“I’m not giving up on that. I’m sorry,” he said when he saw the flash of disappointment shadow her hope. “I’ll just have to divide my time more evenly. Everyone is very concerned about what happened to you in Chicago, and they agree it might be associated with the amount of control I gave you on the temporary board.”
“I really don’t know how you can assume that, Ian.”
“I can because I’ve had threats against me before.”
“What?” she asked, taken aback.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“What do you mean it’s not a big deal? It’s a big deal if it happens to me, but not to you?” she demanded.
“It comes with the territory. Usually, it’s just a mentally ill person making ridiculous, unfounded threats,” he said evenly.
“And when it’s not usual?”
“That’s why I have such good security,” he said with a pointed glance. It was starting to get warm in here. He unbuttoned his overcoat. He glanced guiltily at Francesca’s pale, set face when she didn’t respond. “It hasn’t happened enough in the past for me to worry you with it. Now, I’m feeling like an idiot for not considering it might happen to you in the position I put you in. For that,” he said, meeting her stare, “I’m sorry.”
For a second, she looked stunned. Then she blinked and shook her head. He held his breath when she laughed softly. “Believe it or not, I was happy to have helped out in the Tyake deal. It gave me something to focus on. I liked it more than I would have expected, considering.”
“I’ve always said you have an excellent mind for business.” She met his stare and comprehension settled. “Oh, I see. It wasn’t that apology that you wanted.”
“Or expected,” she said quietly. For a second, the silence stretched between them, seeming to thicken. Take on weight. “I was happy to help you, Ian. Support you. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. It was the only opportunity you gave me to do anything for you. You wouldn’t let me share in any other burden.”
He heard her frustration and understood. “I was all right, Francesca—”
“You were split wide open,” she interrupted him starkly.
He clamped his mouth shut. He felt the pain rise up in his chest, and tamped it down willfully. Anger filled the empty space. This is why he didn’t like confrontations. It ripped the scab off old wounds. Made him feel, when that was the last thing he wanted to do.
“How would you have liked it,” she asked in a quiet, trembling voice, “if I had been hurting as much as you were, and I ran away, depriving you of the opportunity to comfort me. How would you feel? Ian?” she pressed when he didn’t respond, taking another step toward him.
His nostrils flared as he tried to expand his aching lungs while keeping his mouth sealed tight to prevent . . . what? He couldn’t say. He wanted very much to walk away in that moment, but Francesca’s eyes wouldn’t let him.
She raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting.
“Furious,” he admitted finally. “Desperate.”
“That’s right,” she said. She stepped closer still and reached up, putting her palms on either side of his face. Her eyes burned him like dark fire. The pain in his chest amplified despite his efforts to contain it. Grimacing, he grabbed her wrists and tried to push her away. She’d been ready for it, though. Her hands broke free of his halfhearted restraint. She threw her weight against him so that he caught her roughly to steady her, his hands at her waist beneath her coat. Cupping his jaw again, she tilted his face down toward her.
Christ. He hadn’t been expecting this; hadn’t read her unusual mood accurately. He wasn’t prepared.
She sealed her front to his and went up on her toes. She kissed him. Sweet. Addictive. Insistent. Desire didn’t hesitate, flooding into his blood, washing away his doubt . . . his anger . . . his pride. He should have walked away while he could, left to hunker down in solitude to silence that ache.
Once he tasted her, he knew he’d stay.
It was like keeping still in leaping flames, accepting what she gave him . . . knowing she saw his pain . . . letting her lick his wounds. He didn’t really consciously agree to it. It was just that he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed between pain and shame on one side, and rabid need on the other.
She moaned softly into his mouth, her taste permeating him. Arousal crumbled his last defense. He tightened his hold, spreading one hand on her lower back and the other on her hip and buttock. He bent down over her, forcing her back into a slight arch, grinding her against him.
She broke their kiss and pushed against him, straightening. He clutched her to him while she rained kisses on his jaw and neck. When she’d first pressed her lips to his, they’d been cool from the winter air. So quickly, she’d grown hot, feverish in her determination to give.
But he’d always struggled to take.
He felt her hands at the waist of his pants, unfastening them.
“Francesca,” he began hoarsely.
“Shhh,” she soothed, her fleet fingers working the buttons through the holes of his shirt, the anticipation tearing at him so much that he moved to help her. She ripped the last button free and whipped back both sides of his shirt. She pressed her face to him. He held her head against him, staring out the sunlit window, seeing nothing as her mouth moved over him, kissing, licking, biting gently. His skin roughened in pleasure. He tried to take her into his arms and lift her to the bed when she sucked and nibbled at a taut nipple. She resisted him, however, whispering “no” against his damp skin. He looked down at her in helpless arousal as she laved the sensitive flesh with the tip of a dark pink tongue. He delved his fingers into her hair and hissed her name.