Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(14)
She recognized Lucien’s French-accented voice. It sounded muffled, as if he spoke with his back to them. Ian’s stare bore down on her. She sensed the moment when he withdrew. His body still pressed against her, hard and aroused, but a door in his eyes seemed to slam shut.
“I should have called her earlier. It was rude of me. Remiss,” Ian said, his gaze never leaving Francesca’s face.
The footsteps resumed, and she heard a door slam. He pushed himself off her.
“Ian?” she asked weakly. She felt strange, like her muscles no longer knew their purpose, as if the weight and strength of Ian’s body had been the only thing keeping her upright. Her hand slapped against the wall in an abrupt attempt to right her world. His arm thrust forward. He grabbed her elbow, steadying her. His gaze ran over her face.
“Francesca? Are you all right?” he asked sharply.
She blinked and nodded. He’d sounded almost angry.
“I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t mean for it to,” he said in a stark tone.
“Oh,” she said stupidly, her mind reeling. “Does that mean it’s not going to happen again?”
His expression flattened. What in the world was he thinking? she wondered, mentally flailing.
“You never told me before. The men that you live with—do you sleep with one of them? All of them?”
Her brain stalled.
“What? Why would you ask me something like that? Of course I don’t sleep with them. They’re my roommates. My friends.”
His narrowed gaze lowered over her face and chest. “You expect me to believe that? Three males live in the same house with you, and the whole thing is completely platonic?”
Anger streamed into her lust-dazed consciousness. Then it began to roar like a tidal wave. Was he purposefully trying to insult her? It was working. What an infuriating bastard. How dare he say something like that to her so coolly after what he’d just done?
(After what she’d allowed him to do?)
She stepped away from the wall, pausing several feet away from him. “You asked, and I told you the truth. I don’t care what you believe. My sex life is none of your business.”
She began to walk away.
“Francesca.”
She paused but refused to turn around. Humiliation had started to brew with her anger. If she looked at his gorgeous, smug face, she might explode.
“I only asked because I was trying to understand how . . . experienced you are.”
She whipped around and stared at him in amazement. “Is that important for you? Experience?” she asked, wishing the stab of hurt she’d felt at his words hadn’t rung in her voice.
“Yes,” he said. No softness. No concession. Just yes. You’re not in my league, Francesca. You’re an awkward, stupid, onetime fat girl.
His expression hardened, and he looked away from her face.
“I’m not what you might think. I’m not a nice man,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“No,” she said with more calmness than she felt. “You’re not. Maybe none of the bootlickers you surround yourself with have ever told you this, but that’s not something to be proud of, Ian.”
This time, he didn’t try to stop her as she rushed out of the room.
* * *
Francesca sat at the kitchen table and moodily watched Davie butter toast.
“What’s got you in such a bad mood? Not that your mood has been stellar since yesterday. Are you still feeling under the weather?” Davie asked, referring to the fact that she’d come home after her classes yesterday instead of going to the Noble penthouse to paint.
“No, I’m fine,” Francesca replied with a reassuring smile that Davie didn’t seem to buy.
Initially, she’d been bewildered and angered by what Ian had said—and done—in the workout facility two days ago, but then she’d grown worried. Had what occurred threatened her valuable commission? Had her lack of “experience” made her less valuable to Ian, and thus disposable? What if he terminated their agreement and she had no way to pay her tuition? She wasn’t a typical Noble employee, after all. She had no contract, just his patronage. And Ian was reputed to be a tyrant, wasn’t he?
She’d been so anxious and confused about how that kiss had altered her position with Ian that she couldn’t make herself return to paint yesterday.
Davie whisked toast onto her plate and shoved a jar of jam across the surface of the table.
“Thanks,” Francesca mumbled, lifting her knife listlessly.
“Eat,” Davie ordered. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Davie was like a combination of older brother, friend, and mother hen to Francesca, Caden, and Justin. He was five years older than all of them, having met them all after he’d returned to Northwestern to get his M.B.A. There, he’d met Justin and Caden, who were in the same program, and fallen in with their circle of friends, of which Francesca was a member. The fact that Davie was also an art historian, returning to school in order to gain the tools necessary to expand his single gallery into a chain, immediately drew him and Francesca together.
After Justin, Caden, and Davie had received their graduate degrees, and Francesca her baccalaureates, Davie had offered to have them room with him in the city. The five-bedroom, four-bath row house he’d inherited from his parents in the Wicker Park neighborhood was too large just for him. Besides, Francesca knew that Davie wanted the companionship. Her friend was vulnerable to the blues, and Francesca knew that having the three of them around helped assuage them. Davie’s parents had rejected him when he’d confessed that he was gay as a teenager. The three of them had tenuously reconciled by the time his mother and father died in a freak boating accident off the coast of Mexico three years ago, a fact that made Davie both grateful and sad.