by BETH KERY
Now every time she opened the refrigerator, Francesca felt that same rush of warmth she experienced that first time when she realized Ian had remembered her beverage preference and then made sure it was available to her while she worked.
Pitiful, she scolded herself as she withdrew a bottle.
“Would you like supper?” Mrs. Hanson asked. “Ian won’t want his for a while yet, but I could bang out something for you.”
“No, I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.” She hesitated, but then blurted, “So Ian is in town? He’ll be home later?”
“Yes, he mentioned it this morning. He usually eats at eight thirty sharp, whether I’m cooking for him or he eats at the office. Ian likes his routine. He has ever since I knew him as a boy.”
Mrs. Hanson glanced up at her. “Why don’t you sit down there and keep me company for a bit. You look pale. You’ve been working too hard. I have some water on the boil. We’ll have a cup of tea.”
“Okay,” Francesca agreed, sinking into one of the stools next to the island. She suddenly felt weak with exhaustion now that her creative-inspired adrenaline rush was fading. Besides, she hadn’t slept well the past two nights.
“What was Ian like as a child?” Francesca couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“Oh, an older soul I’ve never seen in such a wee one’s eyes,” Mrs. Hanson replied with a sad smile. “Serious. Eerily smart. A little shy. Once he warmed up to you, as sweet and loyal as they come.”
Francesca tried to picture the somber, dark-haired, shy boy-Ian, her heart squeezing a little at the image her brain wrought.
“You seem a bit out of sorts,” the housekeeper consoled as she bustled about, pouring hot water into two cups and then arranging some items onto a silver platter: two scones, an exquisite silver spoon and knife, two crisp white cloth napkins, Devonshire cream, and jam dolloped into gorgeous china finger bowls. Nothing was ever done small in Ian Noble’s household, not even for a casual chat in the kitchen. “Isn’t your painting going well?”
“It’s going quite well, actually. Thank you,” she murmured when Mrs. Hanson set down a cup and saucer before her. “Things are moving along. You should come and have a look later.”
“I’d like that. Have a scone? They’re especially good today. Nothing like a scone with cream and jam to jump you out of a bad mood.”
Francesca laughed and shook her head. “My mother would die if she heard you say that.”
“Whatever for?” Mrs. Hanson asked, her pale blue eyes going wide as she paused in the process of ladling sweet cream on her scone.
“Because you’re encouraging me to manage my moods with food, that’s why. My parents, along with half a dozen child psychologists, have drilled the evils of emotional eating into my brain since I was seven years old.” She noticed Mrs. Hanson’s bewildered expression. “I used to be quite overweight as a child.”
“I’ll never believe it! You’re as slim as a wand.”
Francesca shrugged. “Once I went away to school, the weight sort of fell off after a year or two. I started long-distance running, so I suppose that helped. Personally, I think being out from beneath my parents’ critical eye was the real clincher, though.”
Mrs. Hanson made a knowing sound. “Once the weight wasn’t a power struggle anymore, the fat didn’t have any use?”
She grinned. “Mrs. Hanson, you could be a psychologist.”
The housekeeper laughed. “What would Lord Stratham or Ian have done with me then?”
Francesca paused in the process of sipping her tea. “Lord Stratham?”
“Ian’s grandfather, James Noble, the Earl of Stratham. I worked for Lord and Lady Stratham for thirty-three years before I came to America to serve Ian eight years ago.”
“Ian’s grandfather,” Francesca murmured thoughtfully. “Who will inherit his title?”
“Oh, a fellow by the name of Gerard Sinoit, Lord Stratham’s nephew.”
“Not Ian?”
Mrs. Hanson sighed and set down her scone. “Ian is heir to Lord Stratham’s fortune but not to his title.”
Francesca’s forehead crinkled in confusion. English customs were so odd. “Was Ian’s mother or father the Nobles’ child?”
A shadow fell over Mrs. Hanson’s features. “Ian’s mother. Helen was the earl and countess’s only child.”
“Is she . . .” Francesca faded off delicately, and Mrs. Hanson nodded sadly.
“Dead, yes. She died very young. Tragic life.”
“And Ian’s father?”
Mrs. Hanson didn’t immediately reply. She looked torn. “I’m not sure I should speak of such things,” the housekeeper said.
Francesca blushed. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I just—”
“I don’t think you were being impertinent,” Mrs. Hanson assured, patting her hand where it rested on the counter. “It’s just that I’m afraid Ian has a rather sad family history, despite all his blazing fame and fortune as a grown man. His mother was quite rebellious as a young woman . . . wild. The Nobles couldn’t control her,” Mrs. Hanson said with a significant glance. “She ran away in her late teens and was missing for more than a decade. The Nobles feared she was dead but never had any proof of it. They kept searching. It was a black time in the Stratham household.” Pain flickered across Mrs. Hanson’s countenance at the memory. “The lord and lady were frantic to find her.”
“I can only imagine.”
Mrs. Hanson nodded. “It was a terrible, terrible time. And it didn’t get much better when they finally did locate Helen living in some kind of hovel in northern France, almost eleven years after she’d first disappeared. She was quite mad. Sick. Delusional. No one could understand what had happened to her. To this day, no one seems to know. And there was Ian with her—ten years old going on ninety.”
Mrs. Hanson made a choking sound of distress. Francesca hastened off her stool.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said, her mind swirling with a combination of curiosity for more information about Ian and stark concern for the kind housekeeper. She located a box of tissues and brought it to Mrs. Hanson.
“It’s all right. I’m just an old fool,” Mrs. Hanson mumbled, taking a tissue. “Most would say that the Nobles are nothing but my employers, but to me, they’re my only family.” She sniffed and blotted her cheeks.
“Mrs. Hanson. What’s wrong?”
Francesca jumped at the sound of the stern male voice and spun around. Ian stood in the entryway to the kitchen.
Mrs. Hanson looked around guiltily. “Ian, you’re home early.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, his face tight with concern. Francesca realized that Mrs. Hanson’s comment about considering the Nobles her family went both directions.
“I’m fine. Please pay me no mind,” she said, laughing airily and throwing away her tissue. “You know how old women can get maudlin.”
“I’ve never known you to be maudlin,” Ian said. His gaze flicked off Mrs. Hanson and landed on Francesca.
“May I speak to you a moment, in the library?” he asked her.
“Of course,” she said, lifting her chin and forcing herself not to cringe in the face of his blazing stare.
A minute later, she turned anxiously at the sound of Ian shutting the heavy walnut door of the library behind him. He stalked toward her with the smooth, graceful stride of a predatory animal. Why was it she was always comparing such a sophisticated, contained male to a wild thing?
“What did you say to Mrs. Hanson?” he demanded. She suspected it was coming, but she still bristled at the subtle inflection of accusation in his tone.
“I didn’t say anything! We were just . . . talking.”
His gaze bore into her. “Talking about my family.”
She resisted heaving a sigh of relief. Apparently, he’d only heard their last comments and hadn’t realized what Mrs. Hanson had revealed about his mother. And him. Somehow, she knew for a fact he’d be
far less contained than he was if he knew Mrs. Hanson had been loose-lipped about those particular details.
“Yes,” she admitted, straightening and meeting his stare, though it cost her a great deal of effort. Sometimes those angel eyes became the avenging-angel variety. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I asked her about your grandparents.”
“And that made her cry?” he asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.
“I don’t really know the details of what made her cry,” she snapped. “I wasn’t prying, Ian. We were just talking, having polite conversation. You should try it sometime.”
“If you want to know about my family, I would prefer if you asked me.”
“Oh, and you’ll dish out all the details, no doubt,” she countered, her tone just as sarcastic as his had been earlier.
A muscle jumped in his cheek. Abruptly, he walked toward the large, gleaming desk and picked up a small bronze statue of a horse, toying with it. Francesca wondered in mixed irritation and nervousness if he wanted something to do with his hands besides strangle her. With his back to her, she had the opportunity to study him for the first time. He wore an impeccably cut pair of trousers, a white dress shirt, and a blue tie that matched his eyes. Since he always wore suits to the office, she assumed he’d removed the jacket. The starched shirt perfectly fit his wide shoulders. The pants draped his narrow hips and long legs: elegant, raw masculinity defined. He really was a beautiful male animal, she thought resentfully.
“Lin said she contacted you this morning,” he said, the change in topic taking her off guard.
“She did. I’d like to speak to you about what she said,” Francesca replied, anxiety now trumping her anger.
“You painted today,” he said rather than asked.
She blinked in surprise. “Yes. How . . . how did you know?” She’d had the impression he’d come directly to the kitchen upon entering the penthouse.
“There’s paint on your right forefinger.”
She glanced down at her right hand. She’d never seen him even glance in that direction. Did he have eyes in the back of his head?
“Yes, I painted.”
“I thought perhaps you weren’t going to return, after what happened on Wednesday.”
“Well, I did return. And not because you told Lin to call and buy me off. That wasn’t necessary.”
He turned. “I think it was necessary. I won’t have you worrying about whether or not you can afford to finish your degree.”
“Plus—you knew that I would finish the painting if I knew you were going to pay me the commission no matter what,” she said irritably, edging toward him.
He blinked and had the decency to look slightly abashed.
“I don’t like being manipulated,” she said.
“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you. I just didn’t want you to lose an opportunity you deserved because I lost control. You weren’t to blame for what happened in the workout facility.”
“We made out,” she muttered, blushing. “I hardly think it constitutes the faux pas of the century.”
“I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than make out with you, Francesca.”
“Ian, do you like me?” she asked impulsively. Her eyelids sprang wide. She couldn’t believe she’d just blurted out the question that had been festering in her brain for days now.
“Like you? I want to fuck you. Badly. Does that answer your question?”
The ensuing silence seemed to crush her lungs it had so much weight. The echo of his low, rough growl seemed to hover in the air between them.
“Why are you worried about losing control? I’m not a twelve-year-old,” she managed after a moment. Her face grew hotter when his gaze dropped over her.
“No. But you might as well be,” he said, his tone suddenly sounding dismissive. Humiliation flooded through her. How could he go from hot to cold so effortlessly? she wondered, infuriated. He strolled around his desk and sat in the supple leather chair. “You may go now—if there’s nothing else?” he asked, his glance polite. Indifferent.
“I’d like you to pay me when the painting is done. Not before,” she said, her voice quaking with barely contained anger.
He nodded thoughtfully, as if considering her request. “You don’t have to spend the money until then, if you prefer. But the full commission has already been transferred to your bank account.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How did you know my account number?”
He didn’t reply, just raised his eyebrows slightly, his expression bland.
She barely stopped the scorching curse from springing out of her throat. Since she couldn’t cuss out her benefactor for his arrogance—or his generosity—there was nothing else she could think to say to him. Fury had short-circuited her brain. She turned and started to walk out of the room.
“Oh, and Francesca?” he called calmly from behind her.
“Yes?” she asked, looking back.
“Don’t expect to work here Saturday night. I’m entertaining. I’d like privacy.”
Something seemed to drop in her gut like a lead ball. He was telling her he was having a woman there this weekend. Somehow, she just knew it.
“Not a problem. I was planning on going out on Saturday night and letting off some steam with the guys. Things have gotten a bit stifling around here.”
Something flashed in his eyes before she turned around, but his expression remained unreadable.
As usual.
* * *
Davie drove Justin’s car surely through the bustling Saturday-night Wicker Park traffic. Justin was a little tipsy after listening to the Run Around Band at McGill’s for two hours. So were Caden and Francesca, for that matter.
Thus their insane errand.
“Come on, Cesca,” Caden Joyner goaded from the backseat. “We’re all going to get one.”
“Even you, Davie?” Francesca asked from where she sat in the passenger seat.
Davie shrugged. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo on my biceps—one of those old-fashioned ones, like an anchor or something,” he said, flashing her a grin as he turned down North Avenue.
“He thinks it’ll get him a pirate,” Justin joked.
“Well, I’m not going to get one until I have time to draw the design myself,” she said resolutely.
“Spoilsport,” Justin accused loudly. “Where’s the fun in planning for a tattoo? You’re supposed to wake up with a truly atrocious, super-sleazy one in the morning and not have a clue how you got it the night before.”
“Are you talking about a tattoo or the women you bring home?” Caden asked.
Francesca broke into laughter. She barely heard her cell phone ringing in her purse, thanks to her friends’ boisterous teasing and bickering. She peered at her cell phone, not recognizing the number.
“Hello?” she answered, forcing herself to cease laughing.
“Francesca?”
The mirth melted off her mouth.
“Ian?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes.”
Justin said something loudly from the backseat, and Caden roared with laughter. “Am I interrupting something?” Ian asked, his stiff, British-accented voice a stark contrast to her friends’ rowdy banter.
“No. I’m just out with my friends. Why are you calling?” she asked, amazement making her tone more blunt than she’d intended.
Caden cracked up, and Davie joined him. “You guys . . . hold it down,” Francesca hissed and was summarily ignored.
“I’ve been thinking about something—” Ian began.
“No! Turn left,” Justin shouted loudly. “Bart’s Dragon Signs is on North Paulina.”
She gasped when Davie slammed on the breaks and she heaved against the seat belt.
“What were you saying?” Francesca asked into the phone, more disoriented by the fact that Ian had called her than the fact that her brain had just been jostled around her skull by Davie’s abrupt change of direction. There was a long pause on the other end of the
line.
“Francesca, are you drunk?”
“No,” she said coolly. Who was he to take that judgmental tone?
“You’re not driving, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Davie is. And he’s not drunk, either.”
“Who is that, Ces?” Justin called from the backseat. “You’re father?”
Laughter burst out of her throat. She couldn’t help it. Justin’s question had been right on target, given Ian’s holier-than-thou tone.
“Don’t tell him you’re about to get a tattoo on that gorgeous ass of yours!” Caden bellowed.
She winced. Her chuckle was a good deal weaker this time. Embarrassment flooded her at the thought of Ian overhearing her friends’ joking. She was proving that she was just as immature and gauche as he thought.
“You’re not getting a tattoo,” Ian said.
Her grin faded. It’d sounded like a decree more than a clarification.
“Yes, I am getting a tattoo as a matter of fact,” she replied fiercely. “And by the way, I wasn’t aware that you had the right to dictate my life. I agreed to do a painting for you, not become your slave.”
Caden, Davie, and Justin suddenly went dead silent.
“You’ve been drinking. You’ll regret doing something so impulsive tomorrow,” Ian said, a hint of anger ringing in his otherwise calm voice.
“How do you know?” she demanded.
“I know.”
She blinked at his taut, quiet response. For a split second, she’d been convinced he was absolutely right. Irritation spiked through her. She’d been trying to forget about him all evening—trying to make the memory of him saying he wanted to fuck her vanish from her brain—and now he had to go and ruin everything by calling her and acting so infuriating.
“Did you call for a reason? Because if you didn’t, I’m going to get a tattoo of a pirate on my ass,” she said, randomly grabbing a detail from her friends’ earlier banter.
