Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(60)
Instead, he gave her a final kiss and released her, needing to prove to himself he still had the ability to walk away.
Part VI
Because You Torment Me
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Francesca placed the pill on her tongue and tipped some water between her lips, swallowing. She glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror, looking away quickly when she registered her reflection. Seeing herself take the birth-control pill brought last night back to her in a vivid rush: Ian taking her for a private dinner for two with a breathlessly romantic view, her confusion by his aloofness, her sharpness in response to his withdrawal even while he was seemingly so solicitous . . .
. . . their spat and his walking away.
Why was she even bothering to take the birth control after the way Ian had behaved last night? She really was mad for agreeing to this venture with him—both in the crazy and angry definitions of the term. Her stupidity had never been more evident than since he’d first walked away after such an incredibly erotic and intimate experience yesterday.
It’d been incredibly erotic and intimate to Francesca, anyway. Ian must have considered it par for the course.
Or another example of the good service he deserved.
Anger flared in her at the incendiary thought.
True, he’d spent time with her after they’d . . . done what they’d done—she didn’t know what to call it, precisely. She would have said made love, but Ian clearly wouldn’t agree. After he’d instructed her on how to give him pleasure with her mouth? After they’d brought each other off? After he’d made her lose herself so greatly in need that it was now difficult to look at her own reflection in the mirror?
He not only had spent time with her; to a casual observer, he’d treated her to a once-in-a-lifetime experience. After they’d both showered in separate bathrooms, he’d reappeared, looking extremely handsome in a pair of gray pants that highlighted his long legs and narrow hips, a light blue button-down shirt and sport jacket.
“Are you ready? We’re having dinner at Le Cinq,” he said, standing in the entry to the bedroom suite.
She gasped and looked down at herself in alarm. “I thought we were ordering food here in the suite. I can’t go to Le Cinq dressed like this!” she exclaimed, recalling everything she’d read and heard about the exclusive restaurant housed in the hotel. Why had Ian changed their plans? He’d said they’d just order the food in. Did he perhaps think that the atmosphere of the private suite was suddenly too intimate?
“Certainly you can,” he’d said, his manner all brisk British aristocrat. He’d held out his hand expectantly before he registered her disbelief. “I’ve requested a private outdoor terrace for us.”
“Ian, I can’t! Not like this,” she’d protested, sweeping her hand over her attire.
“You will,” he’d said, giving her an amused glance. “We won’t be seen by the other patrons. And if a single nose is turned up at your Cubs T-shirt, I’ll deal with the offending nose personally.”
What he’d said had been assuring, and even sweet, but with her growing awareness of him, Francesca still sensed the distant preoccupation that had descended upon him after their electric, erotic encounter earlier.
Feeling extremely doubtful, she’d hurried into her shoes upon Ian’s request, and put her hand in his. She’d trailed him into the elevator and down corridors, the whole time hissing worried protests behind him that they’d kick her out of the luxurious restaurant for showing up in jeans and a T-shirt. Ian had never replied, just led her on without comment.
The smiling maître d’ of the posh restaurant had greeted Ian like an old friend. Francesca had stood there awkwardly while the two men exchanged conversation in rapid French, wishing the sleek marble floor would open up and swallow her. The maître d’ had only smiled broadly at her, however, when Ian introduced her, making her blush when he took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles like she was Cinderella on the night of the ball instead of awkward, T-shirt-wearing Francesca Arno.
She’d stared in openmouthed amazement a moment later when the maître d’ led them onto a candlelit private terrace with a stunning view of the glowing lacework steel Eiffel Tower. Two heat lamps had warmed the pleasant, post-storm cool autumn evening. The table had been a glittering visual delight of flame, crystal, and gold dinnerware and a lush flower arrangement of white hydrangeas.
She’d looked over at Ian in surprise and saw that the maître d’ had left. They were alone on the terrace, and Ian was holding her chair for her.
“Did you arrange all this?” she’d asked him, looking over her shoulder to hold his stare.
“Yes,” he’d said, seating her.
“You should have let me dress for dinner.”
“I told you once before that a woman wears the clothes, Francesca,” he’d said as he sat across the table from her. His eyes had been the color of the midnight-blue sky in the candlelight. “If a woman recognizes her power, she can present herself in rags and people will recognize her as a queen.”
She’d scoffed. “That sounds like the type of thing an earl’s grandson would be taught. I’m afraid I live in a different world, Ian.”
They’d eaten a luxurious meal, exchanging conversation, sipping red wine, and sampling items from the sumptuous gourmet tasting menu, being waited on hand and foot by not one but two waiters, neither one of whom so much as blinked an eye at Francesca’s apparel. Apparently, being Ian’s guest conferred a special status. When she’d shivered at a brisk breeze, Ian had stood and removed his jacket, insisting that she put it on.