Because You Are Mine Part VIII: Because I Am Yours (4 page)

She thought she’d had a heart attack. She clasped her chest.

“Why’s he done this?” she asked Davie under her breath.

“I think it’s his way of saying he’s sorry. Some men send flowers, Ian—”

“Sends the world,” Francesca whispered through numb lips. Ian started toward her, and she followed in kind in his direction, moving like a sleepwalker toward the man she couldn’t take her eyes off of, and whom she craved more than anything she had in her life.

“Hello,” he said quietly when they met.

“Hi. This is quite a surprise,” Francesca managed, her heart seemingly crowding out everything else in her rib cage, squeezing her lungs. She realized distantly that probably dozens of stares were on them, but she only could focus on the warmth—the wary hope—in Ian’s.

“Did I have it hung to your satisfaction?” he asked, and she knew he meant the painting.

“Yes. It’s perfect.”

Her heart did its usual jump when he smiled. He held up his hands. Recognizing the familiar gesture, she unbuttoned her coat and turned. When he slid her coat off her arms she spun toward him, chin high, spine straight—yes, even in the boho dress. His gaze ran over her fleetingly and she saw he recognized the dress. His smile reached all the way to his eyes. He took two glasses of champagne from a waiter who was passing and murmured a request before handing the man her coat.

A moment later, he handed her a flute and stepped closer. Francesca had the impression that the other party participants tried to focus their attention back on their own conversations, giving them a little privacy. Ian touched his flute to hers.

“To you, Francesca. May you have everything you deserve in life, because there is no one so deserving.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a reluctant sip, unsure as to how she should be feeling in these bewildering circumstances.

“Will you spend this evening with me, both now,” he glanced around the crowded lobby, “and later? There are some things I’d like to tell you in private. I hope you’ll listen.”

Her throat tightened when she guessed at what some of those ‘things’ might be. She suddenly doubted she could endure the next few hours, wondering what he’d say. A tiny part of her said she should refuse, the part that wanted to keep her heart safe. But then she looked into his eyes, and her decision was made.

“Yes. I’ll listen.”

He smiled, took her hand and escorted her into the crowd.

* * *

It was past midnight by the time Ian opened the door to his suite for her and she walked into the subtly lit, elegant room.

“I thought maybe I’d never be in this bedroom again,” she said breathlessly, glancing around, cherishing little details of Ian’s private sanctuary as she never had before. They’d been together all night, Ian never leaving her side, Francesca highly aware of him as he introduced her to movers and shakers from the art world or showed her the last four of her paintings that had been recovered, or they conversed with friends and family. All the while, she wondered what he was thinking . . . what he would say to her when they were alone in private.

She’d been courted by three renowned galleries for future collections and asked to do a showing at the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art. She’d looked to Ian for that, since he was the owner of her current paintings, and he’d told her point-blank it was up to her to decide. Four collectors had made bids on her paintings, although Ian had refused to sell, point-blank. To top it all off, one of the offers had been made in the company of her father, whose incredulity at the price mentioned had made her father turn pale. In general, Ian’s effect on both of her parents had been quite marked. They’d been so tongue-tied and eager to please in his presence that she was quite sure Ian must have thought her a liar about all she’d told him about them. Francesca was a little annoyed by this unexpected servile bent in their character, but mostly just relieved they behaved quiet pleasantly all evening.

Ian shut the door of his bedroom suite and leaned against it. She faced him.

“Thank you, Ian,” she said breathlessly. “I felt like the belle of the ball tonight.”

“I’m just glad that you came.”

“I doubt I would have if Davie and the others hadn’t tricked me. I didn’t think you would want to see me after London . . . after it all. You were so angry.”

“I was, yes. I haven’t been for a while, though.”

“No?” she asked in a hushed tone.

He shook his head, never breaking her stare. His mouth tightened. “No. But I also couldn’t quite figure out just what the hell I
was.
It didn’t take me long to know, but then I had to find a way to tell you in a situation where you couldn’t run away from me too easily. I apologize for the subterfuge tonight.” His mouth twisted as though he’d eaten something bitter. “I’m sorry, in general.”

She started in surprise at his harsh declaration. “For which part?”

“For all of it. From the first thing I said to you that was unappreciative and callous to the last selfish thing I’ve done. I’m sorry, Francesca.”

She swallowed thickly, unable to meet his stare for some reason. Even though she knew exchanges like this were necessary, given everything that had happened between them, it still seemed so secondary compared to what she’d seen in London.

“How is your mother?” she asked quietly.

“Stabilized,” he said, still leaning against the door. He exhaled after a few seconds and took a step toward her. She couldn’t look away as he removed his tuxedo jacket and laid it on the back of a chair, mesmerized by his male beauty. “There isn’t much hope that she’ll improve on this particular medication regime, but she won’t get worse. That’s something, at least.”

“Yes. It is. I know you don’t want my pity, Ian. I understand that. I didn’t go to London to offer you sympathy.”

“Then why did you?” he said, his quiet voice lending to the subdued, full moment.

“To offer you my support. I knew that whatever was in London pained you, even though I had no idea what I’d find there. I just wanted to be there for you. That’s all.”

He gave a small smile. “You make it seem like that’s such a small throwaway thing. No . . .
I
made it seem that way. I took your act of caring and kindness and threw it in your face,” he said bluntly, his jaw rigid.

“I know it made you feel exposed. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve had to protect her for a long time,” he said suddenly, following a long pause.

“I know. Anne told me,” understanding he referred to his mother.

He frowned. “It was grandmother who told me I was being a selfish, stubborn ass. She wouldn’t speak to me for a week when I confessed some of the things I’d said to you for showing up at the Institute. She’s never done that before,” he said, his brow furrowed as if he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what to make of his loving, very elegant grandmother calling him an ass.

Her heart stuttered in grateful surprise at the news of Anne’s support. “I wasn’t there to judge. Even if I were, there would have been nothing to put on trial but a very sick woman and a son who loves her and hopes for her, despite everything.”

He jerked his chin, staring at the far wall.

“I treated you unfairly . . . wrongly. I like to punish you for sexual excitement, but I never truly want to hurt you. But that day on the plane—I did. Not completely, but
part
of me wanted to—”

“Make me hurt like you were hurting?”

His gaze flashed guiltily to her face. “Yes.”

“I understood, Ian,” she said softly. “It wasn’t what happened in the plane’s bedroom suite that upset me. You didn’t hurt me, and you must know I took pleasure in it. It was that you walked away from me afterward.”

She sensed his rising tension.

“I was ashamed. Of her. Of you seeing her. Of myself for still having that damn feeling rise up in me of not wanting others to see her.
Why should it matter now?
” he bit out.

The bitter words seemed to hang in the air between them, an expelled toxin, secret words that he’d carried deep inside his spirit since he was a child, perhaps the most crucial, powerful words he’d ever said to her . . . to anyone.

Francesca walked over to him and put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his white shirt. Inhaling his unique male scent, she hugged tight. She clenched her eyelids shut as emotion washed over her. She understood how difficult this was for him to say these things, a man who ritualistically guarded against vulnerability, who remained stoic and strong because he believed he had no other choice.

“I love you,” she said.

He captured her chin with his fingers and lifted her face to his. He brushed his finger over her jaw. She noticed his frown as he studied her.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“I didn’t give myself permission to fall in love with you.”

She laughed softly when she absorbed his starkly spoken words. So like him, to say something like that. Love swelled in her breast, so great and so pure, it verged on pain. “You can’t control everything, Ian, least of all this. Does that mean that you do? Love me?” she asked hesitantly.

“I think I might have loved you even before we met, since I first realized it was you who captured me on canvas . . . you who treated my pain with such a knowing hand. It shamed me, what you saw, but I couldn’t help but want you to see more of me. You’re too good for me,” he declared roughly. “And I’m sure I don’t deserve you. But you’re mine, Francesca. And for what it’s worth . . . I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”

The words rattled and rocked her world, setting her off balance. But then his mouth settled on hers, and she found her center.

Read on for a bonus excerpt from Wicked Burn, available soon from Headline

One

If someone had told her when her alarm clock went off that morning that in a few hours she’d be calmly given the odds of her continued survival, Joy would have rolled her eyes and laughed her fears into the corners of her consciousness.

If someone had warned her that later that afternoon she’d be going down on a gorgeous stranger, she’d have told that person they were certifiably insane.

Wilkie shouted her name as she raced through the din of the makeup room. A photo shoot for movie posters and other promotional materials was scheduled today. The special effects makeup department was roaring in high gear. Wilkie James looked too busy to chat, so Joy merely slowed her rapid pace. Her friend held an airbrush and was staring intently at a female’s right breast as he turned it pale green, his shaggy, dark brown hair just inches away from a nipple.

“He’s in his lab, angsting for your talent. ‘I need Joy,’ he keeps moaning,” Wilkie imitated, adding a tremble to Seth Hightower’s gruff baritone for comic effect. “He’s been trying to reach you for hours. Where’ve you been, beautiful?”

“Don’t I have a life, or was that all my imagination?” Joy asked, grinning.

“You may have had a life before we began production on
Maritime
, but that’s all just a dream now, honey,” Wilkie drawled as he moved to the left breast, and his model yawned widely.

That’s all just a dream now.

Wilkie’s careless words struck her with frightening precision. She shrugged off the shadow of dread that hovered at the corners of her consciousness and walked on, willing the energy from her surroundings to distract her . . .

Numb her.

The drama and excitement of a Hollywood film set wasn’t Joy’s typical work world. As an art teacher for gifted high school students and a painter, she preferred the atmosphere of the classroom or her quiet, sunlit studio at home. Even the clamor and bustle of a Hollywood makeup department couldn’t fully penetrate her dread, however.

Not today.

She felt as if she were moving through a dream . . . something like the brilliant, surreal underwater world film director Joshua Cabot was creating for United Studios’s latest blockbuster,
Maritime
.

She willfully ignored the uncomfortable pounding in her chest and flung open the door to Seth Hightower’s office-studio. She needed to see the familiar, loved, bold-featured face of her uncle; he was the only true family member she still possessed. Seth glanced around at the sound of her tool kit rolling over the threshold behind her.

“There you are!”

“I didn’t get the messages until a half an hour ago. I was at the doctor. I came as quickly as I could.”

Seth looked contrite. “I know. Ignore me. I’m in a bear of a mood.”

Joy smiled. Her uncle was a bear of a man in stature, perhaps, but hardly in temperament. At least not with Joy, he wasn’t. He tossed a few tubes of paint and glue into his kit before he straightened, swept down on her from his great height and gave her a quick, affectionate kiss, his shoulder-length dark hair flicking against her cheek. “You’re not even officially part of my staff and I snap at you like an intern. Your mother would have my hide.” Seth focused on her face, his brows drawing together in a V shape, giving him an expression that anyone besides Joy would have found intimidating. “I know you had to take off school a few days last week. Is that why you were at the doctor? How’s the cough?”

“Better,” Joy said as she glanced around the meticulously organized room. As the makeup department head, Seth claimed the right to privacy. His office-studio was like the still eye of a storm. “I don’t have pneumonia,” she reported honestly. “What’s the emergency?”

“It’s coming at me from all directions. Our leading lady decided to drink some Coke spiked with vodka without a straw. The latex is lifting around her mouth,” Seth said, referring to the actress’s prosthetic mask. “She’s throwing a fit and holing up in her trailer, refusing to let anyone touch her up but me. Meantime, I’m running behind on the tattoos.”

Joy gave her uncle a humorous glance of sympathy. “There’s a cost to being the best.”

“Anybody on my staff could reglue Ellie, you know that. She’s just throwing her weight around by asking for me personally.”

“She must think you’re the best at a few things.”

“As if I’d ever give that little shrew the chance to find out,” Seth muttered with a disgusted, distracted air. Joy’s heart went out to him. This had to be one of the most hectic days of his life. “Anyway, that only leaves you who can do the last tattoo—”

Seth paused when someone rapped and the door opened several inches. Her breath caught at what she saw.

Joy had helped Seth with projects for Hightower Special Effects on several occasions, and she’d assisted him with the illustrations for his initial proposal to win the contract from United Studios and director John Cabot for
Maritime
. As such, she was used to Seth’s fantastical art concept for the film. She wasn’t so immune, however, that she didn’t stare in wonder at the bizarrely beautiful head of the part man, part exotic sea creature that appeared around the edge of the door.

Her uncle was going to have an Academy Award sitting on his mantel for sure, she thought with a mixture of admiration and pride.

“Hey, Tommy told me I should stop by,” the walking piece of art said.

“Perfect timing,” Seth mumbled. He pointed at an illustration and some scribbled notes on the table. “Here’s what I need, Joy. You’re the only one I trust to do it. Go ahead and touch him up after you finish the tattoo. I won’t have time before the photo shoot. Wish me luck,” he said, glancing at both of them.

“Luck. You’ll need it,” the marine man said, his lips twitching subtly.

Seth snorted in agreement and rolled his kit behind him toward the door. The man, who was probably one of dozens of extras, stepped into the room so that Seth could pass. Joy noticed distractedly that her uncle and the aqua-colored male were nearly the same height—an oddity, as her uncle was usually the tallest man in the room. The two men nodded to each other before Seth shut the door behind him. Joy lifted her kit to the table and began to extract her paints, brushes and tattoo pens.

“Give me just a minute, and I’ll be right with you,” she said as she checked Seth’s notes and began to mix her colors.

He didn’t respond, but Joy was too focused on her preparation to mind. Actors and extras reacted to prosthetic and makeup application across a spectrum that ran from stoicism to whining to outright acting out. Hours and hours of sitting or standing motionless were often required while an artist created his magic.
Maritime
was a particular challenge. Over a hundred actors and extras required waterproof prosthetics and full-body makeup in order to transform them into exotic sea creatures. Only dozens might be required to be in full makeup and costume during a given day of shooting, but Cabot had decided he wanted the entire cast in full regalia to give the grand scope of the movie for the photo shoot.

Joy was working up a sweat as she mixed her paints. She walked over to the unit air conditioner and turned it on high, the sound of the fan muting the cacophony of voices, music and movement just feet away from Seth’s office-studio.

“So you’re Seth’s niece?”

She paused in the action of removing her hoodie. His deep, resonant voice had taken her by surprise. She met his gaze for the first time and blinked. His eyes were a clear aquamarine. The elaborate foam latex prosthetic he wore on the upper half of his face and the sublime makeup application only added to their brilliance. His gaze struck her as startlingly alert. Compared to this man, other people’s stares were those of sleepwalkers.

She had the strangest sensation seeing his eyes peering through the elaborate costume he wore, as if she’d caught a glimpse of his soul through the beautiful artifice. Seth’s makeup, which subtly alluded to the emerging humanity of the sea creature, only added to the impression. The body paints included brilliant blues and greens, but flesh colors rippled and swirled over chiseled muscle and bone as well, creating a stunning living landscape. He was beyond beautiful, the subtle shadowing wrought by the air- and paintbrushes highlighting every ridge and smooth, hard plane of his long body.

His gaze flickered downward.

She became aware that she was holding both sides of her cotton hoodie wide open in preparation to remove it. Her breasts felt tight suddenly, straining against the fabric of her bra and a thin layer of her cotton tank top. Her nipples beaded, as if he’d reached out and brushed a finger over the sensitive flesh instead of just glancing at her.

She blushed, her reaction surprising her. Joy was an artist, and she’d long ago grown accustomed to partial and full nudity. She didn’t work full-time in the movie industry, but she’d had sufficient experience, thanks to Seth. Gorgeous models and want-to-be actors were the norm in Hollywood, as commonly found as a cornstalk on a July day in Indiana.

She whipped off her hoodie and tossed it on the table.

“Yes. I’m Joy.” She nodded to a spot in front of the table and reached for a chair, all brisk business.

“You’re the art teacher.”

She met his stare and was once again snared.

“Seth told me,” he said quietly, shapely blue-and-white tinted lips barely moving.

“We better get started or you’ll miss the shoot,” she murmured, discomfited for some reason by the idea of Seth sharing even the smallest details of her life with this stranger.

He walked to the spot she’d indicated. Joy sat and rolled her chair directly in front of him, her face situated in front of his abdomen. Without another word, she picked up a tattoo marker and began to outline the design in Seth’s illustration on her human canvas. Seth had altered the tattoo art somewhat from his original proposal. The brilliant starburst through rippling water was bolder and much more intricate than his original design. Joy liked the change.

She never looked at his face once while she worked, but she was highly aware of him. Her knuckles brushed occasionally against warm, dense flesh. Her nose was just inches from his body. The alcohol base from the body paint filtered into her nose. Beneath it, she smelled the musk of his skin like a subtle, living thread twining through the chemical artifice. The fragrance was potent somehow, sending a loud, clear message of male virility to some ancient part of her brain.

Only a stretchy, seaweed-like boxer-brief costume covered his genitals. Joy couldn’t help but be conscious of the fact that her chin was mere inches from the fullness behind the flimsy material. She worked steadily, but a dull, pleasurable ache began to grow at her core.

A light glaze of perspiration had dampened her brow and upper lip by the time she leaned back. She glanced up at him, a calm—entirely fake—expression plastered on her face.

“You’ll have to lower your briefs enough for me to make the transition look natural,” she said.

The air conditioner made a loud, chugging sound and then resumed its typical hum. She saw his throat convulse. Was he as uncomfortable with this situation as she was? He held her stare with those striking eyes and moved his hands, folding down the seaweed brief and exposing the stretch of skin just above his genitals.

She lifted her tattoo pen and paused.

Seth had used the airbrush below the brief, but not in a thorough manner. Joy could see several patches of naked, golden skin along with a smattering of light brown hair. Pubic hair was usually several shades darker than hair on the head, which meant he must be blond beneath the beautiful headpiece affixed to his head.

Below that strip of skin, the flimsy material barely contained a virile package. The vision was nearly as striking as that of the man’s eyes peering through the elaborate mask. What was it about that stretch of skin below the belly and just above a man’s cock that spoke of sensitivity . . . vulnerability?

His arm muscles clenched tight. He kept his hands on the material of the briefs, as if he wanted to be prepared to jerk the garment back into place at the slightest provocation. Joy didn’t know whether to feel compassion for him or annoyance. He was the six-foot-four-inch tower of brawn here, not her. She was hardly going to attack him. She disliked this intimate aspect of her work, but the human body wasn’t something that could be ignored when it came to art. He was just a backdrop, not any different from the canvases in her studio.

Her expression hardened at the thought. She leaned forward and continued her design, the tip of her marker slipping across firm flesh. She was doing fine for the next minute or so until she noticed the brief was stretching and expanding to contain his erection. His cock rode along his left thigh. The column of it was clearly delineated beneath the insubstantial garment.

Shit.

She glanced up at him anxiously. He was looking down at her. She’d known he would be. She’d sensed his stare on the crown of her head the entire time. He closed his eyes briefly. She sensed his regret even through his half mask.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a gruff voice. “Just . . . just ignore it.”

Heat flooded her cheeks and she looked away.

How mortifying.

It wasn’t uncommon for a model to occasionally experience an unwanted erection during a makeup application, but the evidence had never been so . . . close to her before. Nor had it ever been so appealing.

For a few dreadful seconds, she felt like she couldn’t expand her lungs. They finally released, however, and she reached for a pot of paint.

“Do you want to take a quick break?” she asked, striving to keep her voice even.

“No. Go ahead.” His voice sounded so strained, she glanced up at him in concern. She saw the rigidness of his angular jaw. His eyes blazed through the prosthetic mask.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” she said.

“I can take it if you can.”

She wasn’t quite sure she could take it. Things had gotten warm and wet between her thighs. She looked down at her lap and used her forearm to wipe at the thin layer of perspiration on her upper lip. Her heartbeat segued from a throb to a roar in her ears. She swirled her paint—twice right, once left, twice right, once left—the familiar task of moving the brush through the thick liquid striking her as rich for some reason . . . sensual.