by Isla Dean
“Not even a little bit.”
“You must travel a lot then.”
She shook her head, slid her hands into the center pocket of the hoodie as they made their way toward the source of sugary scents that swirled through the air. “Not since I moved here almost a year ago.”
“Why not?” he asked as he tugged off his sunglasses then held open the door for Ivy.
“No desire to. Know what you want?”
“I always do,” he replied.
Her eyes stayed on him for a moment as she barely registered the teenage boy behind the counter asking for her order. It wasn’t hard to believe for a moment that Aiden was a man who always knew what he wanted. But the idea that he spoke so subtly without revealing much, that he asked questions that seemed to, in some unspoken way, inspire honest, thoughtful answers, intrigued her.
“Did you want something?” the boy asked again.
“Yes, yes. I’ll take a scoop of vanilla and…oh yeah, I forgot.” She gave Aiden a quick, spirited smile then continued with her order. “He’ll have a scoop of bubble gum.”
“We’re both having bubble gum,” Aiden interjected. “That’s the deal.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“Have bubble gum with me,” he said, his voice low and coaxing, gliding over her like a wave that wanted to pull her out to sea. “It’ll be an adventure.”
“It’s always an adventure with you, isn’t it?”
“If it’s not, then it’s not worth it.”
She sighed even as she peered at him. Men who could convince with nothing but a simple request were dangerous men. But how dangerous could a man with an ice cream cone be? “Fine. We’ll both have bubble gum. Plain cone for me. You?”
A fast flash sparked in his eyes as if he knew something she didn’t. She wasn’t sure she wanted to question what that was but she couldn’t help but be curious.
“If a plain cone is your idea of adventure, then I’ll take that adventure with you. Plain for me too.”
“You make me sound boring.”
He stepped closer to her, wet heat radiating from his chest.
“You’re not boring. You’re fascinating. A fascinating fairy.” He tugged on a stray sprig of sunny blond hair that spurted from her topknot.
Before she could react to the casual gesture, they were each handed their scoops of blue ice cream packed with multicolored pieces of bubble gum into plain cones.
By the time they finally reached Villa Blue, their lips were appropriately blue and their tongues were sufficiently frozen.
“Where on earth have you two been?” Donatella waved her dishtowel at them as she approached the golf cart. “I’ve been worried so much. My cuore, my heart can’t take it.” She fluttered the dishtowel against her chest. “You haven’t answered any of my calls and I even tried to use the text you taught me how to do. Where have you been?”
“Sorry, Donatella. My phone’s at the bottom of the ocean.”
“What?!”
The hearty gasp satisfied Ivy—she really had done something brave and daring, and it was nice to be recognized for it. “We had an adventure along the way,” she told her, pride sneaking through the glib remark.
“You don’t like avventura!” Donatella’s voice was full of vigor and volume. Whenever she got upset, the curviness of her Italian accent plunged deeper than it did on most days.
“It was my idea,” Aiden announced. “Aiden James.” He took Donatella’s hand, shook it.
Ivy watched as Donatella’s lashes lowered and her lips pursed, almost imperceptibly. It was decidedly female. She thought of the older man whom she’d mistaken for Aiden, and his hands making the motion of a female body—Donatella’s body. The lusciousness of Donatella was full and curvy and beautiful, especially as she flirted with Aiden in a matronly sort of way. Like she wanted to make him a plate of pasta followed by a batch of cinnamon rolls.
Watching with a keen eye to see how two of the most confident people she’d ever met interacted with one another, Ivy took a mental snapshot of the moment. The luminescent light of the sun making its way toward the sea, the greens and golds of the surrounding earth, the blue—always the blue—that beckoned from beyond the fringes of the island. Two people, each at home in the world, each in their own way.
“You jumped off of a cliff?”
Donatella’s towel touched Ivy’s arm and broke the spell of imagery that floated through her mind.
“Pazzo! Crazy! Is that why you two wear sweatshirts that match? And you both have blue lips?”
Suddenly Donatella got quiet and her face changed. “Ohhhh. I understand now. L'amore nel pomeriggio.”
“If that’s Italian for ‘we were cold then, inexplicably, we wanted ice cream,’ yes, that’s exactly it,” Ivy explained, ready to retreat. She’d been away for hours, much longer than she’d expected and she needed to put that energy—the nerves, the attraction—to use before it burned out.
“All right, here’s the key to your golf cart paid for with kindness. I’m off to work. Excuse me.” She handed Aiden the dolphin keychain.
The woman was slipping away only he didn’t want her to. “I’d like to see what you’re working on,” Aiden commented as he took the key she’d passed, then hefted his bag from the cart.
“No, no, no.” Donatella wagged her finger and spoke before Ivy could. “She doesn’t allow her work to be viewed when it’s in progress. Very private, this one. I almost tripped on my face today trying to avoid seeing her painting.”
“In my defense the painting was terrible and I was only trying to save your eyesight,” Ivy told her then glanced at Aiden. “She’s right though. Thank you for your interest but I don’t show work in progress.”
Aiden knew he was being brushed off by the woman who had lips that were the same color as the villa behind her. Much like his own, he imagined. Even a quasi-aware man would recognize the formal tone, which, given the blue lips, was something he wanted to laugh at. But he didn’t want to push her away and he had the suspicious feeling he was teetering on the edge of that.
How he’d gotten on that edge was a mystery to him.
The woman was an enigma, after all. He knew plenty of women around the world. He enjoyed them, thoroughly and completely. And he’d enjoyed his afternoon with this one. She’d surprised him, more than once, and he wanted more of that, he decided. He wanted to know the mystery.
He’d figure a way in to see her work. He knew how to get what he wanted, which was one of the few traits he appreciated that he’d inherited from his father. And when he heard his phone ringing from his bag, he cursed that he’d thought of his father who was always proving to be more aware of his thoughts than he liked.
Aiden knew it was Eliot James before he retrieved the phone.
“Excuse me, I have to take this.” He wandered away, despite his damp jeans, on one of the many pathways around Villa Blue, then took a readying breath before answering, as if suiting up to duel while knowing full well he’d lost before the battle even began. “Father.”
“Tell me I wasn’t right about that voice.” Donatella nudged Ivy. “And the rest of the package goes right along with it.”
Ivy glanced in Aiden’s direction. “As an artist, I can appreciate that package.”
A hearty laugh rolled out from Donatella. “As a woman with a pulse, you mean. As an artist…” she repeated, coyly teasing. “Oh, that reminds me. The framers called for you.”
“I gave them the main number to Villa Blue for backup. Sorry. They’re the only people I gave it to. I just wanted to make sure—”
“You live here, caro, use it.” Donatella hooked her arm around Ivy’s, linking them as they walked toward the front door of the villa. “They called to say they sent the first group of finished pieces to the gallery. Is that right? Yes, the Lemieux Gallery. They said they’re waiting for the next batch from you.”
“I have to paint them before I can frame them,” Ivy told her, frazzled tension tugging tight.
>
“Your show will be perfetto. Your art speaks volumes and people are starved to be spoken to. Just look at all those people on Facebook, observing others as if they were art. They should be in a museum looking for divertimento!” With her free hand, Donatella waved the dishtowel through the air in a grand, sweeping gesture.
“I love the way you see the world,” Ivy told her as she held open the arched wooden door for Donatella to walk through.
“You see it in color, I make it colorful.” Donatella winked as she strutted inside. “And so does our new guest, doesn’t he? Badda bing,” she said with a wiggle of hips.
Ivy watched with awe and admiration as Donatella disappeared into the villa. The lively woman would never dare to be anyone other than who she was, through and through. And even though Ivy had done her best to be a daughter her parents would be proud of, a wife her husband would treasure and adore, she was humble enough to know she’d failed at both of those things, and had sacrificed herself in the process.
But that was changing.
She turned to head to her studio and caught sight of Aiden, still standing in the distance, still on the phone. Continuing across the stone walkway, she surveyed the man who was close enough to appreciate and far enough away that he looked like he belonged in an impressionist painting.
“Man of the World,” Ivy whispered to herself as if naming the painting before she painted it.
“Badda bing.” She did her own version of a hip wiggle then laughed, feeling the dreamy glide of inspiration stream through her.
Chapter Three
In the casting colors of lavender and light pink with subtle sweeps of gentle orange, the sun rose, reflecting on the sea. Breeze cool—as if swished through a handful of ice cubes before being blown into the bright beginnings of day—and colors warm, the juxtaposition swam through Ivy.
In her favorite spot off to the side of Villa Blue, she painted. Life, color, movement, all en plein air as the master’s had done during the dawn of impressionism.
As the Cadmium Yellow sun crept above the horizon, hinting over the near-distant shore of California, she dipped her favorite size twelve, sable pointed round brush into the swirling mix of colors on her pallet then added the detail work, the bold hints of life mixed with the gentle spirit of the morning.
Her whole being was smiling. And while she didn’t want to evaluate or judge while in progress, she could see the curve of it in her work. There was a fearless whisper, a courageous simplicity, a paradox of emotions that expressed themselves with quiet colors and complex movements. And she painted it all without restriction or resistance to the buoyancy.
It just flowed.
From under one of the many archways of Villa Blue, Aiden James drank dark coffee and watched Ivy paint as if it were a performance in itself. Her features were a blur from where he sat, her easel propping her painting at an angle he couldn’t see, but he enjoyed the view as if it were right in front of him.
He’d made himself at home in the villa, as he’d been instructed to do by Donatella, and had helped himself to the single-cup coffee machine. Then he’d taken his daily dose of caffeine and his tablet out onto the veranda that spanned the front of the Spanish colonial-style villa.
It was a stellar location, he noted as he studied his surroundings. An interesting view no matter which direction you looked. A charming town tucked at the base of the hills, rows of boats moored in the harbor, layers of homes sprinkled between the thick blankets of trees on those surrounding slopes, and many shades of endless blue cupping the quaint island.
Before he’d arrived at Villa Blue, he’d done his usual due diligence and had researched the island—the history, population, amenities, utilities, transportation, and tourism rates. But being there, as with anywhere he traveled, made all the difference, he knew as he watched Ivy from above the rim of his mug. The only way to understand a place—or a person—was to experience it.
Before meeting Donatella, he’d known that a woman in her seventies ran the villa, which had been run by her mother before that. And back when the island was a haven for the famous set of the 1930s and 40s, it’d been known as the most elite location to stay on the island.
Villa Blue hadn’t retained its elitism, that much was clear, but it still had the foundation of greatness beneath it. It was, as he considered it, hanging in the balance between what it was and what it could be. To Aiden, from a business perspective, it was in a state of pure potential.
He’d stayed at a lot of locations—elite and otherwise—in many parts of the world, and he approached each with a sense of ease. He didn’t scrutinize as harshly as his father may demand for E. James, Inc., but he did evaluate possible acquisitions based on his own set of criteria then translate his recommendation into his father’s language.
That was how he and his brothers succeeded working at their father’s company—they each found their own way to communicate then keep their distance from the famously unsentimental CEO.
Aiden’s role gave him a certain amount of freedom to leave New York and investigate investment opportunities in interesting locations. Plus he was well paid, and, in return, he helped make his father’s company a lot of money. The trade-off to the freedom and more than decent income was that he had to deal with the stone-faced patriarch of the James family on a somewhat regular basis.
One day maybe he’d have his own company, start one with his brothers, but for now, he, Emmett, and Logan made use of the opportunities afforded by their father’s self-made success.
Aiden drank deeply from his coffee and powered on his tablet, checked the markets, global financial news, and major headlines—some of which were about his father. Nothing new there.
By the time he finished his first cup of coffee and was ready for another, the sun had risen high enough to stir others in the villa.
Standing to head inside, he saw Ivy look in his direction. Given the distance, he couldn’t tell for certain where her eyes were focused but he would’ve bet the cash in his pocket that it was on him. So he held up his hand in a casual wave in the relaxed light of the morning.
In response, the woman only looked at him then returned to painting.
He grinned as he walked back in through the pair of glass doors, glancing over his shoulder one more time to see Ivy, blond hair bundled on her head and illuminated under the new day’s sun, painting and ignoring all else.
She’d looked at him, he knew. She’d seen him. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman doing nothing more than looking at him gave him such a punch of intrigue in the gut.
“Enjoying the morning, signore?”
Donatella, who was dressed in a red silk shirt that fit snuggly against what could only be described as her ample bosom, and skinny gray jeans that hugged close to her shapely hips, greeted Aiden with a smile that was either sleepy or sultry or both.
The woman definitely didn’t look or act like she was in her seventies.
“I am now,” he answered as he slid his cup into the coffee machine and pressed the start button. “Many a man in the world would be jealous that I’m standing here with you. And I don’t mind knowing that one bit.”
Her laugh was hearty, filling the quiet morning. “I like hearing that. It’s not true, not altogether, but I like hearing it. You’re an early bird, are you?”
He drank from the fresh brew once it was ready. “Always. I don’t sleep much.”
“No?” She opened a cupboard, retrieved a white cappuccino mug, and placed it under the spout of the coffee machine. “Why not? You don’t like sleep?”
He considered as he took another drink. “I guess I don’t need much of it. Even as a kid. Didn’t want to miss anything.”
“Ah, avventura. Adventure.”
Aiden watched her as she spoke and, adept at blending business with pleasure, wondered what her bottom figure price was for Villa Blue. “You must get a lot of adventurous people visiting the island.”
“Oh, adventure is in the heart of
the beholder. You were out on the veranda?” She motioned. “I’ll join you, do you mind?”
“It would be my honor,” he told her as they walked toward the door.
“Then let’s both be honored. Oh,” Donatella said, patting his cheek as she passed through the door he held open. “I see what view you were enjoying.”
He followed Donatella’s eye line to where Ivy stood in front of her easel with the grand colors of the island and sea behind her. There was no need to confirm or deny that he’d been watching her; Donatella had known and hadn’t expected a response.
Aiden liked the earthy, unapologetically perceptive woman more by the minute.
Both seated in wrought iron chairs with honey yellow cushions, they shared the quiet space between words. There were people who hid behind thoughts and perspectives, who filled that quiet space with their projected personality. But not Donatella, he observed. She was a woman who eased into silence just as she eased into conversations with each and every guest of Villa Blue.
When he’d arrived, he’d expected to find an elderly woman run ragged by trying to uphold the sagging life of an aging villa.
And he’d been wrong, he admitted. Very wrong.
While the villa could stand major renovations to bring it up to five star status, the woman who ran the place naturally oozed life into her surroundings, including the sprawling villa.
If his initial assumptions were correct about Villa Blue—which he’d set about proving or disproving over the next week—and if he recommended to his father to acquire the place, he looked forward to seeing the possibilities become reality.
Of course, he hadn’t expected people to be living on the estate.
The property, while without beach access, was some of the most valuable on the island—views spanning three hundred sixty degrees, fairly temperate weather, and the nobility of having been a hotspot in Hollywood history. If Donatella formally put the place on the market at a reasonable rate, it would sell in a heartbeat.
“You’re here because you want to buy Villa Blue, aren’t you?”
