Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(42)
No. Surely not.
It frightened her a little, his complexities, his determined loneliness. She continued to caress him as he came back to himself, her gaze glued to the enigmatic face of their onlooker, wondering numbly all the while if Aphrodite planned to bless or curse them.
* * *
He seemed lost in some private world on the drive to the hotel, even though he sat next to her in the backseat of the limo, his arm around her, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her hair. At first, she was worried he was regretting his momentary vulnerability back there at the museum—his admission—but then she began to relax into his silence. She watched through heavy eyelids as the lights of Paris rushed by the window, recalling all the details of what had unexpectedly occurred in that salon in vivid detail.
Surely he couldn’t regret a moment of that incredible experience, could he?
The Hotel George V was just off the Champs-Élysées. To call it luxurious was a bit of an understatement, Francesca thought as she followed Ian onto the gilt elevator. She gasped when he opened the door for her and she stepped into an antique-filled living room featuring rich fabrics, a marble fireplace, and original seventeenth – and eighteenth-century artwork.
“This way,” he directed, leading her into a bedroom fit for royalty.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she murmured, touching the rich damask and silk bed coverings and gazing around the tastefully decorated room.
His gaze ran over her as he removed his jacket and hung it over a valet stand.
“The hotel was close to where my meeting is tomorrow. I have to get up early. I’ll probably be gone by the time you wake up. You must look at the view on the terrace come morning. I think you’ll like it. I’ll order you breakfast, and you can dine out there, if you like. You look very tired.”
She blinked at his change of subject. “I am, I suppose. It’s been a long day. I can’t believe it was just this morning that I left High Jinks. It all seems a little . . . surreal.” In truth, she felt like a different person than the one who had answered Ian’s knock this morning . . . even than the one who first entered the Musée de Saint-Germain that night. Ian’s powerful lovemaking had altered her somehow.
She glanced at him nervously, uncertain about what he wanted her to do.
“Why don’t you get ready for bed,” he said gruffly, pointing at the entrance to the adjoining bathroom. “Jacob brought up our things while we were at dinner. You’ll find your bag in there.”
“Would you rather go first?” she asked.
He shook his head as he began to remove his cuff links. “I’ll use the bathroom in the other suite.”
“There’s another bedroom suite?”
He nodded. “Jacob usually stays there.”
“But not this time?”
He glanced up at her. “No. Not this time. I wanted you all to myself.”
Her pulse began to thrum at her throat as she turned and walked to the bathroom. She carefully removed the dress, bra, and pearls, Ian’s words still echoing in her skull.
Looking in the bathroom mirror, she saw what Ian must have noticed as he studied her before. Her face looked pale next to her passion-stung, reddened lips. Her eyes appeared unusually large above the shadowed circles beneath them. She wanted to shower but was suddenly too exhausted. She washed at the sink instead and brushed her teeth. She stared in rising dread at her nylon duffel bag sitting on a stool with a gold pouf cushion. It looked woefully out of place in these surroundings.
Just like she did, no doubt.
After an evening like she just experienced, she felt ridiculous putting on the yoga pants and Cubs T-shirt she’d brought as a substitute for pajamas. She applied moisturizer and ran a comb through her hair before she walked out of the bathroom. She went still when she saw Ian standing in profile by the lush sofa, tapping on his cell phone. Her gaze ran over him in covetous awe. He wore nothing but a pair of black pajama bottoms that rode low on his lean hips. The upward slant of his torso from narrow waist to a broad, powerful chest, back, and shoulders struck her as sublime. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He was so disciplined, she could just imagine what his workout routine was like. The short, dark hair at his nape and temples was slightly damp from his wash.
She’d never seen a more beautiful man in her life. She was certain she never would again.
He glanced around and saw her standing there. She shifted awkwardly on her feet beneath his laserlike stare. He abruptly looked away and resumed his task.
“Why don’t you get into bed?” he asked, tapping out a message.
She started to remove the decorative pillows and pull down the decadently luxurious bedding.
“Take off your clothes,” he said from across the room when she started to get into bed. She paused and glanced back at him. He hadn’t looked up from his phone. Her breath started to come erratically as she began to undress.
Why didn’t he look at her like he had on the plane when she stripped, his gleaming blue eyes tracking her every move?
She got into bed and pulled a sheet and blanket over herself. Ian remained on the other side of the room, only his thumbs moving. Her eyelids grew heavy; the bed was very soft and warm. She drifted.
There was a click, and her eyes flew open. Ian had shut out the light. She felt the mattress sink beneath him as he got into the bed next to her. He came down on his side, pulling her into his arms, her back to his stomach. She could feel that he still wore the pajama bottoms, also . . . that he wore nothing beneath the thin garment.