Make Me Desperate by Beth Kery Page B

than she’d realized, so lost had she become in wonderment and pleasure.
    “Because . . . you picked my painting,” she said weakly. Her gaze skimmed over his body. She swallowed thickly. He’d unbuttoned his overcoat. A clean, spicy smell of soap filtered into her nose. A heavy, hot pressure settled in her sex. “You seem to like . . .
order
so much,” she tried to explain, her voice just above a whisper.
    “You’re right,” he said. A shadow seemed to come over his bold features. “I do abhor sloppiness and disorder. But Sorenburg isn’t about that.” He glanced at the painting. “It’s about making meaning from chaos. Wouldn’t you agree?”
    Her mouth hung open as she stared at his profile. She’d never heard Sorenburg’s work described so succinctly.
    “Yes, I would,” she said slowly.
    He gave her a small smile. His full lips had to be his most compelling feature, aside from his eyes. And his firm chin. And his incredible body—
    “Do my ears deceive me,” he murmured, “Or is that a note of respect I hear in your tone, Francesca?”
    She turned to stare sightlessly at the Sorenburg. Her breath burned in her lungs. “You deserve respect in this. You have impeccable taste in art.”
    “Thank you. I happen to agree.”
    She risked a sideways glance. He was staring at her with those dark-angel eyes.
    “Let me take your jacket,” he said, extending his hands.
    “No.” Her cheeks heated when she heard how abrupt she’d sounded. Self-consciousness slammed into her haze of enthrallment. His hands remained extended.
    “I will take it.”
    She opened her mouth to rebuke him but paused when she noticed his hooded gaze and slightly raised eyebrows.
    “The woman wears the clothes, Francesca. Not the other way around. That’s the first lesson I’ll teach you.”
    She gave him a fake glance of exasperation and shrugged out of her jean jacket. The air felt cool next to her bare shoulders. Ian’s gaze felt warm. She straightened her spine.
    “You say that like you plan on teaching me more lessons,” she muttered, handing him the jacket.
    “Perhaps I do. Follow me.”
    He hung up her coat, then led her down the gallerylike hallway before turning down a narrower one that was dimly lit with brass sconces. He opened one of many tall doorways, and Francesca stepped into the room. She expected to see yet another room filled with wonders, but instead entered a large, narrow space that ran the length of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by the skyscrapers and the reflective lights of them in the black river. She walked to the windows without speaking. He came to stand next to her.
    “They’re alive, the buildings . . . some more than others,” she said in a hushed voice after a moment. She gave him a rueful glance and was awarded with a smile. Embarrassment flooded her. “I mean, they
seem
like it. I’ve always thought so. Each one of them has a soul. At night, especially . . . I can feel it.”
    “I know you can. That’s why I chose your painting.”
    “Not because of perfectly straight lines and precise reproductions?” she asked shakily.
    “No. Not because of that.”
    His expression went flat when she smiled. Unexpected pleasure filled her. He
did
understand her art after all. And . . . she’d given him what he wanted.
    She stared at the magnificent view. “I understand what you meant,” she said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “I haven’t taken any architecture classes now for a year and a half, and I’ve been so busy with my art classes I haven’t kept up with journals, or I would have known. Still . . . shame on me for not seeing it until now,” she said, referring to the two most prominent buildings that lined the black-and-gold-speckled shimmering river. She shook her head in wonderment. “You made Noble Enterprises a modern, streamlined version of a Chicago architecture