Because You Are Mine Part VIII: Because I Am Yours

by BETH KERY

  Davie parked in a paid garage on Wacker Drive, south of the river, farther east than their desired destination. Francesca shivered uncontrollably when the river wind sliced straight through her thin wool coat as they crossed the bridge. Davie noticed and took her under his arm. Justin got into the spirit and put his arm around her from the other side, hunkering around her, their bodies helping to protect. Caden, too, had to join in on the gallantry, much to her amusement, hooking arms with Justin to help block her from the brutal, east lake wind. They’d bundled her so close between them that as they guided her down the sidewalk once they cleared the river and bridge, Francesca stumbled.

  “You guys, I can’t see!”

  “But you’re warm, aren’t you?” Justin asked jovially.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  Suddenly Justin and Caden were pushing her into a revolving glass door. Her eyes sprang wide when she realized where they’d maneuvered her. She balked, but Justin was pushing from behind her and she had no choice but to go forward into the Noble Enterprises lobby.

  She stared around, aghast to find herself in Ian’s territory so suddenly . . . so undesirably.

  Several dozen faces looked around at her ungraceful arrival. She saw Lin’s familiar, smiling face, and Lucien’s and Zoe’s . . . and—she gasped—Anne and James Noble beamed at her from a distance. That elegant man with the salt-and-pepper hair that held up his champagne glass to her in a silent salute, wasn’t that Monsieur Garrond, the curator of the Musee de St. Germain whom Ian had introduced her to in Paris? No. It couldn’t be.

  Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief when she recognized her parents standing awkwardly next to a fern, her father tight-lipped, but her mother doing her best to attempt a warm smile.

  “Why is everyone looking at me?” she whispered to Justin when he stepped up next to her. A panic rose in her chest at the surreal scene before her. Justin kissed her warmly on the cheek.

  “It’s a surprise. Look, Francesca. It’s all for you. Congratulations.” She gaped at where he pointed, the once-empty swath of wall that dominated the lobby. Her painting had been framed and mounted. It looked awesome . . . perfect . . .

  Justin gently tilted her jaw when she couldn’t stop gawping at the centerpiece, urging her to see what else was in the room. The entire lobby had been filled with her paintings, each displayed on easels, all of them professionally mounted and framed. People were strolling around in black-tie attire, sipping champagne, and seemingly admiring her work. A small string quartet played Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2.

  She glanced from Justin to Davie, slain. Davie gave her a reassuring smile. “Ian planned it,” he said quietly. “Some of the most affluent collectors, renowned art experts and critics, museum curators and gallery owners from around the globe are here tonight. This party is in your honor, Francesca . . . a chance for the world to see just how talented you really are.”

  She cringed inwardly. Oh my God. All those people looking at my work? But no one appeared to be laughing or snidely incredulous, at least, she thought as she checked several faces anxiously.

  “I don’t understand. Did Ian plan this before London?” she asked.

  “No. He contacted me a day or two after your return from London and asked me to help him arrange things. I had all of the paintings mounted and framed. We’ve even managed to acquire four more of your paintings to add to the collection. Ian can’t wait to show them to you.”

  A sudden prescience struck her, and she looked into the crowd.

  Ian stood next to his grandparents, looking somber, regal, and devastatingly gorgeous in a classic black tux with bow tie. His gaze was alight as it pinned her . . . soulful. Only Francesca, who had grown to know him so well, saw the shadow of anxiety ghosting features that would have looked cold and impassive to other eyes.

  She thought she’d had a heart attack. She clasped her chest.

  “Why’s he done this?” she asked Davie under her breath.

  “I think it’s his way of saying he’s sorry. Some men send flowers, Ian—”

  “Sends the world,” Francesca whispered through numb lips. Ian started toward her, and she followed in kind in his direction, moving like a sleepwalker toward the man she couldn’t take her eyes off of, and whom she craved more than anything she had in her life.

  “Hello,” he said quietly when they met.

  “Hi. This is quite a surprise,” Francesca managed, her heart seemingly crowding out everything else in her rib cage, squeezing her lungs. She realized distantly that probably dozens of stares were on them, but she only could focus on the warmth—the wary hope—in Ian’s.

  “Did I have it hung to your satisfaction?” he asked, and she knew he meant the painting.

  “Yes. It’s perfect.”

  Her heart did its usual jump when he smiled. He held up his hands. Recognizing the familiar gesture, she unbuttoned her coat and turned. When he slid her coat off her arms she spun toward him, chin high, spine straight—yes, even in the boho dress. His gaze ran over her fleetingly and she saw he recognized the dress. His smile reached all the way to his eyes. He took two glasses of champagne from a waiter who was passing and murmured a request before handing the man her coat.

  A moment later, he handed her a flute and stepped closer. Francesca had the impression that the other party participants tried to focus their attention back on their own conversations, giving them a little privacy. Ian touched his flute to hers.

  “To you, Francesca. May you have everything you deserve in life, because there is no one so deserving.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, taking a reluctant sip, unsure as to how she should be feeling in these bewildering circumstances.

  “Will you spend this evening with me, both now,” he glanced around the crowded lobby, “and later? There are some things I’d like to tell you in private. I hope you’ll listen.”

  Her throat tightened when she guessed at what some of those ‘things’ might be. She suddenly doubted she could endure the next few hours, wondering what he’d say. A tiny part of her said she should refuse, the part that wanted to keep her heart safe. But then she looked into his eyes, and her decision was made.

  “Yes. I’ll listen.”

  He smiled, took her hand and escorted her into the crowd.

  * * *

  It was past midnight by the time Ian opened the door to his suite for her and she walked into the subtly lit, elegant room.

  “I thought maybe I’d never be in this bedroom again,” she said breathlessly, glancing around, cherishing little details of Ian’s private sanctuary as she never had before. They’d been together all night, Ian never leaving her side, Francesca highly aware of him as he introduced her to movers and shakers from the art world or showed her the last four of her paintings that had been recovered, or they conversed with friends and family. All the while, she wondered what he was thinking . . . what he would say to her when they were alone in private.

  She’d been courted by three renowned galleries for future collections and asked to do a showing at the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art. She’d looked to Ian for that, since he was the owner of her current paintings, and he’d told her point-blank it was up to her to decide. Four collectors had made bids on her paintings, although Ian had refused to sell, point-blank. To top it all off, one of the offers had been made in the company of her father, whose incredulity at the price mentioned had made her father turn pale. In general, Ian’s effect on both of her parents had been quite marked. They’d been so tongue-tied and eager to please in his presence that she was quite sure Ian must have thought her a liar about all she’d told him about them. Francesca was a little annoyed by this unexpected servile bent in their character, but mostly just relieved they behaved quiet pleasantly all evening.

  Ian shut the door of his bedroom suite and leaned against it. She faced him.

  “Thank you, Ian,” she said breathlessly. “I felt like the belle of the ball tonight.”

  “I’m jus
t glad that you came.”

  “I doubt I would have if Davie and the others hadn’t tricked me. I didn’t think you would want to see me after London . . . after it all. You were so angry.”

  “I was, yes. I haven’t been for a while, though.”

  “No?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  He shook his head, never breaking her stare. His mouth tightened. “No. But I also couldn’t quite figure out just what the hell I was. It didn’t take me long to know, but then I had to find a way to tell you in a situation where you couldn’t run away from me too easily. I apologize for the subterfuge tonight.” His mouth twisted as though he’d eaten something bitter. “I’m sorry, in general.”

  She started in surprise at his harsh declaration. “For which part?”

  “For all of it. From the first thing I said to you that was unappreciative and callous to the last selfish thing I’ve done. I’m sorry, Francesca.”

  She swallowed thickly, unable to meet his stare for some reason. Even though she knew exchanges like this were necessary, given everything that had happened between them, it still seemed so secondary compared to what she’d seen in London.

  “How is your mother?” she asked quietly.

  “Stabilized,” he said, still leaning against the door. He exhaled after a few seconds and took a step toward her. She couldn’t look away as he removed his tuxedo jacket and laid it on the back of a chair, mesmerized by his male beauty. “There isn’t much hope that she’ll improve on this particular medication regime, but she won’t get worse. That’s something, at least.”

  “Yes. It is. I know you don’t want my pity, Ian. I understand that. I didn’t go to London to offer you sympathy.”

  “Then why did you?” he said, his quiet voice lending to the subdued, full moment.

  “To offer you my support. I knew that whatever was in London pained you, even though I had no idea what I’d find there. I just wanted to be there for you. That’s all.”

  He gave a small smile. “You make it seem like that’s such a small throwaway thing. No . . . I made it seem that way. I took your act of caring and kindness and threw it in your face,” he said bluntly, his jaw rigid.

  “I know it made you feel exposed. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve had to protect her for a long time,” he said suddenly, following a long pause.

  “I know. Anne told me,” understanding he referred to his mother.

  He frowned. “It was grandmother who told me I was being a selfish, stubborn ass. She wouldn’t speak to me for a week when I confessed some of the things I’d said to you for showing up at the Institute. She’s never done that before,” he said, his brow furrowed as if he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what to make of his loving, very elegant grandmother calling him an ass.

  Her heart stuttered in grateful surprise at the news of Anne’s support. “I wasn’t there to judge. Even if I were, there would have been nothing to put on trial but a very sick woman and a son who loves her and hopes for her, despite everything.”

  He jerked his chin, staring at the far wall.

  “I treated you unfairly . . . wrongly. I like to punish you for sexual excitement, but I never truly want to hurt you. But that day on the plane—I did. Not completely, but part of me wanted to—”

  “Make me hurt like you were hurting?”

  His gaze flashed guiltily to her face. “Yes.”

  “I understood, Ian,” she said softly. “It wasn’t what happened in the plane’s bedroom suite that upset me. You didn’t hurt me, and you must know I took pleasure in it. It was that you walked away from me afterward.”

  She sensed his rising tension.

  “I was ashamed. Of her. Of you seeing her. Of myself for still having that damn feeling rise up in me of not wanting others to see her. Why should it matter now?” he bit out.

  The bitter words seemed to hang in the air between them, an expelled toxin, secret words that he’d carried deep inside his spirit since he was a child, perhaps the most crucial, powerful words he’d ever said to her . . . to anyone.

  Francesca walked over to him and put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his white shirt. Inhaling his unique male scent, she hugged tight. She clenched her eyelids shut as emotion washed over her. She understood how difficult this was for him to say these things, a man who ritualistically guarded against vulnerability, who remained stoic and strong because he believed he had no other choice.

  “I love you,” she said.

  He captured her chin with his fingers and lifted her face to his. He brushed his finger over her jaw. She noticed his frown as he studied her.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “I didn’t give myself permission to fall in love with you.”

  She laughed softly when she absorbed his starkly spoken words. So like him, to say something like that. Love swelled in her breast, so great and so pure, it verged on pain. “You can’t control everything, Ian, least of all this. Does that mean that you do? Love me?” she asked hesitantly.

  “I think I might have loved you even before we met, since I first realized it was you who captured me on canvas . . . you who treated my pain with such a knowing hand. It shamed me, what you saw, but I couldn’t help but want you to see more of me. You’re too good for me,” he declared roughly. “And I’m sure I don’t deserve you. But you’re mine, Francesca. And for what it’s worth . . . I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”

  The words rattled and rocked her world, setting her off balance. But then his mouth settled on hers, and she found her center.

  Read on for a bonus excerpt from Wicked Burn, available soon from Headline

  One

  If someone had told her when her alarm clock went off that morning that in a few hours she’d be calmly given the odds of her continued survival, Joy would have rolled her eyes and laughed her fears into the corners of her consciousness.

  If someone had warned her that later that afternoon she’d be going down on a gorgeous stranger, she’d have told that person they were certifiably insane.

  Wilkie shouted her name as she raced through the din of the makeup room. A photo shoot for movie posters and other promotional materials was scheduled today. The special effects makeup department was roaring in high gear. Wilkie James looked too busy to chat, so Joy merely slowed her rapid pace. Her friend held an airbrush and was staring intently at a female’s right breast as he turned it pale green, his shaggy, dark brown hair just inches away from a nipple.

  “He’s in his lab, angsting for your talent. ‘I need Joy,’ he keeps moaning,” Wilkie imitated, adding a tremble to Seth Hightower’s gruff baritone for comic effect. “He’s been trying to reach you for hours. Where’ve you been, beautiful?”

  “Don’t I have a life, or was that all my imagination?” Joy asked, grinning.

  “You may have had a life before we began production on Maritime, but that’s all just a dream now, honey,” Wilkie drawled as he moved to the left breast, and his model yawned widely.

  That’s all just a dream now.

  Wilkie’s careless words struck her with frightening precision. She shrugged off the shadow of dread that hovered at the corners of her consciousness and walked on, willing the energy from her surroundings to distract her . . .

  Numb her.

  The drama and excitement of a Hollywood film set wasn’t Joy’s typical work world. As an art teacher for gifted high school students and a painter, she preferred the atmosphere of the classroom or her quiet, sunlit studio at home. Even the clamor and bustle of a Hollywood makeup department couldn’t fully penetrate her dread, however.

  Not today.

  She felt as if she were moving through a dream . . . something like the brilliant, surreal underwater world film director Joshua Cabot was creating for United Studios’s latest blockbuster,Maritime.

  She willfully ignored the uncomfortable pounding in her chest and flung open the door to Seth Hightower’s office-studio. She needed to see t
he familiar, loved, bold-featured face of her uncle; he was the only true family member she still possessed. Seth glanced around at the sound of her tool kit rolling over the threshold behind her.

  “There you are!”

  “I didn’t get the messages until a half an hour ago. I was at the doctor. I came as quickly as I could.”

  Seth looked contrite. “I know. Ignore me. I’m in a bear of a mood.”

  Joy smiled. Her uncle was a bear of a man in stature, perhaps, but hardly in temperament. At least not with Joy, he wasn’t. He tossed a few tubes of paint and glue into his kit before he straightened, swept down on her from his great height and gave her a quick, affectionate kiss, his shoulder-length dark hair flicking against her cheek. “You’re not even officially part of my staff and I snap at you like an intern. Your mother would have my hide.” Seth focused on her face, his brows drawing together in a V shape, giving him an expression that anyone besides Joy would have found intimidating. “I know you had to take off school a few days last week. Is that why you were at the doctor? How’s the cough?”

  “Better,” Joy said as she glanced around the meticulously organized room. As the makeup department head, Seth claimed the right to privacy. His office-studio was like the still eye of a storm. “I don’t have pneumonia,” she reported honestly. “What’s the emergency?”

  “It’s coming at me from all directions. Our leading lady decided to drink some Coke spiked with vodka without a straw. The latex is lifting around her mouth,” Seth said, referring to the actress’s prosthetic mask. “She’s throwing a fit and holing up in her trailer, refusing to let anyone touch her up but me. Meantime, I’m running behind on the tattoos.”

  Joy gave her uncle a humorous glance of sympathy. “There’s a cost to being the best.”

  “Anybody on my staff could reglue Ellie, you know that. She’s just throwing her weight around by asking for me personally.”

  “She must think you’re the best at a few things.”

  “As if I’d ever give that little shrew the chance to find out,” Seth muttered with a disgusted, distracted air. Joy’s heart went out to him. This had to be one of the most hectic days of his life. “Anyway, that only leaves you who can do the last tattoo—”