You’re afraid of what will happen if you see him, listen to him. You’re afraid you’ll end up begging him like a fool to finish what he’d started the other night.
Her arm made a slashing motion before the canvas. Never. She’d never beg that arrogant asshole.
The hair on her arms stood up, and she glanced over her shoulder again. Hearing and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she returned her focus to the painting. She shouldn’t have come back here, but she had to finish this piece. She’d never rest if she didn’t, and it wasn’t because Ian had already paid her. Once a painting had gotten in her blood, it gave her no freedom until it was complete.
She told herself to concentrate. The ghost of Ian—her own ghosts—made focusing a trial.
You stood there like an idiot while he whacked you with a paddle; you lay in his lap, stark naked, and let him spank you like a child.
Shame flooded her consciousness. Was she so desperate, following a majority of life spent overweight, to have a man like Ian show desire for her that she was willing to sacrifice her dignity? How else would she have allowed herself to be demeaned that night? How far would she have gone if Ian Noble had said he wanted it?
Her thoughts mortified her. She took out her anguish on the canvas, finally finding the coveted zone of creative concentration she desperately sought. An hour later, she set aside her paint palette and wiped the excess paint off her brush. She rubbed her shoulder to ease the tension from her almost constant sweeping strokes. Her friends were always surprised when she told them how physically taxing painting a large piece could be.
The hair on her nape stood on end and her massaging fingers stilled. She spun around.
He wore a white shirt that coalesced faster out of the shadows than the rest of his dark apparel. He was jacketless, and his sleeves had been rolled back. The gold of his watch glinted from the darkness. She stood there unmoving, feeling as if she were dreaming.
“You paint as if a demon were driving you.”
“You sound as if you know what that’s like,” she replied in a tight voice.
“I think you know I do.”
The image of Ian walking alone through the deserted streets popped into her mind’s eye. She crushed down the wave of compassion and deep feeling the memory always evoked.
She let her hand drop from her aching shoulder and turned toward him. “Mrs. Hanson said you would be in Berlin tonight.”
“I was called back early for an emergency.”
She just stared at him for a moment, speechless, seeing the lights from the skyline reflected in his eyes.
“I see,” she finally said, turning away. “I’ll be going then.”
“How long do you plan to avoid me?”
“As long as you exist?” she countered quickly. Hearing the hint of anger in his voice acted like a lit match to her own fury and confusion. She started to stride past him, her head lowered, but he reached out and wrapped his hand around her upper arm, halting her.
“Let go of me.” Her voice sounded angry, but she was horrified to feel tears burn in her eyes. It was bad enough to see him again, but why did he have to sneak up on her like this, catching her unawares and vulnerable? “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“I would if I could, trust me,” he replied, his voice as frigid as a hard winter’s frost. She twisted in order to escape, but he firmed his grip, bringing her next to his body. The next thing she knew, her face was pressed to his hard chest and crisp shirt, and his arms surrounded her.
“I’m sorry, Francesca. Truly, I am.”
For a moment, she lost all of her will and leaned into him, giving him her weight, accepting his strength and warmth. Her body shuddered with emotion. She focused on the sensation of his hand stroking her hair. Later, when she analyzed her temporary lapse, she realized that it’d been his tone that’d done it. He’d sounded as barren and as hopeless and as desperate as she felt. He wasn’t the bad guy, she conceded. He hadn’t demeaned her by giving her a glimpse of true desire that night.
She was just furious at him because he didn’t want her. Enough to overlook her inexperience, anyway.
Emotion swelled tight in her chest. She pushed against him, finding the weight of her need unbearable. He released her slowly, still keeping her within the circle of his arms.
She lowered her head and swiped at her cheeks, refusing to look up at him.
“Francesca—”
“Don’t say anything else, please,” she said.
“I am not the man for you. I want to make that very clear.”
“Right. Crystal clear.”
“I’m not interested in the type of relationship a girl of your age, experience, intelligence, and talent deserves. I’m sorry.”
Her heart squeezed in pain at his words, but she knew he was right. Ridiculous to think otherwise. He wasn’t for her. How obvious could that be? Hadn’t Davie been telling her that repeatedly for the past few days? She stared blankly at the pocket of his dress shirt. She longed to escape; she longed to stay there in the shadows with Ian holding her. He caught her chin and applied pressure, forcing her to look up at him. When she did so warily, she saw his slight wince.
She broke out of his arms abruptly, despising the vision of his pity. He caught her forearm, and she paused.
“I am abominable when it comes to women,” he bit out. “I forget dates and appointments. I’m rude. The only thing I’m truly focused on is sex . . . and getting my way,” he stated harshly, making her start and stare back at him in shock. “My work is everything to me. I can’t lose control of my company. I won’t. This is who I am.”