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“There’s an extension in the hall just outside the exercise facility. Tell her I’ll call her back soon.”

“All right,” Francesca said. She glanced quickly at Lucien and gave him a fleeting smile before she turned.

Irritation spiked through him. Well, in all fairness, Lucien didn’t bark at her like you did.

“Francesca.”

She spun around.

“Would you come back once you’ve passed the message to Lin, please? We haven’t had the opportunity to speak much all week. I’d like to hear about your progress.”

She hesitated for a split second. Her gaze dropped over his chest, making him go still in sudden awareness.

“Sure. I’ll be right back,” she said before she strode out of the room. The door to the fencing room clicked shut behind her.

Lucien was grinning when he glanced over at him. “When I visited the American south, they had a saying . . . ‘A long, tall drink of cool water.’”

Ian did a double take. “Hands off,” he said succinctly.

Lucien looked taken aback. Ian blinked, a mixture of primitive aggression and shame at the harshness warring in his blood. Something occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Wait a second . . . the woman you were talking about just now that works for Noble—”

“Not Francesca,” Lucien said, his eyes gleaming as he gave Ian a sideways glance and opened the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “Seems to me you ought to take your own advice about intercompany romantic interests.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So you’re not interested in that gorgeous creature?” Lucien asked.

Ian whipped the towel off his neck.

“I meant that I don’t have an employment contract,” he said, his brisk tone making it clear the conversation was over.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Lucien said wryly. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Lucien.”

He turned.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Ian said.

Lucien shrugged. “I know what it means to be on a tight leash. Tends to make a man a bit . . . tetchy.”

Ian didn’t respond, just watched as his friend walked away. He thought of what Lucien had said about Francesca being a long, tall drink of cool water. Lucien had been right.

And Ian was clearly thirsting in the desert.

He glanced toward the entry door warily and saw Francesca walk back into the room.

* * *

She was sorry to see Lucien give her a friendly wave and walk out of the room when she entered. The atmosphere of the large, well-equipped exercise room grew heavier when the door closed behind him and she was left alone with Ian. She paused at the edge of the mat.

“Come closer. It’s all right. You can walk across the piste in your running shoes,” he said.

She approached him cautiously. It made her uncomfortable to look at him. His handsome face was impassive, as usual. He looked ungodly sexy wearing a pair of formfitting breeches and a simple white T-shirt. She supposed it was necessary for the shirt to be so tight because he wore other fitted garments over it. It left little to the imagination, revealing every ridge and slanting line of his lean, muscular torso.

Obviously, working out was a high priority to him. His body was a beautiful, honed machine.

“Piste?” she repeated as she crossed the mat and neared him.

“The fencing mat.”

“Oh.” She eyed the sword on the table curiously, trying to ignore the subtle scent emanating from his body—clean, spicy soap mingling with male sweat.

“How are you?” he asked, his polite, cool tone not quite matching the gleam in his blue eyes. He confused her to no end. Like that time last Thursday night, for instance, when she’d turned to find him studying her while she sketched. His manner had been almost formal, but she’d grown breathless with expectation when she saw the way his gaze lowered and lingered on her breasts, making her nipples tighten. She couldn’t help but recall how they’d parted on the first night he’d asked her to the penthouse, how he’d touched her as he put on her jacket . . . his reference to her painting.

Had he been pleased or angry that she’d painted him? And was it her imagination, or had he been warning her that her title for the painting hadn’t been as whimsical as she’d once thought, that the subject of her painting truly did walk through life alone?

Nonsense, she chastised herself as she forced herself to meet his piercing stare. Ian Noble didn’t think twice about her beyond her use as an artist.

“Busy but good, thanks,” she answered him. She gave him a quick recap of her progress. “The canvas is prepped. I’ve sketched. I think I’ll be able to actually start painting next week.”

“And do you have everything you require?” he asked as he stepped past her and opened a refrigerator. He moved with masculine grace. She’d love to see him fence—leashed aggression in graceful action.

“Yes. Lin did a very thorough job in getting my supplies. I needed one or two things, but she immediately procured them for me last Monday. She’s a miracle of efficiency.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Don’t hesitate to speak up if you need the smallest thing.” He cracked the cap on the water bottle with a brisk twist of his wrist. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of the shirt, looking hard as stone. A few veins popped on his strong-looking forearms. “And is your schedule manageable? School, your waitressing duties, painting . . . your social life?”

Her pulse began to throb at her throat. She lowered her head so he wouldn’t notice and pretended to be studying one of the swords on a storage rack.