by BETH KERY
PART FIVE
Because I Said So
Beth Kery
Because I Said So Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery
The right of Beth Kery to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published by arrangement with InterMix Books, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover Image © Fancy Collection / Superstock
First published in this Ebook edition by Headline Publishing Group in 2012
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 0062 4
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Also by Beth Kery
About the Book
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
BECAUSE YOU TORMENT ME
Beth Kery lives in Chicago where she juggles the demands of her career, her love of the city and the arts and a busy family life. Her writing today reflects her passion for all of the above. She is the bestselling author of over thirty books and novellas. She also writes under the pen name Bethany Kane. You can read more about Beth, her books and upcoming projects at www.bethkery.com or follow her on Twitter @bethkery.
By Beth Kery
Wicked Burn
Daring Time
Sweet Restraint
Paradise Rules
Release
Explosive
One Night of Passion series writing as Bethany Kane
Addicted To You
Bound To You (e-novella)
Captured By You (e-novella)
Exposed To You
How much can a woman endure? How much can a man get away with? Tantalising questions. International bestselling author Beth Kery’s Because You Are Mine dares to answer them…
Because You Are Mine, Part Five
Because I Said So
An outing in Paris, a luxury car, a dangerous rain-slicked street - and Francesca eagerly takes the wheel sending her and Ian spinning deliriously out of control. The risk would frighten most women. Not Francesca. It’s arousing. A moment of la petite mort that steers her relationship with Ian into a daring new direction.
Scorched by the depths of Francesca’s fresh, generous response to him, Ian begins to question his ability to keep his distance from the vibrant beauty. She’s like fire in his blood, striking a cord in him unlike any other woman, and every time he touches her, his need for total possession only mounts…
Don’t miss Because You Torment Me (Because You Are Mine, Part 6), available 4 September 2012
Chapter Nine
When she walked into the living room of the suite after cleaning up and dressing, she found Ian sitting at a desk, his computer open, his phone next to his ear.
“I’ve gone over his background extensively. His experience is steeped in venture-capitalist and fly-by-night Internet companies. He hasn’t got a stitch of financial discipline,” she heard him say. He glanced up and noticed her walk into the room. His eyes remained on her as he spoke. “What I actually told you is that you may hire whomever you wanted from a pool of acceptable CFO candidates, Declan. You have yet to supply me with that pool, so until you do, don’t start the hiring process, especially with a joker like this.” Another pause. “That may be true for all the other companies in the world, but not for one of mine,” he said, his voice like dry ice, before he said good-bye briskly.
“Sorry about that,” he said, standing and removing his glasses. “I’m having a hard time staffing a start-up company.”
“What sort of a company is it?” Francesca asked, interested. He never really spoke to her much about his work.
“A social-media-gaming concept that I’m test-driving in Europe.”
“And you’re having trouble finding the executives you want?”
He sighed and stood. He looked regal casual—a new term she made up on the spot to describe Ian’s apparel when he wasn’t wearing his typical suit. Today, it involved a cobalt-blue V-neck lightweight sweater, a white dress shirt beneath showing at the collar, and a pair of black pants that did god-awful sexy things for his narrow hips and long legs.
“Yes, among other things,” he admitted, tapping on his computer keyboard. “It’s usually that way, though. Unfortunately, my youth-oriented market appeals to the wild-gunslinger variety of executive who likes to spend my money merely because it’s there.”
“And while you may be liberal in your product and marketing ideas, you’re a rigid financial conservative?”
He looked up from his computer before he closed the monitor and walked toward her. “Do you know very much about business?”
“Not an iota. I’m a walking financial disaster. Ask Davie. I can barely swing my rent every month. I was just guessing about your business style from what I know of your personality.” He paused a few feet in front of her and raised his eyelids slightly, his manner one of amused expectancy.
“Personality?”
“You know,” she said, her cheeks heating. “The control-freak thing.”
He smiled and reached up to her touch her cheek, as though tracing the path of the warmth.
“I’m not afraid to spend money—and a lot of it—I just want to know it’s for an excellent reason. You look very pretty,” he said abruptly, changing the subject.
“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing down in embarrassment at the simple long-sleeve cotton shirt she wore tucked into low-riding jeans with her favorite belt. She’d left her hair down but pinned back the front to keep it off her face. “I . . . I didn’t bring that much to wear. I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do this afternoon.”
“Ah . . . speaking of which . . .” Ian dropped his hand from her cheek and checked his watch. As if his focus on the time had made it happen, a knock resounded on the suite door. He strode across the room and opened it. An attractive woman in her forties, wearing a chocolate-brown dress and stunning lizard-skin heels entered the suite. Francesca stood there, bewildered, as Ian exchanged greetings with the woman in French and then waved toward Francesca significantly.
“Francesca, this is Margarite. She’s my shopping assistant. She speaks French and Italian, but not English.”
Francesca exchanged greetings with the woman in the limited French she knew. She looked at Ian with a question in her eyes when the woman withdrew a tape measure and what looked like a wooden ruler contraption from the posh handbag she was carrying. She approached Francesca, smiling.
“Ian? What’s going on?” she asked, brows furrowed as she watched Margarite set down the wooden contraption and her handbag and whip the tape measure in her hand. She walked up close to a bewildered Francesca. Her eyes went wide in incredulity when the woman stretched the measure around her hips, then quickly moved it around her waist.
“Lin Soong has an uncanny ability to guess people’s ready-to-wear clothing sizes, and she’s even a crack shot at foot sizes. She�
�s the one who ordered the clothing you wore last night, and she seemed up to her usual standards. However, I thought it’d be better to get more precise measurements for some tailored clothing,” Ian said casually from across the room. She looked up, aghast, when Margarite matter-of-factly stretched the tape measure around her breasts. Ian was in the process of stuffing some files into his briefcase, but paused when he saw her expression.
“Ian, tell her to stop this,” she mumbled under her breath, as if muting her voice would lessen the likelihood of Margarite taking offense, forgetting the woman didn’t speak English.
“Why?” Ian asked. “I want to make sure your new wardrobe fits you perfectly.”
Margarite was retrieving the wooden contraption, which Francesca now realized was a foot-measurement device. She walked past the smiling woman, her expression strained, and approached Ian.
“Stop this. I don’t want any new clothes,” she hissed, glancing back uncomfortably at a politely confused-looking Margarite.
“I might want you to attend some events with me that require more formal attire,” he said, zipping his briefcase closed briskly.
“I’m sorry. I guess I won’t be able to go if you don’t think my appearance is suitable.”
He glanced up sharply at the tone of her voice. His nostrils flared slightly when he finally took note of her anger.
Margarite made a query in French from across the room. Ian’s stare felt like it had weight, but Francesca held it determinedly. He walked past her and addressed Margarite rapidly in French. The woman nodded in understanding, smiled warmly at Ian, grabbed her purse, and took her leave.
“Would you mind telling me what that was all about?” he asked her once he’d closed the door after a departing Margarite. His tone was cool, but his eyes gleamed with anger.
“I’m sorry. It was a generous offer on your part. But I know what type of clothing you’d probably tell Margarite to buy or have made. I’m a graduate student, Ian. I can’t afford things like that.”
“I know that. I’m purchasing them for you.”
“I told you I wasn’t for sale.”
“I told you that this sort of thing is the type of experience I can offer you,” he snapped back.
“Well, I’m not interested in that ‘sort of thing.’”
“I made it clear that this would be on my terms, Francesca, and you agreed. I’ll accept your stubbornness in small doses, but you go too far this time,” he said as he stalked toward her, clearly infuriated at her resistance.
“No. You go too far. I spent almost my entire life having authority figures tell me my appearance was wrong and try to alter it. Do you really think I’m so stupid as to give you permission to start doing the same thing now? I am who I am. If you don’t want to be around me this way, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking.
He came to a halt. She wished he wouldn’t look at her with that laser stare of his that seemed to see so much. Tears unexpectedly filled her eyes. It hurt, for some reason, knowing that he’d prefer she was different. She knew that was irrational—he hadn’t said he wanted to alter her, just her clothes—but she couldn’t seem to prevent the swelling of emotion. They stood there in silence while she tried to contain it.
“Never mind,” he said quietly after a moment while she stared blankly out the sun-filled terrace windows, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Perhaps we can discuss it later. I don’t want to argue with you right now. It’s a beautiful day. I’d like to enjoy it with you.”
She glanced at him hopefully. Was he really willing to forgive her for refusing his generosity? She dropped her arms.
“What . . . what were you planning on doing?”
He closed the distance between them. “Well, I was planning on a little shopping and a late lunch, but now that I hear your opinion on the matter, I think a change of plan is in order.”
She hid her grimace. She knew he didn’t like to change his plans.
“What about a quick tour of the Musée d’Art Moderne and a late lunch instead?”
She studied his impassive face closely, searching for clues as to his mood and finding none. “Yes. That would be wonderful.”
He nodded once and held out his arm toward the door. She walked past him, halting when he called her name suddenly, as if he’d been hesitating about saying something before, but now it popped out of him. She looked back.
“I want you to know that I am far from being critical of your appearance. Whether you’re in pearls or your Cubs T-shirt, I find you to be extremely attractive. Perhaps you haven’t noticed?”
Her mouth fell open in shock. “I . . . I have noticed. Really. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant. But you’re an extremely beautiful woman. I would like you to own that, Francesca.”
“It seems more like you want to own it . . . for however long it’s convenient to you,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying.
“No,” he said so harshly she blinked. He inhaled slowly, looking as if he regretted his outburst. “I admit, you probably have good reason for believing that, given what you know of me . . . what I know of me, even. But I find I truly would like you to see yourself clearly . . . to recognize your power.”
She just stared at him, her mouth hanging open, confused by the message in his eyes.
She was still bewildered when he took her hand and led her out of the suite.
* * *
Francesca had to keep repeatedly reminding herself that it was a purely sexual agreement she had with Ian, because in truth, she couldn’t have imagined a more romantic day in her life. At her request, they left Jacob to his own devices and walked the streets of Paris, Francesca experiencing a ridiculous amount of excitement and euphoria at the sensation of her hand enfolded in Ian’s, frequently glancing sideways to assure herself that she really was being escorted around the most romantic city in the world by the most appealing, compelling man she’d ever seen.
“I’m starving,” she said honestly after their brief and enjoyable tour of the Musée d’Art Moderne, where she’d continued to be amazed by the depth of his artistic knowledge and innate taste. He’d been the ideal companion—considerate of her desires for what she wanted to view, interested in what she had to say, revealing more of his dry, sharp wit and sense of humor than he ever had before with her. “Can we eat here?” she asked, pointing at the attractive little sidewalk bistro they passed on Rue Goethe with outdoor seating.
“Lin has arranged a private table for us at Le Cinq,” Ian said, referring to the ultra exclusive, pricey restaurant in their hotel.
“Lin Soong,” she mused, watching a couple seated at a nearby table, the woman picking at her food idly with her fingers while she laughed at something her companion had said. “She’s extremely efficient at planning things, isn’t she?”
“The best. That’s why I employ her,” he said crisply before he gave her a sideways glance. She looked at him in surprise a moment later when he paused before the entrance to the little bistro and waved his hand to enter, his expression one of subdued amusement.
“Really?” she asked excitedly.
“Certainly. Even I can be spontaneous once in a while. In very small measures, anyway,” he added drolly.
“Will miracles never cease?” she teased. He blinked, looking slightly surprised, when she went up on her toes and kissed him on the mouth before they sat at one of the outdoor tables.
“Would you like anything else to drink besides club soda?” Ian asked politely when the waiter came to their table.
She shook her head. “No, just that, thank you.”
Ian placed their order and they were left to each other’s company. She smiled at him from across the table, feeling very happy, admiring how electric blue his eyes looked even though they sat in the shadow of the canopy above them.
“You mentioned to me once that you didn’t really bloom and come into your own until you went to college. How is it that you never ended up in a serious relati
onship with a man in all the intervening years?” he asked.
She avoided his gaze. Her experience with dating—or lack of it—was not really the sort of thing she wanted to discuss with a sophisticated man like Ian.
“I just never really clicked with anyone, I guess.” She glanced up cautiously and saw that he continued to regard her expectantly. She sighed. He wasn’t going to drop the topic. “I wasn’t interested in most guys in college, not in a romantic sense, anyway. I like hanging around men, as a rule. I get them better than women. Women are all like . . . How do I look? Where’d you get those jeans? What are you wearing on Friday night so we can all look the same?” She rolled her eyes.
“But when it came down to it with men . . . to the . . .” she faded off, having difficulty finding the right words.
“Dirty details?” Ian supplied quietly.
“Yeah, I guess so,” she admitted, falling silent for a moment while the waiter served their beverages. They both placed their orders for lunch. After the waiter left, he glanced at her again as if waiting.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said, blushing. “Men are okay to party with, and to hang out with, and to have fun with, but for me, I was never really . . . turned on,” she said, her voice dropping into a whisper, “by any of them. They were too young. Too annoying. I got sick of them always asking me what I wanted to do for a date,” she said in a burst of honesty. “I mean . . . why did I always have to be the one to decide?” She did a double take when she noticed his small smile. “What?” she asked.
“You’re a natural sexual submissive, Francesca. A more natural one I’ve never seen. You’re also singularly bright, talented, independent . . . full of life. A unique combination. Your frustrations in dating likely stem from the fact that men were striking the wrong chord with you, so to speak. There are probably only a handful of men on the planet that you would submit to.” He picked up his glass and watched her over the rim as he took a sip of ice water. “Apparently, I’m one of those men. I consider myself to be very lucky for it.”
