Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(11)
“How are you?” he asked, his polite, cool tone not quite matching the gleam in his blue eyes. He confused her to no end. Like that time last Thursday night, for instance, when she’d turned to find him studying her while she sketched. His manner had been almost formal, but she’d grown breathless with expectation when she saw the way his gaze lowered and lingered on her breasts, making her nipples tighten. She couldn’t help but recall how they’d parted on the first night he’d asked her to the penthouse, how he’d touched her as he put on her jacket . . . his reference to her painting.
Had he been pleased or angry that she’d painted him? And was it her imagination, or had he been warning her that her title for the painting hadn’t been as whimsical as she’d once thought, that the subject of her painting truly did walk through life alone?
Nonsense, she chastised herself as she forced herself to meet his piercing stare. Ian Noble didn’t think twice about her beyond her use as an artist.
“Busy but good, thanks,” she answered him. She gave him a quick recap of her progress. “The canvas is prepped. I’ve sketched. I think I’ll be able to actually start painting next week.”
“And do you have everything you require?” he asked as he stepped past her and opened a refrigerator. He moved with masculine grace. She’d love to see him fence—leashed aggression in graceful action.
“Yes. Lin did a very thorough job in getting my supplies. I needed one or two things, but she immediately procured them for me last Monday. She’s a miracle of efficiency.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Don’t hesitate to speak up if you need the smallest thing.” He cracked the cap on the water bottle with a brisk twist of his wrist. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of the shirt, looking hard as stone. A few veins popped on his strong-looking forearms. “And is your schedule manageable? School, your waitressing duties, painting . . . your social life?”
Her pulse began to throb at her throat. She lowered her head so he wouldn’t notice and pretended to be studying one of the swords on a storage rack.
“I don’t have much of a social life.”
“No boyfriend?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head as she ran her fingers over an etched pommel.
“But surely you have friends that you like to spend spare time with?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing up at him. “I’m very close with all three of my roommates.”
“And what do the four of you like to do in your free time?”
She shrugged and touched a different sword grip. “Free time is a bit of a rarity these days, but when I have some, the usual—play video games, go out to the bars, hang out, play poker.”
“That’s usual for a group of girls?”
“My roommates are all men.” She glanced up in time to see the shadow of displeasure that crossed his stoic features. Her heartbeat leapt. His short, glossy, near-black hair was damp at his neck from perspiration. She suddenly imagined herself slicking her tongue along his hairline, tasting his sweat. She blinked and glanced away.
“You live with three men?”
She nodded.
“What do your parents think of that?”
She gave him a sharp glance over her shoulder. “They hate it. Much good it does them. It’s their loss. Caden, Justin, and Davie are awesome people.”
He opened his mouth but paused. “It’s unconventional,” he said after a few seconds, his clipped tone telling her that he’d edited what he’d been about to say.
“Unorthodox, perhaps. But that shouldn’t seem unusual to you, should it? Didn’t you tell me the other night you were a lot of that?” she asked, returning her attention to the swords. This time she wrapped her hand around the grip and squeezed, liking the sensation of hard, cold steel in her fist. She ran her hand up and down along the column.
“Stop that.”
She started at his tone, dropping her hand as if the steel had suddenly burned her. She looked up at him in amazement. His nostrils were slightly flared. His eyes blazed. He jerked his chin and took a rapid swing of water.
“Do you fence?” he asked her briskly as he set the bottle of water on a table.
“No. Well . . . not really.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, stepping toward her, his brow furrowed.
“I do a fencing program with Justin and Caden, but . . . I’ve never touched a sword before,” she said sheepishly.
His puzzlement faded abruptly. He smiled. It was like seeing the sunrise over a dark, brooding landscape. “Are you talking about playing on a Game Station?”
“Yes,” she admitted a little defensively.
He nodded toward the rack. “Take that end one there.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take the last sword. Noble Enterprises designed the original program for that fencing game you play. We sold it to Shinatze a few years back. What level do you play at?”
“Advanced.”
“You should understand the basics then.” He held her stare. “Pick up the sword, Francesca.”
There was a hint of a dare to his tone. His smile still lingered around his full lips. He was laughing at her again. She lifted the sword and glared at him. His grin widened. He grabbed another sword and handed her a mask. He tilted his head toward the mat. When they faced each other, Francesca’s breathing becoming rapid and choppy, he tapped his blade against hers.