Make Me Desperate (7 page)
“Then we’ll do it tomorrow, as well.” She glanced up at him as she tossed the robe around her shoulders. “I mean, if you’d like? Dinner tonight, too? I promise I’ll do better than raiding the fridge this time.”
She laughed. “Don’t promise on my account. That was the best meal I’ve had in years.”
“Is that a yes?”
She glanced over at him. His gaze was on her bare breasts.
“You know it is,” she said softly. He looked up and met her stare. She felt that increasingly familiar unfurling in her lower belly.
“Jacob?”
Harper looked around at the woman’s voice, startled. Her eyes widened when she saw Elizabeth Shields walking briskly across the terrace in her pumps. Harper scrambled hastily into her robe, drawing it closed over her naked body. Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough. Elizabeth halted in her tracks, her stare on Harper. Then she looked abruptly downward at the stone floor.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t alone,” Elizabeth said.
“What is it?” Jacob asked her in a clipped tone.
Elizabeth glanced up cautiously. When she noticed that Harper was covered, she stepped forward. She had a cell phone in her hand, and was covering the receiver.
“It’s Alex calling about the ResourceSoft acquisition. I’m afraid there’s been a snag,” she glanced over at Harper, clearly still uncomfortable airing Jacob’s private affairs in front of her.
“It’s okay, Elizabeth,” Jacob said. “What’s the problem?”
“There’s a liability issue. A man has come forward and claimed a prior copyright on the software.”
Jacob cursed under his breath. He held out his hand, frowning forbiddingly. Harper sensed the shift in his focus, along with his irritation. Elizabeth gave him the phone.
Harper turned away, tightening her robe and smoothing her hair while Jacob talked to whoever was on the phone in terse, brisk language. He didn’t take long, but even so, she caught a glimpse of his diamond-hard focus. It intimidated her a little, seeing that brilliant, glacial side of his personality. He signed off as she turned around. His gaze flickered across her, and she sensed his methodical mind working through a myriad of scenarios.
“I’m sorry. I’m going to have to leave for San Francisco this afternoon,” he said distractedly.
“Oh.” She was expecting him to say something like that, given what she’d just overheard on the phone. Still, she was disappointed. They’d gone from the warmth of the moment and the promise of more excitement and intimacy tonight to having it all ripped away in a second. “Well, I’m sure it can’t be helped . . .” She faded off, made uncomfortable with Elizabeth standing there, listening to the whole exchange.
“It sure as hell can’t,” Jacob muttered angrily, hopping onto the terrace, still holding the white sheet against his lower body, insouciant in his mostly nude state, even in front of Elizabeth. He handed the phone to his assistant.
“Call Jenny and Marianne and let them know I’ll be there this evening.” He rattled off a few other instructions to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth made a few suggestions. Harper started to feel like a third wheel, they were both so intent on their plans. Finally, Elizabeth nodded and started to walk away.
“No. Wait,” Jacob called tersely to Elizabeth. He turned to Harper.
“Come with me? To San Francisco.”
She blinked in amazement. She’d thought he’d forgotten she was there.
“I have work.”
“It’s Friday of Labor Day weekend. I’ll wait until you’re off. We’ll fly out of the Truckee-Tahoe Airport and be in San Francisco in forty-five minutes. I’ll get you back on Sunday. Cyril is in San Francisco right now. Maybe you two could get together while I’m in meetings, discuss the film contract or screenplay ideas.”
She glanced anxiously at Elizabeth, who was watching her closely.
“Okay. I mean . . . I guess that could work,” she said impulsively, finding it impossible to resist.
Finding
him
impossible to resist.
For a second, his irritation and preoccupation with the snag in his acquisition might never have been. He flashed a smile. Harper thought he looked relieved. For a few seconds, she was positive she’d made the right decision in agreeing. How could it be a bad choice, when it made him smile that way?
“Make the arrangements please?” he said to Elizabeth, his gaze remaining on Harper.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, giving Harper one last uneasy glance before she walked into the house.
“I’m sorry about your deal complications,” Harper told him when they were alone again.
“I’ll get it straightened out,” he said grimly. His expression lightened a little. “And at least you’ll be there.”
She forced a smile and walked toward him. “For the weekend. For the moment.”
He reached out to palm her jaw and ducked his head, seizing her mouth in one swift, unexpected movement. His kiss was hard. Hot. Greedy. Harper felt her toes curling into the stone terrace. Her brain went blank for several heated seconds.
He tore his mouth from hers and pressed their foreheads together, fisting her hair. She looked up slightly, seeing the gleam in his eyes.
“I’m going to make them moments you’re never going to forget. Trust me?” he asked quietly against her open mouth.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Because as usual, her doubts couldn’t exist simultaneously with his touch. That’s what had her breathless at the idea of spending the entire weekend with him.
Not to mention scared half out of her mind.
Keep reading for an excerpt from BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE, a red-hot romance like no other—where the rules of desire are broken, night after intoxicating night. Available now from Berkley.
Francesca glanced around when Ian Noble entered the room, mostly because everyone else in the luxurious restaurant bar did the same thing. Her heart jumped. Through the crowd she saw a tall man dressed in an impeccably tailored suit remove his overcoat, revealing a long, lean body. She immediately recognized Ian Noble. Her gaze lingered on the elegant black overcoat draped over his arm. The random thought hit her brain that while the black coat was right, the suit was all wrong. He belonged in jeans, didn’t he? Her observation made no sense whatsoever. He looked fantastic in the suit, for one, and for another, according to a recent article she’d read in
GQ
, he was reputed to almost single-handedly keep London’s Savile Row thriving. What else would a businessman who was the scion of a minor branch of the British monarchy wear? One of the men who had entered with him reached to take his coat, but he shook his head once.
Apparently, the enigmatic Mr. Noble wasn’t planning on doing more than making a cursory appearance at the cocktail party he was hosting in Francesca’s honor.
“There’s Mr. Noble now. He’ll be so pleased to meet you. He loves your work,” Lin Soong said. Francesca heard the subtle note of pride in the woman’s voice, as if Ian Noble was her lover instead of her employer.
“He looks like he has far more important things to do than meet me,” Francesca said, smiling. She took a sip of club soda and watched as Noble spoke tersely on a cell phone while two men stood nearby, his overcoat remaining slung in the crook of his arm in readiness for a quick getaway. The subtle slant of his mouth told her he was irritated. For some reason, this all-too-human display of emotion relaxed her a little. She hadn’t revealed it to her roommates—she was known for possessing a ‘
whatever, bring it on attitude’
—but she’d been strangely anxious about meeting Ian Noble.
The crowd returned to their conversation, but the energy level of the room had somehow amplified with Noble’s arrival. Odd that such a distinctive, sophisticated man would become an icon for a tech-savvy, T-shirt-wearing generation. He looked to be thirtyish. She’d read Noble had earned his first billion with his breakthrough social-media company years ago, before he’d put it up for a public offering, made thirteen billion more, then promptly started another hugely successful Internet retail business.
Everything he touched turned to gold, apparently. Why? Because he was Ian Noble. He could do anything he damn well pleased. Francesca’s mouth curved in amusement at the thought. It somehow helped to think he was arrogant and unlikeable. Yes, he was her benefactor, but like artists throughout history, Francesca had a healthy dose of distrust for the patron shelling out the money. Sadly, all starving artists needed their Ian Nobles.
“I’ll just go and tell him you’re here. As I’ve mentioned, he was quite taken with your painting. He chose it hands down over the two other finalists,” Lin said, referring to the competition Francesca had won. The winner would be granted the prestigious commission to create the centerpiece painting for the grand lobby of Noble’s new Chicago skyscraper, which they were in. The cocktail reception in Francesca’s honor was being held in a restaurant called Fusion, a trendy, pricey restaurant located inside Noble’s high-rise. Most importantly to Francesca, she would be awarded a hundred thousand dollars, something she could sorely use as a struggling master of fine arts graduate student.
Lin magically materialized a young African-American woman named Zoe Charon to converse with Francesca in her absence.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Zoe said, flashing an orthodontist’s dream smile as she shook Francesca’s hand. “And congratulations on your commission. Just think: I’ll be looking at your painting every time I walk into work.”
Francesca suffered an increasingly familiar pang of discomfort over her clothing in comparison to Zoe’s suit. Lin, Zoe, and just about every person at the reception in her honor were appareled in the height of sophisticated, sleek fashion. How was she to know that boho chic wouldn’t work at a Noble cocktail party? How was she to know that her brand of boho chic wasn’t
really
chic at all?
She learned Zoe was an assistant manager for Noble Enterprises, in a department called Imagetronics.
What the hell was that?
Francesca wondered distractedly as she nodded in polite interest, her gaze flickering again toward the front of the restaurant.
Noble’s mouth softened slightly when Lin reached him and spoke. A few seconds later, a detached, bored expression settled on his features. He shook his head once and glanced at his watch. Clearly Noble didn’t want to go through the ritual of meeting one of the many recipients of his philanthropic efforts any more than Francesca wanted to meet him. This cocktail party in her honor had been one of the onerous activities that accompanied the winning of the commission.
She turned to Zoe and grinned broadly, determined to enjoy herself now that she’d confirmed her anxiety about meeting Noble had been a waste of time.
“So what’s the deal with Ian Noble?”
Zoe started at her bald question and glanced toward the front of the bar where Noble stood.
“The deal? He’s a god, in a word.”
Francesca smirked. “Not much for understatement, are you?”
Zoe broke into laughter. Francesca joined her. For a moment they were just two young women giggling over the most handsome man at the party. Which Ian Noble was, Francesca conceded. Forget the party. He was the most arresting man she’d ever seen in her life.
Her laughter ceased when she noticed Zoe’s expression. She turned. Noble’s gaze was directly on her. A hot, heavy sensation expanded in her belly. She didn’t have time to draw breath before he was stalking across the room toward her, leaving a surprised-looking Lin in his wake.
Francesca experienced a ridiculous urge to run.
“Oh . . . he’s headed this way . . . Lin must have told him who you were,” Zoe said, sounding as bewildered and caught off guard as Francesca felt. Zoe was more practiced in the art of social elegance than Francesca, however. By the time Noble reached them, all traces of the giggling girl were gone and in its place stood a contained, beautiful woman.
“Mr. Noble, good evening.”
His eyes were a piercing cobalt blue. They flicked off Francesca for a split second. She managed to suck some air into her lungs during the reprieve.
“Zoe, isn’t it?” he asked.
Zoe couldn’t hide her pleasure at the fact that Noble had known her name. “Yes, sir. I work in Imagetronics. May I introduce Francesca Arno, the artist you chose as the winner in the Far Sight Competition.”
He took her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Arno.”
Francesca just nodded. She couldn’t speak. Her brain was temporarily overloaded by the image of him, the warmth of his encompassing hand, the sound of his low, British-accented voice. His skin was pale next to his dark, stylishly coiffed, short hair and gray suit.
Dark Angel.
The words flew into her brain, unbidden.
“I can’t tell you how impressed I am with your work,” he said. No smile. No softness in his tone, even if there was a sharp curiosity in his stare.
She swallowed uneasily. “Thank you.” He released her hand slowly, causing his skin to slide against hers. A horrible moment of silence passed as he just looked at her. She gathered herself and straightened her spine.
“I’m glad to have this opportunity to thank you in person for awarding me the commission. It means more to me than I can convey.” She said the rehearsed words in a pressured fashion.
He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and waved his hand negligently. “You earned it.” He held her stare. “Or at least you will.”
She felt her pulse leap at her throat and hoped he didn’t notice.
“I earned it, yes. But you gave me the opportunity. It’s
that
I’m trying to express my thanks for. I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the second year of my master’s program if you hadn’t given me this chance.”
He blinked. From the corner of her vision, Francesca noticed Zoe stiffen. Francesca glanced away in embarrassment. Had she sounded sharp?
“My grandmother often says I’m ungracious in the face of gratitude,” he said, his voice quieter . . . warmer. “You’re right to scold me. And you’re also very welcome for the opportunity, Ms. Arno,” he said, giving a nod of acknowledgement. “Zoe, would you mind taking a message to Lin for me? I’ve decided to cancel dinner with Xander LaGrange after all. Please have her reschedule.”
“Of course, Mr. Noble,” Zoe said before she walked away.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked, nodding at an unoccupied circular leather booth.
“Sure.”
He waited behind her while she scooted into the booth. She wished he wouldn’t. She felt awkward and ungainly. After she’d settled, he slid beside her in one graceful, swooping motion. Francesca smoothed the gauzy skirt of the vintage beaded baby-doll dress she’d bought at a secondhand store in Wicker Park. The early September evening had been cooler than she’d expected when planning for the cocktail party. The casual denim jacket she wore had been her only choice, given the thin straps of her dress. It struck her how ridiculous she must appear, seated next to this immaculately dressed, thoroughly masculine male.
She fussed anxiously with her collar, and then sensed his stare on her. She met his eyes. Her chin went up defiantly. A small smile flickered across his mouth, and something clenched in her lower belly.
“So you’re in the second year of your master’s program?”
“Yes. I’m at the Art Institute.”
“A very good school,” he murmured. He rested his hands on the table and leaned back in the booth, looking thoroughly comfortable. His body was long, relaxed, and taut, reminding Francesca of a predatory animal whose seeming calmness could leap into full-out action in a split second. Even though his hips were slim, his shoulders were broad, suggesting some serious muscles beneath that starched white shirt. “If I’m remembering your application correctly, you studied both art and architecture at Northwestern University?”
“Yes,” Francesca said breathlessly, pulling her gaze off his hands. They were elegant hands, but also large, blunt-tipped, and very capable-looking. The vision of them disturbed her for some reason. She couldn’t help but imagine what they would look like against her skin . . . wrapped around her waist . . .
“Why?”
She started from her totally inappropriate thoughts and met his steady stare. “Why did I study both architecture and art?”
He nodded once.
“Architecture for my parents and art for me,” she replied, surprising herself by the honesty of her answer. She usually made a show of being coolly disdainful when anyone asked the same question. Why should she have to choose between her talents? “My parents are both architects, and it was their lifetime dream that I become one as well.”
“So you granted them half a dream. You earned the qualifications of an architect but don’t plan to make it your career.”
“I’ll always be an architect.”
“And I’m glad of it,” he said, looking up when a handsome man with dreadlocks and pale gray eyes that contrasted with darker skin approached the table. Noble shook his hand. “Lucien, how is business?”
“Booming,” Lucien replied, his gaze shifting to Francesca with interest.
“Ms. Arno, this is Lucien Lenault. He’s the manager of Fusion, and the most illustrious restaurateur in Europe. I handpicked him from the finest restaurant in Paris.”
Lucien rolled his eyes amusedly at Ian’s introduction and grinned. “Hopefully, the same can be said of Fusion very soon. Ms. Arno, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lucien added in a delicious, French-accented voice. “What may I get you?”
Noble looked at her expectantly. His lips were unusually full for such a rugged-featured, masculine man, striking her as sensual yet firm.
Stern.
From where had that strange thought leapt?
“I’m fine,” Francesca replied, although her heart started to beat erratically.
“What is that?” he asked, nodding at her half-empty drink.
“Just my usual drink, club soda with lime.”
“You should be celebrating, Ms. Arno.” Was it his accent that made her ears and neck prickle when he said her name? There was something unique about it, she realized. It was British, but some other influence seemed to slide into his syllables occasionally, something she couldn’t quite identify. “Bring us a bottle of the Roederer Brut,” Noble told Lucien, who smiled, gave a slight bow and walked away.
Her confusion mounted. Why was he bothering to spend so much time with her? Surely he didn’t drink champagne with all of the recipients of his philanthropy. “As I was saying before Lucien arrived, I’m glad about your architecture background. Your skill and knowledge in that field is undoubtedly what gives your artwork so much precision, depth, and style. The painting you submitted for the contest was spectacular. You exactly caught the spirit of what I wanted for my lobby.”
Her gaze skimmed across his immaculate suit. Somehow, his apparent love of a perfectly straight line didn’t surprise her. True, her artwork was often inspired by her love of form and structure, but precision wasn’t what her work was about. Far from it. “I’m glad you were pleased,” she said with what she hoped was a neutral tone.
A smile ghosted his lips. “There’s something behind your statement. Aren’t you happy that you’ve pleased me?”
Her mouth dropped open at that. She stifled the words that flew to her throat.
I do my art to please no one but myself.
She stopped herself just in time. What was wrong with her? This man was responsible for changing her life.
“I told you earlier, I couldn’t be happier about winning the contest. I’m thrilled.”
“Ah,” he murmured as Lucien arrived with the champagne and ice bucket. Noble didn’t glance in Lucien’s direction as the other man busied himself opening the bottle, but continued to study her as though she was a particularly interesting science project. “But being glad of your commission isn’t the same as being glad you pleased me.”
“No, I didn’t mean that,” she sputtered, looking at Lucien when he uncorked the champagne with a muffled popping sound. Her bewildered gaze returned to Noble. His eyes glinted in an otherwise impassive face. What in the world was he talking about? And why, despite the fact that she didn’t have the answer to that, had his question made her so flustered? “I am glad that you liked the painting. Very much so.”