Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(51)
Author: Beth Kery

“I told you once before that a woman wears the clothes, Francesca,” he’d said as he sat across the table from her. His eyes had been the color of the midnight-blue sky in the candlelight. “If a woman recognizes her power, she can present herself in rags and people will recognize her as a queen.”

She’d scoffed. “That sounds like the type of thing an earl’s grandson would be taught. I’m afraid I live in a different world, Ian.”

They’d eaten a luxurious meal, exchanging conversation, sipping red wine, and sampling items from the sumptuous gourmet tasting menu, being waited on hand and foot by not one but two waiters, neither one of whom so much as blinked an eye at Francesca’s apparel. Apparently, being Ian’s guest conferred a special status. When she’d shivered at a brisk breeze, Ian had stood and removed his jacket, insisting that she put it on.

Anybody else would probably have thought it a storybook romantic evening, but as the dinner progressed, Francesca’s uncertainty and frustration at Ian’s distance had only amplified. He was solicitous and polite . . . the perfect companion. At first, she’d blamed some of the strained atmosphere on the omnipresence of the hovering waiters during their meal, but as time wore on, she knew that wasn’t it.

He’d definitely shut himself off from her after teaching her how to pleasure him. Why? Had she done it all wrong, and he was too polite to tell her the truth?

Had he perhaps had his fill of her already?

Her suspicions were confirmed when they returned to the suite later and he’d asked her if she minded if he attended to some work. She’d responded with a careless “Of course not,” but her uncertainty was quickly morphing to anger. She’d gone into the bedroom and checked her e-mails on her phone.

At one point, he’d entered the bedroom, causing her heart to jump. However, he’d merely handed her a package. She’d opened it to find a three-month supply of birth-control pills inside.

“These were just delivered. Aaron, the pharmacist, says you may begin taking them immediately. I had him include instructions in English,” he’d said.

“How considerate of you.”

He’d blinked at her quiet sarcasm.

“Are you upset about my suggesting you go on the pill? I’m having the results of a recent medical exam sent to me. I’ll show it to you. I want you to be reassured that I’m clean and perfectly healthy as well. As long as we’re together, I won’t be with anyone else.”

“That’s not what I was thinking about,” she’d said, even though relief had gone through her at his words. She should have brought up that topic before.

His gaze had run over her face searchingly. “You’ve noticed that I’ve been preoccupied this evening? I’m sorry,” he’d said after a pause. “I needed to get some work done. I have a very important acquisition that I’ve been planning for ages finally coming to fruition next week.”

She’d given him a bland glance. It wasn’t his work that had her irritated and anxious, either, and he must know that. It was the contrast of their incredibly intimate sexual experience and his current aloofness.

He’d stared at her silently for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. Anticipation had risen in her about what he was about to say, her sarcastic expression easing. She’d experienced an overwhelming need to take his hand in reassurance.

“Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”

She’d closed her eyes briefly as disappointment flooded her at his question.

“I told you I was abominable with women,” he’d said in a harsh, restrained tone. She’d opened her eyes.

“You also once told me you weren’t a nice man. I can’t help but notice that neither on that occasion nor this one have you expressed an ounce of remorse for your shortcomings . . . not a hint of a struggle.”

Anger had leapt in his eyes at that.

“I suppose you feel you can make me a better man,” he’d said, his full lips twisting as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Take a word of advice, Francesca, and save yourself the effort. I am what I am, and I’ve never lied to you about being anything more.”

She’d stared at his tall form as he walked out of the room, mute with rising bewilderment, anger, and hurt.

Is that what he thought? That she wanted to change him just because she was confused by his withdrawal after they’d had sex?

Or was he right to admonish her? He’d been completely attentive to her every wish all evening, treating her to an exclusive dining experience while overlooking the most romantic skyline in the world.

He hadn’t offered her his heart; he’d promised her experience and pleasure, and he’d delivered both in spades.

Her thoughts had only tangled her up further, creating an anxious knot in her belly. She’d tried to read an e-book on her phone but mostly stewed in her confusion and hurt until she’d fallen asleep.

This morning when she’d wakened, he was nowhere to be seen. She had a vague recollection of the hard, warm length of him pressing against her at some point in the night—his arms around her, his mouth moving across the skin between her neck and shoulder in a taut, electric kiss. It was difficult, however, to determine if the stirring memory was a dream or reality.

There had been a note on the bedside table.

Francesca,

I had a breakfast meeting in La Galerie downstairs. Feel free to call room service if you like. We’re due to leave Paris for Chicago at 11:30. Please get packed and ready, and I’ll return to the suite to retrieve you at 9:00.

Ian

She scowled when she read the message. He’d made it sound like she was a package or a suitcase.

At ten minutes past nine, she stood in the living room of the suite, her purse and packed duffel bag on her shoulder, both regretful about leaving the exquisite Parisian suite where Ian had taught her so much about desire, and longing for the normalcy—the mundane sanity—of her everyday life.

She checked her watch and scowled. No Ian.

Screw this.

Feeling restless, she dashed off a quick note to Ian that she’d meet him in the lobby and exited the hotel suite. It’d get her mind off things to sit in the luxurious lobby and watch all the sophisticated, well-heeled patrons while she waited.

Downstairs, she sunk into one of the plush lobby chairs and dug into her purse for her cell phone, meaning to check messages. Something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. When she realized it was Ian’s tall, singular form that had snagged her focus, she leaned back in the chair, peering around the barrier of the upholstered winged back. He was walking out of La Galerie, one of the hotel restaurants, his arm around a well-dressed dark-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Francesca couldn’t hear their conversation at this distance, but their exchange struck her as intense somehow . . . intimate.