Because You Are Mine Part I (2 page)

She swallowed uneasily. “Thank you.” He released her hand slowly, causing his skin to slide against hers. A horrible moment of silence passed as he just looked at her. She gathered herself and straightened her spine.

“I’m glad to have this opportunity to thank you in person for awarding me the commission. It means more to me than I can convey.” She said the rehearsed words in a pressured fashion.

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and waved his hand negligently. “You earned it.” He held her stare. “Or at least you will.”

She felt her pulse leap at her throat and hoped he didn’t notice.

“I earned it, yes. But you gave me the opportunity. It’s
that
I’m trying to express my thanks for. I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the second year of my master’s program if you hadn’t given me this chance.”

He blinked. From the corner of her vision, Francesca noticed Zoe stiffen. Francesca glanced away in embarrassment. Had she sounded sharp?

“My grandmother often says I’m ungracious in the face of gratitude,” he said, his voice quieter . . . warmer. “You’re right to scold me. And you’re also very welcome for the opportunity, Ms. Arno,” he said, giving a nod of acknowledgement. “Zoe, would you mind taking a message to Lin for me? I’ve decided to cancel dinner with Xander LaGrange after all. Please have her reschedule.”

“Of course, Mr. Noble,” Zoe said before she walked away.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked, nodding at an unoccupied circular leather booth.

“Sure.”

He waited behind her while she scooted into the booth. She wished he wouldn’t. She felt awkward and ungainly. After she’d settled, he slid beside her in one graceful, swooping motion. Francesca smoothed the gauzy skirt of the vintage beaded baby-doll dress she’d bought at a secondhand store in Wicker Park. The early September evening had been cooler than she’d expected when planning for the cocktail party. The casual denim jacket she wore had been her only choice, given the thin straps of her dress. It struck her how ridiculous she must appear, seated next to this immaculately dressed, thoroughly masculine male.

She fussed anxiously with her collar, and then sensed his stare on her. She met his eyes. Her chin went up defiantly. A small smile flickered across his mouth, and something clenched in her lower belly.

“So you’re in the second year of your master’s program?”

“Yes. I’m at the Art Institute.”

“A very good school,” he murmured. He rested his hands on the table and leaned back in the booth, looking thoroughly comfortable. His body was long, relaxed, and taut, reminding Francesca of a predatory animal whose seeming calmness could leap into full-out action in a split second. Even though his hips were slim, his shoulders were broad, suggesting some serious muscles beneath that starched white shirt. “If I’m remembering your application correctly, you studied both art and architecture at Northwestern University?”

“Yes,” Francesca said breathlessly, pulling her gaze off his hands. They were elegant hands, but also large, blunt-tipped, and very capable-looking. The vision of them disturbed her for some reason. She couldn’t help but imagine what they would look like against her skin . . . wrapped around her waist . . .

“Why?”

She started from her totally inappropriate thoughts and met his steady stare. “Why did I study both architecture and art?”

He nodded once.

“Architecture for my parents and art for me,” she replied, surprising herself by the honesty of her answer. She usually made a show of being coolly disdainful when anyone asked the same question. Why should she have to choose between her talents? “My parents are both architects, and it was their lifetime dream that I become one as well.”

“So you granted them half a dream. You earned the qualifications of an architect but don’t plan to make it your career.”

“I’ll always be an architect.”

“And I’m glad of it,” he said, looking up when a handsome man with dreadlocks and pale gray eyes that contrasted with his dark skin approached the table. Noble shook his hand. “Lucien, how is business?”

“Booming,” Lucien replied, his gaze shifting to Francesca with interest.

“Ms. Arno, this is Lucien. He’s the manager of Fusion. I handpicked him from the best restaurant in Paris. Lucien Lenault, meet Francesca Arno.”

“A pleasure,” Lucien said in a delicious, French-accented voice. “What may I get you?”

Noble looked at her expectantly. His lips were unusually full for such a rugged-featured, masculine man, striking her as sensual yet firm.

Stern.

From where had that strange thought leapt?

“I’m fine,” Francesca replied, although her heart started to beat erratically.

“What is that?” he asked, nodding at her half-empty drink.

“Just my usual drink, club soda with lime.”

“You should be celebrating, Ms. Arno.” Was it his accent that made her ears and neck prickle when he said her name? There was something unique about it, she realized. It was British, but some other influence seemed to slide into his syllables occasionally, something she couldn’t quite identify. “Bring us a bottle of the Roederer Brut,” Noble told Lucien, who smiled, gave a slight bow and walked away.

Her confusion mounted. Why was he bothering to spend so much time with her? Surely he didn’t drink champagne with all of the recipients of his philanthropy. “As I was saying before Lucien arrived, I’m glad about your architecture background. Your skill and knowledge in that field is undoubtedly what gives your artwork so much precision, depth, and style. The painting you submitted for the contest was spectacular. You exactly caught the spirit of what I wanted for my lobby.”

Her gaze skimmed across his immaculate suit. Somehow, his apparent love of a perfectly straight line didn’t surprise her. True, her artwork was often inspired by her love of form and structure, but precision wasn’t what her work was about. Far from it. “I’m glad you were pleased,” she said with what she hoped was a neutral tone.

A smile ghosted his lips. “There’s something behind your statement. Aren’t you happy that you’ve pleased me?”

Her mouth dropped open at that. She stifled the words that flew to her throat.
I do my art to please no one but myself.
She stopped herself just in time. What was wrong with her? This man was responsible for changing her life.

“I told you earlier, I couldn’t be happier about winning the contest. I’m thrilled.”

“Ah,” he murmured as Lucien arrived with the champagne and ice bucket. Noble didn’t glance in Lucien’s direction as the other man busied himself opening the bottle, but continued to study her as though she was a particularly interesting science project. “But being glad of your commission isn’t the same as being glad you pleased me.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” she sputtered, looking at Lucien when he uncorked the champagne with a muffled popping sound. Her bewildered gaze returned to Noble. His eyes glinted in an otherwise impassive face. What in the world was he talking about? And why, despite the fact that she didn’t have the answer to that, had his question made her so flustered? “I am glad that you liked the painting. Very much so.”

Noble didn’t reply, just watched detachedly as Lucien poured the sparkling fluid into flutes. He nodded and murmured his thanks before Lucien walked away. Francesca picked up her glass when he reached for his.

“Congratulations.”

She managed a smile as their flutes touched ever so fleetingly. She’d never tasted anything like it; the champagne was dry and icy and felt delicious sliding across her tongue and down her throat. She gave Noble a sideways glance. How could he seem so oblivious to the thick tension in the air when she felt as if she’d suffocate from it?

“I guess since you’re royalty, a cocktail waitress won’t do for serving you,” she said, wishing her voice hadn’t quavered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I just meant—” She cursed silently to herself. “I’m a cocktail waitress—I do it to help pay the bills while I’m in grad school,” she added, slightly panicked at how cool, and a little intimidating, he suddenly appeared. She lifted her flute and took a too-large gulp of the icy fluid. Wait until she told Davie how she botched this whole thing. Her good friend would be exasperated with her, even if her other roommates—Caden and Justin—would roll with laughter at her latest incident of apparent social idiocy.

If only Ian Noble wasn’t so handsome. Disturbingly so.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just—I’d read that your grandparents belonged to a minor branch of the British royal family—an earl and a countess, no less.”

“And you were wondering if I despise being waited on by a mere serving girl, is that it?” he asked. Amusement didn’t soften his features, just made them more compelling. She sighed and relaxed a little. She hadn’t
completely
offended him.

“I did most of my schooling in the states,” he said. “I consider myself to be an American, first and foremost. And I assure you, the only reason Lucien came to wait on us himself is that he chose to. We’re fencing partners in addition to being friends. The custom of the English aristocracy preferring the status of a manservant over a maid exists only in Regency English novels in the present day, Ms. Arno. Even if they did still exist, I doubt they’d apply to a bastard. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Her cheeks felt like they were boiling. When would she learn to keep her big mouth shut? Was he telling her
he
was illegitimate? She’d never read anything regarding that before.

“Where do you waitress?” he asked, seeming color blind to her scarlet cheeks.

“At High Jinks in Bucktown.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” she muttered under her breath before she took another sip of champagne. She blinked in surprise at the sound of his low, rough laughter. Her eyes widened when she looked at his face. He looked so
pleased.
Her heart dipped. Ian Noble was spectacular to behold at any given moment, but when he smiled, he was nothing short of a menace to a female’s composure.

“Would you mind coming with me . . . walking a few blocks? There’s something crucial I’d like to show you,” he said.

Her hand paused in the action of lifting the flute to her lips. What was going on here?

“It directly relates to your commission,” he said, suddenly crisp. Authoritative. “I want to show you the view I want for the painting.”

Anger sliced through her shock. Her chin went up. “I’m expected to paint whatever you want me to?”

“Yes,” he said without pause.

She set down the flute with a loud clicking sound, jarring the contents. He’d sounded completely unyielding. He was every bit as arrogant as she’d imagined. Just as she’d expected, winning this prize was going to end up being a nightmare. His nostrils flared as he stared at her unblinkingly, and she glared back.

“I suggest you see the view in question before you take undue offense, Ms. Arno.”

“Francesca.”

Something flashed in his blue eyes like heat lightning. For a split second, she regretted the edge to her tone. But then he nodded once.

“Francesca it is,” he said softly. “If you make it Ian.”

She willed herself to ignore the flutter in her belly.
Don’t be beguiled
, she warned herself. He was the exact type of domineering patron that would try to dictate, and crush her creative instincts in the process. It was worse than she’d feared.

Without another word, she slid out of the booth and walked toward the entrance of the restaurant, sensing, with every cell of her being, him moving behind her.

***

He hardly spoke at all when they left Fusion. He led her to a sidewalk that ran along the Chicago River and Lower Wacker Drive.

“Where are we going?” she broke the silence after a minute or two.

“To my residence.”

Her high-heeled sandals faltered clumsily on the sidewalk, coming to a halt. “We’re going to your place?”

He paused and looked back, his black coat fluttering around his long, strong-looking thighs from the brisk Lake Michigan wind. “Yes, we’re going to
my place
,” he said with a subtle, mock-sinister tone.

She frowned. He was clearly silently laughing at her.
I’m so glad I can be here to entertain you, Mr. Noble.
He inhaled and stared in the direction of Lake Michigan, obviously exasperated with her and trying to gather his thoughts.

“I can see that makes you uncomfortable, but you have my word: This is completely professional. It’s about the painting. The view I want you to paint is from the condominium where I live. Surely you can’t believe I’m going to harm you in any way. A room full of people just saw us walk out of that restaurant together.”

He didn’t need to remind her. It felt as if every eye in Fusion had been trained on them as they left.

She gave him a wary sideways glance as they began to walk again. His dark hair ruffling in the wind seemed familiar to her somehow. She blinked and the sense of déjà vu vanished.

“Are you telling me that I’m supposed to work from your apartment?”

“It’s very large,” he said dryly. “You won’t have to see me at all, if you prefer.”

Francesca stared at her painted toenails, hiding her expression from him. She didn’t want him to suspect that unwelcome images had popped into her mind’s eye at his statement; visions of Ian walking from the shower, his naked body still gleaming with moisture, a thin towel draped on his lean hips the only thing separating herself from a vision of total male glory.

“It’s a little unorthodox,” she said.

“I’m a lot unorthodox,” he said briskly. “You’ll understand when you see the view.”

He lived at 340 East Archer, a classic 1920s Italian Renaissance building that she’d admired since studying it in one of her classes. It suited him, somehow, the elegant, brooding, dark brick tower. She wasn’t entirely surprised when he told her his residence encompassed the entire top two floors.

The door of his private elevator slid open without a sound, and he extended his hand in an invitation to walk before him.