Chapter Five
Two days later, Ian watched out the window of his limo as Jacob Suarez turned down a street lined with attractive brick townhomes. An associate had informed him that David Feinstein had inherited the residence from his deceased parents, Julia and Sylvester, but that David could likely have afforded the affluent Wicker Park residence on his own. Feinstein’s art gallery was doing very well. Apparently Francesca’s roommate possessed excellent taste and good business sense along with a refined, quiet, thorough manner that appealed to many wealthy art connoisseurs.
Ian had also been admittedly relieved to learn that David—or “Davie,” as Francesca called him—was gay.
Not that her housemates’ sexual preferences mattered much
, Ian thought, as Jacob came to a halt. He’d proved firsthand the other night that Francesca’s housemates weren’t touching anything they shouldn’t.
He’d learned firsthand that he
had
been touching things he shouldn’t, he added to himself, with the result that he was wearing a frown by the time his driver opened the car door for him.
The image of Francesca’s shattered expression as she’d left his bedroom the other night burned his consciousness for the thousandth time. He’d watched, fuming silently, as she’d fled the penthouse, wanting to stop her but knowing by the fixed, stubborn expression on her beautiful face that she wouldn’t listen to him at that moment. He’d been furious at her for putting them in this situation, and furious at himself for seeing only what had been convenient for him to see.
Yes, he’d understood she was innocent, but not to
that
degree. He’d known it was best just to let her go. For good.
Yet here he stood.
He rapped at the dark green painted wood door with a strange sense of resigned determination. From where did this strange obsession come? Did it have to do with the fact that Francesca had caught him unaware in her painting years ago? Her possession of him had been fleeting, but alarmingly concise.
He wanted to both punish her and possess her in turn for her innocent infraction.
He understood from Mrs. Hanson that Francesca hadn’t been to the penthouse to paint. Her avoidance of his residence made him angry—irrationally so, but logic didn’t seem to be quieting the emotion. Ian still hadn’t decided, as he knocked again on the door, if he was here to apologize and assure Francesca that she would never again be bothered by his attentions, or if he wanted to convince her at all costs to let him touch her again.
The friction of his uncustomary ambivalence had him so wound up and frustrated, even Lin, who was usually a soothing balm to his occasional bad moods, was steering clear of him like a category-five hurricane.
The front door swung open and a brown-haired man of medium height, who looked younger than his twenty-eight years, regarded him somberly. He must have recently come from his gallery, because he was dressed for work in a dark gray suit.
“I’m here for Francesca,” Ian stated.
Davie glanced into the interior of the house anxiously, but then nodded once and stepped back, granting Ian entrance. He led him into a tastefully decorated living room.
“Have a seat. I’ll see if Francesca’s home,” Davie said.
Ian nodded and unbuttoned his jacket before he sat. He distractedly picked up a catalog from the cushion next to him, listening all the while to the sounds in the large townhome, not hearing footfalls on the stairs. The pages of the catalog had been folded back, as if someone had recently been studying the contents. It was a listing of paintings that would be going up for sale at a local auction house.
Davie reentered the living room a minute later. Ian glanced up and set aside the catalog.
“She says she’s busy,” Davie said, looking vaguely uncomfortable with his messenger errand.
Ian nodded slowly. It’d been what he’d expected.
“Will you please do me the favor of telling her that
Two days later, Ian watched out the window of his limo as Jacob Suarez turned down a street lined with attractive brick townhomes. An associate had informed him that David Feinstein had inherited the residence from his deceased parents, Julia and Sylvester, but that David could likely have afforded the affluent Wicker Park residence on his own. Feinstein’s art gallery was doing very well. Apparently Francesca’s roommate possessed excellent taste and good business sense along with a refined, quiet, thorough manner that appealed to many wealthy art connoisseurs.
Ian had also been admittedly relieved to learn that David—or “Davie,” as Francesca called him—was gay.
Not that her housemates’ sexual preferences mattered much
, Ian thought, as Jacob came to a halt. He’d proved firsthand the other night that Francesca’s housemates weren’t touching anything they shouldn’t.
He’d learned firsthand that he
had
been touching things he shouldn’t, he added to himself, with the result that he was wearing a frown by the time his driver opened the car door for him.
The image of Francesca’s shattered expression as she’d left his bedroom the other night burned his consciousness for the thousandth time. He’d watched, fuming silently, as she’d fled the penthouse, wanting to stop her but knowing by the fixed, stubborn expression on her beautiful face that she wouldn’t listen to him at that moment. He’d been furious at her for putting them in this situation, and furious at himself for seeing only what had been convenient for him to see.
Yes, he’d understood she was innocent, but not to
that
degree. He’d known it was best just to let her go. For good.
Yet here he stood.
He rapped at the dark green painted wood door with a strange sense of resigned determination. From where did this strange obsession come? Did it have to do with the fact that Francesca had caught him unaware in her painting years ago? Her possession of him had been fleeting, but alarmingly concise.
He wanted to both punish her and possess her in turn for her innocent infraction.
He understood from Mrs. Hanson that Francesca hadn’t been to the penthouse to paint. Her avoidance of his residence made him angry—irrationally so, but logic didn’t seem to be quieting the emotion. Ian still hadn’t decided, as he knocked again on the door, if he was here to apologize and assure Francesca that she would never again be bothered by his attentions, or if he wanted to convince her at all costs to let him touch her again.
The friction of his uncustomary ambivalence had him so wound up and frustrated, even Lin, who was usually a soothing balm to his occasional bad moods, was steering clear of him like a category-five hurricane.
The front door swung open and a brown-haired man of medium height, who looked younger than his twenty-eight years, regarded him somberly. He must have recently come from his gallery, because he was dressed for work in a dark gray suit.
“I’m here for Francesca,” Ian stated.
Davie glanced into the interior of the house anxiously, but then nodded once and stepped back, granting Ian entrance. He led him into a tastefully decorated living room.
“Have a seat. I’ll see if Francesca’s home,” Davie said.
Ian nodded and unbuttoned his jacket before he sat. He distractedly picked up a catalog from the cushion next to him, listening all the while to the sounds in the large townhome, not hearing footfalls on the stairs. The pages of the catalog had been folded back, as if someone had recently been studying the contents. It was a listing of paintings that would be going up for sale at a local auction house.
Davie reentered the living room a minute later. Ian glanced up and set aside the catalog.
“She says she’s busy,” Davie said, looking vaguely uncomfortable with his messenger errand.
Ian nodded slowly. It’d been what he’d expected.
“Will you please do me the favor of telling her that
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