by Isla Dean
He looked to Donatella who was peering at him, questioning.
“Maybe,” he replied earnestly.
She sipped her coffee, looking out to her island, her harbor, feeling like a protective mother hen.
“How’d you know?”
She was a woman who’d seen and done it all, she thought. But at her age, she’d discovered there was a certain joy in being underestimated. “When you hint to a few people you might sell, you expect some to come sniffing for gold.”
Donatella surveyed Aiden’s face, the shadows of stubble covering the planes of it, his lashes dark, surrounding the leafy green color of his eyes. So young still, yet she wondered how well he’d hold his own.
“Sniffing for gold?”
“Are you not?”
“Real men don’t sniff, they hunt,” he told her.
“Is that what you call what you’re doing with my Ivy, over there? I see you looking at her.”
Aiden leaned back in the chair, looked again to where Ivy painted.
There was little more obvious to Donatella than a man and his intentions. Some women pretended not to know, lost in their own expectations of men, but ultimately they knew. Or maybe it was just her decades spent garnering attention—both welcomed and unwelcomed—from men. She embraced it and dismissed it with the same innate zeal she used to select fruits and vegetables from the weekly farmer’s market.
“I’m here to check out Villa Blue. No harm in enjoying the view.”
At that, Donatella’s eyes turned from sultry to sharp in one blink. “Some views are meant to be enjoyed from afar. That view,” she began as she cast a gesture in Ivy’s direction, “is not to be hunted. Now, I don’t mind you poking around Villa Blue, in fact I’ll show you around myself. But she doesn’t know that I’m testing the market, considering selling the place. You won’t say a word to anyone, including her, you understand me? That will be my business when and if. But if you hurt her, I not only will make sure you don’t get Villa Blue, but I’ll have no esitazione, no hesitation to push you over the cliff and not wait for the splash. You understand, si?”
She waited until she knew she’d been heard before she took her eyes off of him. It was fast, she noted, and he hadn’t hardened when she’d laid into him. He’d listened, and instead of looking rebuffed, he looked intrigued.
It was good to get to know a man’s character when he was staying under your roof and Donatella didn’t mind giving him a little test, pushing some buttons, challenging his pride. And she wasn’t anywhere near sorry for it.
“I won’t hurt her,” he said to her, then considered, held the last sip of coffee in his cup without drinking it. “But I want to know her. She’s interesting.”
Donatella pointed at him. “That, we agree on. She is interesting, and she’s a damn fine artist. Have one of her paintings in the lounge. Always popular with the guests—especially when they find out she’s an artist-in-residence. Gives it something speciale, something extra, you know? But you and I both know the difference between getting to know what makes someone interesting and fucking with them. You won’t fuck with my girl out there, and if you do, you will know the wrath of an Italian woman.”
Aiden’s eyes lit with pure respect for the woman who basically had him by his balls.
Now,” she said, pushing against the thick black arms of the chair to stand. “Let’s go see what L.B. and Nicholas are whipping up for breakfast today before they head out for their honeymoon in Palm Springs.”
Aiden rose, stepped in front of Donatella to open the door. “Maybe I’ll take a plate out to Ivy,” he suggested, testing.
At Donatella’s narrowed stare, he grinned. “That’s not hunting her, that’s feeding her. You didn’t say that was off limits.”
“You take one look at her work in progress and you take your life into your own hands, boy.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he said then closed the door behind them.
He’d eaten breakfast, partly because he was a hungry man, and partly because it gave him the opportunity to observe the operations of Villa Blue. There was a kind of warmth mixed in with the efficiency. And, he noted, L.B. and Nicholas did a damn good deed with an omelet and slice of homemade rosemary bread.
Figuring he had work that was waiting for him, Aiden decided against taking food to Ivy and instead returned to his room. He checked his emails, responded to some, left the less important ones for later. He reviewed contract revisions for a deal he was working on in Lake Como, added a few comments to the document, then forwarded it on to his legal team. That property, a lake front villa built in the eighteenth century, complete with an olive grove and terraced gardens filled with flowers, had reminded him of his mother. It was proper but not stuffy, regal but not imposing, not unlike Villa Blue.
And, thinking of his mother, he sent her a quick email with a picture of the view from his room on Parpadeo.
He skimmed inquiries from a few females regarding his whereabouts in the world—each with invitations of their own flavor. All lovely, none of them interesting to him at the moment.
Then, as the sun reached its peak for the day, ideas merged in his mind and he wandered outside toward where Ivy was still in the same position, painting as she had been since he’d gone out on the veranda at dawn.
The woman was tireless.
Her face focused, the blue of her eyes dazed with dreaminess, and her long, blond hair spouting from some sort of knot on top of her head, he wondered when there’d ever been a more beautiful painter who also looked like she should be the one being painted. Delicate, dainty, graceful…
“You come over here and I’ll poke you in the eye with my paintbrush.”
Aiden stopped short, staying well beyond the perimeter of what he considered a safe distance. “A woman with a paintbrush. Sounds dangerous.”
He watched as she returned to the paper in front of her. Amused at being brushed away—almost literally—he considered his options for how to approach with his idea for the afternoon. “Mind if I sit?”
Her hand swished through the air as if she were casting aside a gnat, which he decided to take as a gesture of hospitality.
In the tangled grass, he turned away from her, sat on the ground with his legs stretched in front of him, and peered out, wondering what she saw, how she saw it. He had no problem being ignored; he would ignore her too. For now.
“Movement, life, man,” she murmured.
“What’s that?” he called over his shoulder.
“Nothing, nothing. Don’t move.”
He frowned and twisted his head further to see what she was up to.
“That’s moving,” she pointed out. “Don’t do that.”
Amused and curious, Aiden returned to looking out to the bay where boats left little lines of white behind them. Vaguely, he wondered if she painted them into the scene.
“No, no. I like it better with your head turned. Yeah, just… Okay, sit the same way you are, just make a quarter turn to your left with your head only. And ignore how weird that sounds.”
“I’m not used to so much direction while I sit and enjoy a view.”
“You came here for your own reason, and now you’re here for my reason. Fair game if you’re going to interrupt.”
He wanted to look at her, to see her eyes, her expression, but he didn’t dare. Instead he moved as he was told, wondering how she would paint him into the scene.
And why should he wonder about such a thing? He had an island to check out, a villa to consider acquiring, and a slew of other professional responsibilities to tend to. Not that he wasn’t familiar with having fun while he worked, but he wasn’t sure he considered it fun to sit still.
“About done?” he asked after what felt like an obscene amount of time to not move.
“Stay please.”
He frowned but didn’t budge. “Sounds like you’re talking to a dog.”
“Dogs are cute,” she said absently as she painted.
“Dogs ar
e cute but they sure as hell don’t sit still for this long.”
“I’d apologize but I won’t because it feels so good to be painting like this.”
He scanned the pretty makings of the island without moving his head, feeling ridiculous for it. The various textures of rock both sharp and smooth, the ever-changing yet constant expanse of sky, the stretch of sea that changed in color depending on where you looked, it all occupied him, kept him from itching—too badly—to move. “How often do you paint out here?”
“Every day. Unless it’s raining or too foggy to see anything. Or if there are too many distractions.”
He watched a bee hover above a patch of purple blossoms, considered what it would be like to be in the same place everyday, to watch it through the turn of seasons.
“Every day but not like today,” she continued. “I’ve had this damn block—I even hate saying that out loud—but I’ve had this damn block for awhile now and it’s been like trying to start a campfire with my fingertips only no flames are coming out.”
“And today there are flames?” he asked, wishing he could see her face as she spoke but reminding himself she was a woman with a weapon. A pen may be mightier than a sword, but whoever said that clearly hadn’t seen Ivy with a paintbrush.
“I think I have you and adrenaline to thank for that. Funny isn’t it? Who knew diving off a cliff would kick-start things. I would’ve jumped off that ledge ages ago, had I known.”
“But probably not,” he offered, happy to hear her talk while she worked.
“Probably not.”
He heard a shuffle of things, some tinkering, a swish of movement. Then she appeared next to him, sitting beside him in the grass.
“So you’re saying I helped slay artist’s block?” He thought about it as he scanned her. “Does that make me some kind of muse?”
“I don’t believe in muses,” she said, laying back, looking up at the sky. “But if I did, yes, I think that would make you my muse.”
He lay back next to her, grinned. “A muse.”
“Proud, are you?”
“I’m just thinking about what to do next, as your official muse and all.”
“What comes next is that I ask if I can buy you lunch as a thank you, then I come back and finish up the detail work on the painting once this layer is dry, then send it off to the framers, then the gallery for my next show.”
“You have a gallery show coming up?”
She rose then reached for his hand and pulled him up to standing. “Yes. And I have a looming deadline and a lot of paintings to deliver.”
“Where will it be?” He felt like a rebel watching her go behind her easel and pour water into a cup to clean her brushes. At least that’s what he assumed she was doing.
“San Francisco,” she told him as she busied herself. “At the Lemieux Gallery. It’s my first big show. I’ve done lots of little, more local shows, but the gallery in San Francisco is, well for me it’s a big deal. I always dreamed of having a major show in the city, seeing my art on those promotional posters hanging in the window. I don’t know why, but as a kid, that was what I dreamed of.”
“I dreamed of being Superman.”
Her laugh lifted above the hum of a small private jet that flew overhead. “I was a different kind of kid, I guess. Probably didn’t really grow out of that.”
“Probably not.” His eyes flashed with the sun that streamed down from the cloudless sky. “But it’s nice.”
Her shoulders shrugged as she flicked the remaining water and paint off her brushes. “I don’t mind being different, I like my life exactly as it is right now.”
“You wear it well.”
She made a small, throaty sound in response.
He watched a bird circle overhead and hoped it didn’t decide to poop on him. “You about done? I’m starting to feel like a target out here.”
“You’re not very good at staying in one place very long are you?”
“Nope.” He took her breeziness as a good sign. “You’re happy today.”
“I am,” she pushed at her shirtsleeves then took her painting off the easel to carry inside. “I haven’t painted like this in…I don’t know, awhile. But it felt great. And now I’m hungry. Can I buy you lunch in town to thank you for jumping off that cliff with me yesterday?”
He’d gone outside to talk her into exactly that. She was steps ahead and that was unusual for him.
“Let’s do it. Need help carrying your stuff inside?” he asked, hoping for a glimpse at what she’d painted.
“Not a chance, mister.” She eyed him, knowing what he was after. “Just give me fifteen minutes to freshen up. I’ll meet you back here and we can walk down to the Bar Harbor Grille.”
“We still have the cart. Let’s take that instead. We can stop by and I’ll give the guy some money for it.”
Noting the use of “we” she decided not to ruin the momentum of the mood and point out that he’d basically stolen the cart using kindness. She was feeling too good after losing track of time, losing track of herself, and simply painting in the flow for hours on end. “Okay. I’ll meet you in the driveway in fifteen minutes.”
The smile he gave her was easy, she noted. And damn handsome.
As he walked away, she watched his butt and figured Donatella really was on to something there. Then heat bloomed as she imagined he wasn’t wearing any underwear.
Once he was inside Villa Blue, she carried her painting, then her easel and paints to her studio while humming an indistinguishable tune.
Feeling recharged, Ivy had spent the early hours doing exactly what she loved. Now she’d have lunch with an attractive man with a fantastic ass to thank him for jumping off of a cliff with her. The unexpected result had been a renewed sense of things and she was floating, she knew.
And she didn’t dare question how long it would last. Fickle bitch, that inspiration.
She actually liked the piece she’d painted—the first she’d felt a sense of satisfaction with since coming to Villa Blue. The others that she’d sent to the gallery were decent, passable, but this was more than passable—it held marks of passion. “I can do this,” she whispered, the noontime sun warming her skin as she walked back out of her studio. “I can do this.”
She was beginning to believe that was true. Now, with eight paintings at the gallery already and one almost finished, she just needed six more paintings for her showing. Six paintings in just over three weeks. “I can do this.”
“Do what? And where are you off to?”
Still in a zone, Ivy gasped at the voice and turned toward Donatella who was lying on a chaise lounge as though she were waiting for peeled grapes. “You scared me. And you look ridiculously stunning. How do you manage to lie like you’re posing? If I did that, I’d look ridiculous without the stunning.”
“Life is art, bella. You, of all people, know that.”
Pulling in a breath that was subtly scented by the jasmine planted along the side of Villa Blue, she felt her way through the statement. Was life art or was art life for her? “I’ll think about that.”
Donatella reached for the light turquoise colored glass filled with shimmering ice cubes and deeply brewed sun tea. “Thinking about things ruins them. And I wouldn’t say this to most people, in fact this morning, I told someone the opposite of this. But I’m a contradictory woman, so be it.” She batted her eyelashes in jest as she paused dramatically then sipped from her iced tea. “Here’s what I’m telling you, bella: Don’t think, live.”
Ivy took in the scene, smiled in disbelief—the woman’s beauty could fill up all the cups in the world and still run over. “One of these days I’m going to live it up and talk you into letting me paint you.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Donatella said, lifting her face to the streaming light of the sun. “I’m ready.”
“You’re too wonderful for words. And I’ll ask you again when I’m not heading to lunch, on the verge of keeling over.”
&n
bsp; “Ah, lunch with the attractive guest who has his eye on you? Be careful with that one.”
Given the tone, Ivy couldn’t tell if Donatella had meant to warn her or entice her.
“He’s a well-traveled man in more ways than one.”
“How did you know I’m going to lunch with him?” Ivy asked. “And he doesn’t have his eye on me. No man would when you’re around to look at.”
A luscious laugh tumbled from Donatella’s mouth. “No wonder I keep you around. You flatter this old lady’s heart and mind. And, while you flatter me, you’re wrong. His eyes are on you.”
Ivy considered the idea and a swift strand of thrill strummed inside of her, even as she fought to keep it quiet. “Maybe. Wouldn’t matter anyway, would it? He’s well-traveled, as you say, which means he’ll be traveling again soon enough, and I have other things to focus on at the moment.”
“At some point you’re going to want sex, bella. A woman has needs. You should have wild no-strings-attached sex with him.”
“I’m not interested in having sex—with or without strings—with him.”
“Then you have no pulse,” Donatella declared dramatically. “Women have needs, I’m telling you.”
In an attempt to block out the awkwardness that shined like an uncomfortably bright spotlight, Ivy tugged her oversized black sunglasses from the front of her loose fitting V-neck shirt she’d changed into, and slid them on her face. “This woman needs lunch then to get back to the finishing work on a painting that went…” She let out a sound of satisfaction. “I haven’t felt this way in I don’t know how long. I wish I had the words to describe it. It was…”
“Like having five orgasms in a row,” Donatella purred. “I understand completely.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t know about that comparison.”
“No? Tragico. A woman should know such a wondrous thing.”
“Great, now I’m going to be thinking about sex and orgasms at lunch thanks to you.”
Donatella let out an exaggerated sigh. “What am I going to do with you? You make life difficult by thinking about it rather than living it.”
“Well then I’ll think about that too,” she said then chuckled at the flat look Donatella gave her. “Bring you back anything from the Bar Harbor Grille?”
