“Wha . . . in my purse,” she sputtered. “In the studio.”
He nodded once. “I’ll go and get them for you. In the meantime, you can shower and get ready. You’ll find lingerie there,” he said, nodding in the direction of a small antique chest of drawers near where the dresses hung. He started to walk out of the room.
“Ian—”
He turned around, his stare like a flicking whip. “I won’t argue with you about this. Do you want to be with me tonight?” he asked quietly.
“I . . . yes, you know that I do.”
“Then get ready and choose one of the dresses. You can’t attend a dinner like this in jeans.”
He left her standing there, her mouth hanging open, her nerves tingling with anger. She tried to think of a way around it but couldn’t. It was true what he’d said. She couldn’t be escorted by Ian Noble to the main dining room of one of the nicest, most luxurious restaurants in the city dressed like this.
Looking like her.
Her anger simmered at his heavy-handedness, though. For some reason, memories of her father’s impatience and vague disgust with her appearance when she’d occasionally been in social situations with his peers rose up and bit her, aggravating the sting from Ian’s imperious behavior.
For God’s sake, Francesca, if everything that spills out of that mouth of yours is going to be so stupid, why don’t you just keep it shut! And not by stuffing your face any more than you already have tonight.
She’d been twelve years old when her father had taken her aside in the kitchen and uttered those words. She reexperienced the flood of shame and insubordination she’d felt back then—a familiar brew of emotion. Francesca never gorged herself in public—it was just that her father’s critical eye seemed to be on her every time she took a bite of food. It’d always been that way.
If her father thought she was an unsightly blemish on the earth, then she’d make sure that’s precisely what she was.
Ian had willfully ignored her wishes about the clothing and gone right ahead with his own agenda. And all the while, Francesca had thought he’d understood her . . . sympathized with her, even.
She jerked open one of the dresser drawers and ran her fingers over exquisite silk panties, bras, and hosiery.
He’d said he wanted her to own her sexuality . . . feel empowered by it. Was this all part of his manipulation to get her to do so?
She withdrew a pair of sheer black thigh-high silk stockings. Well, if Ian wanted her to flaunt it, he’d better be prepared for the result.
* * *
He was in the process of tying a tie when she walked out of the bathroom fifty minutes later. Their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror he used, above a cherrywood dresser. His gaze slowly lowered over her, his body going rigid in abrupt male awareness.
She looked like she ought to be declared illegal, wearing a black V-neck bandage dress that hugged her willowy waist and the taut, lush curves of her hips and slender thighs like a lover. He realized, with a potent mixture of regret and arousal, that her lush lips were still puffy from his forceful possession of her mouth earlier. Another experienced man would recognize the evidence for what it was, and he didn’t care for the idea of putting Francesca on display in that manner before a man like Xander LaGrange. Her gleaming strawberry-blond hair had been affixed to her head with what he suspected were the diamond pins he’d bought her. She wore simple pearl earrings. He couldn’t take his eyes off the flawless ivory expanse of skin in the wide V-neck, revealing the majority of her chest and part of her alabaster shoulders. He couldn’t believe it was an off-the-rack dress. It looked like it’d been tailor-made for her alone.
She was tightly packaged sexual elegance.
“Choose another dress, please,” he said, forcing himself to look away from the shockingly alluring image of her to finish tying his tie.
“We’re going to be late as it is,” Francesca replied. He glanced back at her, wondering if she was avoiding his stare with those long-lashed nymph eyes of hers that always killed him. She checked the contents of the ebony lizard-skin clutch in her hand. A flicker of suspicion went through him, even as he was once again captured by the vision of her.
She hadn’t chosen that ridiculously sexy dress to make him pay for buying her clothing, had she? The four-inch heels and the sheer stockings she wore made a vivid fantasy pop into his brain of having those long, gorgeous legs wrapped around him while he was riding her furiously into submission . . .
. . . into screaming bliss.
He scowled and stalked into his dressing room. Xander LaGrange was a lecher. He couldn’t stand the man, to be honest, and it’d been the worst kind of torture to cater to his ridiculous, narcissistic demands in order to make the final acquisition on Ian’s terms. He’d specifically asked Francesca to the ceremonial dinner tonight to seal the deal because he was worried he’d say something rude or sharp to the oily LaGrange, ruining his chances to acquire the other man’s company. With Francesca there, he’d be less focused on LaGrange’s smug belief that he’d bested Ian with the deal.
It’d be easier for him to control his temper while Francesca was there. Her freshness softened him.
But he hadn’t expected to take a sex siren to a dinner where Xander LaGrange was present.
He returned to the bedroom, a lightweight cropped black sweater with a jeweled clasp in his hand. “If you must wear it, please put this on. It’ll cover all that—” he paused, his gaze on her exposed chest in the wide V-neck. Her breasts were decently under wraps, even if a large expanse of skin at her chest and shoulders was bare. The way the dress molded and shaped her breasts, however, equated to visual sex candy. The black fabric made her skin look exceptionally white and smooth by contrast . . . very naked.