creating a loud smack of flesh against flesh, she exploded again.

Vic grunted savagely as he felt her squeeze and convulse around his cock in orgasm. Her heat flooded around him. His eyes crossed at the sensation.

He reached up and roughly pushed down both of the thin pieces of black silk that covered her breasts. He bent and sampled one hard, pointed crest, lashing with his tongue, sucking hard, nipping and biting with his front teeth. She tasted so good—like berries, sweet cream, and musky woman. He wanted to eat her up in two ravenous bites. When he leaned up slightly, the sight of her white, thrusting breast capped by an erect, glistening pink nipple nearly sent him over the edge.

He focused on her sweat-dampened face. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was scattered across the pillow. She stared at him with desire-glazed eyes, her breath coming in choppy, shallow pants. The muscular, tight walls of her vagina tormented him. Every time he moved out of her, she pulled and sucked at his cock, demanding that he sink back into her depths before he was ready.

He pushed back first one thigh, and then the other, into her chest and began to pound into her. She shrieked in shock. It might have been in pain. It might have been in desire.

The only thing Vic knew for certain was that she had the tightest, sweetest little pussy he’d ever ridden.

“Vic! Vic?” she cried out in disbelieving ecstasy. He rocketed into her again and again, every driving downstroke pushing her body farther and farther up on the bed until her forearms were trapped between her skull and the wrought iron headboard.

Vic paused for a moment, still fully sheathed in her, and reached between their sweat-dampened bodies. His fingers spread the lips of her outer sex wide before he ground his pelvis against the nerve-packed tissues between her labia. She shimmered around him in post-orgasmic bliss. Her whole body began to tremble and shake when he surged up against her, scraping the narrow path of hair that trailed from his taut bellybutton to the thatch around his cock against her sensitive, exposed cleft and erect clit, applying a steady, relentless pressure.

When she groaned in misery, Vic knew she shook not only in post-orgasmic bliss but also in pre-orgasmic anticipation.

She opened her eyes dazedly. Vic watched her through narrowed eyelids.

“You want to come again?”

“Yes,” she entreated.

He smiled at the stark evidence of her need. He used his forearm to push her knees down hard into her shoulders. She keened at the increased pressure from the altered angle of his cock stabbing deeply into her body. When he grabbed a round buttock and smacked her ass twice lightly, she cried out in surprise.

“Give it to me, then,” he demanded harshly.

Her entire body began to shudder and shake once again in release.

Vic gave a tense bark of laughter, immensely pleased and aroused when he felt her heat rush around him.

“You liked that, baby?” he rasped as he began to pound into her quivering, hot pussy with quick, ruthless thrusts. Not that he expected her to answer. She was too busy climaxing, gushing liquid heat around him and squeezing his cock until he saw only a red haze in front of his eyes. Silk and pearls aside, Niall had liked it when he had spanked her plump little ass.

He struck their flesh together rapidly now, holding back nothing, striving madly to find relief in her farthest depths. She was immobilized against the headboard. He smacked their flesh together once more, the walls of her vagina still convulsing and pulling and taunting him.

God, she was a sweet fuck, he thought dazedly in the seconds before orgasm ripped through his flesh.

He threw his head back and roared between clenched jaws, pumping her hard and fast, shooting off what felt like gallons of his semen in a gloriously scalding climax.

Niall’s eyes clenched closed at the sensation of Vic throbbing in release even as he continued to fuck her. Tears leaked onto her cheeks. The truth of the matter was that the sensation of him coming so powerfully in her body was one of the two most poignant, profoundly wonderful experiences she’d ever had in her life.

The other had been when she’d first heard the sound of her baby’s cry and felt the slight, precious weight of his damp, warm body against her breast.

This had been, by far, the craziest, most impulsive thing Niall had ever done in her life. She didn’t even know Vic’s last name.

She couldn’t regret a second of it, though. Not then. Not at that moment, when blood pounded in her veins, vibrant and hot.

She felt reborn—raw, confused, shaky . . . and utterly, completely alive.

* * *

To find out more about Beth Kery’s eight-part serial novel, Because You Are Mine, please click here or go to www.penguin.com/becauseyouaremine

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.