Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(105)

She’d been courted by three renowned galleries for future collections and was asked to do a showing at the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art. She’d looked to Ian for that, since he was the owner of her current paintings, and he’d told her point-blank it was up to her to decide. Four collectors had made bids on her paintings, although Ian had refused to sell, point-blank. To top it all off, one of the offers had been made in the company of her father, whose incredulity at the price mentioned had made him turn pale. In general, Ian’s effect on both of her parents had been quite marked. They’d been so tongue-tied and eager to please in his presence that she was quite sure Ian must have thought her a liar about all she’d told him about them. Francesca was a little annoyed by this unexpected servile bent in their character, but mostly just relieved they behaved quite pleasantly all evening.

Ian shut the door of his bedroom suite and leaned against it. She faced him.

“Thank you, Ian,” she said breathlessly. “I felt like the belle of the ball tonight.”

“I’m just glad that you came.”

“I doubt I would have if Davie and the others hadn’t tricked me. I didn’t think you would want to see me after London . . . after it all. You were so angry.”

“I was, yes. I haven’t been for a while, though.”

“No?” she asked in a hushed tone.

He shook his head, never breaking her stare. His mouth tightened. “No. But I also couldn’t quite figure out just what the hell I was. It didn’t take me long to know, but then I had to find a way to tell you in a situation where you couldn’t run away from me too easily. I apologize for the subterfuge tonight.” His mouth twisted into a bitter expression. “I’m sorry, in general.”

She started in surprise at his harsh declaration. “For which part?”

“For all of it. From the first thing I said to you that was unappreciative and callous to the last selfish thing I’ve done. I’m sorry, Francesca.”

She swallowed thickly, unable to meet his stare for some reason. Even though she knew exchanges like this were necessary, given everything that had happened between them, it still seemed so secondary compared to what she’d seen in London.

“How is your mother?” she asked quietly.

“Stabilized,” he said, still leaning against the door. He exhaled after a few seconds and took a step toward her. She couldn’t look away as he removed his tuxedo jacket and laid it on the back of a chair, mesmerized by his male beauty. “There isn’t much hope that she’ll improve on this particular medication regimen, but she won’t get worse. That’s something, at least.”

“Yes. It is. I know you don’t want my pity, Ian. I understand that. I didn’t go to London to offer you sympathy.”

“Then why did you?” he said, his quiet voice lending to the subdued, full moment.

“To offer you my support. I knew that whatever was in London pained you, even though I had no idea what I’d find there. I just wanted to be there for you. That’s all.”

He gave a small smile. “You make it seem like that’s such a small throwaway thing. No . . . I made it seem that way. I took your act of caring and kindness and threw it in your face,” he said bluntly, his jaw rigid.

“I know it made you feel exposed. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve had to protect her for a long time,” he said suddenly, following a long pause.

“I know. Anne told me,” understanding he referred to his mother.

He frowned. “It was Grandmother who told me I was being a selfish, stubborn ass. She wouldn’t speak to me for a week when I confessed some of the things I’d said to you for showing up at the Institute. She’s never done that before,” he said, his brow furrowed as if he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what to make of his loving, very elegant grandmother calling him an ass.

Her heart stuttered in grateful surprise at the news of Anne’s support. “I wasn’t there to judge. Even if I were, there would have been nothing to put on trial but a very sick woman and a son who loves her and hopes for her, despite everything.”

He jerked his chin, staring at the far wall.

“I treated you unfairly . . . wrongly. I like to punish you for sexual excitement, but I never truly want to hurt you. But that day on the plane—I did. Not completely, but part of me wanted to—”

“Make me hurt like you were hurting?”

His gaze flashed guiltily to her face. “Yes.”

“I understood, Ian,” she said softly. “It wasn’t what happened in the plane’s bedroom suite that upset me. You didn’t hurt me, and you must know I took pleasure in it. It was that you walked away from me afterward.”

She sensed his rising tension.

“I was ashamed. Of her. Of your seeing her. Of myself for still having that damn feeling rise up in me of not wanting others to see her. Why should it matter now?” he bit out.

The bitter words seemed to hang in the air between them, an expelled toxin, secret words that he’d carried deep inside his spirit since he was a child, perhaps the most crucial, powerful words he’d ever said to her . . . to anyone.

Francesca walked over to him and put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his white shirt. Inhaling his unique male scent, she hugged tight. She clenched her eyelids shut as emotion washed over her. She understood how difficult this was for him to say these things, a man who ritualistically guarded against vulnerability, who remained stoic and strong because he believed he had no other choice.