“Thank you, Davie,” she said, giving him a big hug. “Both for getting the paintings and for talking to me about Ian.”
“Anytime,” he told her with a significant glance. “We’ll talk more later, if you want.”
She nodded, watching him walk out of the room, leaving her to stew in her doubts and hopes.
* * *
Ten minutes later, she knocked softly on the door to Ian’s bedroom suite. She entered when she heard his distant, “Come in.” He sat on the couch in the sitting area, his suit coat unbuttoned, his long legs bent before him, paging through his messages on his cell phone, his gaze steady on her as she approached.
“I was just looking at the paintings again,” she said. “I’m sorry for running off like that.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, setting down his phone on the couch.
She nodded. “I was . . . overwhelmed.”
A strained silence ensued as he studied her.
“I thought they would make you happy. The paintings.”
Her eyes burned and she stared at the Oriental carpet. Damn. She’d thought she’d gotten rid of all the onerous tears.
“They do make me happy. More happy than I can say.” She dared to meet his gaze. “How did you know they would?”
“I see how much pride you take in your work,” he said, standing. “I can only imagine how hard it was for you to part with them.”
“Like giving a piece of myself away each time,” she said, attempting a smile, twisting her hands nervously. Her gaze flickered across his face as he stepped toward her, and she was snagged by his stare. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you. I mean . . . I know the paintings are yours. You bought them. But for me to see them all together again is so special. But don’t you think it’s all too much?”
“Why would it be too much? Do you think I’m doing it to get you back in bed?”
“No, but—”
“I did it because you’re singularly talented. You know how much I appreciate art. It would please me to see your work valued as it should be. My patronage would mean nothing if you weren’t so talented, Francesca.”
She exhaled slowly. How could she argue in the face of what appeared to be genuine sincerity? “Thank you. Thank you so much for thinking about me, Ian.”
“I think about you more than you know.”
She swallowed thickly, recalling what Davie had said earlier . . . He’s good at hiding it.
“I’m sorry that I upset you last week. I really did have an important emergency to attend to. I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” he said. “My feelings about our relationship remain the same. I wish you’d reconsider what you said the other day. I can’t stop thinking about you, Francesca,” he said, his tone at the last making her gaze leap to his.
“If . . . if we do continue in the way we were, Ian . . . would you promise to only try and control me . . . dominate me in the bedroom?” she asked breathlessly. It’d cost her more than she’d been prepared for to say that. When he didn’t immediately answer, her heart dipped in her chest. His expression was impassive, but his eyes gleamed with emotion.
“Do you mean during sex? Because I can’t guarantee that I’ll only want you that way within the confines of a bedroom. As you know from Paris, the urge could arise anywhere.”
“Oh . . . well, yes. That’s what I meant. I admit that I like it when you . . . dominate me during sex, but I don’t want my life controlled.”
“You mean like I tried to control Elizabeth’s?”
“You admitted that you trust me more than you did Elizabeth.”
She sensed him considering and felt the need to better explain herself.
“I actually want to thank you for encouraging me to gain better control of my life,” she said, not wanting him to think she was clueless as to the changes he’d already wrought in her during their relatively brief relationship. “I appreciate your doing that. But I want to be the one to be in the true driver’s seat, Ian. Outside of sex, I mean,” she added under her breath.
His mouth pressed into a hard line. “I can’t guarantee I won’t tread where you don’t want me.”
“But will you try?”
His gaze ran over her face before he glanced away and exhaled.
“Yes. I’ll try.”
Her heart bounced. She rushed him and gave him a huge hug, squeezing his waist until he grunted. He looked amused when she looked up at him a moment later. He must be noticing the rush of happiness that had gone through her at his words. I’ll try.
“I have an idea,” she said. “Let me take you for a ride on your motorcycle.”
“I can’t,” he said regretfully, stroking her cheek.
“But Jacob says I’m a really good driver—better than I am in a car.”
He smiled full out, and she blinked at the impact. “That’s not what I meant. I have to get into the office. I’m way behind with work.”
“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. She recovered quickly, though. She understood he had massive responsibilities.
“But now that you mention it, I did bring home a surprise for you from London,” he said, a grin still ghosting his typically stern mouth.
“What?”
He dropped his hands and walked around her to the closet. When he returned, he held a black motorcycle helmet in one hand, a pair of black leather gloves tucked into the opening, and a hanger with a sleek, superhip black leather jacket suspended from it.