Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(7)
“Will you come here to paint?” he asked, his deep voice echoing just inches from her right ear. She stared in front of her, unseeing.
“Yes.”
“I’d like you to start on Monday. I’ll have Lin provide you with an entry card and password to the elevator. Your supplies will be ready for you when you come.”
“I can’t come every day. I have class—mostly in the morning—and I waitress from seven to close several days a week.”
“Come whenever you can. The point is, you’ll come.”
“Yes, all right,” she managed through a constricted throat. He hadn’t removed his hand from her back. Could he feel her heart throbbing?
She had to get out of there. Now. She was way out of her depth.
She lurched toward the elevator, pushing a button on the control panel hastily. If she’d thought he’d try to touch her again, she’d thought wrong. The sleek elevator door slid open.
“Francesca?” he said as she hurried inside.
“Yes?” she asked, turning.
He stood with his hands behind his back, the posture causing his suit jacket to open, revealing a shirt-draped lean abdomen, narrow hips, a silver belt buckle, and . . . everything beneath it.
“Now that you have some financial security, I would prefer you didn’t wander the streets of Chicago in the early morning hours in order to find your inspiration. You never know what you might encounter. It’s dangerous.”
Her mouth dropped open in stunned amazement. He stepped forward and pushed a button on the panel, causing the doors to slide closed. The last glimpse she had of him was his gleaming blue-eyed stare in an otherwise impassive face. Her heartbeat escalated to a roar in her ears.
She’d painted him four years ago. That’s what he was telling her—that he knew she’d observed him walking the dark, lonely streets in the dead of the night while the rest of the world slumbered, warm and content in their beds. Francesca hadn’t realized the identity of her inspiration at the time, nor had he probably known he was being observed until he saw the painting, but there could be no doubt of it.
Ian Noble was the cat who walked by himself.
And he’d wanted her to know it.
Chapter Two
He managed to fully put her out of his mind for a full ten days. He traveled to New York for a two-night stay and finalized the acquisition of a computer program. He made his regular monthly visit to his condominium in London. While he’d been in Chicago, meetings and work had kept him at the office until far past midnight. By the time he’d reached the penthouse, the interior was dim and silent.
It wasn’t entirely accurate to say that he’d kept Francesca Arno fully out of his mind, though. Or honest, Ian conceded sternly to himself as he rode the elevator to his penthouse Wednesday afternoon. His awareness of her would come to him in quick, powerful flashes, penetrating his focus on the details of the everyday world. Mrs. Hanson, his housekeeper, innocently gave him updates during her typical banter about how her weekly projects were going in the house. He’d been pleased to learn that the elderly Englishwoman had befriended Francesca, inviting her to the kitchen occasionally to join her for tea. He’d been glad to hear Francesca was becoming comfortable in his home, and then asked himself why it mattered one way or another. The painting was the only thing he wanted, and surely the working conditions were adequate for that.
Once, he’d told himself that he was being rude by ignoring her. Surely his avoidance was putting too much emphasis on her, making more of the situation than was warranted. Last Thursday evening, he’d gone to her studio with the intent of asking her if she’d like to take some refreshment with him in the kitchen. The door was ajar, and he’d entered without knocking. For several seconds, he’d stood and watched her work, unnoticed.
She’d been standing on a short ladder, working on the upper-right-hand corner of the canvas, completely absorbed. Although he had been quite sure he hadn’t made a noise, she’d suddenly turned and froze, regarding him with startled brown eyes, her pencil still on the canvas. A heavy swath of gleaming hair had fallen out of the clip at the back of her head. There had been a charcoal smear on her smooth cheek, and her dark pink lips had been parted in surprise at the sight of him.
He’d asked her politely about her progress and tried not to notice the throb of her pulse at her throat or the roundness of her breasts. She’d taken off her sweat jacket as she worked and wore a tight tank top. Her breasts were fuller than he’d realized before, their size an erotic contrast between her narrow waist and hips, and long coltish legs.
After thirty seconds of stilted conversation, he’d fled like the coward he was.
He told himself that his hyperawareness of her was completely natural. She was an incredible beauty, after all. The fact that she seemed completely oblivious to her sexuality fascinated him. Had she grown up in some kind of hole? Surely she was used to having males perk up whenever she walked into a room, salivating at the vision of her silky rose-gold hair, velvety brown eyes, and tall, willowy figure. How could she not have learned by age twenty-three that her flawless pale skin, lush, dark pink lips, and slender, lithe body had the power to fell a strong man?
He didn’t know the answer to that question, but after close study, he could say with confidence her lack of awareness wasn’t an act. She walked with the long-legged, lanky stride of a teenage boy and said the most incredibly gauche things.