Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(58)
Author: Beth Kery

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Sixteen was housed in the Trump International Hotel & Tower, the dining room dominated by the modern, clean lines of cherrywood-paneled walls and an enormous, stunning Swarovski-crystal chandelier. They dined next to thirty-foot tall floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at magnificent views of the city, some of the buildings so close she felt like she could reach out and touch them.

Francesca initially thought that the best way to describe their dinner companion, Xander LaGrange, was polished, but she quickly altered the descriptor to slick. She learned that Ian and he knew each other through the University of Chicago and were old rivals—or at least from Xander’s viewpoint.

“So you were in college together?” she clarified when Xander made a vague reference to how long he and Ian had known each other.

“I was a graduate student when Ian was a freshman at the University of Chicago,” Xander explained. “Once he came along, myself and the rest of the computer-science department were constantly trying to find our ways out of his brilliant shadow. Ian and I shared an academic mentor. Professor Sharakoff asked me to grade his papers and Ian to write a book with him.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Xander,” Ian said quietly

“I thought I was downplaying things,” LaGrange said with a swift smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

LaGrange was in his mid-thirties, with short sandy-blond hair graying at the temples. He was handsome and charming enough, Francesca supposed, for a dinner companion. She immediately sensed the underlying conflict between Ian and him, however. By the time the waiter came to take their drink orders, she’d gauged that while Ian was the epitome of polite charm toward the other man, he despised him. She sensed his dislike from where he sat next to her, with his rigid posture and strained muscles.

Xander LaGrange, on the other hand, was full-out envious of Ian . . . possibly even aggressively so. She studied his white-toothed smiles, which reminded her more of a snarl, and wondered if LaGrange’s jealousy wasn’t at the bottom of his reluctance to Ian’s terms for the acquisition of his company all this time.

“Would you like club soda?” Ian asked her when the waiter arrived.

“No. Champagne, I think,” she said, returning LaGrange’s smile of appreciation at her choice. She was feeling a little daring tonight . . . euphoric. Maybe it was the sexy dress, or the stunning view, or the appreciative gleam in LaGrange’s eyes as he studied her from across the table—or Ian’s quiet threat before they’d left his bedroom—but she was definitely feeling rebellious and . . .

. . . stirred up.

Was this the power that Ian wanted her to own?

“Where did you find this long-stemmed rose, Ian?” LaGrange mused, his eyes hot on Francesca, after Ian had placed an order for a bottle of champagne. Ian explained about her winning the commission to provide the painting for his lobby. “Gifted in addition to being beautiful,” LaGrange complimented when Ian was finished. He gave Ian a glance that struck her as wolfish. “I can understand why you wanted to bring her tonight.”

Her gaze immediately flew to Ian. Was LaGrange insinuating that Ian had brought her as a piece of arm candy to make final negotiations go more smoothly? She’d wondered herself why he’d asked her to the dinner. A shadow flickered across Ian’s countenance and was gone.

“I brought Francesca because I’ve been so busy on this deal with you that I haven’t had the opportunity to see her much.”

“And it’s greatly appreciated,” LaGrange assured, his dark eyes flickering across Francesca’s face and chest. The waiter uncorked their champagne, adding to Francesca’s giddy mood. “There’s no deal that a beautiful woman doesn’t sweeten,” he added, making her flush in embarrassment.

Did Ian stiffen next to her? She thought not when he began to converse with LaGrange amiably enough about some final details of their deal. She gathered from their exchange that a major holdup in negotiations thus far had been that LaGrange wanted partial payment in stock from Ian’s company, while Ian insisted on a cash-only purchase. She could well imagine Ian refusing to give a hold—even a relatively minor one—to any other person over his company. Apparently, he’d finally offered LaGrange a cash amount that couldn’t be walked away from.

“No sane man could refuse that offer, Ian,” LaGrange finally conceded, raising his champagne flute for a toast. “So here’s to your new company.”

Ian’s smile seemed a little strained as Francesca joined them in the toast. “Lin Soong delivered all the necessaries to my penthouse this evening. We can go there for a nightcap following dinner and take care of all the paperwork.”

Talk turned to more mundane matters. LaGrange encouraged Francesca to talk about her artwork and school, which she did so more ebulliently than usual, likely due to the champagne. Ian gave her a gleaming sideways glance when the waiter poured her a third glass, but she determinedly ignored his subtle warning for propriety. Instead, she heartily agreed with LaGrange when he suggested they get another bottle.

Halfway through her delicious entrée of wild black bass, she felt an imperative need to attend the ladies’ room. She excused herself and started to push back her chair. Ian stood and pulled it back for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his eyes. He blinked when she started to remove the cover-up. “I’m a little warm,” she explained breathlessly.

He really had no other choice but to help her remove it, but she noticed the stiffness of his jaw. She grabbed her clutch and headed in search of the ladies’ room, both embarrassed and thrilled by the number of heads that turned her way as she progressed across the dining room. She prayed Ian’s eyes were on her as well. The attention she was getting was more intoxicating than the champagne.

Was this the type of thing that beautiful women experienced on a daily basis? Incredible, she thought, as she smiled at a man in his forties who was staring at her, and he tripped, ruffling his female companion when he grabbed for her arm to steady himself.

LaGrange looked highly amused when she returned to the table and Ian stood to seat her. “I expect you bring traffic to a halt on a regular basis, Francesca?” he murmured, holding her stare over the rim of his champagne glass.

“Never,” she replied with sincere cheerfulness. “Except for once—I tripped in the middle of Michigan Avenue after running a mini-marathon and getting a bad cramp.”