Because I Could Not Resist (Because You Are Mine Part 2) Read Free

blood. She
must
finish it now.
    She was lost in her work for hours, finally rising from her creative trance as the sun began to dip behind the high-rises.
    Mrs. Hanson was whisking something in a bowl when Francesca staggered into the kitchen for some water. Ian’s kitchen reminded her of something one might find in an English country manor—huge, with every conceivable cooking implement ever created, but somehow still comfortable. She liked to sit in there and chat with Mrs. Hanson.
    “You were so quiet, I didn’t realize you were here!” the friendly, elderly housekeeper exclaimed.
    “I was working hard,” Francesca said, reaching for the handle of the enormous stainless-steel refrigerator. Mrs. Hanson had insisted since day one that Francesca make herself completely at home. The first time she’d opened the refrigerator, Francesca had exclaimed in surprise to see a whole shelf of bottled club sodas chilling, along with a china plate with sliced limes covered in plastic wrap. “Ian told me club soda with lime was your favorite drink. I hope this brand is all right,”
Mrs. Hanson had replied anxiously to her exclamation.
    Now every time she opened the refrigerator, Francesca felt that same rush of warmth she experienced that first time when she realized Ian had remembered her beverage preference and then made sure it was available to her while she worked.
    Pitiful,
she scolded herself as she withdrew a bottle.
    “Would you like supper?” Mrs. Hanson asked. “Ian won’t want his for a while yet, but I could bang out something for you.”
    “No, I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.” She hesitated, but then blurted, “So Ian is in town? He’ll be home later?”
    “Yes, he mentioned it this morning. He usually eats at eight thirty sharp, whether I’m cooking for him or he eats at the office. Ian likes his routine. He has ever since I knew him as a boy.”
    Mrs. Hanson glanced up at her. “Why don’t you sit down there and keep me company for a bit. You look pale. You’ve been working too hard. I have some water on the boil. We’ll have a cup of tea.”
    “Okay,” Francesca agreed, sinking into one of the stools next to the island. She suddenly felt weak with exhaustion now that her creative-inspired adrenaline rush was fading. Besides, she hadn’t slept well the past two nights.
    “What was Ian like as a child?” Francesca couldn’t stop herself from asking.
    “Oh, an older soul I’ve never seen in such a wee one’s eyes,” Mrs. Hanson replied with a sad smile. “Serious. Eerily smart. A little shy. Once he warmed up to you, as sweet and loyal as they come.”
    Francesca tried to picture the somber, dark-haired, shy boy-Ian, her heart squeezing a little at the image her brain wrought.
    “You seem a bit out of sorts,” the housekeeper consoled as she bustled about, pouring hot water into two cups and then arranging some items onto a silver platter: two scones, an exquisite silver spoon and knife, two crisp white cloth napkins, Devonshire cream, and jam dolloped into gorgeous china finger bowls. Nothing was ever done small in Ian Noble’s household, not even for a casual chat in the kitchen. “Isn’t your painting going well?”
    “It’s going quite well, actually. Thank you,” she murmured when Mrs. Hanson set down a cup and saucer before her. “Things are moving along. You should come and have a look later.”
    “I’d like that. Have a scone? They’re especially good today. Nothing like a scone with cream and jam to jump you out of a bad mood.”
    Francesca laughed and shook her head. “My mother would die if she heard you say that.”
    “Whatever for?” Mrs. Hanson asked, her pale blue eyes going wide as she paused in the process of ladling sweet cream on her scone.
    “Because you’re encouraging me to manage my moods with food, that’s why. My parents, along with half a dozen child psychologists, have drilled the evils of emotional eating into my brain since I was