Because You Are Mine Part I Read Online Free Page B

can. The point is, you’ll come.”
    “Yes, all right,” she managed through a constricted throat. He hadn’t removed his hand from her back. Could he feel her heart throbbing?
    She had to get out of there. Now. She was way out of her depth.
    She lurched toward the elevator, pushing a button on the control panel hastily. If she’d thought he’d try to touch her again, she’d thought wrong. The sleek elevator door slid open.
    “Francesca?” he said as she hurried inside.
    “Yes?” she asked, turning.
    He stood with his hands behind his back, the posture causing his suit jacket to open, revealing a shirt-draped lean abdomen, narrow hips, a silver belt buckle, and . . . everything beneath it.
    “Now that you have some financial security, I would prefer you didn’t wander the streets of Chicago in the early morning hours in order to find your inspiration. You never know what you might encounter. It’s dangerous.”
    Her mouth dropped open in stunned amazement. He stepped forward and pushed a button on the panel, causing the doors to slide closed. The last glimpse she had of him was his gleaming blue-eyed stare in an otherwise impassive face. Her heartbeat escalated to a roar in her ears.
    She’d painted him four years ago. That’s what he was telling her—that he knew she’d observed him walking the dark, lonely streets in the dead of the night while the rest of the world slumbered, warm and content in their beds. Francesca hadn’t realized the identity of her inspiration at the time, nor had he probably known he was being observed until he saw the painting, but there could be no doubt of it.
    Ian Noble was the cat who walked by himself.
    And he’d wanted her to know it.

Chapter 2
    He managed to fully put her out of his mind for a full ten days. He traveled to New York for a two-night stay and finalized the acquisition of a computer program that would enable him to begin a new network that combined social aspects and a unique gaming application. He made his regular monthly visit to his condominium in London. While he’d been in Chicago, meetings and work had kept him at the office until far past midnight. By the time he’d reached the penthouse, the interior was dim and silent.
    It wasn’t entirely accurate to say that he’d kept Francesca Arno fully out of his mind, though. Or honest, Ian conceded sternly to himself as he rode the elevator to his penthouse Wednesday afternoon. His awareness of her would come to him in quick, powerful flashes, penetrating his focus on the details of the everyday world. Mrs. Hanson, his housekeeper, innocently gave him updates during her typical banter about how her weekly projects were going in the house. He’d been pleased to learn that the elderly Englishwoman had befriended Francesca, inviting her to the kitchen occasionally to join her for tea. He’d been glad to hear Francesca was becoming comfortable in his home, and then asked himself why it mattered one way or another. The painting was the only thing he wanted, and surely the working conditions were adequate for that.
    Once, he’d told himself that he was being rude by ignoring her. Surely his avoidance was putting too much emphasis on her, making more of the situation than was warranted. Last Thursday evening, he’d gone to her studio with the intent of asking her if she’d like to take some refreshment with him in the kitchen. The door was ajar, and he’d entered without knocking. For several seconds, he’d stood and watched her work, unnoticed.
    She’d been standing on a short ladder, working on the upper-right-hand corner of the canvas, completely absorbed. Although he had been quite sure he hadn’t made a noise, she’d suddenly turned and froze, regarding him with startled brown eyes, her pencil still on the canvas. A heavy swath of gleaming hair had fallen out of the clip at the back of her head. There had been a charcoal smear on her smooth cheek, and her dark pink lips had been parted in