by BETH KERY
Contents
Also by Beth Kery
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Special Excerpt
About the Author
Because You Are Mine
PART I: BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME
PART II: BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST
Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery
WICKED BURN
DARING TIME
Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery
SWEET RESTRAINT
PARADISE RULES
RELEASE
EXPLOSIVE
Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane
ADDICTED TO YOU
EXPOSED TO YOU
eSpecials by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane
BOUND TO YOU
CAPTURED BY YOU
Because You Are Mine
Part II
Because I Could Not Resist
Beth Kery
InterMix Books, New York
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / August 2012
Because You Are Mine Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.
Excerpt from Wicked Edge Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-60850-0
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Chapter 3
Francesca had intuited that it would be a bad idea to associate with the likes of Ian Noble. She’d known she was way out of her depth every time he looked at her with that enigmatic gleam in his cobalt-blue eyes. Hadn’t he even warned her in his subtle manner that he was dangerous?
Now here was proof of it: nearly two hundred pounds of prime, aroused male flesh pressing her against the wall. He was consuming her like she was his last meal.
He plumped her breast farther into his hand, serving her flesh to his marauding mouth. He tugged on her nipple again, causing a sweet, sharp suction. Francesca gasped, her head banging against the wall as arousal stabbed at her sex, the strength of her reaction unprecedented. His hand at the juncture of her thighs pressed, alleviating her ache . . . mounting it.
“Ian,” she said shakily.
He lifted his dark head a few inches and stared at her breast. The glistening nipple was reddened, the center nubbin elongated and stiff from his ravening mouth and laving tongue. His body tautened; his cock lurched against her belly. He gave a rough growl of male satisfaction at the sight.
“I’d have to be a fucking robot not to want that,” he said in a low, savage tone. She whimpered in raw lust and bewilderment. The slightly lost expression mingling with his scoring stare caused something to stir deep inside her spirit. Who was this man? She hated the war she sensed in him. She put her hand on the back of his head, furrowing her fingers through his hair. It was every bit as silky and thick as it looked. His gaze flashed up at her. She pushed his head toward her breast.
“It’s all right, Ian.”
His nostrils flared. “It’s not all right. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know what I’m feeling,” she whispered. “Who better?”
He shut his eyes briefly. Suddenly, she felt the tension break and he was kissing her mouth again, flexing his hips, pressing his erection into her soft, harboring flesh. Francesca clutched at his head, feeling herself drowning in the essence of him. Through an intoxicating haze of rising lust, she heard distant footsteps.
“Oh. There you are . . . excuse me.” The footsteps began to retreat.
Ian lifted his head, and she was pinned by his stare. He shifted his body, making sure her bare breast was blocked from view before pulling her loosened hoodie over her exposed flesh.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Ian uttered sharply. She glanced around, confused by the question uttered in French, which she didn’t speak.
The footsteps paused. “Je suis desolé. Your cell phone won’t stop ringing in the locker room. Whatever Lin wants to talk to you about seems really important.”
She recognized Lucien’s French-accented voice. It sounded muffled, as if he spoke with his back to them. Ian’s stare bored down on her. She sensed the moment when he withdrew. His body still pressed against her, hard and aroused, but a door in his eyes seemed to slam shut.
“I should have called her earlier. It was rude of me. Remiss,” Ian said, his gaze never leaving Francesca’s face.
The footsteps resumed, and she heard a door slam. He pushed himself off her.
“Ian?” she asked weakly. She felt strange, like her muscles no longer knew their purpose, as if the weight and strength of Ian’s body had been the only thing keeping her upright. Her hand slapped against the wall in an abrupt attempt to right her world. His arm thrust forward. He grabbed her elbow, steadying her. His gaze ran over her face.
“Francesca? Are you all right?” he asked sharply.
She blinked and nodded. He’d sounded almost angry.
“I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t mean for it to,” he said in a stark tone.
“Oh,” she said stupidly, her mind reeling. “Does that mean it’s not going to happen again?”
His expression flattened. What in the world was he thinking? she wondered, mentally flailing.
“You never told me before. The men that you live with—do you sleep with one of the
m? All of them?”
Her brain stalled.
“What? Why would you ask me something like that? Of course I don’t sleep with them. They’re my roommates. My friends.”
His narrowed gaze lowered over her face and chest. “You expect me to believe that? Three males live in the same house with you, and the whole thing is completely platonic?”
Anger streamed into her lust-dazed consciousness. Then it began to roar like a tidal wave. Was he purposefully trying to insult her? It was working. What an infuriating bastard. How dare he say something like that to her so coolly after what he’d just done?
(After what she’d allowed him to do?)
She stepped away from the wall, pausing several feet away from him. “You asked, and I told you the truth. I don’t care what you believe. My sex life is none of your business.”
She began to walk away.
“Francesca.”
She paused but refused to turn around. Humiliation had started to brew with her anger. If she looked at his gorgeous, smug face, she might explode.
“I only asked because I was trying to understand how . . . experienced you are.”
She whipped around and stared at him in amazement. “Is that important for you? Experience?” she asked, wishing the stab of hurt she’d felt at his words hadn’t rung in her voice.
“Yes,” he said. No softness. No concession. Just yes. You’re not in my league, Francesca. You’re an awkward, stupid, onetime fat girl.
His expression hardened, and he looked away from her face.
“I’m not what you might think. I’m not a nice man,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“No,” she said with more calmness than she felt. “You’re not. Maybe none of the bootlickers you surround yourself with have ever told you this, but that’s not something to be proud of, Ian.”
This time, he didn’t try to stop her as she rushed out of the room.
* * *
Francesca sat at the kitchen table and moodily watched Davie butter toast.
“What’s got you in such a bad mood? Not that your mood has been stellar since yesterday. Are you still feeling under the weather?” Davie asked, referring to the fact that she’d come home after her classes yesterday instead of going to the Noble penthouse to paint.
“No, I’m fine,” Francesca replied with a reassuring smile that Davie didn’t seem to buy.
Initially, she’d been bewildered and angered by what Ian had said—and done—in the workout facility two days ago, but then she’d grown worried. Had what occurred threatened her valuable commission? Had her lack of “experience” made her less valuable to Ian, and thus disposable? What if he terminated their agreement and she had no way to pay her tuition? She wasn’t a typical Noble employee, after all. She had no contract, just his patronage. And Ian was reputed to be a tyrant, wasn’t he?
She’d been so anxious and confused about how that kiss had altered her position with Ian that she couldn’t make herself return to paint yesterday.
Davie whisked toast onto her plate and shoved a jar of jam across the surface of the table.
“Thanks,” Francesca mumbled, lifting her knife listlessly.
“Eat,” Davie ordered. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Davie was like a combination of older brother, friend, and mother hen to Francesca, Caden, and Justin. He was five years older than all of them, having met them all after he’d returned to Northwestern to get his M.B.A. There, he’d met Justin and Caden, who were in the same program, and fallen in with their circle of friends, of which Francesca was a member. The fact that Davie was also an art historian, returning to school in order to gain the tools necessary to expand his single gallery into a chain, immediately drew him and Francesca together.
After Justin, Caden, and Davie had received their graduate degrees, and Francesca her baccalaureates, Davie had offered to have them room with him in the city. The five-bedroom, four-bath row house he’d inherited from his parents in the Wicker Park neighborhood was too large just for him. Besides, Francesca knew that Davie wanted the companionship. Her friend was vulnerable to the blues, and Francesca knew that having the three of them around helped assuage them. Davie’s parents had rejected him when he’d confessed that he was gay as a teenager. The three of them had tenuously reconciled by the time his mother and father died in a freak boating accident off the coast of Mexico three years ago, a fact that made Davie both grateful and sad.
Davie longed for a relationship, but he’d been about as unlucky in the romance arena as Francesca. They served as confidantes to each other, the balm following their many bitter, lackluster, and disappointing dating experiences.
All four roommates were good friends, but Francesca and Davie were closest in their tastes and temperaments, while Justin and Caden often were paired up by the common obsessions of many straight males in their midtwenties—a lucrative career, a good time, and frequent sex with hot women.
“Was it Noble on the phone?” Davie asked, glancing meaningfully at her cell phone on the table. Damn. He’d noticed the call she’d just received on her cell phone had upset her.
“No.”
Davie gave her a wry spill-it glance after her monosyllabic response, and she sighed.
She hadn’t revealed what had happened in Ian Noble’s exercise room to Caden and Justin, who as brilliant young men working in high-profile investment-banking firms, were constantly badgering her with questions about Ian Noble. There was no way she’d tell him that the elusive idol they worshipped had held her against a wall and kissed and touched her until her legs no longer supported her. She hadn’t told Davie, either, which was a sure sign of how overwhelmed she’d been by the whole experience.
“It was Lin Soong calling, Noble’s girl Friday,” Francesca admitted before she took a bite of toast.
“And?”
She chewed and swallowed. “She called to tell me that Ian Noble has decided to put me under contract for the painting. He’s paying me the total amount up front. She assured me that the terms of the contract were quite generous, and that under no circumstances would Noble be able to back out of awarding me the commission. Even if I don’t finish it, he won’t request a return of the money.”
Davie’s mouth fell open. His toast drooped in his slackened fingers. With his dark brown hair falling onto his forehead and early morning pallor, he looked about eighteen years old at that moment instead of his actual twenty-eight.
“Why are you acting like she called about a funeral then? Isn’t that good news, that Noble wants to assure you that you’ll get paid no matter what?”
Francesca tossed down her toast. Her appetite had evaporated when she’d fully absorbed what Lin was telling her in that professional, warm tone of hers. “He has to have everyone under his thumb,” she said bitterly.
“What are you talking about, Cesca? If that contract is everything his assistant says, Noble’s giving you carte blanche. You don’t even have to show up and you get paid.”
She carried her plate over to the sink.
“Exactly,” she muttered, turning on the tap. “And Ian Noble knows perfectly well that making that offer is the one thing that will assure I show up and finish the project.”
Davie shoved his chair back to regard her. “You’re confusing me. Are you saying you were actually thinking about not finishing the painting?”
As she considered how to reply, Justin Maker staggered into the kitchen wearing a pair of sweatpants, his bare, golden torso gleaming in the sunlight, his green eyes puffy from lack of sleep.
“Coffee, stat,” he muttered in a roughened voice, whipping the cabinet open for a cup. Francesca gave Davie a pleading, apologetic glance, hoping he’d understand she didn’t want to continue the topic right now.
“Did you and Caden shut down McGill’s again last night?” she asked Justin wryly, referring to their favorite neighborhood bar. She handed the cream to her friend.
“No. We were home by one. But guess
who’s playing at McGill’s Saturday night?” he asked Francesca, taking the cream she handed him. “The Run Around Band. Let’s all go. Poker night afterward.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got a big project due Monday, and I’m not as proficient at the late-to-bed, early-to-rise routine as you and Caden are,” Francesca said as she started to walk out of the room.
“Come on, Cesca. It’ll be fun. All four of us haven’t gone out in a while,” Davie said, surprising her. Like Francesca, Davie’s proclivity for a wild night out had decreased considerably since they’d left Northwestern. The challenging arch of Davie’s eyebrows informed her that he thought a night out would encourage her to spill the beans about what was bothering her.
“I’ll think about it,” Francesca said before she left the kitchen.
But she didn’t. Her mind was already consumed with what she was going to say when she confronted Ian Noble.
***
Unfortunately, he wasn’t there when she arrived at the penthouse that afternoon. Not that she really expected him to be. He usually wasn’t. Undecided about what she should do in regard to that kiss, her commission—not to mention her entire future—she wandered into the room she was using as the studio.
Within five minutes, she was painting feverishly. Ian Noble hadn’t decided her. Even Francesca herself hadn’t. The painting had. It’d gotten into her blood. She must finish it now.
She was lost in her work for hours, finally rising from her creative trance as the sun began to dip behind the high-rises.
Mrs. Hanson was whisking something in a bowl when Francesca staggered into the kitchen for some water. Ian’s kitchen reminded her of something one might find in an English country manor—huge, with every conceivable cooking implement ever created, but somehow still comfortable. She liked to sit in there and chat with Mrs. Hanson.
“You were so quiet, I didn’t realize you were here!” the friendly, elderly housekeeper exclaimed.
“I was working hard,” Francesca said, reaching for the handle of the enormous stainless-steel refrigerator. Mrs. Hanson had insisted since day one that Francesca make herself completely at home. The first time she’d opened the refrigerator, Francesca had exclaimed in surprise to see a whole shelf of bottled club sodas chilling, along with a china plate with sliced limes covered in plastic wrap. “Ian told me club soda with lime was your favorite drink. I hope this brand is all right,” Mrs. Hanson had replied anxiously to her exclamation.