by Isla Dean
“I highly doubt my stories are better than yours. And I don’t feel like any more adventures. I need to get back to work.” Without waiting for him, she rose, strode through the restaurant, then out to where the cart was parked.
“Ivy.” He caught up to her as she crossed the paved pathway. “What’s going on? Not five minutes ago you were fully animated and now you’re mad. Did I do something?”
“Look, if you want to be guarded and vague, fine. It’s none of my business. I don’t even know you very well, so what does it matter? I appreciate the company, now I’d like to get back to the villa.”
She’d bared herself, she thought. She’d felt vibrant and had shared that vibrancy with a stranger. And what he gave her in return was a thick stone wall. It didn’t matter; she didn’t want it to matter. But inside, it felt like she’d stripped off her clothes to dance naked in a rainstorm and the person next to her had pulled on a trench coat.
Stupid was how she felt but she fought it as she climbed into the golf cart, ready to retreat.
The cart started forward and they putted up the hill, one switchback after another, with the dark blue of the harbor stretching further and further away.
Without warning, the cart whipped into a dirt turnout and created a dust cloud as it came to an abrupt stop. She looked over to Aiden in question as she gripped the metal bar beside the seat, bracing.
“You’re right that I was being vague, and I’m sorry. I work for my father’s company in New York, and one of the perks is that I get to travel the world looking at investment opportunities. That’s what I’m doing here on Parpadeo. And I’m here by myself because that’s how I like to travel.”
“Does that mean you have a wife or girlfriend—or both—at home that you prefer to travel without?” she asked, wondering how her ex would’ve answered that question while they’d been married. “Not that it matters, of course. I’m just asking to see how you answer, I suppose.” Her tone as flat as the look on her face, she waited for an answer.
“Neither.”
“And what are you looking to invest in on Parpadeo?”
When he didn’t respond immediately, she glanced up the hill toward her artist’s studio that she longed to be in by herself—no mysterious men to deal with, no vague strangers.
A spring breeze crept up the canyon bringing cool air with it—a signal of the impending end of the afternoon.
“Unfortunately the nature of that is confidential.”
She waited for him to say something more, anything that didn’t leave their conversation at that. But he didn’t. “If you say so. Take me home now, please. I really need to get back.”
Surrounded by tall leafy houseplants she’d lined around the glass walls of her studio—she preferred the dracaenas, ficus plants, and palms to lifeless window treatments—Ivy painted. She shoved thoughts and questions from her mind and channeled all her energy into finishing the painting she’d started that morning, without the possibility of being distracted outside.
She’d propped the painting on the easel inside her studio and used the dimming edge of evening light that shined through the top of the greenhouse to mix bold combinations of colors. She’d punched it up, there was no denying that. The lines she’d painted that morning had served as a starting point, a foundation for the emotion that followed.
As dusk settled into night and stars began to blink through, she kept on. Small confident strokes, deepening lines, brightening colors, clarifying perspectives. Ivy felt alive, and lived for that feeling, wanting to stretch it into forever. It was the only place she felt truly awake.
Interactions, relationships, anything involving other people just ended up being disappointing.
She’d tried, she thought. She’d opened up, hadn’t she? She’d shared, she’d talked, she’d spoken honestly about how she saw things. And then she’d bumped up against a brick wall and where was the fun in that? She may as well talk to an actual wall than Aiden James.
The world she came from, her life in Carmel, had been a steady, temperate shade of beige—not too dark, not too light, not too cold, not too warm. Not too anything. And now that she was getting her sea legs, living life as she wanted rather than according to what others wanted for her, she recognized that she really was one of those innately reclusive artists who kept their colors private, communicating only through art. She was unashamedly introverted to her core.
And that was okay, because it was more fun than forcing herself to be something she wasn’t—the socialite wife and daughter of respective doctors. She’d tried to give her family, her husband, what they wanted, but it had never been enough for them. She’d never been enough for them. And now, an independent single woman, she did her best to shed herself of those expectations and let herself be free. Even if being free meant talking to brick walls and dealing with artist’s block, at least it was more authentic than living in the land of beige, to her mind.
The walls weren’t talking back to her so she knew she wasn’t crazy. At least not completely.
More often than not, it just didn’t work out to connect with people, she thought as she mixed more pigment into the puddle of water in the center of the pallet then swirled sloppily. Paint and water mixed to create something extraordinary, and by contrast, maybe she just didn’t mix well with other people. Maybe she was built to be by herself.
And in that moment, with the light of the moon lifting and reflecting on the sea, something inside of her slowed and she stepped out of her creative zone. Standing back, she stared at what she’d created with nothing more than paints and feelings and perspective. She studied what had come out of her, come from her.
She’d painted Aiden as a strong, angular shadow, hadn’t she? She’d done that before he’d dropped into being Mister Mysterious at lunch. Was it something she’d intuited? Or had she created that perspective in her mind by painting it beforehand?
And with the bold sea around him, the dips into darkly saturated blues, it all shimmered around what was otherwise a modernist splash of mystery.
Modern Day Mystery, she decided to name the work. It was impressionist with the depth and edge of abstraction, mysterious in its shadows cast by the daring light of the day. Yes, she thought. Modern Day Mystery.
Deciding there was still a step left to finish off the piece, she debated which colors to splash onto the top—the daylight or the darkness, the light or the deeply saturated dark. Going with the flow of being unable to decide, she dipped two brushes into the pools of paint—one in Naples Yellow Deep, one in French Ultramarine mixed with Ivory Black. Then she stood back and, gripping one brush in each hand, she flicked the brushes toward the paper as if using whips. Splashes of color dotted the paper, some dripping down and doing interesting things with the other paint that was still in the process of drying.
That was it, she decided, standing back once again.
Ivy breathed, satisfied, if not a little dazed, and ignored the three quick knocks on her door; she wasn’t done examining the painting.
Three more knocks followed then her door slid open with a creak announcing the movement.
“I saw your light on through all these plants. You weren’t kidding when you said you lived in a greenhouse.” Aiden stepped inside. “Hope it’s okay.”
“Fine,” she said then walked away from the painting, noting that her eyes had begun to go heavy and she was drained in the best way possible—she’d put her energy to use. “What time is it?”
She strode toward the kitchenette in the only nook of the room that wasn’t lined by glass or foliage. She poured water into a nearby mug and downed the contents then glanced at Aiden who still hadn’t answered but instead stood silently in front of her creation.
He’d never seen anything like it. It tugged deep within him, as if some part of him had seen it before and was once again moved by it. It was familiar in an unsettling way.
At a loss for how to adequately express how he felt about the painting, especially when the
painting itself was such a unique expression, he simply stared.
“What do you think?”
He heard her approach as she spoke but couldn’t take his eyes off of what he saw. “Sorry, I know you don’t like people to see your art. But this is…”
“Only when it’s not finished. This is finished. Well, it’s not dry yet and I haven’t signed it, but the heart of it is done. Do you like it?”
“Incredible. I had no idea all of that could… This is going to sound wrong so just let me get it out. I have no idea how all of that, I guess, emotion, could come out of one person. It’s incredible.”
Her face pulled into a pleased and sleepy smile. “I’m glad you like it. You were an excellent subject.”
He wasn’t sure what to say about the figure in the painting, the profile he knew was his. Was that how she saw him? That intense show of his face?
Deciding he needed to stick with what he’d gone there to say, he angled toward her. “I’m sorry, Ivy. Truly, I don’t know what happened today, but you went from looking like a woman on top of the world to a woman not very happy with me.”
She wished she hadn’t stood so close to him. Everything about him consumed her—the clean scent of the soap he’d used, the dampness from his dark hair that was casually pushed away from his face that he’d left unshaved.
Feeling like her overly open senses were going to swallow her whole, she started to walk away to wash her hands or drink more water or do anything for a breath away from him. But he gently put a hand over hers and stopped her.
Before she could slip away, she slipped into desire—an unfamiliar place that apparently needed no compass.
He lifted his warm hands to cup either side of her face. “I didn’t mean to shut you out today. I’m not used to sharing like you do. I travel a lot and meet a lot of people who, as nature has it, ask standard questions, so I have standard answers that I give people. I didn’t want to give you standard answers. The way you share is poetic. And I don’t consider myself a poet so my responses were, well, vague.”
The deep green of his eyes, his worldly eyes, were focused on her and it was unnerving to be so captivated by it.
“I’m not used to sharing like that either.”
“Maybe you’re just braver than I am.” His palm skimmed her cheek.
“I doubt it,” she told him, caught in the thoughtful way he saw things. “You’ve probably tamed lions and snorkeled with sharks and run with dinosaurs.”
“Your imagination fascinates me. You fascinate me.”
“You’re the one taming lions.”
He was so close that the warmth from his body boosted her temperature up more than a few notches.
“And you’re the one painting works of art that shock the hell out of me.”
His thumb trailed over her lips with such confidence of movement, her breath hitched. And when his lips brushed hers, she sighed into the warmth. Encompassed by him, the heat of him, the scent of him, she let go for that moment. Her mind drifted further into a colorful oblivion that captured her, held her, and when her lips parted, his tongue touched hers, sweeping glorious, glimmering desperation alive within her.
Heat and vulnerability and desire merged together in a soft moan when the kiss dove deeper, each pulling the other in, closer. Hands sought to touch, clamored to explore.
The taste of that mystery she’d painted sparked to life like the stars above them through the dark night. Never had she desired so greatly, and when she realized the enormity of it, the unknown flavors of it, she said his name as she breathed out.
She needed to think before she disappeared into the moment entirely. Wasn’t she just starting to build a life for herself, a life she had no desire to disappear from?
His name was a whisper, but he’d heard it, felt her pull gently away.
Unsure what the hell he was doing—not that he was unfamiliar with romps with beautiful women he’d just met—he looked at the soft blue of her eyes. She’d been crying the day before and now he was moments from tearing her clothes off.
Needing to get a grip, he stepped back, tugged a hand through his hair that was still wet from his shower.
“Aiden, I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t. I’m… I was married for five years before I came here and I’ve just begun to learn who I am by myself, without distraction.” She shoved at her shirtsleeves, pushing them to her elbows.
“Distraction,” he repeated.
She opened her mouth to speak but he interrupted.
“I’m sorry about earlier today. I really am. Goodnight Ivy,” he said in a low growl then left.
He’d had countless adventures with women, where neither party meant anything beyond the moment to the other, both just in it for the fun. He’d been a distraction for women as much as women had been a distraction for him. The label “distraction” didn’t bother him.
No, it didn’t bother him at all.
He shoved open the front door to Villa Blue, strode through the place in the dark, then headed straight for the shower in his en suite bathroom, releasing the water.
Then he cranked off the water lever when he realized he’d already taken a damn shower.
He really did need to get a grip. This was a business trip. And he was good at turning business trips into adventures. But he wasn’t, he knew, good at dealing with sticky emotions.
And something about Ivy was sticking with him.
So tomorrow he’d stop being a distraction and stop being distracted. He’d explore the island, do his due diligence, then move on to the next place.
And what was his opinion on purchasing Villa Blue? He had no damned idea. He’d gotten off track somehow and it was time to correct that.
Aiden glanced out the window at the silvered moonlight that shined on rippled water. The shimmering surface surrounded like a barrier protecting the island, protecting its peace. It was a place of solitude, a world away from everything else.
So what was Ivy Van Noten hiding from behind that barrier? he wondered as he slipped under the cool covers of the bed. She’d been married for five years but had been on the island for a year. That was news. Though it explained, maybe, why she’d been crying. But she didn’t strike him as the weak and weepy sort, nor did she seem like the type to hide.
Not that it mattered or factored into anything. If his father’s company purchased Villa Blue, she’d have to leave and find somewhere else to live. He knew his father well enough to know the whole place would likely be stripped down, a new luxury hotel would be built in its place, and the prices would be set to accommodate the affluence of the new clientele. Ivy and her studio didn’t fit into that picture. Both would have to go.
Only he didn’t want her to go.
He’d never encountered the idea that he would want to protect a piece of real estate from his father. Was he okay risking an opportunity to ensure that a stranger who thought of him as a distraction had a place where she called home, where she created? But what if he stopped his father from acquiring it then someone else came along and did the same thing his father would’ve done?
Questions filled his mind, more questions than he was comfortable with, and they hovered just above his dreams as he slept.
Ivy stared sleeplessly at the stars through the glass ceiling above her bed. She felt like she’d been riding on a comet, fast energy through the unknown, then had abruptly tumbled into a weightless fall through darkness.
And when the reprieve of dawn came, finally lifting the night away, she kicked off the sheet and climbed out of bed.
Monotony moving her through her morning routine, she brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face followed by a smearing of sunscreen, pulled on leggings and an oversized blue and white striped T, tugged her hair up into a knot on her head, then carted her supplies outside.
Today would be another day of pulling teeth, the pain of each brush stroke being yanked out of her, she knew.
One step forward through the artist’s block, two st
eps back. But she’d keep inching forward the best she could. She had a gallery show to prepare for and it didn’t matter if yesterday was a day of inspiration and today was already clouded with sleeplessness and a maudlin mind.
So what if a man had kissed her, melting her whole body into a puddle of desires she’d thought had gone dormant? So what if she’d stopped him because she’d been afraid of losing herself just when she’d found herself? And so damn what if her ex was getting married and having a baby?
So. Damn. What.
This was her time and she would do everything in her power to make her life work on her terms. And that meant painting to the point where she forgot all else that hurt or clouded or stung.
She plopped a few colors onto the pallet, added water to the mix, then held her paintbrush up to the paper and stood still for what felt like hours, lifetimes, as she figured out what the hell to paint.
Chapter Five
“Need a hand with that?” Aiden asked Donatella who was crouched down in the dirt with her head in a bush of some kind. “Whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Of course my drip system went to hell while L.B. and Nicholas are on honeymoon. Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo of a drip system.”
Aiden smirked at the string of Italian utterances crossing with accented English. “How about I take a look?”
He gripped the hand she stuck out, righted her to her feet, then adjusted the flimsy brim of her straw hat for her.
“Grazie, darling.” Donatella followed the endearment with a kick at the nearest stone that lined the walkway where the drip system spouted and squirted.
“Well, I think I see the problem.”
“The drip system isn’t dripping. Testa di cazzo.”
Aiden turned toward the woman near in age to his grandmother. “Please tell me you just called your drip system a dickhead.”
When she peered at him from beneath her wide-brimmed hat, he spotted the flash of sass.
“You did. You called your drip system a dickhead,” he said, now grinning with gratitude for the woman before him. “Went to school with an Italian kid. Bennie Bianchi. Taught us two Italian curses: testa di cazzo and vaffanculo, which was a personal favorite of mine until my mom found out what it meant.”
