“What did you say to Mrs. Hanson?” he demanded. She suspected it was coming, but she still bristled at the subtle inflection of accusation in his tone.
“I didn’t say anything! We were just . . . talking.”
His gaze bore into her. “Talking about my family.”
She resisted heaving a sigh of relief. Apparently, he’d only heard their last comments and hadn’t realized what Mrs. Hanson had revealed about his mother. And him. Somehow, she knew for a fact he’d be far less contained than he was if he knew Mrs. Hanson had been loose-lipped about those particular details.
“Yes,” she admitted, straightening and meeting his stare, though it cost her a great deal of effort. Sometimes those angel eyes became the avenging-angel variety. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I asked her about your grandparents.”
“And that made her cry?” he asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.
“I don’t really know the details of what made her cry,” she snapped. “I wasn’t prying, Ian. We were just talking, having polite conversation. You should try it sometime.”
“If you want to know about my family, I would prefer if you asked me.”
“Oh, and you’ll dish out all the details, no doubt,” she countered, her tone just as sarcastic as his had been earlier.
A muscle jumped in his cheek. Abruptly, he walked toward the large, gleaming desk and picked up a small bronze statue of a horse, toying with it. Francesca wondered in mixed irritation and nervousness if he wanted something to do with his hands besides strangle her. With his back to her, she had the opportunity to study him for the first time. He wore an impeccably cut pair of trousers, a white dress shirt, and a blue tie that matched his eyes. Since he always wore suits to the office, she assumed he’d removed the jacket. The starched shirt perfectly fit his wide shoulders. The pants draped his narrow hips and long legs: elegant, raw masculinity defined. He really is a beautiful male animal, she thought resentfully.
“Lin said she contacted you this morning,” he said, the change in topic taking her off guard.
“She did. I’d like to speak to you about what she said,” Francesca replied, anxiety now trumping her anger.
“You painted today,” he said rather than asked.
She blinked in surprise. “Yes. How . . . how did you know?” She’d had the impression he’d come directly to the kitchen upon entering the penthouse.
“There’s paint on your right forefinger.”
She glanced down at her right hand. She’d never seen him even glance in that direction. Did he have eyes in the back of his head?
“Yes, I painted.”
“I thought perhaps you weren’t going to return, after what happened on Wednesday.”
“Well, I did return. And not because you told Lin to call and buy me off. That wasn’t necessary.”
He turned. “I think it was necessary. I won’t have you worrying about whether or not you can afford to finish your degree.”
“Plus—you knew that I would finish the painting if I knew you were going to pay me the commission no matter what,” she said irritably, edging toward him.
He blinked and had the decency to look slightly abashed.
“I don’t like being manipulated,” she said.
“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you. I just didn’t want you to lose an opportunity you deserved because I lost control. You weren’t to blame for what happened in the workout facility.”
“We made out,” she muttered, blushing. “I hardly think it constitutes the faux pas of the century.”
“I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than make out with you, Francesca.”
“Ian, do you like me?” she asked impulsively. Her eyelids sprang wide. She couldn’t believe she’d just blurted out the question that had been festering in her brain for days now.
“Like you? I want to fuck you. Badly. Does that answer your question?”
The ensuing silence seemed to crush her lungs it had so much weight. The echo of his low, rough growl seemed to hover in the air between them.
“Why are you worried about losing control? I’m not a twelve-year-old,” she managed after a moment. Her face grew hotter when his gaze dropped over her.
“No. But you might as well be,” he said, his tone suddenly sounding dismissive. Humiliation flooded through her. How could he go from hot to cold so effortlessly? she wondered, infuriated. He strolled around his desk and sat in the supple leather chair. “You may go now—if there’s nothing else?” he asked, his glance polite. Indifferent.
“I’d like you to pay me when the painting is done. Not before,” she said, her voice quaking with barely contained anger.
He nodded thoughtfully, as if considering her request. “You don’t have to spend the money until then, if you prefer. But the full commission has already been transferred to your bank account.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How did you know my account number?”
He didn’t reply, just raised his eyebrows slightly, his expression bland.
She barely stopped the scorching curse from springing out of her throat. Since she couldn’t cuss out her benefactor for his arrogance—or his generosity—there was nothing else she could think to say to him. Fury had short-circuited her brain. She turned and started to walk out of the room.
“Oh, and Francesca?” he called calmly from behind her.
“Yes?” she asked, looking back.
“Don’t expect to work here Saturday night. I’m entertaining. I’d like privacy.”