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“Do you want me to paint something else for you, and the inspiration is here at the St. Germain?” she prodded.

“No,” he said, not looking at her as he pulled her along, the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoing off the high ceiling and sweeping marble arches.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” she asked incredulously.

“Because I told myself I wanted to give you this experience, but I’m also eager to get you alone at the hotel.” He’d said it so matter-of-factly that she was rendered speechless as they passed salons to her right and left, the images of frozen statuary only increasing her sense of unreality. She’d thought things had been surreal all day, but walking through a mostly deserted, hushed palace’s halls at Ian’s side had her truly disoriented. He marched into a familiar long, narrow salon and suddenly came to a halt.

He’d stopped so suddenly, she nearly spilled forward in her high heels, her hair falling into her face. She noticed where Ian was staring and glanced up, dazed. Her mouth fell open in awe.

“Aphrodite of Argos,” she gasped.

“Yes. The Italian government has sent her on loan to us for six months.”

“Us?” she whispered in a hushed tone as she stared at the priceless statue of Aphrodite. Moonlight shown through the arched column of skylights built into the ceiling, bathing the salon and statue with soft luminescence. The gracefully twisted torso and sublime expression worked into the cold white marble was breathtaking as it glowed from the draped shadows.

“The St. Germain Palace belongs to my grandfather’s family. James Noble is the patron of the museum. His collection is one of his many contributions to the public—an offering to those who share in his love of antiquities. I sit on the board for the St. Germain, as does my grandmother.”

She stared up at him, his open admiration and reverence as he studied the statue taking her by surprise. Pleasant surprise. He was typically so stoic. There were depths to Ian Noble she couldn’t fathom.

“You adore this piece,” she stated more than asked, recalling the miniature of it in his Chicago penthouse.

“I would own it if I could,” he admitted. His smile struck her as a little sad. “But you can’t own Aphrodite, can you? Or so they tell me.”

She swallowed. A strange, light-headed feeling came over her as she stood there with this compelling, enigmatic man.

“Why do you love this particular piece so much?” she asked.

He glanced down at her, moonlight making his bold features as compelling as Aphrodite’s.

“Aside from the artistry and beauty? Maybe because of what she’s doing,” he said.

Her brows knitted together as she looked again at the statue. “She’s bathing, isn’t she?”

He nodded. She sensed his gaze on her face. “She’s partaking of her daily ritual of purity. Every day, Aphrodite washes herself clean and arises anew. It’s a nice fantasy, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” she asked as she looked up at him, ensnared by his shadowed visage and the moonlit gleam in his eyes. He reached up. His fingertips were warm on her cheek, but she shivered nonetheless.

“That we could wash away our sins. I just keep compounding mine, Francesca,” he said quietly.

“Ian—” she began, compassion going through her at his tone. Why was he so convinced he was tainted?

“Never mind,” he said, interrupting her. He turned to fully face her, putting his hands on her waist and pulling her against his body. Her eyes widened. With her heels on, she was aligned higher on his body than usual. She could feel his firm testicles pressing against the top of her mons and the dense ridge of his cock riding along his left thigh. How could he possibly be so hard when they’d barely been touching? Was this Aphrodite’s work? she wondered in a flight of fancy.

His hand opened along the side of her jaw, lifting her face to the moonlight. Her heart started to drum out a primal beat against her breastbone. He thrust his hips, making the air pop out of her lungs at the evidence of his full arousal. His fingers flexed into her hip. His head dipped, and he brushed his lips against hers, as if he tried to inhale her gasp.

“God I want you,” he said almost angrily, before he captured her mouth with his, his tongue parting her lips. Coming into full contact with him was like suddenly being submerged in a fire. The sheer force of him, his taste, inundated her. She staggered slightly in the heels, and he caught her tighter against him, her body molding against stark, unrelenting muscle and rigid male arousal. She’d never experienced so much concentrated male desire. Had this inferno been building in him all day? All week?

She moaned into his mouth, her female flesh melting against his hard male heat. His hands shifted to the belt of her wrap dress. When he sealed their kiss roughly a moment later, Francesca felt dizzy with excitement. He stepped back. The sides of her dress gaped open, exposing her bare skin to moonlight. He pushed the material aside, exposing her near-nude body. His gaze ran over her. Her breath stuck in her lungs when she saw the reverence in his rigid features mingling with blazing lust. His nostrils flared slightly.

“I want you to remember this for the rest of your life,” he said abruptly.

“I will,” she replied without hesitation—who could possibly forget such a charged experience?—although she was bewildered by the meaning behind his words.

“Sit here,” he said, putting his hands on her hips.

She opened her mouth to express her confusion, but he was guiding her to the marble pedestal surrounding Aphrodite. She sat and felt the cold, hard marble beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Ian put his hands on her knees and spread them. He knelt before her.