Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(5)

She entered a magical place.

The luxury of the fabrics and furniture were obvious, but despite the richness, the entryway managed to convey a welcome—an austere welcome, perhaps, but a welcome nonetheless. She caught a quick glimpse of herself in an antique mirror. Her long reddish blond hair was hopelessly windblown, and her cheeks were stained pink. She’d like to think the color was from the wind but worried the effect came from being with Ian Noble.

Then she noticed the artwork, and she forgot everything else. She wandered down a wide hallway that was also a gallery, her mouth hanging open as she stared at painting after painting, some of them new to her, some of them masterworks that sent a jolt of exhilaration through her to see firsthand.

She paused next to a miniature sculpture set on a column, a very fine replica of a renowned piece of ancient Greek art. “I’ve always loved Aphrodite of Argos,” she murmured, her gaze detailing the exquisite facial features and the graceful twist of the naked torso miraculously carved into hard alabaster.

“Have you?” he asked, sounding intent.

She nodded, overwhelmed by wonder, and continued walking.

“I just acquired that one several months ago. It wasn’t easy to get,” he said, starting her out of her ecstatic amazement.

“I adore Sorenburg,” she said, referring to the artist who had created the painting before which they stood. She turned to look at him, suddenly realizing that several minutes had passed and that she’d wandered like a sleepwalker deeper into the hushed depths of his condominium without invitation, and that he’d allowed her intrusion without comment. She now stood in a parlor of sorts decorated with decadently rich fabrics of yellow, pale blue, and dark brown.

“I know. You mentioned it in your personal statement in the application for the contest.”

“I can’t believe you like expressionism.”

“Why can’t you believe it?” he asked, his low voice making her ears prickle and goose bumps rise along her neck. She glanced up at him. The painting she referred to was hung above a deep cushioned velvet couch. He stood closer than she’d realized, so lost had she become in wonderment and pleasure.

“Because . . . you picked my painting,” she said weakly. Her gaze skimmed over his body. She swallowed thickly. He’d unbuttoned his overcoat. A clean, spicy smell of soap filtered into her nose. A heavy, hot pressure settled in her sex. “You seem to like . . . order so much,” she tried to explain, her voice just above a whisper.

“You’re right,” he said. A shadow seemed to come over his bold features. “I do abhor sloppiness and disorder. But Sorenburg isn’t about that.” He glanced at the painting. “It’s about making meaning from chaos. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Her mouth hung open as she stared at his profile. She’d never heard Sorenburg’s work described so succinctly.

“Yes, I would,” she said slowly.

He gave her a small smile. His full lips had to be his most compelling feature, aside from his eyes. And his firm chin. And his incredible body—

“Do my ears deceive me,” he murmured, “or is that a note of respect I hear in your tone, Francesca?”

She turned to stare sightlessly at the Sorenburg. Her breath burned in her lungs. “You deserve respect in this. You have impeccable taste in art.”

“Thank you. I happen to agree.”

She risked a sideways glance. He was staring at her with those dark-angel eyes.

“Let me take your jacket,” he said, extending his hands.

“No.” Her cheeks heated when she heard how abrupt she’d sounded. Self-consciousness slammed into her haze of enthrallment. His hands remained extended.

“I will take it.”

She opened her mouth to rebuke him but paused when she noticed his hooded gaze and slightly raised eyebrows.

“The woman wears the clothes, Francesca. Not the other way around. That’s the first lesson I’ll teach you.”

She gave him a fake glance of exasperation and shrugged out of her jean jacket. The air felt cool next to her bare shoulders. Ian’s gaze felt warm. She straightened her spine.

“You say that like you plan on teaching me more lessons,” she muttered, handing him the jacket.

“Perhaps I do. Follow me.”

He hung up her coat, then led her down the gallerylike hallway before turning down a narrower one that was dimly lit with brass sconces. He opened one of many tall doorways, and Francesca stepped into the room. She expected to see yet another room filled with wonders, but instead entered a large, narrow space that ran the length of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by the skyscrapers and the reflective lights of them in the black river. She walked to the windows without speaking. He came to stand next to her.

“They’re alive, the buildings . . . some more than others,” she said in a hushed voice after a moment. She gave him a rueful glance and was awarded with a smile. Embarrassment flooded her. “I mean, they seem like it. I’ve always thought so. Each one of them has a soul. At night, especially . . . I can feel it.”

“I know you can. That’s why I chose your painting.”

“Not because of perfectly straight lines and precise reproductions?” she asked shakily.

“No. Not because of that.”