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His muscles went slack as the final weakened shudders of orgasm rippled through him. He slid the sheath off his sensitive penis. He wrapped a hand around the naked, slippery staff and stood there, breathing rapidly.

She was a woman like any other.

But perhaps she wasn’t? She’d caught him unawares with her painting. It made him uncomfortable, that knowledge, like a burr under his skin. It made him want to capture her, in return . . . make her pay for looking into his mind somehow, seeing things she shouldn’t see with her unique talent of soulful precision.

He would master this slicing, powerful desire. He turned and stalked to his bathroom to clean up and prepare for his fencing exercise.

Later, as he dressed, he noticed that his cock was still overly sensitive and that his erection hadn’t completely dissipated. Damn.

He’d inform both Francesca and Mrs. Hanson that he wanted privacy this weekend. He’d make a phone call. Clearly, he required an experienced female who knew precisely how to please him in order to vanquish this strange need.

* * *

Lucien hadn’t lied. He was in a feisty mood. Ian retreated under his friend’s aggressive advance with effort, parrying his rapid thrusts, calmly waiting for the extension that would make him vulnerable. He’d fenced regularly with the other man for two years now, and he’d come to understand his style and how his emotions affected his combat. Lucien was an extremely skilled, smart fighter.

But this evening, Lucien was surging with volatile energy, stronger than usual, but unusually incautious as well. Ian waited until he saw triumph in every line of Lucien’s attacking form. He recognized his opponent’s second intention, accurately parrying against the second stroke intended to finish Ian once and for all. Lucien grunted in frustration when Ian riposted and landed a hit.

“You’re a mind reader, damn you,” Lucien muttered, whipping off his mask. Ian, too, removed his mask.

“That is always your excuse. In fact, it’s all quite logical, and you know it.”

“Again,” Lucien challenged, lifting his sword, his gray eyes fierce.

Ian smiled. “Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

Ian gave him a dry glance as he removed his glove. “The woman who has your blood pumping like a randy goat.” It puzzled him, this frustrated quality in Lucien, who was usually so popular with women.

Lucien’s expression tightened, and he looked away. Ian paused in the action of removing his other glove. His brow furrowed in consternation. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lucien said in a quiet, pressured voice.

“Well then?”

Lucien glared at him. “Are Noble employees allowed to see one another?”

“It depends on their positions. It’s very clear-cut in the employment contract. Managers and supervisors are prohibited from seeing inferiors, and will be terminated if it’s discovered they have. It’s highly discouraged for managers to date each other, although not prohibited. It’s made clear in the contract that if any adverse situations arise at work from a relationship outside the office, the grounds for termination are met. I think you know it’s bad form, Lucien. Does she work at Fusion?”

“No.”

“Does she work in a supervisory capacity for Noble?” Ian asked as he stripped off his other glove, plastron, and jacket, leaving only the fitted breeches and undershirt.

“I’m not sure. What if the employment with Noble is . . . unorthodox?”

Ian gave him a sharp glance as he set down his sword and picked up a towel. “Unorthodox . . . as in the manager of a restaurant versus a manager of a department of business?” he asked wryly.

Lucien’s mouth twisted into a bitter grin. “Perhaps it’s best that I just buy Fusion from you as soon as possible so that neither of us have to worry about it.”

They both started when a knock was heard on the door to the fencing room.

“Yes?” Ian called, his brows slanted in puzzlement. Mrs. Hanson usually didn’t bother him during his workout. The knowledge that he wouldn’t be interrupted helped him to find a zone of total concentration on both his fencing and exercise routines.

He went still in amazement when Francesca entered the room. Her long hair was loosely restrained at the back of her head. A few strands of it brushed her neck and cheeks. She wore not a smudge of makeup, a pair of formfitting jeans, a shapeless hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of gray-and-white running shoes. The shoes weren’t the highest quality, but Ian quickly appraised that they were the most expensive item she wore. At the opening of her jacket, he saw the thin strap of another tank top. The image of her supple body outlined in the tight garment zoomed into his brain.

“Francesca. What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice unintentionally sharp in annoyance at the vivid, uncontrollable memory. She paused several feet from the fencing mat. The lushness of her pink lips made even her frowns sexy as hell.

“Lin needs to speak with you about something urgent. You weren’t answering your cell phone, so she called the house line. Mrs. Hanson was on the way out to the store to get a few missing ingredients for your supper, so I said I’d come give the message.”

Ian nodded once, using the towel he’d draped around his neck to wipe some perspiration off his face. “I’ll call her as soon as I shower.”

“I’ll tell her,” Francesca said, starting to back out of the room.

“What? She’s still on the line?”

Francesca nodded.