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“It gives me great pleasure to see your beauty revealed. As for you, the clothing is part of the experience, Francesca.” His gaze sunk over her, and he released her hair, his jaw looking tight. “Why don’t you just enjoy it? God knows I will,” he said roughly before he turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a brisk click.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Francesca sat in the midst of the Palais-Royal, at a private table at the historic Le Grand Véfour restaurant. She was so overwhelmed by the voluptuous artwork, the sumptuous food, the anticipation of what was to happen later that night . . . by Ian’s steady, heavy-lidded gaze on her that she could barely swallow the food, let alone appreciate it as she should have.

The entire experience was a barely restrained seduction.

“You hardly ate,” Ian said when the waiter came to clear the remains of their entrées.

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, cringing inwardly at the mere thought of how much money and effort had been wasted on her sublime meal of beef bourguignon and mashed potatoes with oxtails and black truffles that was about to be tossed into the garbage. The waiter spoke inquiringly to Ian in French, and he replied in kind, never removing his gaze from her. One thing was for certain: She’d barely been able to take her eyes off him ever since he’d emerged from the plane’s bedroom earlier, wearing a modern version of a classic tuxedo with a black necktie instead of a bow, a pristine white shirt, and a handkerchief tucked into his pocket. He’d turned every head in the exclusive restaurant while escorting her to the table.

“Are you nervous?” he asked quietly once the waiter had walked away.

She nodded, intuiting his meaning. She stared at his long, blunt-tipped fingers idly circling the base of his champagne flute and repressed a shiver.

“Would it help you any to know that I am as well?”

She blinked and looked into his face. His blue eyes were like gleaming crescents beneath hooded lids.

“Yes,” she blurted out. And after a pause, “You are?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “With good reason, I think.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“Because I’m so excited to have you, there’s a chance I’ll lose control. I never lose control, Francesca. Never. But I might tonight.”

A thrill of anticipation went through her at the hint of dark warning in his tone. Why did the thought of seeing Ian undone by passion stir her to her very core? She glanced up in surprise when the waiter returned and placed a beautiful dessert before her and a silver coffee service before Ian.

“Est-ce qu’il y aura autre chose, monsieur?” the waiter asked Ian.

“Non, merci.”

“Très bien, bon appétit,” the waiter said before he walked away.

“I didn’t order this,” Francesca said, staring dubiously at the dessert.

“I know. I ordered it for you. Eat some. You’re going to need the energy, lovely.” She glanced up from beneath her lashes and saw his small smile. “It’s the house specialty, palet aux noisettes. Even if you were stuffed to the gills, you’d want this. Trust me,” he urged softly. She picked up her fork.

She gave a small moan of sensual delight a moment later as the combination of cake, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and caramel ice cream blended on her tongue. He smiled, and she smiled back impishly, forking another portion with more enthusiasm.

“You speak French very well,” she commented before she slid the fork between her lips.

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t. I’m a French citizen, as well as one of the United Kingdom. It’s a tie-up as to whether my native tongue is French or English. The townspeople spoke French where I grew up; my mother spoke English.”

She paused in her chewing, recalling what Mrs. Hanson had told her about Ian’s grandparents finally finding their daughter in northern France and discovering a grandson as well. She longed to ask him more about his past.

“You never speak of your parents,” she said cautiously, taking another bite.

“You never speak of yours, either. Aren’t you close with them?”

“Not really,” she said, hiding her scowl at the realization he’d changed the topic away from himself. “My whole life I thought they disapproved of me because I was overweight, or so I thought. Now that I’m not overweight anymore, I’ve had to come to the conclusion that they just don’t get me. Period.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, toying with her fork. “We get along all right. We’re not feuding or anything dramatic. It’s just . . . painful to be around them.”

“Painful?” he asked, pausing as he raised his cup to his mouth.

“Not painful, I guess. Just . . . awkward,” she said, lifting her fork.

“Don’t they appreciate what a gifted artist you are?”

She closed her eyes briefly in gustatory bliss as the flavors melted on her tongue. “My artwork just annoys them. My father more than my mother,” she said after she’d squeezed every last bit of sweet succulence out of the confection and swallowed. She slicked her thumb along her lips, capturing a dollop of milk-chocolate mousse with the tip of her tongue. God, it was delicious.

She glanced up when Ian tossed his napkin on the table.

“That’s it. Time to go,” he said, pushing his chair back.

“What?” she asked, startled by his abruptness.

He came around to help her with her chair. “Never mind,” he said grimly, taking her hand. “Just remind me the next time I’m grasping for restraint not to order you chocolate.”