Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine 3)

Ian scowled. “It’s the same reason I haven’t told my grandparents. They’re crazy about Francesca. They’d probably tell her . . . beg her to save me or some foolishness like that.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke as they watched the others talking near the leaping fire. Ian tensed when Gerard approached Francesca, but then she looked up and stared directly at him, her dark, shining eyes striking to the core of him, as always. She turned away when Elise said something to her.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Lucien asked quietly from beside him, and he knew his half brother had seen Francesca’s charged glance across the room. Or was Lucien literally asking him if he had control of himself—if he was in his right mind? Ian chose to believe the former, finding the latter question too disturbing to consider.

“No,” Ian rasped, taking a drink. “But I can’t stay away from her.”

“I think you’d better decide who’s in your blood more. I, for one, pray it’s Francesca and not Gaines,” Lucien said pointedly before he picked up his drink and went to join his wife.

Ian grimaced at the admonishment. As if it were a simple matter of his choosing Francesca over a disgusting pervert. He’d thought Lucien would understand—and in all fairness, maybe he did. Better than most could anyway. Lucien felt the taint of Trevor Gaines all right. But it wasn’t a poison in his system like it was Ian’s . . . something that needed to be purged at all costs. He must cleanse himself of the filth before he could claim peace.

Before he could ever hope to claim Francesca.

* * *

It took him a lot more effort these days to force his mind into the tight focus that used to come as easily as breathing. Especially tonight.

Would she come?

He sat at the desk in his suite, still wearing his tux pants and shirt, his tie loosened, scanning various documents Lin had sent him for his perusal. His interest in Noble Enterprises had increased ever since he’d returned to England, although it was still a shadow of his former focus on his company. Perhaps it was because he’d been thrown back into the midst of the details as he asked Lin question after question about Francesca’s recent activities in Chicago, and subsequently was exposed to all of the details of the Tyake acquisition.

He paused, opening up a document that Lin had sent him in an e-mail with the subject heading: Noble Enterprises purchase of Tyake goes public. He hadn’t opened it earlier because he’d already been aware that the story had broken, but he did so now to fill the time. Immediately a black-and-white photo of Francesca walking off an elevator at Noble Towers popped onto the screen, his grandfather at the periphery of the photograph. The headline mentioned something about the Noble family gathering for the Tyake acquisition, although it was mentioned in the first paragraph that Ian himself was notably absent. He took note of the date of the newspaper publication then fleetly typed a query to Lin.

If Francesca didn’t come, would he have to resort to watching her image on his computer screen again? Lucien had accused him earlier of being obsessed by Trevor Gaines and his ugly history, but personally, Ian considered himself obsessed by the image of Francesca surrendering to ecstasy . . . of giving herself so trustingly. He craved the image especially now, when she shut herself off from him even while she desperately sought to find relief for the fire that burned her from the inside out. He was familiar with that particular brand of fire. It scored him daily since leaving her. He wouldn’t watch her suffer unduly if he could offer her even a modicum of relief.

Knowing he was the one who had altered her expression from one of complete trust and love to one of anger and doubt made the vision of her former faith on the computer screen a hundred times worse. It also made the image that much more compelling, not to mention sadder.

His head jerked up at the furtive knock at his door. He quickly shut down his computer. She didn’t say anything when he opened the door, just walked into the room. She’d changed out of her eveningwear. Instead of being dressed for bed, however, she wore jeans and a fitted T-shirt, her long, glorious reddish-gold hair still loose and waving down her back. It was the attire he most associated with Francesca—the garb of a free-spirited artist. He hadn’t seen her dressed thus since his return, and seeing her now caused an amplification in the dull, familiar ache in his chest cavity. Her face looked pale when she turned to face him, her gaze fierce. He recognized her defiance as being that of a woman who had been wounded but not conquered.

He closed the door quietly and locked it. Still, she didn’t speak as they stared at one another in the thundering silence.

“Well I’m here,” she said stiffly. “I’d almost prefer it that you were triumphant instead of your acting like it was inevitable that I’d come.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It would give you comfort to call me smug?”

“It would give me comfort to dislike you.”

“You don’t dislike me?” he asked, dropping his hand from the knob on the door and walking toward her.

Her large eyes moved over him warily. Her lips trembled. “You left me,” she said hoarsely. “What woman doesn’t hate her lover for that? Especially when she shows up at his door after the fact, begging.”

“You’re not begging,” he stated firmly. “I offered to give you what you need.”

“And nothing else,” she smiled bitterly. “And what is it you suppose I need? To be punished for showing up here? I’ve half a mind to agree it’s what I deserve.”