by BETH KERY
He nodded and dared to look at her naked beauty flushed from climax. Christ, she was beautiful: the dark eyes of a nymph, the pale, soft skin of an Irish maid, the lithe, voluptuous body of a Roman goddess. He resisted a nearly imperative, dark urge to pounce and sink his cock into the heaven of her like some kind of wild animal.
“Yes. I’m taking you out to dinner,” he said, shortly, instead.
“You bought me something to wear?” she asked, nymph eyes going wide in surprise.
He smiled grimly and returned his attention to his work with monumental effort. “I told you I’d give you everything you needed, Francesca.”
***
She must be becoming jaded, because when she saw the opulent, surprisingly large aircraft bedroom suite, she wasn’t stunned. Maybe that was because she was getting to know Ian better and knew he’d never be satisfied with anything but tasteful perfection. She opened the closet door, as he had instructed her to do, and saw a black knit evening dress hanging in the closet.
“Lin says to tell you that everything else you’ll need is either inside the top drawer in the bureau in the closet or on top of it,” Ian had said a moment ago. “She says the temperature in Paris will be a pleasant sixty-five degrees tonight, so the hosiery is optional,” he added, glancing at his cell phone, clearly reading a text from his efficient assistant.
Inside the built-in mahogany drawer, she found an exquisite black lace panty-and-bra set. She held up another ebony lace item, confused, before realizing it was a garter. A wave of embarrassment went through her at the thought of Lin arranging to have this intimate apparel made available to her. Perhaps she ran such errands for Ian all the time?
Her fingers ran over the last item in the drawer—silk stockings. She glanced nervously at the closed door to the bedroom and stuffed the garter back into the drawer. More than likely, Ian would want her to wear them, but she had no idea how to put on a garter and stockings. Besides, Lin had said hosiery was optional, hadn’t she?
On top of the bureau were two boxes—one made of cardboard and one of leather. She opened the shoe box first and gave a muted oooh of pleasure when she saw a black suede, super-sexy pair of pumps nestled in tissue. Francesca wasn’t a shoe hound by any stretch of the imagination—her jogging shoes were the most prized and expensive item of clothing that she owned—but a woman’s heart must beat in her breast after all, because she couldn’t wait to try on the sophisticated heels. She noticed the brand and winced. The shoes probably cost more than she paid for three months’ worth of rent.
Feeling both thrilled and wary, she opened the last box. The pearls shone luminously against the black velvet lining. The necklace was an exquisite double strand, the earring studs simple. Both items epitomized understated class.
Was this all part of her payment for agreeing to let Ian possess her sexually for a period of time? The thought sickened her a little.
Setting aside the leather box, she hurried to the bathroom and dropped the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. A hot shower would ground her, help her cast off this surreal sense that kept creeping upon her stealthily. She twisted a towel around her head to keep her hair dry and turned on the water.
She walked out of the bathroom several minutes later, her skin gleaming with the scented moisturizer she’d found on the counter. She still hadn’t decided about what to do with all the expensive clothing and jewelry Ian had provided.
“We’re about an hour out. We got lucky. Conditions were perfect,” an electronic-sounding male voice said, making her start in shock. She realized it was the pilot, who spoke through a microphone somewhere. She thought of Ian out in the other compartment, glancing up, rising out of his concentration as he worked when he heard the pilot.
He expected her to wear the clothing he’d bought for her. He would be irritated if she refused. She didn’t want to do battle with him. Not tonight. Besides, hadn’t she agreed to this mad venture?
Hadn’t she sold her soul to the devil in order to fully experience his touch?
She discounted the melodramatic thought and went over to the drawer and withdrew the silk-and-lace panties.
Twenty minutes later, she walked out of the bedroom, feeling extremely self-conscious and quite sure she was going to fall on her face in the luscious heels she wore. Ian gave a brief sideways glance when she approached, then did a double take. His expression went flat as his gaze ran over her.
“I . . . didn’t know what to do with my hair,” she said stupidly. “I have some plastic clips in my purse, but they didn’t seem—”
“No,” he said, standing. Even wearing the heels, she was still a good three or four inches shorter than him. He reached out and ran his fingers through her unbound hair. At least she’d straightened it this morning, and it wasn’t too wild after her sleep. It looked smooth and lustrous next to the black dress after she’d combed it, but even Francesca—a complete fashion idiot—knew that the outfit she wore called for an upswept style. “We’ll get you something suitable to put it up tomorrow. But for tonight, you can wear it down. A crown of glory like that is never out of place.”
She gave him an uncertain smile. His blue-eyed stare flickered over her breasts, waist, and belly, making her flush with heat. Francesca had been part horrified, part thrilled to see how closely the thin knit wraparound dress hugged her figure. The dress was elegant sexiness defined—or at least it would have been on somebody else, she amended as she studied Ian’s face anxiously.
Was he pleased? She couldn’t quite tell from his shuttered expression.
“I’m not going to keep any of these things,” she said quietly. “They’re too much.”
“I told you that I could offer you two things in this venture.”
“Yes . . . pleasure and experience.”
“It gives me great pleasure to see your beauty revealed. As for you, the clothing is part of the experience, Francesca.” His gaze sunk over her, and he released her hair, his jaw looking tight. “Why don’t you just enjoy it? God knows I will,” he said roughly before he turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a brisk click.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Francesca sat in the midst of the Palais-Royal, at a private table at the historic Le Grand Véfour restaurant. She was so overwhelmed by the voluptuous artwork, the sumptuous food, the anticipation of what was to happen later that night . . . by Ian’s steady, heavy-lidded gaze on her that she could barely swallow the food, let alone appreciate it as she should have.
The entire experience was a barely restrained seduction.
“You hardly ate,” Ian said when the waiter came to clear the remains of their entrées.
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, cringing inwardly at the mere thought of how much money and effort had been wasted on her sublime meal of beef bourguignon and mashed potatoes with oxtails and black truffles that was about to be tossed into the garbage. The waiter spoke inquiringly to Ian in French, and he replied in kind, never removing his gaze from her. One thing was for certain: She’d barely been able to take her eyes off him ever since he’d emerged from the plane’s bedroom earlier, wearing a modern version of a classic tuxedo with a black necktie instead of a bow, a pristine white shirt, and a handkerchief tucked into his pocket. He’d turned every head in the exclusive restaurant while escorting her to the table.
“Are you nervous?” he asked quietly once the waiter had walked away.
She nodded, intuiting his meaning. She stared at his long, blunt-tipped fingers idly circling the base of his champagne flute and repressed a shiver.
“Would it help you any to know that I am as well?”
She blinked and looked into his face. His blue eyes were like gleaming crescents beneath hooded lids.
“Yes,” she blurted out. And after a pause, “You are?”
He nodd
ed thoughtfully. “With good reason, I think.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“Because I’m so excited to have you, there’s a chance I’ll lose control. I never lose control, Francesca. Never. But I might tonight.”
A thrill of anticipation went through her at the hint of dark warning in his tone. Why did the thought of seeing Ian undone by passion stir her to her very core? She glanced up in surprise when the waiter returned and placed a beautiful dessert before her and a silver coffee service before Ian.
“Est-ce qu’il y aura autre chose, monsieur?” the waiter asked Ian.
“Non, merci.”
“Très bien, bon appétit,” the waiter said before he walked away.
“I didn’t order this,” Francesca said, staring dubiously at the dessert.
“I know. I ordered it for you. Eat some. You’re going to need the energy, lovely.” She glanced up from beneath her lashes and saw his small smile. “It’s the house specialty, palet aux noisettes. Even if you were stuffed to the gills, you’d want this. Trust me,” he urged softly. She picked up her fork.
She gave a small moan of sensual delight a moment later as the combination of cake, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and caramel ice cream blended on her tongue. He smiled, and she smiled back impishly, forking another portion with more enthusiasm.
“You speak French very well,” she commented before she slid the fork between her lips.
“There’s no reason I shouldn’t. I’m a French citizen, as well as one of the United Kingdom. It’s a tie-up as to whether my native tongue is French or English. The townspeople spoke French where I grew up; my mother English.”
She paused in her chewing, recalling what Mrs. Hanson had told her about Ian’s grandparents finally finding their daughter in northern France and discovering a grandson as well. She longed to ask him more about his past.
“You never speak of your parents,” she said cautiously, taking another bite.
“You never speak of yours, either. Aren’t you close with them?”
“Not really,” she said, hiding her scowl at the realization he’d changed the topic away from himself. “My whole life I thought they disapproved of me because I was overweight, or so I thought. Now that I’m not overweight anymore, I’ve had to come to the conclusion that they just don’t get me. Period.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, toying with her fork. “We get along all right. We’re not feuding or anything dramatic. It’s just . . . painful to be around them.”
“Painful?” he asked, pausing as he raised his cup to his mouth.
“Not painful, I guess. Just . . . awkward,” she said, lifting her fork.
“Don’t they appreciate what a gifted artist you are?”
She closed her eyes briefly in gustatory bliss as the flavors melted on her tongue. “My artwork just annoys them. My father more than my mother,” she said after she’d squeezed every last bit of sweet succulence out of the confection and swallowed. She slicked her thumb along her lips, capturing a dollop of milk-chocolate mousse with the tip of her tongue. God, it was delicious.
She glanced up when Ian tossed his napkin on the table.
“That’s it. Time to go,” he said, pushing his chair back.
“What?” she asked, startled by his abruptness.
He came around to help her with her chair. “Never mind,” he said grimly, taking her hand. “Just remind me the next time I’m grasping for restraint not to order you chocolate.”
Pleasure flooded through her at his comment, the potency of it far greater than even that conferred by the delectable palet aux noisettes.
***
“Where are we staying?” Francesca asked him several minutes later as Jacob zoomed down a darkened, nearly deserted rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Unlike their trip from the airport to the restaurant, when he’d sat next to her in the limo, her hand fast in his, Ian now sat across from her, his manner distant as he stared broodingly out the window.
“At the Hotel George V. But we’re not going there yet.”
“Then where—”
The car slowed. He nodded significantly out the window. Her eyes widened as she recognized the shape and ornate architecture of the Second Empire building that overtook the entire city block.
“The Musee de St. Germain?” she asked, joking. She was familiar with the museum of Greek and Italian antiquities from her undergraduate days of study in Paris. The museum was housed in one of the few remaining privately held palaces left in the city.
“Yes.”
The laughter died on her lips. “Are you serious?”
“Of course,” he said calmly.
“Ian, it’s past midnight in Paris. The museum is closed.” Jacob halted the limo. A moment later, the driver rapped once on the back door before he opened it. Ian got out and took her hand as she alighted on the tree-lined, dimly lit street. He smiled when she stared dubiously up at him, and then took her hand.
“Don’t worry. We won’t stay long. I’m as eager to get back to the hotel as you are. More so,” he added under his breath. He guided her onto the sidewalk and to a door couched within a deep stone arch. Much to her surprise, an elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair immediately answered when Ian knocked on the thick wooden door.
“Mr. Noble,” he greeted with what appeared to be a mixture of pleasure and respect. They entered, and the man closed the door behind them before tapping his fingers over a keypad. Francesca heard a lock click loudly. A green light began to blink on what appeared to be an elaborate security system.
“Alaine. I can’t thank you enough for this special favor,” Ian greeted warmly when the other man turned. The two men shook hands within a dimly lit, white marble entryway as Francesca glanced around, confused but curious. This was not an entrance on the public tour.
“Nonsense. It is nothing,” the man said in a hushed tone, as if this were some kind of clandestine nighttime mission.
“How is your family? Monsieur Garrond is well, I trust?” Ian asked.
“Very well, although we are both like displaced cats at the present moment as we have major renovations done on our apartment. We’re getting too old to have our routines disrupted, I’m afraid. How is Lord Stratham fairing?”
“Grandmother says he’s a bear following his knee surgery, but his stubbornness is an asset in this case. He’s recovering well.”
Alaine chuckled. “Please give both of them my regards the next time you see them.”
“I shall, but you will likely see them before I do. Grandmother plans to attend the opening of the Polygnotus exhibit next week.”
“We are fortunate,” Alaine said, beaming, and Francesca couldn’t help but feel he meant it entirely. His gaze landed on Francesca with polite interest. She clearly sensed his intelligence and curiosity.
“Francesca Arno, I’d like you to meet Alaine Laurent. He’s the director of the St. Germain.”
“Ms. Arno, welcome,” he said, taking her hand. “Mr. Noble tells me you are quite a talented artist.”
Warmth rushed through her at the knowledge Ian had complimented her behind her back. “Thank you. My work is nothing to what you come into contact with every day in your work here. I loved coming to the St. Germain when I was an undergraduate studying in Paris.”
“It’s a place of inspiration as well as art and history, no?” he said, smiling. “I hope the piece that Ian shows you tonight will provide its own special inspiration. We are quite proud to have her here at the St. Germain,” he said mysteriously. “I will leave you to your own devices then. I have everything arranged for you. Please be assured that you won’t be disturbed. I have shut off surveillance of the Fontainebleau salon for your short visit to afford you some privacy. I’m working in the east wing, if you shou
ld need me,” Monsieur Laurent said.
“We won’t. And I want to thank you again for this consideration. I know it was an unusual request,” Ian said.
“I have complete faith that you wouldn’t make it without excellent reason,” Monsieur Laurent said smoothly.
“I will call you when we are finished with the viewing. It won’t be long,” Ian assured.
Monsieur Laurent gave a slight bow that seemed completely natural and graceful and walked away.
“Ian, what are we doing?” Francesca whispered heatedly as he started to lead her down a dim, arched passage in the opposite direction from which Monsieur Laurent had departed.
He didn’t immediately reply. It was difficult to keep up with his long-legged stride in her stiletto heels. They quickly started to penetrate the passages into the bowels of the huge, venerable building, eventually entering museum areas that she recognized. It was a salon-style museum versus a gallery. The St. Germain’s interior as a palace residence had been preserved. Walking through the rooms gave the impression of going back in time to a posh, elegant, lived-in seventeenth-century palace showcasing priceless furnishings and incredible pieces of Grecian and Roman art.
“Do you want me to paint something else for you, and the inspiration is here at the St. Germain?” she prodded.
“No,” he said, not looking at her as he pulled her along, the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoing off the high ceiling and sweeping marble arches.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” she asked incredulously.
“Because I told myself I wanted to give you this experience, but I’m also eager to get you alone at the hotel.” He’d said it so matter-of-factly that she was rendered speechless as they passed salons to her right and left, the images of frozen statuary only increasing her sense of unreality. She’d thought things had been surreal all day, but walking through a mostly deserted, hushed palace’s halls at Ian’s side had her truly disoriented. He marched into a familiar long, narrow salon and suddenly came to a halt.
He’d stopped so suddenly, she nearly spilled forward in her high heels, her hair falling into her face. She noticed where Ian was staring and glanced up, dazed. Her mouth fell open in awe.