by J. S. Scott
He shrugged. “Fine with me. Contact her. I have a painting that’s ready to be sold.”
“Oh, my God. She’d be elated,” I told Dane excitedly.
My happiness soared as I thought about telling Stephanie that Dane Walker was actually putting a piece into her fledgling gallery. She’d worked her tail off, but the art world in New York was a hard enterprise to crack. Artists wanted the most prestigious galleries, and Steph wasn’t quite at that level right now.
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter to me,” he grumbled.
“What does matter to you?” I queried. “I don’t want to screw this job up.”
“I have no idea what to give you to occupy your time,” he answered roughly. “I’ve never had an assistant. I do everything alone.”
“Why?”
“Because I prefer it that way,” he said in a disgruntled tone. “Let’s just get this out of the way now. Then you can stop pretending that you don’t see my messed up face. I have scars that people don’t want to see. I know it, and I try to stay out of the public eye. That’s why I live here.”
I gaped at him with disbelief. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Did he really think his scars were so unsightly that he had to hide himself away from the entire world?
“You do have scars,” I replied carefully. “But they aren’t that bad.”
Dane snorted. “They suck. Let’s get real. My mug isn’t anything that anybody wants to see.”
I felt sad as I watched him basically mock himself. It had taken an enormous strength of character for Dane to survive and thrive after his accident. He’d experienced a great deal of loss at a very young age. Yet, he’d created magnificent paintings that had skyrocketed into the world of art. “I want to see them. I don’t think your face is messed up at all,” I said, wondering what he’d make of my comment after I’d blurted it out. It wasn’t that I actually wanted to see the marks that had caused him so much pain in his past. But they made him more unique. How could anybody look at Dane and not see enormous strength? “It must have been hard to handle things with so much bravery when you were badly injured and then lost your father that young.”
He let out a strangled, humorless laugh. “Brave? You think I’m brave?” he questioned. “I’m a fucking coward. It wasn’t difficult to buy myself a private island because I was born rich. The only thing I had to do was stay away from people.”
“Easier said than done,” I observed. “Loneliness is enough to drive a person crazy. So yes, I do think you have a lot of courage. Most people would want somebody to talk to about what happened. They’d want to be taken care of.”
With Dane’s wealth, he could have hired a gazillion employees to be at his beck and call. Obviously, he hadn’t handled his injuries that way at all.
“I don’t talk about it,” he snapped. “What’s the point? It is what it is. I can’t change the past.”
I stood, knowing I was probably crossing some kind of line. I could see how tense he was, and I didn’t want to keep trying to convince him that he was wrong. Nobody knew better than me how it felt to feel rejected and outside of the norm. “Not everybody cares about your money or your appearance,” I said as I walked slowly to the door. “I think you’ve just met far too many who do.”
He’d obviously had some bad experiences after his accident. His self-protective instinct was pretty strong.
Dane glared at me as I turned around at the exit to the room. “Really? What do you know about being unattractive? You’re fucking beautiful. You could have easily been a model.”
His words made me visibly flinch, and my stomach began to churn. “That doesn’t mean my life has been easy,” I defended.
“At least you don’t have to hide on this goddamn island. You chose to be here.”
I nodded. “I did. But didn’t you choose it, too?”
He felt stuck here. I could sense it. For some reason, he seemed to think he needed to be isolated.
“I suppose I did,” he admitted in a husky voice.
“Nobody is holding you prisoner here except yourself,” I informed him as I left the office and closed the door behind me.
I felt his pain, and I want to reassure him that he was so much more than just a body and a face. Granted, he had an incredibly nice body and he was attractive, but his talent—and his compassion— were the most remarkable things about Dane.
He believed me when nobody else had.
He was apparently not going to throw me out of his house without letting me try to do the job I was hired to do.
He created art that touched people on a gut level.
I sighed and walked slowly back upstairs.
Someday, if I could only stop hiding and running myself, maybe I could take my own advice about not feeling like a prisoner. It was difficult to tell someone else they were wrong when I wasn’t following those rules myself.
CHAPTER 8
Dane
FIVE YEARS AGO…
“No. No. No. You have to feel your art, boy,” Carlo told me. “You aren’t feeling it.”
Carlo Benning might be one of the most highly regarded artists of his time, but at the moment, I wanted to turn away from my canvas and punch the shit out of him.
The only thing that stopped me from taking a swing was my respect for the painter. “I am feeling it,” I grumbled.
Carlo was on an extended stay on the island, teaching me to improve my art. Granted, his visit had cost me a whole lot of money, but I liked to think we’d become friends during the last several months.
“The feeling is not there,” he protested. “What do you feel when you’re painting?”
I shrugged. We’d been through this routine before. “I feel like I’m trying to make a good piece of work.”
“It is not enough,” he answered. “What you feel has to be projected onto the canvas.”
What I felt, what I was always feeling, was lonely. A permanent darkness seemed to have taken up residence in my soul.
“Darkness. I feel darkness,” I admitted.
The artist threw a gesturing hand toward the easel where I was working. “Fear. Darkness. Despair. Whatever it is that you’re experiencing can be transferred to your art. When you can accomplish that, you’ll be successful, boy. You have raw talent, but no emotions.”
I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t a boy. Far from it. I was a guy who had grown up pretty damn fast. I had emotions, but most of them were so twisted that I didn’t understand them, and I could hardly put them into my work.
I turned back and looked at my painting. I knew what I wanted to portray, but Carlo was right. As of now, I wasn’t seeing what I wanted.
Problem was, I wasn’t sure how to make it show on the canvas.
Doggedly, I picked up my brush, determined to find a way to communicate with the world while I was still inside my own bubble.
What did I want to say?
What did I want people to know?
“I don’t know much about the world,” I answered earnestly. “All I know is here.”
“Then tell them about your life on the island. Emotions are universal, boy. Everyone feels the same pain, the same darkness, the same joy.”
I frowned at my painting, realizing that it said almost nothing about anything important. Maybe Carlo was right. Maybe my emotions on canvas could be my connection with the outside world.
After a few bold strokes with my brush, I considered the fact that my mentor was leaving tomorrow. I had to get things together now.
Yeah, I could pull another artist I admired to the island with the promise of money for his personal teaching. And I probably would. I had a lot to learn. But even though Carlo drove me a little bit crazy, it had been nice to have another person around.
I’m fine being alone. I’ll get used to it.
I let
those familiar words sink into my heart.
Maybe someday, I’d believe them.
CHAPTER 9
Kenzie
“Good morning, Mr. Walker.” I greeted my new boss with much more optimism than I actually felt.
I moved to his desk and set a cup of coffee on it.
Black.
No cream.
No sugar.
Theo had been by while I was making coffee, and he told me how Dane liked it.
I couldn’t believe he was functioning without his caffeine. I was completely addicted, and the first thing I did every morning was suck down as much coffee as I could get.
Of course, maybe my coffee intake had something to do with being completely sleep deprived.
For the first time, I actually felt rested. I’d slept eight hours last night, waking up feeling like my head was clear.
“Thanks,” he answered, sounding distracted as he focused on his computer screen.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, sitting down in front of his desk with my own full mug, and a notebook in my hand.
I planned on making notes about what he wanted me to do, and get started on any work that he had outstanding.
“You can go,” he remarked absently.
Oh no, you don’t! You’re not just dismissing me for a second day!
“I wanted to get a list of instructions from you,” I said. “It would help if we could meet every morning.”
I arranged my cotton sundress around my legs. Since Dane didn’t seem to be much on formal attire, I’d dressed in a casual blue and white sundress with floppy sandals. I didn’t have a ton of clothes, and I generally dressed casual except when I’d been at the gallery. I’d worn one of the two professional outfits I had yesterday.
Finally, he looked up from his computer and handed me an envelope. “Here,” he said in a grumpy tone.
I took it, hoping it was a list of the things he wanted. It would be so much easier for me to know what he expected.
“What’s this?” I questioned as I drew out the contents of the envelope.
“A check,” he answered in a brusque tone.
“For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”
“It’s an advance on your salary. No woman should be without some cash.”
I looked at the check, then at him, but he’d already turned back to his computer screen. He’d given me the equivalent of a few months of pay, and it touched me that he’d even thought about the fact that I had no money.
I was torn between gratitude and shame.
“But your brothers hired me,” I informed him gently.
“You’re mine now,” he answered huskily.
I let his words sink into my consciousness. For some reason they made me feel warm and safe. It didn’t matter if Dane had only meant that I was going to work for him directly. I still savored the words of belonging somewhere. It was a feeling I hadn’t experienced much in my life.
“Thank you,” I said gently. “That’s really kind.”
“Believe me, I’m rarely kind,” he answered in a guttural voice.
I ignored his self-deprecation. He’d been nice to me, so I didn’t believe for a minute that the man didn’t have a decent heart. It might be well hidden, but it was there.
“Maybe Theo could take me to Nassau some time,” I said hesitantly, not knowing how Dane felt about me leaving the island. “I could use some clothes.”
Everything I had was thrift store bargain bin. I was good at making something out of nothing.
“I’ll cover your clothes,” he offered as he kept tapping away at the computer. “It’s not like you asked to be stuck in a tropical environment.”
“No. I’m fine,” I sputtered, surprised that he’d made such a generous offer. He hadn’t wanted me here, and now he was offering to cover everything from my cash poorness to my wardrobe.
“It’s no big deal.”
Yeah. Actually, it was a big deal to me. Other than Paige, nobody had ever offered to do anything nice for me in years.
“The check is fine. I’ll work hard to earn it,” I told him, and meant every word I said.
It was obvious that Dane had decided to give me a chance, and I wasn’t about to take that trial for granted.
“I think you should take some time off,” he suggested. “Sleep. Eat. You look tired and you’re way too skinny. You’re in the perfect environment to relax a little.”
“I’m here to work,” I protested. “If you tell me my working hours, I can relax on my time off. Tell me what I’m allowed to do. Can I use your pool?”
He shrugged. “Of course. Your work hours can be from ten a.m. to noon.”
I laughed, hoping he was joking. “I was thinking more like nine-to-five.”
“Nine-to-two,” he said emphatically.
“Dane, that’s—”
“If you keep talking, I’ll fire you.” He finally looked up from his screen to shoot me a warning glance. “I work during the morning and early afternoon. I usually work on my accounts early. I taught myself to be an actuary, figuring out the risk and benefits of investments. Then I work on investing into the ventures that I like. After that, I catch the late morning and afternoon light to paint in my studio. I don’t work late. I take off to the beach to surf or dive.”
“Can I use your studio after hours?” I asked breathlessly.
“You paint?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’m not very good, but it’s a passionate hobby.”
“How do you know your work isn’t good? It’s good if you feel better after you release your emotions on canvas. There is no right or wrong way to express yourself.”
“Says the guy who gets more than a million per piece,” I answered with a smile. “Not that you don’t earn it. I’ve admired your stuff for several years.”
“I was trained by some of the best,” he said nonchalantly. “I couldn’t attend college, but I brought the artists that I admired the most here to the island to study under them. We all start somewhere. It’s a never-ending progression. As artists, we never feel like we’re skilled enough, which is why we keep trying.”
I felt good that he’d included me in the artist crowd, even though I wasn’t talented enough to deserve it. “My first love is actually making pottery. I do paint and sketch, but I’d much rather be making something useful.”
“Then keep on doing it,” he suggested, his dark eyes softening as he encouraged me.
“It’s not that simple. Equipment costs money. But I’ll go back to it someday.”
“I’m sure you will,” he concurred.
Flustered, I turned my attention back to my notebook. “So tell me what duties I can take off your shoulders.”
“Honestly, I’m not that busy,” he said reluctantly.
“Then why am I here?” I was confused.
“I skipped going to Denver for the holidays last year. I told my brothers it was because I was so busy,” he said.
“But you really aren’t?” I questioned, starting to understand why there was so much miscommunication between the brothers.
Dane had things he didn’t share with his siblings.
“I have a lot of pieces that I want to complete, but I’m not really pressed for time. I don’t do commissioned pieces. I give the stuff I’m satisfied with to galleries when I finish them.”
“I know. The galleries hate that,” I verified with a smile.
Nobody knew when they were going to get a Dane Walker painting, and it had driven my boss crazy.
“Fuck them,” he said. “I don’t send my work out for money. Did you contact your old boss yet?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “But it will be the first thing on the list.” I sat my coffee down on his desk and wrote the item down, then looked at Dane again. “What else?”
>
“You could do the communication between me and the galleries I work with. Contact your friend, and let her know she can take Maxfield’s place. I’m sure they’d appreciate a much nicer voice than mine,” he considered.
“Okay,” I said happily.
He caught me up on the pieces he was currently wanting to put on exhibition, and I took copious notes. Then he talked about what he planned on doing in the future, and I took more notes.
When we finished, I finally asked, “Why did you lie to your family?”
He was silent, glaring at me from his seat behind the desk. “You’re getting a little too personal,” he warned.
“That’s why I’m your personal assistant,” I said with humor in my tone.
“I’m not always going to tell you what I’m thinking. I’m not used to spilling my guts, except when I’m painting,” he informed me with a pained note in his voice.
“I’m not asking you to do that. But if I’m really going to be an asset to you, I do need to understand some things.”
He was quiet for moment, appearing to consider my words. After a tense silence, he said, “I didn’t feel like going. Trace and Sebastian are hooked up and happy now. Nobody needs me to ruin the party.”
God, Dane sounded so much like me. I felt exactly the same way about inflicting my presence on anybody who was happy.
“They wanted you there,” I protested. “Paige was looking forward to meeting you.”
“Some other time,” he mumbled.
“I thought you liked Eva,” I said.
“I do,” he reassured me. “It’s just…awkward.”
“Because they’re a couple now?” I understood what he was saying. It was uncomfortable when everybody around you is with somebody and you aren’t. I’d been there myself.
“I don’t know,” he answered tersely. “I just didn’t feel like going.”
He’d obviously had a serious case of the holiday blues, or maybe the constant isolation was just getting to him. “I get it. I really do,” I commiserated.
