Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(72)
“Ian, I am not having someone follow me around twenty-four hours a day!” she exclaimed with heated restraint.
His eyes flashed back at her. “Just until we can get this situation under control. After that, if you only agreed to live at the penthouse, my worries would vanish. Well . . . decrease a good deal anyway.”
She gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “I refuse to have you lock me up like a pet, Ian. Especially . . . given our circumstances,” she added, leaving things vague on purpose. She was done hashing out his obsession with his past and what it meant to his present and future. For today, she was.
He came to an abrupt standstill. She faced him.
“You make it sound like I’m purposefully insulting you . . . demeaning you,” he bit out.
“You are demeaning me by making all these decisions about me without even giving me the respect of talking to me about it. It’s my life. Stop trying to take control of it. I have a right to my privacy, among other things.”
“I’m very well aware it’s your life,” he replied ominously. “I’m just trying to make damn sure you go on living it in good health.”
“Here’s an idea,” she replied heatedly, straining to keep her voice quiet in the resonant hallway, but not succeeding. “Ask me how I feel about it next time instead of just planning my life for me. It’s not that hard, Ian!”
The sound of footsteps caught her attention. Her cheeks flushed when she glanced down the hallway and saw James, Gerard, and Elise rising up the stairs. They looked a little uncomfortable at accidently hearing Ian and her arguing, and kept their gazes averted before they disappeared from view down a corridor that led to their right.
She jerked the knob on her door. She plunged into the suite, leaving Ian standing in the hallway, not bothering to close the door. He’d come in anyway. She wasn’t trying to send him away, no matter how sharp she’d just sounded or how arrogant he had. Francesca wanted to be with him that evening. She’d been affected by that harrowing experience on the road as much as him. His heavy-handedness, his single-mindedness in arranging her life just peeved her. Not that she was unused to it.
Not that he was unused to struggling with her over such things.
By the time she came out of her bathroom after washing up, wearing an ivory silk gown, robe, and slippers, much of her irritation had eased. He sat on the couch in her sitting area, flipping through her sketchbook.
“I like what you did today,” he said quietly, nodding at the page. She knew he was striving for a neutral subject, and was thankful.
“Thank you,” she said. She stepped toward him and looked down at her drawing. “Those are fruit trees at the edge of the forest, aren’t they?”
He nodded. “Apple and cherry.”
“They must look stunning when they bloom in the spring,” she said.
“They do,” he replied gruffly, still looking at the page and not her.
“I wasn’t satisfied with my earlier attempts. I’d rather paint Belford as if coming out of the woods, the viewpoint of someone returning after a journey, suddenly seeing not just a house or a landmark or an architectural prize, but a home and everything that implies,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll have to run it by Anne and James, though. It would require me to put the woods closer to Belford Hall in order for me to get the house details. It would be inaccurate factually.”
“Not really. Only recently,” Ian said, puzzling her. He closed the sketchbook, set it aside and stood. “The gardens and yard area were only expanded in the past few decades. When I first came here as a boy, the forest was much closer to the house. I think my grandmother was worried about the woods being so close with a curious boy in residence. I also happen to know neither of my grandparents particularly cared for the clearing of the grounds. What you’re describing is what generations of Nobles would have seen upon returning home from one of the forest paths.”
He met her gaze soberly, and she knew he wasn’t thinking about her painting. “We can discuss the issue about security more tomorrow, after the press conference. I don’t want to fight with you right now,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want to fight with you, either. Not tonight,” she replied honestly. He put out his hand and she took it, following him out of the room and closing the door softly behind her. They walked together to his suite through the shadowed hallway, the silence seeming to billow with rising anticipation.
* * *
They entered his suite and he locked the door. He removed his jacket and draped it on a valet stand. Then she was in his arms and he was pulling her against him. His mouth was feverish on her neck and ear, his intensity making her eyes spring wide. His body felt hot, too . . . and hard, she realized with a thrill. Yes, she’d felt the increasing electrical excitement building between them, but this . . .
He was liked a coiled spring. She’d sensed his palpable tension ever since the incident on the road earlier, but hadn’t expected his anxiety to transform so quickly to arousal once he touched her.
She whimpered in stunned lust when he fisted a bunch of loose hair at her neck and pulled, so that her throat was exposed. His lips burned a trail on her neck before he seized her mouth in a kiss. It aroused her to no end, that scorching, desperate kiss, but tears burned her eyelids as well.
“Ian, I’m all right,” she muttered raggedly a moment later against his mouth.