by BETH KERY
“Yes.”
“I’d like you to start on Monday. I’ll have Lin provide you with an entry card and password to the elevator. Your supplies will be ready for you when you come.”
“I can’t come every day. I have class—mostly in the morning—and I waitress from seven to close several days a week.”
“Come whenever you can. The point is, you’ll come.”
“Yes, all right,” she managed through a constricted throat. He hadn’t removed his hand from her back. Could he feel her heart throbbing?
She had to get out of there. Now. She was way out of her depth.
She lurched toward the elevator, pushing a button on the control panel hastily. If she’d thought he’d try to touch her again, she’d thought wrong. The sleek elevator door slid open.
“Francesca?” he said as she hurried inside.
“Yes?” she asked, turning.
He stood with his hands behind his back, the posture causing his suit jacket to open, revealing a shirt-draped lean abdomen, narrow hips, a silver belt buckle, and . . . everything beneath it.
“Now that you have some financial security, I would prefer you didn’t wander the streets of Chicago in the early morning hours in order to find your inspiration. You never know what you might encounter. It’s dangerous.”
Her mouth dropped open in stunned amazement. He stepped forward and pushed a button on the panel, causing the doors to slide closed. The last glimpse she had of him was his gleaming blue-eyed stare in an otherwise impassive face. Her heartbeat escalated to a roar in her ears.
She’d painted him four years ago. That’s what he was telling her—that he knew she’d observed him walking the dark, lonely streets in the dead of the night while the rest of the world slumbered, warm and content in their beds. Francesca hadn’t realized the identity of her inspiration at the time, nor had he probably known he was being observed until he saw the painting, but there could be no doubt of it.
Ian Noble was the cat who walked by himself.
And he’d wanted her to know it.
Chapter 2
He managed to fully put her out of his mind for a full ten days. He traveled to New York for a two-night stay and finalized the acquisition of a computer program that would enable him to begin a new network that combined social aspects and a unique gaming application. He made his regular monthly visit to his condominium in London. While he’d been in Chicago, meetings and work had kept him at the office until far past midnight. By the time he’d reached the penthouse, the interior was dim and silent.
It wasn’t entirely accurate to say that he’d kept Francesca Arno fully out of his mind, though. Or honest, Ian conceded sternly to himself as he rode the elevator to his penthouse Wednesday afternoon. His awareness of her would come to him in quick, powerful flashes, penetrating his focus on the details of the everyday world. Mrs. Hanson, his housekeeper, innocently gave him updates during her typical banter about how her weekly projects were going in the house. He’d been pleased to learn that the elderly Englishwoman had befriended Francesca, inviting her to the kitchen occasionally to join her for tea. He’d been glad to hear Francesca was becoming comfortable in his home, and then asked himself why it mattered one way or another. The painting was the only thing he wanted, and surely the working conditions were adequate for that.
Once, he’d told himself that he was being rude by ignoring her. Surely his avoidance was putting too much emphasis on her, making more of the situation than was warranted. Last Thursday evening, he’d gone to her studio with the intent of asking her if she’d like to take some refreshment with him in the kitchen. The door was ajar, and he’d entered without knocking. For several seconds, he’d stood and watched her work, unnoticed.
She’d been standing on a short ladder, working on the upper-right-hand corner of the canvas, completely absorbed. Although he had been quite sure he hadn’t made a noise, she’d suddenly turned and froze, regarding him with startled brown eyes, her pencil still on the canvas. A heavy swath of gleaming hair had fallen out of the clip at the back of her head. There had been a charcoal smear on her smooth cheek, and her dark pink lips had been parted in surprise at the sight of him.
He’d asked her politely about her progress and tried not to notice the throb of her pulse at her throat or the roundness of her breasts. She’d taken off her sweat jacket as she worked and wore a tight tank top. Her breasts were fuller than he’d realized before, the size of her breasts an erotic contrast between her narrow waist and hips, and long coltish legs.
After thirty seconds of stilted conversation, he’d fled like the coward he was.
He told himself that his hyperawareness of her was completely natural. She was an incredible beauty, after all. The fact that she seemed completely oblivious to her sexuality fascinated him. Had she grown up in some kind of hole? Surely she was used to having males perk up whenever she walked into a room, salivating at the vision of her silky rose-gold hair, velvety brown eyes, and tall, willowy figure. How could she not have learned by age twenty-three that her flawless pale skin, lush, dark pink lips, and slender, lithe body had the power to fell a strong man?
He didn’t know the answer to that question, but after close study, he could say with confidence her lack of awareness wasn’t an act. She walked with the long-legged, lanky stride of a teenage boy and said the most incredibly gauche things.
It was only when she’d been bewitched as she gazed at his artwork, or when she’d stared out the window at the skyline, or when he’d secretly spied on her while she sketched that night, utterly lost in her art, that her beauty was fully revealed.
And a more compelling, addictive sight he couldn’t recall viewing.
He paused presently in the foyer of the penthouse. She was there. No sound emanated from the depths of his residence, but somehow he knew Francesca worked in her ad hoc studio. Was she still sketching on the massive canvas? He suddenly pictured her perfectly, her beautiful face tense with concentration, her dark eyes flickering back and forth between her quickly moving pencil and the view. She became somber and formidable as a judge when she worked, all of her self-consciousness burned to mist by her brilliant talent and an uncommon grace that she didn’t appear to know she possessed.
She also was ignorant of her potent sexual appeal. He, on the other hand, was acutely aware of its promise and power. Unfortunately, he was equally conscious of her naïveté. He could practically smell it surrounding her; her innocence intermingled with an untested sexuality, creating a heady perfume that had set him off balance.
Sweat gathered on his upper lip. His cock swelled to full readiness in a matter of seconds.
Frowning, he glanced at his watch and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He tapped a few buttons and walked down the hallway, veering off toward his bedroom. Thankfully, his private quarters were on the opposite end of the condominium from where Francesca worked. He needed to get her out of his mind. Purge her.
A voice answered his call.
“Lucien. Something important has come up, and I’m running behind. Can we meet at five thirty versus five?”
“Certainly. I’ll see you there in forty-five minutes. Hope you’re feeling thick-skinned, because I’m in a real mood.”
Ian smiled wryly as he closed his bedroom door behind him and locked it. “I have a feeling my sword is hungry for blood today as well, my friend, so we’ll see who requires the thick skin and who doesn’t.”
Lucien was still laughing when Ian hung up. He stowed his briefcase and withdrew a fencing uniform from his dressing room, laying out a plastron, breeches, and a jacket. He stripped quickly and efficiently. From his briefcase, he withdrew a key. Two large dressing rooms adjoined his private quarters. Mrs. Hanson—anyone save Ian—was prohibited from entering them.
It was Ian’s private territory.
He unlocked the mahogany door and walked naked into the high-ceilinged room. It was lined with drawers and cabinets on either side and was always kept meticu
lously neat. He opened a drawer on his right and withdrew the items he wanted before padding back out to his bed.
It was his fault for not realizing this useless desire was mounting to dangerous levels. Perhaps he would arrange to bring a woman here this weekend, but in the meantime, he needed to diminish the sharp edge of his sexual hunger.
He squirted some lubricant onto his hand. His erection hadn’t abated. Shivers of pleasure rippled through him when he rubbed the cool lubricant over his cock. He considered lying on the bed, but no . . . standing was better. He picked up the transparent silicone sleeve and grasped his heavy cock. He’d had the masturbator custom made for his dimensions, specifying he wanted the silicone to be clear. He enjoyed watching himself ejaculate. The manufacturer had followed his directions to perfection, the only exception being the addition of adding a dark pink circle around the top ring of the implement. Ian had thought the addition harmless enough at the time, so he hadn’t complained. The masturbator wasn’t a substitute. He could have any number of skilled, willing women give him head at a moment’s notice. Over the years, he’d learned the crucial lesson of discretion. He’d pared down his once considerable list to include two women who knew precisely what he wanted sexually and understood the parameters of what he would give in return.
The masturbator’s use was purely practical. He owed the sex toy nothing after it’d served its purpose.
But today, a shudder of excitement went through him at the sight of the thick head of his cock penetrating the tight pink ring. He flexed his arm, pushing the snug silicone sheath along the swollen staff of his cock within an inch of the root. He moved his hand like a piston, appreciating how quickly the heat from his flesh mounted within the thick, cushy silicone.
Oh, yes. This is what he needed—a good balls-emptying orgasm. His abdomen, ass, and thigh muscles tightened as his fist pumped. The suction chambers squeezed and sucked at him as he moved, mimicking oral sex. He withdrew the sleeve all the way to the head of his cock and plunged into the warm, slippery depths again and again.
Usually, he closed his eyes and engaged in a sexual fantasy while he masturbated. Today, for some reason, his gaze remained fixed on the sight of his cock penetrating the pink ring. He thought of pink puffy lips in the place of the silicone ring. He saw huge dark eyes looking up at him.
Francesca’s lips. Francesca’s eyes.
You have no time or business seducing an innocent. Didn’t you once get burned doing that?
He was a reluctant dom, perhaps, but a full-blown sexual dominant nonetheless. He’d long ago grown to accept his nature, knowing it matched his solitary fate in life. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone. He was just wise enough to realize it was inevitable. He was consumed by his work. A control freak. Everyone said it of him—the media, members of the business community . . . his ex-wife. He’d resigned himself to the fact that they were all correct. Fortunately, he’d grown used to his solitude.
No right at all subjecting a woman like Francesca to his demanding nature.
The warning voice in his head was drowned out by the sound of his pounding heart and low grunts of arousal as he pumped his cock.
He would use her for his pleasure, ravish her sweet mouth. Would she be a little alarmed by his forceful possession? Aroused?
Both?
He groaned at the thought and jerked his arm, stroking more rapidly, every muscle in his body growing hard and rigid.
His cock looked enormous when he shoved the shaft fully into the thick silicone sleeve. He didn’t want to come by his own hand. He wanted something he shouldn’t, however, so his hand would have to suffice.
Even if what he really wanted was to restrain a long-limbed, golden-haired beauty, order her to kneel before him, and pound his cock into her wet, tight mouth . . . even if what he really wanted was to witness the flash of excitement in her eyes when he erupted in climax and gave himself to her.
Orgasm slammed into him, sharp and delicious. He gasped as he watched himself ejaculate into the transparent sleeve, his semen shooting against the sides of the inner suction chamber. After a moment, he clenched his eyes shut and moaned harshly, continuing to come.
Christ, he’d been a fool not to do this earlier in the week. He couldn’t stop climaxing. He’d clearly needed a release. It wasn’t typical for him to ignore his sexual needs, and he couldn’t imagine why he’d remained abstinent this week. It’d been foolish.
It might have led to a loss of control, a prospect he couldn’t abide. People who didn’t attend to their needs ended up making mistakes, growing sloppy and haphazard.
His muscles went slack as the final weakened shudders of orgasm rippled through him. He slid the sheath off his sensitive penis. He wrapped a hand around the naked, slippery staff and stood there, breathing rapidly.
She was a woman like any other.
But perhaps she wasn’t? She’d caught him unawares with her painting. It made him uncomfortable, that knowledge, like a burr under his skin. It made him want to capture her, in return . . . make her pay for looking into his mind somehow, seeing things she shouldn’t see with her unique talent of soulful precision.
He would master this slicing, powerful desire. He turned and stalked to his bathroom to clean up and prepare for his fencing exercise.
Later, as he dressed, he noticed that his cock was still overly sensitive and that his erection hadn’t completely dissipated. Damn.
He’d inform both Francesca and Mrs. Hanson that he wanted privacy this weekend. He’d make a phone call. Clearly, he required an experienced female who knew precisely how to please him in order to vanquish this strange need.
* * *
Lucien hadn’t lied. He was in a feisty mood. Ian retreated under his friend’s aggressive advance, parrying his rapid thrusts, calmly waiting for the extension that would make him vulnerable. He’d fenced regularly with the other man for two years now, and he’d come to understand his style and how his emotions affected his combat. Lucien was a skilled, smart fighter, but he had yet to learn how Ian’s moods could influence his actions with the blade.
Perhaps that was because Ian made a point of mastering his emotions and reacting out of pure logic.
This evening, Lucien was surging with volatile energy, stronger than usual, but incautious as well. Ian waited until he saw triumph in every line of Lucien’s attacking form. He recognized his opponent’s second intention, accurately parrying against the second stroke intended to finish Ian once and for all. Lucien grunted in frustration when Ian riposted and landed a hit.
“You’re a mind reader, damn you,” Lucien muttered, whipping off his mask, his long dreadlocks whisking around his shoulders. Ian, too, removed his mask.
“That is always your excuse. In fact, it’s all quite logical, and you know it.”
“Again,” Lucien challenged, lifting his sword, his gray eyes fierce.
Ian smiled. “Who is she?”
“Who is who?”
Ian gave him a dry glance as he removed his glove. “The woman who has your blood pumping like a randy goat.” It puzzled him, this frustrated quality in Lucien, who was usually so popular with women.
Lucien’s expression tightened, and he looked away. Ian paused in the action of removing his other glove. His brow furrowed in consternation. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lucien said in a quiet, pressured voice.
“Well then?”
Lucien glared at him. “Are Noble employees allowed to see one another?”
“It depends on their positions. It’s very clear-cut in the employment contract. Managers and supervisors are prohibited from seeing inferiors, and will be terminated if it’s discovered they have. It’s highly discouraged for managers to date each other, although not prohibited. It’s made clear in the contract that if any adverse situations arise at work from a relationship outside the office, the grounds for termination are met. I think you know it’s bad form, Lucien. D
oes she work at Fusion?”
“No.”
“Does she work in a supervisory capacity for Noble?” Ian asked as he stripped off his other glove, plastron, and jacket, leaving only the fitted breeches and undershirt.
“I’m not sure. What if the employment with Noble is . . . unorthodox?”
Ian gave him a sharp glance as he set down his sword and picked up a towel. “Unorthodox . . . as in the manager of a restaurant versus a manager of a department of business?” he asked wryly.
Lucien hesitated, then nodded, his face an unreadable mask. They both started when a knock was heard on the door to the fencing room.
“Yes?” Ian called, his brows slanted in puzzlement. Mrs. Hanson usually didn’t bother him during his workout. The knowledge that he wouldn’t be interrupted helped him to find a zone of total concentration on both his fencing and exercise routines.
He went still in amazement when Francesca entered the room. Her long hair was loosely restrained at the back of her head. A few strands of it brushed her neck and cheeks. She wore not a smudge of makeup, a pair of formfitting jeans, a shapeless hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of gray-and-white running shoes. The shoes weren’t the highest quality, but Ian quickly appraised that they were the most expensive item she wore. At the opening of her jacket, he saw the thin strap of another tank top. The image of her supple body outlined in the tight garment zoomed into his brain.
“Francesca. What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice unintentionally sharp in annoyance at the vivid, uncontrollable memory. She paused several feet from the fencing mat. The lushness of her pink lips made even her frowns sexy as hell.
“Lin needs to speak with you about something urgent. You weren’t answering your cell phone, so she called the house line. Mrs. Hanson was on the way out to the store to get a few missing ingredients for your supper, so I said I’d come give the message.”
Ian nodded once, using the towel he’d draped around his neck to wipe some perspiration off his face. “I’ll call her as soon as I shower.”
