Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(26)

Ian had also been admittedly relieved to learn that David—or “Davie,” as Francesca called him—was gay. Not that her housemates’ sexual preferences mattered much, Ian thought, as Jacob came to a halt. He’d proved firsthand the other night that Francesca’s housemates weren’t touching anything they shouldn’t.

He’d learned firsthand that he had been touching things he shouldn’t, with the result that he was wearing a frown by the time his driver opened the car door for him.

The image of Francesca’s shattered expression as she’d left his bedroom the other night burned his consciousness for the thousandth time. He’d watched, fuming silently, as she’d fled the penthouse, wanting to stop her but knowing by the fixed, stubborn expression on her beautiful face that she wouldn’t listen to him at that moment. He’d been furious at her for putting them in this situation, and furious at himself for seeing only what had been convenient for him to see.

Yes, he’d understood she was innocent, but not to that degree. He’d known it was best just to let her go. For good.

Yet here he stood.

He rapped at the dark green painted wood door with a strange sense of resigned determination. From where did this strange obsession come? Did it have to do with the fact that Francesca had caught him unawares in her painting years ago? Her possession of him had been fleeting, but alarmingly concise.

He wanted to both punish her and possess her in turn for her innocent infraction.

He understood from Mrs. Hanson that Francesca hadn’t been to the penthouse to paint. Her avoidance of his residence made him angry—irrationally so, but logic didn’t seem to be quieting the emotion. Ian still hadn’t decided, as he knocked again on the door, if he was here to apologize and assure Francesca that she would never again be bothered by his attentions, or if he wanted to convince her at all costs to let him touch her again.

The friction of his uncustomary ambivalence had him so wound up and frustrated, even Lin, who was usually a soothing balm to his occasional bad moods, was steering clear of him like a category-five hurricane.

The front door swung open and a brown-haired man of medium height, who looked younger than his twenty-eight years, regarded him somberly. He must have recently come from his gallery, because he was dressed for work in a dark gray suit.

“I’m here for Francesca,” Ian stated.

Davie glanced into the interior of the house anxiously, but then nodded once and stepped back, granting Ian entrance. He led him into a tastefully decorated living room.

“Have a seat. I’ll see if Francesca’s home,” Davie said.

Ian nodded and unbuttoned his jacket before he sat. He distractedly picked up a catalog from the cushion next to him, listening all the while to the sounds in the large townhome, not hearing footfalls on the stairs. The pages of the catalog had been folded back, as if someone had recently been studying the contents. It was a listing of paintings that would be going up for sale at a local auction house.

Davie reentered the living room a minute later. Ian glanced up and set aside the catalog.

“She says she’s busy,” Davie said, looking vaguely uncomfortable with his messenger errand.

Ian nodded slowly. It’d been what he’d expected.

“Will you please do me the favor of telling her that I’ll wait until she isn’t busy?”

Davie’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He left the room again without replying and returned a minute later, still with no Francesca. He gave an apologetic grimace. Ian smiled and stood.

“It’s not your fault,” he assured. He held out his hand. “I’m Ian Noble, by the way. We’ve never been properly introduced.”

“David Feinstein,” Davie said, shaking his hand.

“Would you sit with me for a bit while I wait?” Ian asked.

Davie looked a little nonplussed by the hint that Ian was, indeed, staying, but was too polite to argue. He sat in a chair across from the coffee table.

“I can understand why she’s upset with me,” Ian said, crossing his legs and once again picking up the catalog.

“She’s not upset.”

Ian glanced up at Davie’s words.

“She’s furious. And hurt. I’ve never seen her so hurt.”

He paused, waiting for the sting that resulted from Davie’s honesty to fade. For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

“I treated her in a manner I shouldn’t have,” Ian admitted finally.

“Then you should be ashamed,” Davie said, anger ringing in his quiet voice. Ian recalled that he’d said something similar to Davie and Francesca’s other two roommates at the tattoo parlor.

“I am,” Ian said, listening carefully. He closed his eyes briefly in regret at what he heard. He thought of Francesca’s freshness the other night, her sweetness. The memory of her * had been somehow lodged in his brain like a tenacious virus, only growing more vivid as he tried to rid himself of it: the silky, rose-gold hair between lithesome white thighs; creamy, plump labia; the slickest, tightest little slit he’d ever touched. He recalled spanking her and how he’d loved it . . . how she had. “Unfortunately,” he continued, addressing Davie, “my shame wasn’t sufficient to keep me away. I’m beginning to think no amount of it would.”

Davie looked startled. He cleared his throat and stood.