Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(93)
She stood there watching as he disappeared into his dressing room, her heart throbbing in disbelief and something much more profound at his unexpected honesty. From the dark, fear-shrouded recesses of her brain, a memory rose to taunt her. She hated the dread that tainted the wondrous feeling she’d experienced at Ian’s words.
I offer you pleasure and the experience. Nothing else. I have nothing else to offer.
How long could something so amazing endure given that she shared the experience with a man who so reluctantly shared himself . . .
. . . given that she’d risked her heart to an enigma like Ian Noble?
* * *
The next several weeks passed in a blur, everything cast in the glow of Francesca’s deepening feelings for Ian. She grew used to his moods, understanding that often when he appeared distant, he was in fact processing massive amounts of information, planning for his various companies on multiple levels, making decisions in a startlingly concise and rapid manner. He continued her lessons in the bedroom, Francesca flourishing under his tutelage. Ian was as demanding and intense as ever—perhaps even more so—but as she gained comfort with sexual submission and her trust in him grew, their exchanges altered, somehow becoming sweeter, a true give-and-take of power, caring, and pleasure. She suspected that the deepening level of intimacy in their exchange was responsible for the richer experience, and wondered if Ian felt it, too.
He taught her lessons outside the bedroom as well, coaching her on fencing, which she took to with pleasure. They spent several Sundays poring over the basics of investing, Ian challenging her to come up with a feasible plan for her money given what she’d learned from her lessons. She’d showed him two options on two separate occasions. Ian’s polite queries and slight frowns had made her go back to the drawing board both times. On her last investment-planning presentation, she’d earned a small, proud smile and knew she’d finally learned something valuable about how to handle her own finances. Thus, Ian taught her not only about passion and love but some basic lessons of life.
He wasn’t the only one who taught, either. With Francesca’s encouragement, he continued to be spontaneous once in a while, to live in the moment . . . to experience life like a thirty-year-old instead of a jaded, weary man several decades his senior.
The problem was, he never really came out and told her in so many words how he was feeling about her—about them—and she was too shy and afraid to tell him she’d fallen in love with him. Wasn’t that precisely the opposite of what he’d said their relationship would be about? Would he think her a naive fool for mistaking lust and infatuation for something much deeper?
The thought haunted her. She pushed it back repeatedly when she spent time with him, not wanting to ruin the moments she had, worried she’d waste them by ruminating about anxieties that weren’t for now, but for the future. It was a little like doing a high-wire act, always striving to keep her balance on the narrow edge of their passionate affair, constantly worried she’d find herself falling away from Ian . . . or him flying away from her.
One cool late fall evening, that jarring moment came.
Francesca worked in the studio at the penthouse, anguishing over the final detail of the painting. She pulled her hand back from the canvas, her breath sticking in her lungs as she studied the tiny black figure—a man in an open black trench coat, walking along the river, head lowered against the cold Lake Michigan wind.
Would Ian notice she’d inserted him again into one of her paintings? It made sense to her somehow, she thought as she wiped off her brush. He’d twined himself indelibly into almost every thread of her life.
Her heart swelled as she studied the painting.
Finished.
By tradition, once the word hit her brain with a note of finality, she would never put paint to that particular canvas again. Feeling ebullient with her accomplishment, she hurried out of the studio in search of Ian. It was a Sunday, and he’d opted to work in the library rather than go into the office.
She was about to round the corner of the hallway that would lead to the library when she heard a door open and low, tense voices—a man and a woman talking.
“. . . all the more reason for me to act quickly, Julia,” Ian said.
“I want to emphasize again that there are no guarantees, Ian. Just because it’s a particularly good period doesn’t mean lasting results, but we at the Institute are hopeful . . .”
The woman’s British-accented voice faded as she and Ian proceeded down the hallway toward the elevator, but not before Francesca caught a glimpse of her. It was the attractive woman Ian had breakfasted with in Paris, the one he’d called a friend of the family. Her heart sank as she once again registered the thick tension in the exchange, similar to what she’d felt in the hotel lobby. Like that other time, she retreated, scurrying back to her studio.
She didn’t know how she knew, but she just knew Ian wouldn’t want her observing him right now . . . asking him questions . . . trying to care for him.
Even though she wanted to do just that more than anything else in the world.
She spent more time than was necessary cleaning up her work space in the studio, trying to give him time to recover. Eventually, she again went in search for him, but came up empty-handed.
She found Mrs. Hanson in the kitchen scrubbing the kitchen counters.
“I was looking for Ian,” she said. “I’ve finished the painting.”