Because You Are Mine Part VI: Because You Torment Me
Read Because You Are Mine Part VI: Because You Torment Me Online
Authors: Beth Kery
Because You Are Mine
PART I: BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME
PART II: BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST
PART
III
: BECAUSE YOU HAUNT ME
PART IV: BECAUSE YOU MUST LEARN
PART V: BECAUSE I SAID SO
PART VI: BECAUSE YOU TORMENT ME
Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery
WICKED BURN
DARING TIME
Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery
SWEET RESTRAINT
PARADISE RULES
RELEASE
EXPLOSIVE
One Night of Passion series
ADDICTED TO YOU (WRITING AS BETHANY KANE)
EXPOSED TO YOU
One Night of Passion eSpecials
BOUND TO YOU
CAPTURED BY YOU
Because You Are Mine
Part VI
Because You Torment Me
Beth Kery
InterMix Books, New York
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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BECAUSE YOU TORMENT ME
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / September 2012
Because You Are Mine
Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.
Excerpt from
Wicked Burn
Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-60854-8
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Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Francesca placed the pill on her tongue and tipped some water between her lips, swallowing. She glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror, looking away quickly when she registered her reflection. Seeing herself take the birth-control pill brought last night back to her in a vivid rush: Ian taking her for a private dinner for two with a breathlessly romantic view, her confusion by his aloofness, her sharpness in response to his withdrawal even while he was seemingly so solicitous . . .
. . . their spat and his walking away.
Why was she even bothering to take the birth control after the way Ian had behaved last night? She really was mad for agreeing to this venture with him—both in the crazy and angry definitions of the term. Her stupidity had never been more evident than since he’d first walked away after such an incredibly erotic and intimate experience yesterday.
It’d been incredibly erotic and intimate to
Francesca
, anyway. Ian must have considered it par for the course.
Or another example of the good service he deserved.
Anger flared in her at the incendiary thought.
True, he’d spent time with her after they’d . . . done what they’d done—she didn’t know what to
call
it, precisely. She would have said made love, but Ian clearly wouldn’t agree. After he’d instructed her on how to give him pleasure with her mouth? After they’d brought each other off? After he’d made her lose herself so greatly in need that it was now difficult to look at her own reflection in the mirror?
He not only had spent time with her, to a casual observer, he’d treated her to a once-in-a-lifetime experience. After they’d both showered in separate bathrooms, he’d reappeared, looking extremely handsome in a pair of gray pants that highlighted his long legs and narrow hips, a light blue button-down shirt and sport jacket.
“Are you ready? We’re having dinner at Le Cinq,” he said, standing in the entry to the bedroom suite.
She gasped and looked down at herself in alarm. “I thought we were ordering food here in the suite. I can’t go to Le Cinq dressed like this!” she exclaimed, recalling everything she’d read and heard about the exclusive restaurant housed in the hotel. Why had Ian changed their plans? He’d said they’d just order the food in. Did he perhaps think that the atmosphere of the private suite was suddenly too intimate?
“Certainly you can,” he’d said, his manner all brisk British aristocrat. He’d held out his hand expectantly before he registered her disbelief. “I’ve requested a private outdoor terrace for us.”
“Ian, I can’t! Not like this,” she’d protested, sweeping her hand over her attire.
“You
will
,” he’d said, giving her an amused glance. “We won’t be seen by the other patrons. And if a single nose is turned up at your Cubs T-shirt, I’ll deal with the offending nose personally.”
What he’d said had been assuring, and even sweet, but with her growing awareness of him, Francesca still sensed the distant preoccupation that had descended upon him after their electric, erotic encounter earlier.
Feeling extremely doubtful, she’d hurried into her shoes upon Ian’s request, and put her hand in his. She’d trailed him into the elevator and down corridors, the whole time hissing worried protests behind him that they’d kick her out of the luxurious restaurant for showing up in jeans and a T-shirt. Ian had never replied, just led her on without comment.
The smiling maître d’ of the posh restaurant had greeted Ian like an old friend. Francesca had stood there awkwardly while the two men exchanged conversation in rapid French, wishing the sleek marble floor would open up and swallow her. The maître d’ had only smiled broadly at her, however, when Ian introduced her, making her blush when he took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles like she was Cinderella on the night of the ball instead of awkward, T-shirt-wearing Francesca Arno.
She’d stared in openmouthed amazement a moment later when the maître d’ led them onto a candlelit private terrace with a stunning view of the glowing lacework steel Eiffel Tower. Two heat lamps had warmed the pleasant, cool autumn evening. The table had been a glittering visual delight of flame, crystal, and gold dinnerware and a lush flower arrangement of white hydrangeas.
She’d looked over at Ian in surprise and saw that the maître d’ had left. They were alone on the terrace, and Ian was holding her chair for her.
“Did you arrange all this?” she’d asked him, looking over her shoulder to hold his stare.
“Yes,” he’d said, seating her.
“You should have let me dress for dinner.”
“I told you once before that a woman wears the clothes, Francesca,” he’d said as he sat across the table from her. His eyes had been the color of the midnight-blue sky in the candlelight. “If a woman recognizes her power, she can present herself in rags and people will recognize her as a queen.”
She’d scoffed. “That sounds like the type of thing an earl’s grandson would be taught. I’m afraid I live in a different world, Ian.”
They’d eaten a luxurious meal, exchanging conversation, sipping red wine, and sampling items from the sumptuous gourmet tasting menu, being waited on hand and foot by not one but two waiters, neither one of which so much as blinked an eye at Francesca’s apparel. Apparently, being Ian’s guest conferred a special status. When she’d shivered at a brisk breeze, Ian had stood and removed his jacket, insisting that she put it on.
Anybody else would probably have thought it a storybook romantic evening, but as the dinner progressed, Francesca’s uncertainty and frustration at Ian’s distance had only amplified. He was solicitous and polite . . . the perfect companion. At first, she’d blamed some of the strained atmosphere on the omnipresence of the hovering waiters during their meal, but as time wore on, she knew that wasn’t it.
He’d definitely shut himself off from her after teaching her how to pleasure him. Why? Had she done it all wrong, and he was too polite to tell her the truth?
Had he perhaps had his fill of her already?
Her suspicions were confirmed when they returned to the suite later and he’d asked her if she minded if he attended to some work. She’d responded with a careless “Of course not,” but her uncertainty was quickly morphing to anger. She’d gone into the bedroom and checked her e-mails on her phone.
At one point, he’d entered the bedroom, causing her heart to jump. However, he’d merely handed her a package. She’d opened it to find a three-month supply of birth-control pills inside.
“These were just delivered. Aaron, the pharmacist, says you may begin taking them immediately. I had him include instructions in English,” he’d said.
“How considerate of you.”
He blinked at her quiet sarcasm.
“Are you upset about my suggesting you go on the pill? I’m having the results of a recent medical exam sent to me. I’ll show it to you. I want you to be reassured that I’m clean and perfectly healthy, as well. As long as we’re together, I won’t be with anyone else.”
“That’s not what I was thinking about,” she said, even though relief had gone through her at his words. She should have brought up that topic before.
His gaze ran over her face searchingly. “You’ve noticed that I’ve been preoccupied this evening? I’m sorry,” he said after a pause. “I needed to get some work done. I have a very important acquisition that I’ve been planning for ages finally coming to fruition next week.”
She’d given him a bland glance. It wasn’t his work that had her irritated and anxious, either, and he must know that. It was the contrast of their incredibly intimate sexual experience and his current aloofness.
He’d stared at her silently for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. Anticipation had risen in her about what he was about to say, her sarcastic expression easing. She’d experienced an overwhelming need to take his hand in reassurance.
“Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”
She’d closed her eyes briefly as disappointment flooded her at his question.
“I told you I was abominable with women,” he’d said in a harsh, restrained tone. She’d opened her eyes.
“You also once told me you weren’t a nice man. I can’t help but notice that neither on that occasion nor this one have you expressed an ounce of remorse for your shortcomings . . . not a hint of a struggle.”
Anger had leapt in his eyes at that.
“I suppose you feel you can make me a better man,” he’d said, his full lips twisting as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Take a word of advice, Francesca, and save yourself the effort. I am what I am, and I’ve never lied to you about being anything more.”
She’d stared at his tall form as he walked out of the room, mute with rising bewilderment, anger, and hurt.
Is that what he thought? That she wanted to change him just because she was confused by his withdrawal after they’d had sex?
Or was he
right
to admonish her? He’d been completely attentive to her every wish all evening, treating her to an exclusive dining experience while overlooking the most romantic skyline in the world.
He hadn’t offered her his heart; he’d promised her experience and pleasure, and he’d delivered both in spades.
Her thoughts had only tangled her up further, creating an anxious knot in her belly. She’d tried to read an e-book on her phone but mostly stewed in her confusion and hurt until she’d fallen asleep.
This morning when she’d wakened, he was nowhere to be seen. She had a vague recollection of the hard, warm length of him pressing against her at some point in the night—his arms around her, his mouth moving across the skin between her neck and shoulder in a taut, electric kiss. It was difficult, however, to determine if the stirring memory was a dream or reality.
There had been a note on the bedside table next to the bed.
Francesca,
I had a breakfast meeting in La Galerie downstairs. Feel free to call room service if you like. We’re due to leave Paris for Chicago at 11:30. Please get packed and ready, and I’ll return to the suite to retrieve you at 9:00.
Ian
She scowled when she read the message. He’d made it sound like she was a package or a suitcase.
At ten minutes past nine, she stood in the living room of the suite, her purse and packed duffel bag on her shoulder, both regretful about leaving the exquisite Parisian suite where Ian had taught her so much about desire, and longing for the normalcy—the mundane sanity—of her everyday life.
She checked her watch and scowled. No Ian.
Screw this.
Feeling restless, she dashed off a quick note to Ian that she’d meet him in the lobby and exited the hotel suite. It’d get her mind off things to sit in the luxurious lobby and watch all the sophisticated, well-heeled patrons while she waited.
Downstairs, she sunk into one of the plush lobby chairs and dug into her purse for her cell phone, meaning to check messages. Something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. When she realized it was Ian’s tall, singular form that had snagged her focus, she leaned back in the chair, peering around the barrier of the upholstered winged back. He was walking out of La Galerie, one of the hotel restaurants, his arm around a well-dressed dark-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Francesca couldn’t hear their conversation at this distance, but their exchange struck her as intense somehow . . . intimate.
Was that why she’d instinctively ducked back behind the barrier of the chair?
Ian reached into the handsome sport jacket he was wearing and handed the woman an envelope. She accepted it with a smile and went up on her toes, kissing his cheek. Francesca’s heart leapt and then slowed to a sluggish throb as she watched Ian put his hands on the attractive woman’s shoulders and kiss both of her cheeks in return.
They gave each other a smile that struck Francesca as poignant . . . sad. The woman nodded once, as if to silently reassure him everything would be all right, before ducking her head and turning to walk across the shining white marble floor of the lobby, tucking the envelope Ian had given her into the leather briefcase she carried. Ian just stood there for a moment watching the woman depart, an expression she’d never seen before on his bold, masculine features.
He looked a little lost.
Francesca leaned back in the chair, blindly staring at the extravagant fresh flower arrangement on the table before her. Her heart seemed to shrivel in her chest. It felt like she’d just walked in on him in the midst of a very personal act. She didn’t understand completely what she’d just seen, but somehow she just
knew
it’d been something important to Ian . . . something charged.
Something he wouldn’t have
wanted
her to see.
When she spied him walking into a jewelry shop housed in the hotel lobby a moment later, she sprang up from the chair and charged toward the elevator bank.
“Hi. I thought I’d wait for you in the lobby,” she said to him a few minutes later with false cheerfulness. They’d met in front of the elevators, Francesca acting as if she’d just arrived on the lobby level.
He blinked at her unexpected appearance. “I thought I’d asked you to meet me in the suite,” he said, looking a little nonplussed . . . and amazingly gorgeous. Would his dark, intense male beauty ever cease to hit her like a physical blow?
“Yes. I saw your note.” She noticed his near-black brows rise in a silent challenge. “
I
left a note, too, telling you I’d meet you down here.”
His full lips twitched, but she wasn’t sure if it was in irritation or amusement.
“I owe you an apology for my lateness. I had an important appointment with a close family friend who happened to be in town, at a conference. I’ll just go up and get my things and join you in the lobby.”
“Okay,” she said, wondering all the while about the identity of this beautiful, close family friend who had the ability to pierce Ian’s seemingly impenetrable emotional armor.
Had he bought something in the jewelry store for that mysterious woman?
Knowing she couldn’t ask that question, she started to walk past him. She halted when he put his hand on her upper arm.