Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(18)

“There’s paint on your right forefinger.”

She glanced down at her right hand. She’d never seen him even glance in that direction. Did he have eyes in the back of his head?

“Yes, I painted.”

“I thought perhaps you weren’t going to return, after what happened on Wednesday.”

“Well, I did return. And not because you told Lin to call and buy me off. That wasn’t necessary.”

He turned. “I think it was necessary. I won’t have you worrying about whether or not you can afford to finish your degree.”

“Plus—you knew that I would finish the painting if I knew you were going to pay me the commission no matter what,” she said irritably, edging toward him.

He blinked and had the decency to look slightly abashed.

“I don’t like being manipulated,” she said.

“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you. I just didn’t want you to lose an opportunity you deserved because I lost control. You weren’t to blame for what happened in the workout facility.”

“We made out,” she muttered, blushing. “I hardly think it constitutes the faux pas of the century.”

“I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than make out with you, Francesca.”

“Ian, do you like me?” she asked impulsively. Her eyelids sprang wide. She couldn’t believe she’d just blurted out the question that had been festering in her brain for days now.

“Like you? I want to f*ck you. Badly. Does that answer your question?”

The ensuing silence seemed to crush her lungs it had so much weight. The echo of his low, rough growl seemed to hover in the air between them.

“Why are you worried about losing control? I’m not a twelve-year-old,” she managed after a moment. Her face grew hotter when his gaze dropped over her.

“No. But you might as well be,” he said, his tone suddenly sounding dismissive. Humiliation flooded through her. How could he go from hot to cold so effortlessly? she wondered, infuriated. He strolled around his desk and sat in the supple leather chair. “You may go now—if there’s nothing else?” he asked, his glance polite. Indifferent.

“I’d like you to pay me when the painting is done. Not before,” she said, her voice quaking with barely contained anger.

He nodded thoughtfully, as if considering her request. “You don’t have to spend the money until then, if you prefer. But the full commission has already been transferred to your bank account.”

Her mouth dropped open. “How did you know my account number?”

He didn’t reply, just raised his eyebrows slightly, his expression bland.

She barely stopped the scorching curse from springing out of her throat. Since she couldn’t cuss out her benefactor for his arrogance—or his generosity—there was nothing else she could think to say to him. Fury had short-circuited her brain. She turned and started to walk out of the room.

“Oh, and Francesca?” he called calmly from behind her.

“Yes?” she asked, looking back.

“Don’t expect to work here Saturday night. I’m entertaining. I’d like privacy.”

Something seemed to drop in her gut like a lead ball. He was telling her he was having a woman there this weekend. Somehow, she just knew it.

“Not a problem. I was planning on going out on Saturday night and letting off some steam with the guys. Things have gotten a bit stifling around here.”

Something flashed in his eyes before she turned around, but his expression remained unreadable.

As usual.

* * *

Davie drove Justin’s car surely through the bustling Saturday-night Wicker Park traffic. Justin was a little tipsy after listening to the Run Around Band at McGill’s for two hours. So were Caden and Francesca, for that matter.

Thus their insane errand.

“Come on, ’Cesca,” Caden Joyner goaded from the backseat. “We’re all going to get one.”

“Even you, Davie?” Francesca asked from where she sat in the passenger seat.

Davie shrugged. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo on my biceps—one of those old-fashioned ones, like an anchor or something,” he said, flashing her a grin as he turned down North Avenue.

“He thinks it’ll get him a pirate,” Justin joked.

“Well, I’m not going to get one until I have time to draw the design myself,” she said resolutely.

“Spoilsport,” Justin accused loudly. “Where’s the fun in planning for a tattoo? You’re supposed to wake up with a truly atrocious, supersleazy one in the morning and not have a clue how you got it the night before.”

“Are you talking about a tattoo or the women you bring home?” Caden asked.

Francesca broke into laughter. She barely heard her cell phone ringing in her purse, thanks to her friends’ boisterous teasing and bickering. She peered at her cell phone, not recognizing the number.

“Hello?” she answered, forcing herself to cease laughing.

“Francesca?”

The mirth melted off her mouth.

“Ian?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

Justin said something loudly from the backseat, and Caden roared with laughter. “Am I interrupting something?” Ian asked, his stiff, British-accented voice a stark contrast to her friends’ rowdy banter.