Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(104)

Several dozen faces looked around at her ungraceful arrival. She saw Lin’s familiar, smiling face, and Lucien’s and Zoe’s . . . and—she gasped—Anne and James Noble beamed at her from a distance. That elegant man with the salt-and-pepper hair that held up his champagne glass to her in a silent salute, wasn’t that Monsieur Laurent the curator of the Musée de Saint-Germain whom Ian had introduced her to in Paris? No. It couldn’t be.

Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief when she recognized her parents standing awkwardly next to a fern, her father tight-lipped, but her mother doing her best to attempt a warm smile.

“Why is everyone looking at me?” she whispered to Justin when he stepped up next to her. A panic rose in her chest at the surreal scene before her. Justin kissed her warmly on the cheek.

“It’s a surprise. Look, Francesca. It’s all for you. Congratulations.” She gaped at where he pointed, the once-empty swath of wall that dominated the lobby. Her painting had been framed and mounted. It looked awesome . . . perfect . . .

Justin gently tilted her jaw when she couldn’t stop gawping at the centerpiece, urging her to see what else was in the room. The entire lobby had been filled with her paintings, each displayed on easels, all of them professionally mounted and framed. People were strolling around in black-tie attire, sipping champagne, and seemingly admiring her work. A small string quartet played Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2.

She glanced from Justin to Davie, slain. Davie gave her a reassuring smile. “Ian planned it,” he said quietly. “Some of the most affluent collectors, renowned art experts and critics, museum curators and gallery owners from around the globe are here tonight. This party is in your honor, Francesca . . . a chance for the world to see just how talented you really are.”

She cringed inwardly. Oh my God. All those people looking at my work? But no one appeared to be laughing or snidely incredulous, at least, she thought as she checked several faces anxiously.

“I don’t understand. Did Ian plan this before London?” she asked.

“No. He contacted me a day or two after your return from London and asked me to help him arrange things. I had all of the paintings mounted and framed. We’ve even managed to acquire four more of your paintings to add to the collection. Ian can’t wait to show them to you.”

A sudden prescience struck her, and she looked into the crowd.

Ian stood next to his grandparents, looking somber, regal, and devastatingly gorgeous in a classic black tux with bow tie. His gaze was alight as it pinned her . . . soulful. Only Francesca, who had grown to know him so well, saw the shadow of anxiety ghosting features that would have looked cold and impassive to other eyes.

She thought she’d had a heart attack. She clasped her chest.

“Why’s he done this?” she asked Davie under her breath.

“I think it’s his way of saying he’s sorry. Some men send flowers, Ian—”

“Sends the world,” Francesca whispered through numb lips. Ian started toward her, and she followed in kind in his direction, moving like a sleepwalker toward the man she couldn’t take her eyes off of, and whom she craved more than anything she had in her life.

“Hello,” he said quietly when they met.

“Hi. This is quite a surprise,” Francesca managed, her heart seemingly crowding out everything else in her rib cage, squeezing her lungs. She realized distantly that probably dozens of stares were on them, but she only could focus on the warmth—the wary hope—in Ian’s.

“Did I have it hung to your satisfaction?” he asked, and she knew he meant the painting.

“Yes. It’s perfect.”

Her heart did its usual jump when he smiled. He held up his hands. Recognizing the familiar gesture, she unbuttoned her coat and turned. When he slid her coat off her arms she spun toward him, chin high, spine straight—yes, even in the boho dress. His gaze ran over her fleetingly and she saw he recognized the dress. His smile reached all the way to his eyes. He took two glasses of champagne from a waiter who was passing and murmured a request before handing the man her coat.

A moment later, he handed her a flute and stepped closer. Francesca had the impression that the other party participants tried to focus their attention back on their own conversations, giving them a little privacy. Ian touched his flute to hers.

“To you, Francesca. May you have everything you deserve in life, because there is no one so deserving.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a reluctant sip, unsure as to how she should be feeling in these bewildering circumstances.

“Will you spend this evening with me, both now”—he glanced around the crowded lobby—“and later? There are some things I’d like to tell you in private. I hope you’ll listen.”

Her throat tightened when she guessed at what some of those “things” might be. She suddenly doubted she could endure the next few hours, wondering what he’d say. A tiny part of her said she should refuse, the part that wanted to keep her heart safe. But then she looked into his eyes, and her decision was made.

“Yes. I’ll listen.”

He smiled, took her hand and escorted her into the crowd.

* * *

It was past midnight by the time Ian opened the door to his suite for her and she walked into the subtly lit, elegant room.

“I thought maybe I’d never be in this bedroom again,” she said breathlessly, glancing around, cherishing little details of Ian’s private sanctuary as she never had before. They’d been together all night, Ian never leaving her side, Francesca highly aware of him as he introduced her to movers and shakers from the art world, or as he showed her the last four of her paintings that had been recovered, or as they conversed with friends and family. All the while, she wondered what he was thinking . . . what he would say to her when they were alone in private.