Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine 3)

He touched her cheek. “I hate it when we have to part.”

She blinked, recognizing he was speaking about their interrupted lovemaking, but so much more.

“We don’t have to be apart,” she said softly, feeling his stare and stroking finger in places beyond the flesh. “Not in any permanent sense of the word. Not unless you choose it.”

“I didn’t choose any of this. Fate did. I’m just trying to deal with the fallout.”

“You’re wrong,” she replied steadfastly. “You can choose, Ian. Your past? Or your future.”

He dropped his hand. She sensed his rising frustration at their disagreement, but she didn’t apologize. She started to move past him to the hallway, but he caught her arm.

He pulled her against him, his kiss possessive . . . hungry. She understood that he was reaffirming his right to touch her that way, and she reciprocated without hesitation. Her still-aroused sex throbbed. The time for pretending she didn’t crave him—love him—with every ounce of her being had passed. She figured the realization had hit when she’d stood in the woods sketching earlier, wrestling with her warring emotions, and heard him calling for her, so desperate in his need.

* * *

Elise came to visit with her in her suite early that afternoon, bringing the sad news that Lucien and she planned to return to Chicago the day after tomorrow.

“Lucien hinted very vaguely that he and Ian might take a trip together sometime in the near future,” Elise said as she looked over Francesca’s shoulder at her completed sketches. “Do you have any idea where they are going?”

Francesca glanced back at Elise uneasily. “No. I don’t know precisely what they might be doing or where they are going, but I can tell you, I don’t think it’s a good idea at all.”

They’d agreed that the brothers were likely doing something associated with Trevor Gaines, and Elise didn’t appear very pleased about the concept of the upcoming trip, either.

After Elise left to go riding, Francesca had gotten down to about an hour of some serious sketching, rising out of her trance at around three o’clock. She was restless. This was about the time Mrs. Hanson often took her tea, and Francesca had grown in the habit of sitting with her in Ian’s kitchen while she’d spent so much time in the penthouse. It was a tradition she missed.

She was walking down the grand staircase, planning on going to the kitchen, when she saw Ian crossing the Great Hall toward the front doors with that familiar long-legged, purposeful stride. Her heart did its typical jump upon seeing him unexpectedly. She noticed he’d shaved and changed his shirt since they were out at the cottage. How he managed to look so distinct and sophisticated and elementally male at once never ceased to fascinate her.

He turned and paused when she called out to him.

“Where are you off to?” she asked, approaching.

His blue eyes flickered over her body, lingering on her breasts. She’d showered after her return from the cottage and changed clothing. His small smile was like a warm, sexual caress. Their differing backgrounds and styles of dressing had been a point of self-consciousness and awkwardness on Francesca’s part since the beginning of their relationship. Ian, on the other hand, was typically sublimely nonchalant in regard to how she dressed, expecting everyone to treat her like a queen no matter how she was garbed.

I want you to know that I am far from being critical of your appearance. Whether you’re in pearls or your Cubs T-shirt, I find you to be extremely attractive. Perhaps you haven’t noticed?

She shared his smile at the memory of him saying those words to her in that dry, sardonic tone of his.

“I don’t have the type of clothing in storage here at Belford that I’d like for the press conference,” he said. “I packed light for my stay. A haberdasher I know in Belford is going to set me up and deliver a suit in the morning. Speaking of clothing,” he said, his gaze rising from the red C logo on the T-shirt she wore to her face. “I see you’re wearing one of my favorite outfits.”

She laughed and his smile widened. It felt so good, sharing a lover’s inside joke with him.

“May I come along?” she asked impulsively.

He hesitated, glancing at the heavy, carved front door. She had the impression he’d rather keep her behind that locked entrance.

“It’ll be a quick trip, and boring to boot,” he warned.

“No it won’t. I’ll be with you.”

His mouth tilted. His gaze was so warm on her. He was considering denying her, nevertheless; she could tell. She went up on her toes, brushing the front of her body against his solid form, and pressed her mouth to his, shameless in her attempt to convince him. That’s all it took, and his arms were satisfyingly surrounding her as he took control, returning her kiss with blistering heat.

“You shouldn’t take so much pride in being convincing,” he said a moment later, his gaze scanning her face. Her toes had curled from his kiss. She forced them to relax now while she waited anxiously to see if he’d take her along.

Triumph zipped through her blood when he sighed, took her hand and led her to the front door.

* * *

The front door closed. Gerard walked out from behind the grand staircase and crossed the hall. He opened a paneled door and slipped into James’s private office. It was empty. He walked over to James’s large desk—an antique that had been passed from one Earl of Stratham to the next for the past five generations. It should have been one of Gerard’s many belongings when James was gone. As things stood, although Gerard would be the next earl, James had decreed that this treasured desk along with everything else would be Ian’s.