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 London, 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.
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 laid 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
“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 London, 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.
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 laid 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
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