She paused a moment later when Ian straddled his black motorbike with confident ease.
“Well? Climb on,” he said softly, noticing her staring at the motorcycle next to his. It was slightly smaller than Ian’s bike, but fierce-looking in its own right, featuring glittering chrome and a shiny black cowling with red racing stripes.
“Where did that come from?” she asked, dazed.
He shrugged, planting his booted feet on the ground and tilting up the bike between powerful thighs. How could he look as natural on a badass bike as he did wearing an impeccable suit ensconced in the lap of luxury? The sight of his hands covered by tight black leather made her inexplicably shiver.
“It’s yours,” he said, referring to the bike.
“No! I mean . . .” She paused, regretting her outburst. She looked at him, silently pleading. The afternoon had gone so well. The paintings. Ian’s agreement to try not to control her outside the bedroom, his gift of the jacket and helmet, and her returned, heartfelt one of pleasure, his forceful possession . . . her loving it. She didn’t want to ruin it by arguing, but a motorcycle? It was too much, wasn’t it? Especially after the paintings and her new biking gear.
Before she could word her protest, however, Ian superseded her.
“Okay, it’s mine. I have several bikes. I’m loaning this one to you for the time being,” he said, giving her a dry glance. “Can you accept that, Francesca?”
She grinned and stepped over to the bike, excitement frothing in her chest as she straddled the leather seat and gloated over the sweetness of Ian’s sleek machine.
Oh, yes. This she could accept.
* * *
Jacob had told him that Francesca was a natural on a motorcycle when he’d consulted with him on the type of bike to buy her. He was glad to see just how correct Jacob had been. Watching her race down city streets, take tight turns, and zoom through country landscapes was a true pleasure. When he realized that the feeling he had watching was pride, he mentally laughed at himself. Why should it matter that he’d introduced her to something she loved? The important thing was that she’d found it . . . that she’d delved into another layer of what was undoubtedly a deep, rich vein of her many talents and glories.
He glanced sideways and saw Francesca at his side as they reentered the city on Lake Shore Drive that evening. She gave him a thumbs-up and he could just picture her grin behind the black visor of her helmet. Something about a motorcycle highlighted her natural physical strength, her fresh, vital energy . . .
. . . a jean-encased ass that made him want to drag her back to the penthouse every time he looked at it, which was pretty much constantly.
He signaled and called for her to pull over at a parking garage near Millennium Park. A few minutes later, they strolled out of the garage onto Monroe Street, between the Art Institute and Millennium Park. The clouds had scattered, and it was turning into a pleasant, crisp fall night.
“Where are we going?” she asked him, grinning from ear to ear, a tendril of rose-gold hair brushing her cheek. He pushed it off her face and took her hand.
“I thought I’d take you to dinner.”
“Excellent.” Her enthusiasm made her sound adorably breathless. He yanked his gaze off the windswept, glowing vision of her with effort.
“You’re a fantastic rider,” she said. “You look so natural on a bike. How old were you when you first rode?”
“Eleven, I think,” Ian said, his eyelids narrowing as he tried to recall.
“So young!”
He nodded. “When I first came to England from France, I had a tough time making the transition—a whole new world. A whole new way of life. My mother gone,” he said, his lips pressed into a grim line. “It was hard to acclimate. I have a cousin who is older, so I always called him uncle. Uncle Gerard figured out one day that I loved engines. When I discovered an old broken-down motorcycle in the garage at his estate, which was near my grandfather’s home, I begged him to let me rebuild it. My fascination with motorcycles began. My grandfather joined in, and I began to bond with both Uncle Gerard and him.”
“And you started to come out of your shell?” Francesca asked, studying him as they walked along.
“Yes. A bit.”
Some strains of music resounded in the crisp, clear air when they reached Michigan Avenue. Ian noticed a crowd on the sidewalk.
“Oh, Naked Thieves are playing in Millennium Park tonight. Caden and Justin are in that crowd somewhere,” Francesca said.
“Naked Thieves?”
She did a double take. “The rock band? Naked Thieves?”
He shrugged, feeling a little foolish, although he knew he didn’t show it. From the expression on her youthful face, he definitely was supposed to know who Naked Thieves were. His gaze fixed on her curving pink lips, and he forgot his fleeting embarrassment.
“How can you not know who Naked Thieves are? You’re an icon among young people, but it’s like . . .” She shook her head. Her laugh seemed both sad and incredulous. “It’s like you came out of the womb in a suit, briefcase in hand.”
That stung a little. He, of all people, would have loved a childhood—a true youth—summer afternoons that stretched on forever without a care in the world, teenage rebellion against helicopter parents whom he supposedly couldn’t stand, and in reality, loved like crazy and knew would always be there for him . . . escaping to a rock concert in the park with a gorgeous girl like Francesca.
“What are you doing?” Francesca asked when he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket.