Because You Are Mine Part VII: Because I Need To (2 page)

“And your mother, she never—”

He opened his eyes and met her stare. “She grew anxious every time I brought it up as a kid, started doing some of her repetitive, ritualistic behaviors. After a while, I avoided the topic of my father’s identity like the plague. But inside, I grew to hate him.
He’d
done that to her, made her that scared and nervous. Somehow I just knew it.”

“But she already was ill . . . schizophrenic . . .”

“Yes, but there was something about the mention of him that never failed to send her into a bad period . . . a dark one.”

She couldn’t stand that expression on his face. It pierced her from the inside out. She hugged him tight. “Ian, I’m so sorry.”

He grunted at her energetic embrace, and then chuckled softly. He resumed stroking her hair. “Do you think squeezing me like a python is going to make it all better, lovely?”

“No,” she muttered, her mouth moving next to his bare chest. “But it couldn’t hurt.”

He encircled her in his arms and laid her on her back, coming down over her. “That it couldn’t,” he murmured, before he leaned down and kissed her in that masterful Ian-like way that made her forget everything for a period of time . . . even his suffering.

* * *

Francesca knew she’d remember that night spent in Ian’s arms, and in his bed, forever. It’d been sublime to have him open up to her . . . even a little. In the past, he’d told her that their relationship would be a purely sexual one, and there could be little doubt that their attraction—their obsession—with each other sexually was powerful stuff.

But that night, their exchange had been more than about sex. Or so Francesca had thought . . .

She woke up to brilliant golden sunlight filtering around the lush drapery. She blinked sleepily, noticing she was alone in the luxurious mussed bed where she’d spent so many erotic, intimate hours with Ian last night.

“Ian?” she called, her voice still rough from sleep.

He came walking out of the bathroom, looking amazing in a pair of dark blue trousers, a stark white button-down shirt, a black silk tie with pale blue stripes, and that belt buckle that always distracted her so much riding low on his lean hips. Had she really seen him completely naked last night, truly seen his awesome reflection in those mirrors, all of those lean, bulging muscles flexed tight as he fucked her?

Had it been a dream, having him hold and make love to her all night?

“Good morning,” he said, walking toward the bed and fastening a cuff link with deft fingers.

“Good morning,” she said groggily, smiling up at him, feeling content in the warm sunshine, sublime at the sight of him.

“I’m afraid I have to leave town for a while. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

Her giddy grin faded. His words echoed around her skull like a ricocheting gunshot.

“I’ve spoken to Jacob, and he’s going to give you a lesson on motorcycles. I’d like you to get that license at the same time he takes you to get your vehicle license. Lin is sending you the “Rules of the Road” for motorcycles. I’m leaving you my tablet to use for studying,” he said, pointing to the table in the sitting area of his bedroom suite. His brisk no-nonsense manner only furthered her stunned disbelief.

“Excuse me, Ian? I’m still sort of stuck on ‘I’m leaving town, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back,’” she said, sitting up partially in bed, propping her upper body on her elbow.

“I received a call this morning.” Was he avoiding her eyes? “I have an emergency to attend to.”

“Ian,
don’t.”

He paused at her sharp tone, his hand still at his shirt cuff. His eyes flashed.

“Don’t
what
?” he asked.

“Don’t leave,” burst out of her throat.

For an anxious, awful moment, silence reigned.

“I know you probably feel vulnerable about last night, but don’t run away,” she pleaded, a little shocked at herself. Had she secretly feared this very thing all night as they talked and made love and truly shared of themselves? Had she been worried all along he would abandon her in the aftermath of intimacy?

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he said, dropping his arms. “I have no choice but to leave, Francesca. Surely you understand I have business that takes me away at times.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, emotion bubbling in her breast. “You’re flying away right now has nothing to do with what happened last night.”

“No. It doesn’t,” he said sharply. “Where is all this coming from?”

She stared down at the bedsheet, not wanting him to see the tears that stung her eyes. She wanted to spit in anger . . . in hurt. “Yes. Where’s it coming from?” she mused bitterly. “Stupid, naive Francesca. Why didn’t I remember this was just a sexual thing, a matter of convenience for you? Oh, and your cock, of course. Let’s not forget that crucial player in the game.”

“You’re acting foolishly. I got a phone call. I
must
leave. That’s all there is too it.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What’s the emergency? Tell me.”

He blinked, obviously taken aback by her blunt demand. She noticed the corners of his mouth had gone pale in anger. “Because I
need
to. There are certain things that are unavoidable, and this is one of them. I’m not leaving for any other cause than that. It should be reason enough for you. Besides, your sullen behavior hardly makes me want to confide in you,” he added under his breath, striding away. Fury rose in her. It was too much, having him dismiss her in this way yet again, especially after she’d laid herself open to him last night . . . after she’d
thought he’d done the same to her.

“If you leave right now, I won’t be waiting for you. It’ll be finished.”

He spun around, his nostrils flared in anger. “Are you
daring
me, Francesca? Are you throwing down the gauntlet? Are you truly so vindictive?”

“How can you ask me that when you’re the one who is running away because of what’s happening between us?” she exclaimed, sitting up in bed, holding the sheet over her breasts.

“The only thing that’s happening between us is that you’re acting like a selfish brat. I have an emergency to attend to.”

“Then tell me what it is. At least give me that courtesy, Ian. Or do you think that given the rules of this godforsaken relationship, because of my supposed
submissive
nature, that I don’t even have the right to ask that?” she seethed.

He reached for the jacket he’d placed on the back of an armchair. Belatedly, she noticed his packed leather suitcase next to his briefcase
.
He really
was
leaving
.
She felt blindsided all over again. He shrugged on his suit jacket and regarded her with a glacial stare.

“As I said, I have no desire to explain myself to you when you’re behaving this way.” He picked up his luggage. “I’ll call you this evening. Maybe you’ll feel better about things by then.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t feel
better
. I can guarantee that,” she said with as much dignity . . . as much coldness as she could muster.

The color seemed to rush out of his face. She had a wild urge to take back what she’d said, but her stubbornness—her pride—wouldn’t let her. He nodded once, his mouth set in a hard line, and stalked out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a brisk click that sounded horribly final in her ringing ears.

Francesca clamped her eyelids shut as misery settled upon her like a weight.

* * *

Three days later, she sat in the Department of Motor Vehicles office in Deerfield, Illinois, studying the motorcycle “Rules of the Road” on Ian’s tablet. Yes, she still planned never to see Ian again on any sexual basis, and no, he’d definitely believed what she’d told him on that sunny Friday morning, because he hadn’t tried to contact her since he’d left. She kept trying to tell herself she was glad he wasn’t calling her, but somehow, her self-convincing didn’t feel all that persuasive.

What was that expression that had shadowed his face when she’d told him not to call her? Why is it that both in that situation three days ago and also on that occasion when he’d freaked out upon finding she was a virgin that
he’d
been the one who looked abandoned, not the other way around? The thoughts made it feel as if her heart was being squeezed by a giant invisible hand.

No, she wouldn’t dwell on such things. It was impossible to pierce the dark, complex inner workings of Ian’s soul. It was folly to even try.

It surprised her a little that she’d continued on with her driving lessons with Jacob, given her and Ian’s break. But she’d become strangely fixated on the idea of getting her license. Maybe part of her believed what Ian had told her. It was an important milestone of development that she’d passed up because of her emotional issues as a child and teenager. Her compulsion to drive somehow related to her wanting to take full control of her life for the first time. School was going well. Her painting for Ian would soon be finished.

For the first time in her life, she really did feel like she was starting to gain control . . . not just fumbling along, surviving from day to day. She wanted to be in the driver’s seat of Francesca Arno’s life, just like Ian had suggested. If it was destined to be a train wreck, well . . . at least she could say who was responsible.

Her eyes burned from all her studying on the tablet. She’d already passed the regular driver’s test, but the motorcycle test remained.

“Feeling confident?” Jacob asked from where he sat next to her, reading a newspaper. The DMV was packed. They’d been waiting for almost two hours now to be called so that Francesca could take her test.

“For the written part anyway,” she said. “Maybe we should have practiced for more than one day on Ian’s motorcycle?”

“You’ll do fine,” Jacob assured. “You’re actually more of a natural on a motorcycle than you are behind the wheel of a car, and you passed that test with flying colors.”

She gave him a wry glance. “I barely passed the driver’s portion. The first thing I did when I pulled onto the road was cut off another driver.”

“But that was the only mistake,” Jacob reminded her.
Sweet man.

Someone called her name.

“Wish me luck,” she said anxiously to Jacob as she stood.

“Luck isn’t necessary. You can do this,” he said with far more confidence than was warranted, in her opinion.

She took the driving portion of the motorcycle test on Ian’s motorcycle: a sleek, badass European bike. Jacob had told her over the past few days that Ian had a long-term love of motorcycles.

“I think he told me he used to fix motorcycles when he was a kid. He’s got a scary natural talent for it. Guess it all goes with that math, computer brain he’s got. All I know is, he can fix a car in twice the time I can, and I’m nearly twice his age,” Jacob had told her a few days ago, a hint of pride in his tone.

She also learned from Jacob that Ian was part owner in an increasingly popular, innovative French company that made superexpensive high-tech bikes and scooters.

The only reason she’d agreed to Jacob’s motorcycle training is that she suspected Ian recalled what she’d said about those motor scooters in Paris. And in truth, one of those scooters fitted with her limited budget, her transportation and parking needs in a busy city, not to mention her burgeoning sense of independence and desire to better run her life. Her plan was to buy an inexpensive scooter after she got her license, and screw it if she’d taken advantage of what Ian offered after he’d abandoned her.

She’d accept the hundred thousand dollars she’d earned on the commission. She’d take everything he’d offered and walk away from him, just as he’d walked away from her.

That’s what she told herself anyway. It comforted her to imagine she was as callous about Ian as he’d been about her.

Bloody bastard. Up and leaving town after she’d bared herself to him . . . after he’d seemingly done so to her.

“Well?” Jacob asked, standing when she approached him in the waiting room after taking her motorcycle test, her expression somber. He studied her face anxiously, his eyes springing wide. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it again as soon as you’ve practiced more.”

Francesca grinned. “I was ribbing you. I passed. With true flying colors this time.”

He gave her a quick hug and congratulations, Francesca laughing, ebullient with relief. She’d done it! Better late than never.

Jacob excused himself to secure Ian’s motorcycle in the back of the limo—she’d been shocked at how much room was in the cab of the luxurious car once Jacob broke down and stored the table between the couch seats. Francesca sat in the waiting room, held up again until she was called to get her photo for her license. The DMV was a synonym for waiting. After a few minutes of growing impatient and bored, she opened up Ian’s tablet, glad to be able to look at whatever she wanted to pass the time instead of having to study the rules of the road. She clicked for a search and several items came up on the drop-down menu . . . obviously sites Ian visited regularly. Feeling a little guilty, she studied the history. Where did Ian surf on the Internet? Most of the topics made sense—businesses and people he was doing background searches on.

One of them didn’t. She clicked it on it, glancing warily to the side to ensure Jacob wasn’t there to observe her nosing into Ian’s business.

The Genomics Research and Treatment Institute—a highly respected research and treatment facility located southeast of London in a lovely wooded landscape. Francesca studied the sylvan scenery and large ultramodern building. It took her a moment of reading to understand that the facility was a world leader in the research and treatment of schizophrenia.

She thought of Ian’s mother and her heart sank. Did he keep up on the research for cures for the cruel, debilitating illness in memory of Helen Noble? Did he, perhaps, fund some of the research?

“Jacob? What’s the Genomics Research and Treatment Institute?” she asked the driver in a false casual tone when he came and sat down next to her a few minutes later.

“No idea. Why?”

“You don’t know? It’s a sort of research facility and hospital. You’ve never heard of it in association with Ian?”