“So you’re in the second year of your master’s program?”
“Yes. I’m at the Art Institute.”
“A very good school,” he murmured. He rested his hands on the table and leaned back in the booth, looking thoroughly comfortable. His body was long, relaxed, and taut, reminding Francesca of a predatory animal whose seeming calmness could leap into full-out action in a split second. Even though his hips were slim, his shoulders were broad, suggesting some serious muscles beneath that starched white shirt. “If I’m remembering your application correctly, you studied both art and architecture at Northwestern University?”
“Yes,” Francesca said breathlessly, pulling her gaze off his hands. They were elegant hands, but also large, blunt tipped, and very capable looking. The vision of them disturbed her for some reason. She couldn’t help but imagine what they would look like against her skin . . . wrapped around her waist . . .
“Why?”
She started from her totally inappropriate thoughts and met his steady stare. “Why did I study both architecture and art?”
He nodded once.
“Architecture for my parents and art for me,” she replied, surprising herself by the honesty of her answer. She usually made a show of being coolly disdainful when anyone asked the same question. Why should she have to choose between her talents? “My parents are both architects, and it was their lifetime dream that I become one as well.”
“So you granted them half a dream. You earned the qualifications of an architect but don’t plan to make it your career.”
“I’ll always be an architect.”
“And I’m glad of it,” he said, looking up when a handsome man with dreadlocks and pale gray eyes that contrasted with darker skin approached the table. Noble shook his hand. “Lucien, how is business?”
“Booming,” Lucien replied, his gaze shifting to Francesca with interest.
“Ms. Arno, this is Lucien Lenault. He’s the manager of Fusion, and the most illustrious restaurateur in Europe. I handpicked him from the finest restaurant in Paris.”
Lucien rolled his eyes amusedly at Ian’s introduction and grinned. “Hopefully, the same can be said of Fusion very soon. Ms. Arno, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lucien added in a delicious, French-accented voice. “What may I get you?”
Noble looked at her expectantly. His lips were unusually full for such a rugged-featured, masculine man, striking her as sensual yet firm.
Stern.
From where had that strange thought leapt?
“I’m fine,” Francesca replied, although her heart started to beat erratically.
“What is that?” he asked, nodding at her half-empty drink.
“Just my usual drink, club soda with lime.”
“You should be celebrating, Ms. Arno.” Was it his accent that made her ears and neck prickle when he said her name? There was something unique about it, she realized. It was British, but some other influence seemed to slide into his syllables occasionally, something she couldn’t quite identify. “Bring us a bottle of the Roederer Brut,” Noble told Lucien, who smiled, gave a slight bow and walked away.
Her confusion mounted. Why was he bothering to spend so much time with her? Surely he didn’t drink champagne with all of the recipients of his philanthropy. “As I was saying before Lucien arrived, I’m glad about your architecture background. Your skill and knowledge in that field is undoubtedly what gives your artwork so much precision, depth, and style. The painting you submitted for the contest was spectacular. You exactly caught the spirit of what I wanted for my lobby.”
Her gaze skimmed across his immaculate suit. Somehow, his apparent love of a perfectly straight line didn’t surprise her. True, her artwork was often inspired by her love of form and structure, but precision wasn’t what her work was about. Far from it. “I’m glad you were pleased,” she said with what she hoped was a neutral tone.
A smile ghosted his lips. “There’s something behind your statement. Aren’t you happy that you’ve pleased me?”
Her mouth dropped open at that. She stifled the words that flew to her throat. I do my art to please no one but myself. She stopped herself just in time. What was wrong with her? This man was responsible for changing her life.
“I told you earlier, I couldn’t be happier about winning the contest. I’m thrilled.”
“Ah,” he murmured as Lucien arrived with the champagne and ice bucket. Noble didn’t glance in Lucien’s direction as the other man busied himself opening the bottle, but continued to study her as though she were a particularly interesting science project. “But being glad of your commission isn’t the same as being glad you pleased me.”