“Why don’t you let me teach you how to drive?” he asked.
“Ian—” she began, feeling frustrated and a little helpless.
“I’m not saying it to control you. I’d like you to feel more in control over your life, in fact,” he interrupted, cutting his chicken fillet briskly. He glanced up when she didn’t speak. “Come on, Francesca,” he coaxed. “Be a little impulsive.”
“Oh, ha ha,” she said sarcastically, but she couldn’t help but smile at his goading. She melted a little when he grinned back, a devilish, sexy gleam in his eyes. “You act like you’re planning on teaching me to drive here in Paris after we finish lunch.”
“That’s because I am,” he said, picking up his phone.
* * *
They lingered at the bistro, talking, sipping coffee, and waiting for Jacob to arrive with the car Ian had requested.
“There he is,” Ian said, his gaze on a shiny black BMW sedan with tinted windows. She’d listened to him ask Jacob to lease an automatic-transmission vehicle and bring it to the bistro address. Now here was Jacob, not a half hour later. It was so strange to consider the things one could do on a whim when money was no object.
She couldn’t believe she’d let him talk her into this.
She smiled at Jacob as he handed Ian the keys. “Aren’t we going to drop you off?” she asked the driver when he turned to walk down the sidewalk.
“I’ll just walk to the hotel. It’s not far,” Jacob assured cheerfully before he waved and turned away.
Ian opened the passenger-side door for her. She was relieved that he wasn’t going to start teaching her to drive on the busy Paris streets. Even so, she was convinced that a disaster was about to occur.
“This is an extremely nice car,” she said, sitting on the passenger side and watching while Ian adjusted the driver’s seat for his long legs. “Couldn’t you have rented a banged-up car? What if I wreck this one?”
“You won’t wreck it,” he said as he began to drive down the shaded street. Clouds were rolling in, hiding the gorgeous golden sunshine they’d relished the entire autumn day. “You have excellent reflexes and good eyes. I noticed during our little fencing match.”
He glanced quickly to the side and caught her staring at him. She blinked, her gaze bouncing off him. She’d only seen him drive one other time—that night he’d yanked her out of the tattoo parlor. Maybe he was right about power and driving. He seemed utterly in control as he maneuvered skillfully through Paris traffic. She couldn’t remove her gaze from his large hands grasping the leather wheel, his touch light but sure, like a lover’s. For some reason, it made her think of what that crop had looked like in his grip earlier. She shivered.
“Is the air-conditioning too much?” he asked solicitously.
“No. I’m fine. Where are we going?”
“Back to the Musée de Saint-Germain,” he murmured. “It’s closed on Mondays. There’s a rather large employee parking lot in the rear, where we can practice.”
Francesca had a vision of ramming the car directly into the elaborate palace’s wall and couldn’t decide if she was glad or uneasy that Ian’s grandfather owned the property. It would be a miserable way for the venerable earl to learn of her existence.
Twenty minutes later, she sat behind the wheel of the sedan while Ian sat beside her in the passenger seat. It felt very strange—firstly to be in the driver’s seat, and secondly because the wheel was on the opposite side of the car than it would be in the states.
“I think those are all the basics,” Ian said after pointing out the key control mechanisms and pedals to her. “Keep your foot on the brake and shift the car into drive.”
“Already?” she squeaked nervously.
“The object is to make the car move, Francesca. You can’t do that while it’s in park,” he said dryly. She did what he’d said, her foot jammed against the brake.
“Now ease up on the brake, that’s right,” he said as the car began to inch forward in the empty parking lot. “Now begin to experiment with pressing on the accelerator . . . Easy, Francesca,” he added when she pressed too far and the car jolted forward. She slammed her foot on the brake even more aggressively, and they both flew forward against their seat belts.
Damn.
She glanced at Ian nervously.
“As you can see,” he said wryly, “the pedals are very sensitive. Keep experimenting. It’s the only way you’ll learn.”
She clenched her teeth together this time and cautiously touched the accelerator. When the car began to respond to her subtlest urging, a thrill went through her.
“Very good. Now turn to your left and circle around,” Ian instructed.
She used too much gas on the curve.
“Brake.”
Again, she jolted them against the seat belts.
“I’m sorry,” she squealed.
“When I say brake, I mean apply your foot gently to the brake to slow down. If I want you to stop, I’ll say stop. You have to slow on a turn or you’ll lose control. Now again,” he said, not unkindly.
He was so patient with her for the next half hour, she was a little amazed, especially because she really was a spaz driver. Her jerky stops and accelerations smoothed out quite a bit under Ian’s tutelage, however, and she was starting to feel euphoric piloting the sleek, responsive vehicle.
“Now park in that end spot there,” he requested, pointing. Rain began to spatter on the windshield as she did a neat turn into the parking spot and cried out in triumph. “Very nice,” Ian complimented, smiling at her when she turned to him. “We’ll practice more when we get to Chicago. I’ll have Lin forward the rules of the road so you can study on the plane home tomorrow, and you’ll be ready to take the test in a week or so.”