by BETH KERY
She was just furious at him because he didn’t want her. Enough to overlook her inexperience, anyway.
Emotion swelled tight in her chest. She pushed against him, finding the weight of her need unbearable. He released her slowly, still keeping her within the circle of his arms.
She lowered her head and swiped at her cheeks, refusing to look up at him.
“Francesca—”
“Don’t say anything else, please,” she said.
“I am not the man for you. I want to make that very clear.”
“Right. Crystal clear.”
“I’m not interested in the type of relationship a girl of your age, experience, intelligence, and talent deserves. I’m sorry.”
Her heart squeezed in pain at his words, but she knew he was right. Ridiculous to think otherwise. He wasn’t for her. How obvious could that be? Hadn’t Davie been telling her that repeatedly for the past few days? She stared blankly at the pocket of his dress shirt. She longed to escape; she longed to stay there in the shadows with Ian holding her. He caught her chin and applied pressure, forcing her to look up at him. When she did so warily, she saw his slight wince.
She broke out of his arms abruptly, despising the vision of his pity. He caught her forearm, and she paused.
“I am abominable when it comes to women,” he bit out. “I forget dates and appointments. I’m rude. The only thing I’m truly focused on is sex . . . and getting my way,” he stated harshly, making her start and stare back at him in shock. “My work is everything to me. I can’t lose control of my company. I won’t. This is who I am.”
“Why are you bothering to tell me this then? Why did you even come in here tonight?”
His face and jaw tensed, as if he suppressed himself from spitting out something bitter. “Because I couldn’t stay away.”
She wavered for a few seconds, confused. The memory of her mortification the other night swept over her once again, clearing her brain. “If you can’t stay away, you’re going to have to find another artist or move my work space.”
“Francesca, do not walk out on me again,” he said, his tone intimidating. Again, her feet wavered.
She barely grasped at her dignity sufficiently to make it out the door.
* * *
Several nights later, that empty ache still lingered, but Francesca had managed to compartmentalize it . . . contain it in her mind and spirit. It hurt the worst when her phone rang and she saw that it was Ian trying to contact her. It cost her more than she could put into words to ignore those calls.
It was a lot less burdensome to ignore her heartache on a rowdy Saturday night while waitressing at High Jinks. She was so busy, she had no opportunity to consider Ian or the painting or her regret as the lounge swung into high gear at about two o’clock in the morning. High Jinks was a popular last stop on the Wicker Park–Bucktown bar circuit. It catered to young urban professionals and older students. While many bars closed by two, three, or four, High Jinks stayed open until five a.m. on Saturday nights, serving devoted partiers and carousers. Saturdays always exhausted Francesca, and tested her patience, but she tried not to miss opportunities to work one; the tips were typically three times what she’d make on any other night of the week.
She set her tray down at the waitressing station and called out her order to the owner, Sheldon Hays, the older, frequently cantankerous, occasionally cuddly-as-a-teddy-bear owner, who was bartending tonight.
“You’re going to have to tell Anthony to hold them at the door,” she shouted over the loud music and the din of the crowd. “We’ve got to be at capacity.”
She took a sip of the club soda she kept at the station and leaned over the bar when Sheldon waved her in, as if he wanted to say something important. “I need you to run over to the corner and buy all the lemon juice they’ve got on the shelf,” he yelled, referring to the local convenience store that stayed open all night. “That idiot Mardock forgot to put lemon juice on the order, and I’m having a rush on sidecars.”
She sighed. Her feet were already killing her, and she didn’t treasure the idea of walking the required five blocks. Still . . . it’d be awesome to breathe the fresh autumn air for a few minutes and give her eardrums a break from the loud music . . .
She nodded at Sheldon and whipped off her apron. “Tell Cara to pick up my area?” she shouted.
Sheldon’s nod told her not to worry, he’d take care of everything. He handed her a couple twenties from the register, and she plunged through the dense crowd.
There were only four bottles of lemon juice left on the shelf of the convenience store. The sleepy-looking cashier roused himself enough to locate another bottle in the storage room. As she walked back to High Jinks a few minutes later, carrying her purchase, she noticed the sidewalk was crowded with people walking toward their cars and the El stop. Where are they all coming from? Francesca thought in confusion as she reached the block where High Jinks was located. She paused at the corner as she saw a couple dozen more people exit the bar, the heavy wood door slamming shut behind them.
“What’s going on at High Jinks?” she asked a passing trio of men.
“Fire in the storage room,” one of the men said, his sour tone making it clear he didn’t appreciate his late-night carousing being cut short prematurely for safety reasons.
“What?” Francesca called, but the men just passed her and kept walking. She rushed toward the bar, alarmed. She didn’t smell any smoke or hear any sirens. Their bouncer, Anthony, was nowhere in sight when she opened the door and peered inside the establishment.
No one was in sight.
She paused inside the entrance of the bar, staring, aghast. The bar, which had been jam-packed with customers just twenty minutes ago, was now completely empty and quiet. Had she just entered the twilight zone?
She noticed movement behind the bar. Much to her mounting amazement, she saw Sheldon calmly cleaning glasses.
“What the hell is going on, Sheldon?” she demanded as she approached. Surely he wouldn’t be standing there so nonchalantly if there were a dangerous fire in the back room?
Her boss glanced up at her and set down a beer glass. “I was waiting to make sure you got back okay,” he said, drying his hands on a towel. “I’ll just go to my office. Give you a little privacy.”
“But what—”
Sheldon pointed over her shoulder as if by way of explanation. Francesca spun around. She froze when she saw Ian sitting at one of the tables, his long legs bent before him. A large partition had blocked him from her view when she’d entered. Her heart did its typical bounce upon observing him. Even through her shock, she registered that he was wearing jeans and that there was a shadow of whiskers on his jaw. He looked very un-Ian-like, a little scruffy, a lot dangerous. . . . still sexy as hell. Had he been walking the streets alone again tonight?
He pinned her with his stare as he waited calmly.
“He wants to talk to you in private,” Sheldon said quietly from behind her. “He must want to a lot. I’m sorry if you don’t want to talk to him, but he’s not really the kind of man that a guy like me can refuse.”
“It was his money you couldn’t refuse,” Francesca muttered acidly under her breath, anxiety and irritation spiking her tone. What was he doing here? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone so that she could finish the process of forgetting him? Had he actually gone to the trouble of closing down this bar because he wanted to speak to her?
You’ll never forget him. Who are you kidding? she thought bitterly as she turned to deposit the lemon juice on the bar. Sheldon responded to her frown with a sheepish “what’s a man to do?” glance before he walked toward his office. She could only imagine what Ian had paid the bar owner to get him to clear the place out on his most lucrative night.
She took her time unloading the grocery sack and lining the bot
tles of lemon juice on the counter, her neck prickling with awareness of his gaze on her. Let him put up with the inconvenience of having to wait for a few seconds longer. He couldn’t have everything in the moment that he wanted.
He cleared out the entire bar just to talk to me?
She silenced the excited voice in her head with effort. When she could think of nothing else to do to avoid him, she turned and slowly walked to him.
“Out slumming, are we? This is going a little far to convince me that you don’t disdain a cocktail waitress’s service, isn’t it?” she asked sarcastically as she approached.
“I didn’t come here to have you serve me. Not tonight.”
Her gaze shot angrily to meet his stare at his innuendo. She expected to see his usual subdued amusement at her defiance. Instead, she saw fatigue and . . . was it resignation? In Ian Noble?
“Sit down,” he said quietly.
They regarded each other silently for a moment once she’d sat. A thousand questions zoomed around her brain, but she stifled them. He’d behaved outrageously, clearing out hundreds of people from the bar and shutting down a business in order to see her at the precise moment he desired it. He was going to have to be the one to break the silence after all that; she refused.
“It just won’t do,” he said. “I know that I’ll hurt you. I know there’s a good chance you’ll end up despising me . . . fearing me, even. But I still can’t stop thinking about you. I must have you. Completely. Frequently . . . and at all costs.”
She listened to her heart drumming in her ears for several strained seconds, trying to gather herself. How could she be so furious at a man and still want him so much it was like some kind of biological mandate, like breathing?
“I’m not for sale,” she finally said.
“I know that. The cost I’m referring to can’t be paid with money.”
“What are you talking about?”
Leaning forward, he rested his forearm on the table. He wore a dark blue cotton T-shirt shirt with short sleeves. The Rolex was absent. She recalled vividly how stirred she’d been the first time she saw his large hands and muscular forearms. She still was. More so now that she knew what he could do with them.
“I suspect I’ll lose a bit of my soul in this thing with you. I already have, just by the fact of my being here tonight,” he spoke intently, his stare boring into her. “I know I’ll take a piece of yours.”
“You know no such thing,” she countered, even though she feared he was right. “Why are you so convinced that you’ll hurt me?”
“Many reasons,” he said so surely that her heart sank another inch. “I already told you one—I’m a control freak. Did you know that when I sold Noble Technology Worldwide in a public offering, I was offered the job of CEO?” he asked, referring to the hugely successful social-media company that he’d founded and built, then sold. “It was a very cushy position, but I turned it down. Do you know why?”
“Because you couldn’t stand the idea of a board of directors being able to veto your decisions?” she asked irritably. “You have to be in complete control at all times, don’t you?”
“That’s right. You’ve come to understand me better than I’d realized.” Why was his smile both bitter and pleased? “I’ll tell you something else that you should know. I was with a virgin once. She became pregnant and I ended up marrying her. It was a catastrophe. She couldn’t abide my controlling manner, and I’m not just talking about in the bedroom, although that arena was bad enough. She thought I was the worst kind of pervert.”
Her lips parted in amazement. There could be little doubt, given his intense, almost angry expression, that he was telling the truth.
“What happened to the baby?” she asked, her brain sticking on that morsel of unexpected information about Ian Noble’s life.
“Elizabeth lost it. According to her, it was because of me.”
She stared, seeing the disdain in his expression, the flicker of anxiety in his eyes. He was quite sure that Elizabeth had been wrong in her assertion. Still . . . the seed of doubt remained.
“By the end of our marriage, my wife was afraid of me. I believe she considered me the devil incarnate. Perhaps she was partially right. But mostly, I was a fool. A twenty-two-year-old fool.”
“And I’m a twenty-three-year-old one,” she replied.
His expression flattened; his brow furrowed. She could tell he hadn’t quite understood her meaning. Some instinct inside her warned her of what he was about to say. The sinking feeling of inevitability she also experienced told her, loud and clear, how she would respond.
His mouth hardened. “To make things clear—I want to possess you sexually. Totally. On my terms. I offer you pleasure and the experience. Nothing else. I have nothing else to offer.”
She swallowed with difficulty upon hearing the words she’d both anticipated and dreaded. “You make it sound like you want to do this to get me out of your system.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“That’s not very flattering, Ian,” she said, sounding exasperated when she was truly stung.
“I didn’t come here to flatter you. I will make the experience as rich and rewarding as I can for you, but I’m not offering you false promises. I respect you that much, at least,” he added under his breath.
“And this experience will end whenever you’ve had your fill?”
“Yes. Or whenever you have, of course.”
“When will that be? After one night? Two?”
His smile was grim. “I think it might take longer than that to purge you from my mind. A good deal longer. But again, I can’t say for certain. Do you understand me?”
Her heart now threatened to burst out of her rib cage, as if it were on the front line of the war that raged inside her. It was a mistake, and she knew this. And yet . . .
“Yes,” she said. The tension coiled tighter with every erratic beat of her heart.
“And do you agree to this?”
“Yes.” What the hell was she doing?
“Look at me, Francesca.”
She looked up, her chin tilted at a defiant angle. His gaze ran over her, searching. “I told you once before that you shouldn’t let your anger make you foolish,” he said softly.
This, more than anything, infuriated her.
“If you think I’m too much of a child to make a wise decision, then you shouldn’t have asked the question,” she grated out. “I’m giving you my answer. It’s up to you whether you accept it or not. Yes,” she repeated.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“All right,” he said after a moment, calmly, and it was as if she’d imagined all the conflict in him. “That’s settled then. I have an important meeting in Paris on Monday morning that I can’t delay. I’d like to leave first thing in the morning.”
“Okay,” she said dubiously, thrown off by his abrupt change of topic. “So . . . I’ll see you when you get back.”
“No,” he said, standing. “Now that things have been decided, I can’t wait much longer. I want you to come with me. Can you get away for a few days?”
Was he serious?
“I . . . I think so. I don’t have class on Mondays, but I have one on Tuesday. I suppose I could miss one class, though.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at your house at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“What should I bring?”
“Your passport. You have one, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I studied for a few months in Paris during my senior year. It’s current.”
“Just your passport and yourself then. I’ll supply everything else you need.”
She countered her breathlessness at his reply with practicality. “Can’t we leave later? It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning already.”
She started to say that he looked tired as well, but realized he no longer did. All the fatigue she’d sensed in him at the beginning of their conversation seemed to have vanished . . .
Now that he’d gotten his way.
“Come here, please.”
Something about his quiet, authoritative tone made her breath freeze in her lungs. She’d just agreed to stop running from him, and he knew it. Did he want to prove his power over her?
She stood up and approached him slowly. He opened his hand at the side of her skull, his fingers furrowing through her upswept hair. His gaze traveled over her face, those dark-angel eyes glittering with an emotion she couldn’t understand.
He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. He bit at her lower lip and she opened, gasping. His tongue sunk into her mouth. Heat rushed through her sex. Ah, God. This, she could understand. Wisdom shriveled in the heat of this kind of desire. She moaned, the freshness, the immediacy of her need stinging her like a slap against tense muscle.
By the time he lifted his head a moment later, things were damp and warm between her thighs.
“I want you to know,” he said next to her quivering, sensitized lips, “that I would have stopped it if I could. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
She stood there, unable to take a full breath until after the front door of the bar had slammed shut behind him.
Chapter Six
Francesca got into bed that night, but she never dropped off into sleep. Her mounting excitement wouldn’t let her. She got up before her alarm went off, made and drank coffee, ate some cereal, and showered. Staring into her closet, she felt a sinking sensation. What did she have to wear that was suited to a getaway with Ian Noble?
