She turned and headed for the doors.
* * *
He sat alone in the sitting room, slouching on the velvet couch, his collar unbuttoned, his tie hanging loose around his neck. The fire was dying. It must be five in the morning. The huge house was utterly quiet around him following the clamor of the ball, making him feel like he was in the belly of a sleeping beast. He knew he wouldn’t rest, so he hadn’t even bothered going to bed.
Surely Francesca was safe here . . . in his grandparents’ home. He knew how secure his grandfather kept the house, with its ancient and priceless treasures. He was grateful she was there versus in Chicago, seeing as how she refused to stay at his penthouse, which was also extremely secure.
Then maybe you shouldn’t have been the one to rip it apart.
His eyelids closed at the memory of her saying that as she looked up at him, her expression utterly shattered. He’d done that; forced her into feeling as much pain as he experienced. What else could he do, though, but travel this alternative road, and pray that their paths met again? He couldn’t have stayed with her and pretended he didn’t doubt his place at her side.
He still couldn’t. But he couldn’t stay away, either. Not in these circumstances. Not until he at least understood the direction of the threat.
He thought of his first vision of her tonight, of a beauty that seemed to both warm him like a friendly fire and strike like lightning to the very heart of him. Desire stabbed through him, lancing and precise, a result of knowing Francesca lay within walking distance from him, soft and pliable in sleep. He winced and put his hand on his cock through his trousers, a purely instinctive gesture to stanch the ache. When that gave him no relief, he took a large swig of the brandy he held in his hand.
He’d always dreaded the idea of hurting her, guessing he probably would. Not intentionally. Never that. Just as a result of who he was.
Who he wasn’t.
But it was stupid to dwell on things he couldn’t control now. He was worried about that incident in Chicago. He couldn’t believe no one else was as alarmed. Clearly, no one else had bothered to read between the lines about what had occurred on that busy Chicago street. A sick feeling swept through him. What if he’d somehow made her a target by leaving her so much power in his company? He should have realized that it might make her vulnerable. He’d had his fair share of potential threats over the years, both toward his company and his person. Usually, it was just a matter of crackpots shooting off their mouth. But there had been a few cases in which if it hadn’t been for his special attention to security, he might have run into some real trouble. He’d never told Francesca about those incidents, not wanting her to worry, so it was no real surprise to him that she was doubtful about a potential threat.
His concern about that attack made him want to immediately take back control of Noble Enterprises. But would that action diminish the threat to Francesca? Or possibly just mask it?
His research into Trevor Gaines’s sordid past would just have to be put on hold for the time being. Francesca didn’t want him near her, but he’d have to contrive a way to manage it until his fear was calmed.
Again, her image rose to taunt him, the remembered sensation of holding her slender body while they danced, of touching the silk of her skin, a torture he eagerly sought. She looked more beautiful to him than she ever had, but he didn’t kid himself that she hadn’t also shown the signs of suffering. Her muscles had felt rigid with tension beneath his hand while they danced. Her face looked drawn and there were pale purple shadows beneath her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping. He wasn’t surprised, but seeing her pain firsthand was yet another festering wound.
A muted sound penetrated his thoughts and he opened his eyes.
Francesca walked toward him, her loose, long, rose-gold hair glowing subtly like dying embers against the ivory robe she wore. Had his desire been so sharp he’d called her to him? For a spellbound moment as she drew nearer, he didn’t know if he slept or dreamed. Was he more intoxicated than he’d realized? She stopped in front of his bent knees, her face sublimely lovely, her expression inscrutable. He didn’t move a muscle, frightened he’d shatter the spell. He caught a whiff of her scent, of her hair. Her body. No, she’s not a dream.
“I see you couldn’t sleep, either,” she said.
“I never even tried.”
His fingers unfurled when she put her hand on the snifter he held. She set it on the table.
“I’m not doing this because I forgive you,” she said, her large doe eyes gleaming in the firelight, her voice a smoky caress against his roughened skin.
“I never expected forgiveness.”
“Maybe that’s why you haven’t apologized.”
He watched, enthralled as she shrugged off the robe and let it drop heedlessly to the floor. She was naked beneath it, her skin a pale gold in the firelight. For a moment, she just stood there, studying his face as he worshipped her beauty.
“Have you been with others? Since you left me?”
He looked up at her question, meeting her stare full on without reluctance.
“No.”
For a moment, her gaze moved over his face. Then she straddled him and settled, her weight in his lap making his lungs burn. He inhaled sharply, realizing he’d been holding his breath, and her scent fully pervaded his awareness: the achingly familiar scent of her perfume, her skin . . . her arousal.
He closed his eyes when she encircled his neck with her arms, buried her face against his neck and shoulder, pressed her lips to his neck and ground her pussy against his cock, her actions single-minded . . . electrical. Need clawed at him from inside, the pain of it impossible to control. His hands absorbed the softness of her skin. For a second, he just sat there, rigid, an animal straining silently—furiously—at fraying bonds. She shifted. Desire ripped through flesh and bone, exploding to the surface. His fingers furrowed in the hair at her nape. He clutched and pulled, forcing her head back, exposing her white throat and lush, parted lips.