Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(15)
Davie longed for a relationship, but he’d been about as unlucky in the romance arena as Francesca. They served as confidants to each other, the balm following their many bitter, lackluster, and disappointing dating experiences.
All four roommates were good friends, but Francesca and Davie were closest in their tastes and temperaments, while Justin and Caden often were paired up by the common obsessions of many straight males in their midtwenties—a lucrative career, a good time, and frequent sex with hot women.
“Was it Noble on the phone?” Davie asked, glancing meaningfully at her cell phone on the table. Damn. He’d noticed the call she’d just received on her cell phone had upset her.
“No.”
Davie gave her a wry spill-it glance after her monosyllabic response, and she sighed.
She hadn’t revealed what had happened in Ian Noble’s exercise room to Caden and Justin, who as brilliant young men working in high-profile investment-banking firms, were constantly badgering her with questions about Ian Noble. There was no way she’d tell him that the elusive idol they worshipped had held her against a wall and kissed and touched her until her legs no longer supported her. She hadn’t told Davie, either, which was a sure sign of how overwhelmed she’d been by the whole experience.
“It was Lin Soong calling, Noble’s girl Friday,” Francesca admitted before she took a bite of toast.
“And?”
She chewed and swallowed. “She called to tell me that Ian Noble has decided to put me under contract for the painting. He’s paying me the total amount up front. She assured me that the terms of the contract were quite generous, and that under no circumstances would Noble be able to back out of awarding me the commission. Even if I don’t finish it, he won’t request a return of the money.”
Davie’s mouth fell open. His toast drooped in his slackened fingers. With his dark brown hair falling onto his forehead and early morning pallor, he looked about eighteen years old at that moment instead of his actual twenty-eight.
“Why are you acting like she called about a funeral then? Isn’t that good news, that Noble wants to assure you that you’ll get paid no matter what?”
Francesca tossed down her toast. Her appetite had evaporated when she’d fully absorbed what Lin was telling her in that professional, warm tone of hers. “He has to have everyone under his thumb,” she said bitterly.
“What are you talking about, ’Cesca? If that contract is everything his assistant says, Noble’s giving you carte blanche. You don’t even have to show up and you get paid.”
She carried her plate over to the sink.
“Exactly,” she muttered, turning on the tap. “And Ian Noble knows perfectly well that making that offer is the one thing that will assure I show up and finish the project.”
Davie shoved his chair back to regard her. “You’re confusing me. Are you saying you were actually thinking about not finishing the painting?”
As she considered how to reply, Justin Maker staggered into the kitchen wearing a pair of sweatpants, his bare, golden torso gleaming in the sunlight, his green eyes puffy from lack of sleep.
“Coffee, stat,” he muttered in a roughened voice, whipping the cabinet open for a cup. Francesca gave Davie a pleading, apologetic glance, hoping he’d understand she didn’t want to continue the topic right now.
“Did you and Caden shut down McGill’s again last night?” she asked Justin wryly, referring to their favorite neighborhood bar. She handed the cream to her friend.
“No. We were home by one. But guess who’s playing at McGill’s Saturday night?” he asked Francesca, taking the cream she handed him. “The Run Around Band. Let’s all go. Poker night afterward.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got a big project due Monday, and I’m not as proficient at the late-to-bed, early-to-rise routine as you and Caden are,” Francesca said as she started to walk out of the room.
“Come on, ’Cesca. It’ll be fun. All four of us haven’t gone out in a while,” Davie said, surprising her. Like Francesca, Davie’s proclivity for a wild night out had decreased considerably since they’d left Northwestern. The challenging arch of Davie’s eyebrows informed her that he thought a night out would encourage her to spill the beans about what was bothering her.
“I’ll think about it,” Francesca said before she left the kitchen.
But she didn’t. Her mind was already consumed with what she was going to say when she confronted Ian Noble.
* * *
Unfortunately, he wasn’t there when she arrived at the penthouse that afternoon. Not that she really expected him to be. He usually wasn’t. Undecided about what she should do in regard to that kiss, her commission—not to mention her entire future—she wandered into the room she was using as the studio.
Within five minutes, she was painting feverishly. Ian Noble hadn’t decided for her. Even Francesca herself hadn’t. The painting had. It’d gotten into her blood. She must finish it now.
She was lost in her work for hours, finally rising from her creative trance as the sun began to dip behind the high-rises.
Mrs. Hanson was whisking something in a bowl when Francesca staggered into the kitchen for some water. Ian’s kitchen reminded her of something one might find in an English country manor—huge, with every conceivable cooking implement ever created, but somehow still comfortable. She liked to sit in there and chat with Mrs. Hanson.