Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(65)
. . . that he was beautiful to her.
“Yes,” she answered, wondering how diamond-studded hair and jeans would look together.
Ian’s slow smile was reason enough to accept the luxurious gift. She forced herself to look away from that addictive sight and reach for the door handle.
“And Francesca?”
She glanced back, breathless.
“Just so you know,” he said, his smile now seeming to laugh at himself, “if it weren’t for this damn acquisition, I’d have you in my bed right this second, and we’d be continuing your lessons with vigor.”
* * *
The next several days flew by as Francesca ricocheted from homework, class, painting at Ian’s penthouse, and her new driving lessons with Jacob. The latter ended up being more fun than she’d expected. Ian’s driver was pleasant, fun company. Plus, Jacob possessed two important qualities for sitting in a passenger seat while Francesca piloted one of Ian’s luxury automatic vehicles: nerves of steel and a sense of humor.
On Wednesday evening, she drove for the first time in the city. When she pulled up in front of High Jinks and put the car in neutral, she gave Jacob a hopeful glance, which the middle-aged driver returned with a wide grin.
“I think you’ll be ready to take your test anytime you say the word.”
“You really think so?” she asked.
“I really do. We’ll go out to the suburbs to take the test. It’ll be a lot easier taking it there than in the city.”
“I feel bad about taking you away from your duties so much this week,” she said, gathering her purse. She was working a shift tonight at High Jinks, and Jacob had suggested she drive herself there as part of her lesson.
“My duties are whatever Ian tells me they are,” Jacob said, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “And he tells me my duty is to make sure you get your driver’s license . . . oh, and to keep you safe at all costs in the process.”
She lowered her head to hide her pleasure at his off-the-cuff comment. “He doesn’t ask much, does he?” Francesca asked, thinking about the handful of times she’d just missed hurtling the two of them into wrecks on Chicago streets this afternoon.
Jacob chuckled. “It’s been a nice break from my normal routine. Besides, Ian has been holed up in his office since we got back from Paris, hammering out the details for a deal going down this week. He hasn’t needed me.”
Francesca had been glad for this tidbit of news. She certainly hadn’t caught a glimpse or heard a peep from Ian since they’d returned to Chicago. His absence just made her anticipation for having dinner with him—of seeing him, period—on Thursday all that much sharper.
Unfortunately, he never called her to say the time he expected to see her for dinner. As a result, she did her best to focus on her painting Thursday afternoon and into the evening. Mrs. Hanson would tell him she was in the studio if he inquired. Slowly, as her work commenced, all of her fluttery, nervous excitement about spending time with Ian slipped away, and she entered the sublime zone of creative focus she craved as an artist.
When a shoulder cramp sliced through her concentration at about seven o’clock that evening, she was forced to lower her brush and consider what she’d wrought.
“It’s incredible.”
The hair on her arms and on the back of her neck stood up in awareness of the familiar quiet, hoarse voice. She spun around. He stood just inside the closed door, wearing an immaculately cut dark gray suit, white shirt, and pale blue tie. His hair was sexily mussed, as if he’d walked home from the office through a Lake Michigan breeze. Francesca walked over to a table in order to dry the excess paint off her brush, needing a moment to catch her breath at the sight of him.
“It’s coming along. I’m having some trouble getting the light just the way that I want it on the Noble Enterprises building. I need to go over and stand in the lobby of Noble Enterprises to check the light there as well . . . see what it’ll look like once it’s hung.”
From the corner of her vision, she saw him walking toward her, his approach like that of a sleek, powerful animal’s. She placed her brush in a solvent and turned to face him. His blue eyes captured her stare and held tight.
Like always.
“The painting is amazing. I was referring to you, though. It’s incredible to watch you work. It’s a little like catching a goddess while she creates a small part of the world,” he said, reaching up to touch her cheek, a self-deprecating smile on his full lips at his whimsical turn of thought.
“Do you really like it? The painting?’ she asked, unable to pull her gaze off his mouth. He stood close enough that she caught his scent—English milled soap, the subtle fragrance of spicy aftershave, and just a hint of the fresh breeze he’d just been in. Her body responded immediately, perking up in sensual awareness.
“Yes. But that’s no surprise to me. I knew whatever you painted would be brilliant.”
“I don’t know how you could know that,” she said, glancing aside in embarrassment.
“Because you are,” he said, shifting his hand to cradle her jaw, tilting her face back up to his. He leaned down and kissed her with firm deliberation. No brushing, shaping lips this time. He almost immediately penetrated her mouth with his tongue, as if he’d craved her taste and could wait no longer. Heat and pleasure rushed through her sex when she registered his heat and flavor . . . when she acknowledged his complete dominance of her senses.