Because You Are Mine Part V: Because I Said So Read Free

nodding to three young people whisking past the bistro on motor scooters. “I always wanted to rent one when I was in Paris. They look so fun.”
    “Why didn’t you?” he asked.
    She really blushed this time. She glanced around, hoping like crazy she’d see their waiter coming with their entrées.
    “Francesca?” he asked, sitting forward slightly.
    “I . . . uh . . . I . . .” She closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t have a driver’s license.”
    “Why not?” he demanded, looking puzzled.
    She tried to shrug off her mortification, not sure why she was feeling it so strongly with Ian about this particular topic. All of her friends knew she didn’t drive.
Lots
of people in the city didn’t. Caden, for instance, didn’t have a car.
    “In high school, I didn’t really have anywhere I needed to drive
to
, and my parents didn’t push it. I opted out of driver’s ed,” she said hurriedly, praying he didn’t observe her sidestepping of the truth.
    The truth was, she’d been at her heaviest when she’d been sixteen. She daily thanked God her body had been youthful enough to sustain the abrupt weight loss she experienced at eighteen. Much to her amazement, there had been no lasting scars from those weight-laden years of her life. The weight had melted off her as if it truly had been a traumatic experience she could heal from versus a measurable biological event.
    But Sweet Sixteen had been Miserable Sixteen to Francesca. She’d been slated to take driver’s ed with three other girls in her gym class, three girls who—by a horrible stroke of fate—regularly bullied her. Gym class had already been a daily torture for her. The idea of spending an hour in confined quarters with three sneering girls hiding their laughter at every clumsy move she made, and a young male gym teacher vaguely sympathetic to the other girls’ disdain, had been too much for her. Her parents had suspected this was the reason for her avoiding driver’s ed, and hadn’t insisted she take the class.
    They were likely just as mortified by the idea as she had been.
    “By the time I moved to Chicago, there was absolutely no reason to get a license. I can’t afford a car, the parking, or the insurance, so it became a moot point,” she explained to Ian.
    “How do you get around?”
    “The El, my bike . . . my feet,” she said, grinning.
    He shook his head once, briskly. “That’s not acceptable.”
    Her grin faded. “What do you mean?” she asked, offended.
    He gave her an exasperated glance when he noticed she’d once again taken umbrage. “I just mean that a young woman like you should have the very basics of control in her life.”
    “And you think driving is a basic of control?”
    “Yes,” he replied so matter-of-factly that a surprised laugh popped out of her throat. “It’s a developmental milestone, getting your driver’s license, no different than taking your first step . . . or learning how to control your temper,” he added significantly when she opened her mouth to argue. The arrival of their entrées temporarily postponed their charged conversation.
    “There’s a reason for all the sayings, you know,” Ian mused a moment later, lazily watching her pour salad dressing onto her greens. “The ones about being in the driver’s seat, driving your fate, power driving . . .”
    Her gaze flew up to meet his stare at the last, recalling vividly how he’d described his claiming of her at the St. Germain last night. His small smile told her he knew she was remembering.
    “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,