Because You Are Mine: Part I Read online

  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.

  She entered a magical place.

  The luxury of the fabrics and furniture were obvious, but despite the richness, the entryway managed to convey a welcome—an austere welcome, perhaps, but a welcome nonetheless. She caught a quick glimpse of herself in an antique mirror. Her long reddish blonde hair was hopelessly windblown, and her cheeks were stained pink. She’d like to think the color was from the wind but worried the effect came from being with Ian Noble.

  Then she noticed the artwork, and she forgot everything else. She wandered down a wide hallway that was also a gallery, her mouth hanging open as she stared at painting after painting, some of them new to her, some of them masterworks that sent a jolt of exhilaration through her to see firsthand.

  She paused next to a miniature sculpture set on a column, a very fine replica of a renowned piece of ancient Greek art. “I’ve always loved Aphrodite of Argos,” she murmured, her gaze detailing the exquisite facial features and the graceful twist of the nake
d torso miraculously carved into hard alabaster.

  “Have you?” he asked, sounding intent.

  She nodded, overwhelmed by wonder, and continued walking.

  “I just acquired that one several months ago. It wasn’t easy to get,” he said, starting her out of her ecstatic amazement.

  “I adore Sorenburg,” she said, referring to the artist who had created the painting before which they stood. She turned to look at him, suddenly realizing that several minutes had passed and that she’d wandered like a sleepwalker deeper into the hushed depths of his condominium without invitation, and that he’d allowed her intrusion without comment. She now stood in a parlor of sorts decorated with decadently rich fabrics of yellow, pale blue, and dark brown.

  “I know. You mentioned it in your personal statement in the application for the contest.”

  “I can’t believe you like expressionism.”

  “Why can’t you believe it?” he asked, his low voice making her ears prickle and goose bumps rise along her neck. She glanced up at him. The painting she referred to was hung above a deep cushioned velvet couch. He stood closer than she’d realized, so lost had she become in wonderment and pleasure.

  “Because . . . you picked my painting,” she said weakly. Her gaze skimmed over his body. She swallowed thickly. He’d unbuttoned his overcoat. A clean, spicy smell of soap filtered into her nose. A heavy, hot pressure settled in her sex. “You seem to like . . . order so much,” she tried to explain, her voice just above a whisper.

  “You’re right,” he said. A shadow seemed to come over his bold features. “I do abhor sloppiness and disorder. But Sorenburg isn’t about that.” He glanced at the painting. “It’s about making meaning from chaos. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Her mouth hung open as she stared at his profile. She’d never heard Sorenburg’s work described so succinctly.

  “Yes, I would,” she said slowly.

  He gave her a small smile. His full lips had to be his most compelling feature, aside from his eyes. And his firm chin. And his incredible body—

  “Do my ears deceive me,” he murmured, “Or is that a note of respect I hear in your tone, Francesca?”

  She turned to stare sightlessly at the Sorenburg. Her breath burned in her lungs. “You deserve respect in this. You have impeccable taste in art.”

  “Thank you. I happen to agree.”

  She risked a sideways glance. He was staring at her with those dark-angel eyes.

  “Let me take your jacket,” he said, extending his hands.

  “No.” Her cheeks heated when she heard how abrupt she’d sounded. Self-consciousness slammed into her haze of enthrallment. His hands remained extended.

  “I will take it.”

  She opened her mouth to rebuke him but paused when she noticed his hooded gaze and slightly raised eyebrows.

  “The woman wears the clothes, Francesca. Not the other way around. That’s the first lesson I’ll teach you.”

  She gave him a fake glance of exasperation and shrugged out of her jean jacket. The air felt cool next to her bare shoulders. Ian’s gaze felt warm. She straightened her spine.

  “You say that like you plan on teaching me more lessons,” she muttered, handing him the jacket.

  “Perhaps I do. Follow me.”

  He hung up her coat, then led her down the gallerylike hallway before turning down a narrower one that was dimly lit with brass sconces. He opened one of many tall doorways, and Francesca stepped into the room. She expected to see yet another room filled with wonders, but instead entered a large, narrow space that ran the length of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by the skyscrapers and the reflective lights of them in the black river. She walked to the windows without speaking. He came to stand next to her.

  “They’re alive, the buildings . . . some more than others,” she said in a hushed voice after a moment. She gave him a rueful glance and was awarded with a smile. Embarrassment flooded her. “I mean, they seem like it. I’ve always thought so. Each one of them has a soul. At night, especially . . . I can feel it.”

  “I know you can. That’s why I chose your painting.”

  “Not because of perfectly straight lines and precise reproductions?” she asked shakily.

  “No. Not because of that.”

  His expression went flat when she smiled. Unexpected pleasure filled her. He did understand her art after all. And . . . she’d given him what he wanted.

  She stared at the magnificent view. “I understand what you meant,” she said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “I haven’t taken any architecture classes now for a year and a half, and I’ve been so busy with my art classes I haven’t kept up with journals, or I would have known. Still . . . shame on me for not seeing it until now,” she said, referring to the two most prominent buildings that lined the black-and-gold-speckled shimmering river. She shook her head in wonderment. “You made Noble Enterprises a modern, streamlined version of a Chicago architecture classic. It’s like a contemporary version of the Sandusky. Brilliant,” she said, referring to the echo that the Noble Enterprises building made of the Sandusky Building, a Gothic masterpiece. Noble Enterprises was just like Ian—a bold, strong-lined, elegant, and modern version of some Gothic ancestor. She smiled at the thought.

  “Most people don’t see the effect until I show them this view,” he said.

  “It’s genius, Ian,” she said feelingly. She gave him a questioning glance, noticing the glints in his eyes caused by the lights from the skyscrapers. “Why didn’t you brag about it to the press?”

  “Because I didn’t do it for the press. I did it for my own pleasure, just like I do most things.”

  She felt trapped by his gaze and couldn’t respond. Wasn’t that a particularly selfish thing to say? Why, then, did his words cause that heavy sensation to grow at the juncture of her thighs?

  “But I am pleased that you’re pleased,” he said. “I have something else to show you.”

  “Really?” she asked breathlessly.

  He merely nodded once. She followed him, glad he couldn’t see the color in her cheeks. He led her to a room almost completely surrounded by filled, dark walnut bookcases. He paused inside the door, watching her reaction as she glanced around curiously, her gaze finally landing and latching onto the painting above the fireplace. She froze. She walked to it as if in a trance and studied one of her own pieces.

  “You bought this from Feinstein?” she whispered, referring to one of her roommates—Davie Feinstein, who owned a gallery in Wicker Park. The piece she was staring at was the first painting of hers he’d sold. She’d insisted upon giving it to Davie as a deposit on her share of the rent a year and a half ago, when she’d been broke before they’d moved into the city.

  “Yes,” Ian said, his voice telling her he stood just behind her right shoulder.

  “Davie never mentioned—”

  “I asked Lin to procure it for me. The gallery probably never knew who actually bought it.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat as her gaze ran over the depiction of the solitary man walking down the middle of a Lincoln Park street in the dark early morning hours, his back to her. The surrounding high-rises seemed to gaze down at him with a detached aloofness, as immune to human pain as he appeared to be to his own suffering. His opened overcoat streamed out behind him. His shoulders hunched against the wind, and his hands were jammed deep in his jean pockets. Every line of his body exuded power, grace, and the resigned sort of loneliness that hardens into strength and resolve.

  She loved this piece. It’d killed her to give it up, but rent must be paid.

  “The Cat That Walks By Himself,” Ian said from behind her, his voice sounding gruff.

  She smiled and laughed softly at hearing him say the title she’d given the painting. “‘I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.’ I painted this in my sophomore year of undergrad. I was taking an
English literature class at the time, and we were studying Kipling. The phrase seemed to fit somehow . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she stared at the solitary figure in the painting, her entire awareness sharply focused on the man who stood behind her. She glanced back at Ian and smiled. It embarrassed her to realize tears burned in her eyes. His nostrils flared slightly, and she turned abruptly, wiping her cheeks. It had touched something deep inside her, seeing her painting in the depths of his home.

  “I think I’d better get going,” she said.

  Her heart started to do a drumroll in her ears in the heavy silence that followed.

  “Perhaps it’s best,” he said eventually. She turned and gave a sigh of relief—or was it regret—when she saw his tall form exiting the room. She followed him, murmuring a thanks when he held up her jean jacket once they reached the entryway. He resisted when she tried to take it from him. She swallowed and turned her back to him, letting him put it on her. His knuckles brushed against the skin of her shoulders. She repressed a shudder when he slid his hand beneath her long hair, skimming her nape in the process. He gently drew her hair out of the jacket and smoothed it over her back. She couldn’t repress a shiver and suspected he felt it beneath his hand.

  “Such a rare color,” he murmured, still stroking her hair, sending the alert status of her nerves up another notch.

  “I can have my driver Jacob take you home,” he said after a moment.

  “No,” she said, feeling foolish for not turning around to speak. She couldn’t move. She was paralyzed. Every cell in her body prickled with awareness. “My friend is going to pick me up in a little while.”

  “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.