Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine 1)

“I can understand why she’s upset with me,” Ian said, crossing his legs and once again picking up the catalog.

“She’s not upset.”

Ian glanced up at Davie’s words.

“She’s furious. And hurt. I’ve never seen her so hurt.”

He paused, waiting for the sting that resulted from Davie’s honesty to fade. For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

“I treated her in a manner I shouldn’t have,” Ian admitted finally.

“Then you should be ashamed,” Davie said, anger ringing in his quiet voice. Ian recalled that he’d said something similar to Davie and Francesca’s other two roommates at the tattoo parlor.

“I am,” Ian said, listening carefully. He closed his eyes briefly in regret at what he heard. He thought of Francesca’s freshness the other night, her sweetness. The memory of her pussy had been somehow lodged in his brain like a tenacious virus, only growing more vivid as he tried to rid himself of it: the silky, rose-gold hair between lithesome white thighs; creamy, plump labia; the slickest, tightest little slit he’d ever touched. He recalled spanking her and how he’d loved it . . . how she had. “Unfortunately,” he continued, addressing Davie, “my shame wasn’t sufficient to keep me away. I’m beginning to think no amount of it would.”

Davie looked startled. He cleared his throat and stood.

“Maybe I’ll just go and see how Francesca is coming along on that . . . project she’s working on.”

“Don’t bother. She’s not here anymore,” Ian murmured.

Davie did a double take and paused next to his chair. “What do you mean?”

“She snuck out the back door about twenty seconds ago, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, idly flipping the pages of the catalog. He took advantage of Davie’s apparent shock to hold it up.

“Yours?” Ian asked.

Davie nodded.

“I see what you must have been looking at. When did Francesca paint it?”

Davie blinked and seemed to come to himself. “About two years ago. I sold it at Feinstein last year. I was glad to see it come back on the market at this estate sale auction. I’d like to get it back, sell it for a price that’s worthy of the piece, and give the extra profit back to Francesca.” He frowned. “She’s had to sell a lot of her paintings over the years for practically nothing. I hate to think of what she must have let a couple of them go for before I met her. Francesca was living hand to mouth for years before we became friends. I may not have been able to sell her work for the price I think it’s worth, seeing as she’s still a relative unknown, but at least I gave her more than the price of a bag of groceries.” He nodded at the catalog. “If I can get ahold of this particular piece, I’m convinced I can sell it for an excellent price. Francesca is starting to make a name for herself in art circles. I’m sure the award she won from you, and the subsequent recognition, has helped.”

Ian stood and buttoned his jacket. “I’m certain your support of her work has as well. You’ve been a good friend to her. Would you give me your card? There’s something I’d like to speak to you about, but I’m running late for a meeting.”

Davie looked distinctively undecided, then reached into his pocket with the air of a man who would have to confess something major to a loved one later.

“Thank you,” Ian said, accepting the card.

“Francesca is a wonderful person. I think . . . I think it’d be best if you stayed away from her.”

He narrowly studied Davie’s anxious yet determined expression for several seconds. Davie looked away uncomfortably. Francesca’s friend saw a lot more with those gentle eyes than he must typically reveal to his well-heeled clients. Bitterness rose in him at his own lack of decency by contrast.

“You’re undoubtedly right,” Ian said as he began to move toward the door, unable to keep the note of resignation out of his tone. “And if I were a better man, I’d follow that advice.”

* * *

This is what things had come to: She was working like a thief in the night. The painting had called her back, despite the untenable circumstances surrounding it.

Francesca mixed her colors rapidly, using the glow from the small lamp she’d placed on a desk in order to see, desperate to capture the exact hue of the midnight sky before the light changed. The rest of the room was swathed in shadow, allowing her to better see the brooding, glowing buildings against the backdrop of a velvety night sky. She stopped abruptly and glanced back toward the closed door of the studio, waiting tensely, her heart starting to pound in her ears in the eerie silence. Shadows seemed to thicken and form at the back of the room, tricking her eyes. Mrs. Hanson had assured her that she’d be alone in the penthouse tonight. Ian was in Berlin, and Mrs. Hanson was going to be visiting a friend in the suburbs.

Nevertheless, she hadn’t felt alone for a second since she’d stepped off the elevator into Ian’s territory.

Could a place be haunted by a living person? It was as if Ian lingered in the luxurious penthouse, his presence weighing on her mind, on her very skin, making it prickle in awareness as if from an invisible touch.

Stupid, Francesca chastised herself, putting brush to canvas and making long, energetic strokes. It’d been four nights since she’d stood naked and exposed in Ian’s bedroom. He’d tried to contact her. He’d called her on several occasions, and there had been that embarrassing episode at her house when she’d run out the back door like a fool. She’d been overwhelmed by the idea of seeing him again . . . afraid.