by Bella Andre
He didn't need to keep watch over her anymore to make sure she didn't fall--or leap--from the rocks. He should head back into his cottage and make himself paint something.
Anything but her.
Even if he were stupid enough to break the one hard-and-fast rule he'd always been careful to live by, he couldn't chase this woman down and ask her to sit for him. Not when she'd just been sobbing as if her whole world had ended. Only a total douchebag would put his art above a person's feelings. Sure, there were plenty of painters who felt justified in doing or saying anything to get what they wanted onto their canvases. But Drake had never hurt anyone in the pursuit of art, and he wasn't planning to start today.
Still, as she disappeared into the trees and out of his line of sight, it took a hell of a lot of self-control to stop himself from running to the storm drain to find her. To ask for her name. To beg her to come back one day when she wasn't sad anymore. If only so that he could feel this spark again, this insanely strong urge to paint that he'd taken for granted all his life.
As Drake forced himself to head back to his cottage, he finally noticed that he too was soaked through. He'd been so intent on the woman--and fighting his crazy urge to paint her--that only now did he realize how low the temperature had fallen during the storm. He had his shirt off by the time he got to his front door and stripped off everything else in a wet heap before he opened the door and walked inside.
Oscar looked up from his big, soft dog pillow in the corner, lifting his dark brows as he took in his naked and dripping owner. "Some guard dog you are. You just slept through a stranger out on the cliffs and one hell of a storm."
Drake loved the big furball anyway, of course. Oscar only looked like a guard dog--part German shepherd, part Boxer, part Akita. Inside, the mutt was a sleepy ball of Jell-O. As if to reinforce his lazy reputation, Oscar yawned and buried his muzzle beneath one big paw.
Drake dried off with a towel, then grabbed a dry pair of jeans and a shirt from his bedroom and headed back into his combined living room and kitchen. He'd trimmed the tree limbs surrounding his cottage so that light streamed in through the windows that took up three walls. This had always been his best studio space, better even than his west-facing New York City penthouse that looked out over Central Park. Having his studio, kitchen, and bedroom within a dozen feet of each other had been the ideal way to keep himself fed and rested while on a painting jag.
Lately, the whole setup felt like it was mocking him.
Drake knew he wasn't the first painter to lose his spark. Thirty years ago, his father had lost his spark too. But Drake had always assumed it would never happen to him if he was careful. If he didn't make the mistake of pinning all his inspiration on one person the way his father had. If he didn't let his heart get too attached or dive too deeply, not just with anything he painted--but with any woman at all.
William Sullivan had once been the hottest painter in the country. Back in the eighties, his work had fetched six figures--and even more at the end. Because that was what happened the day Drake's mother, his father's ultimate muse, had walked out on William and their four kids and taken her own life. William's passion for painting, and his brilliant talent, had ended. He'd never picked up another paintbrush, never set foot in his studio again. Simply let the canvases gather dust, the paints dry up, and his paintbrushes be replaced with hammers and nail guns as he eventually turned to building houses instead.
Drake had been only six months old the day his mother left. While his older siblings had talked with him about it in the years since, it was mostly other artists and dealers who never tired of rehashing the tantalizing details of personal destruction. Because when William Sullivan quit painting out of the blue, it hit the art world in the same way his death would have, with most of his remaining unsold works jumping to nearly ten times their original value. Even his oldest paintings, which were little more than dreamy love letters on canvas to the woman he had been obsessed with, became priceless collectors' items.
Drake knew enough about psychology to understand why he personally preferred his Montauk cottage to his New York City penthouse. His father's fame--and the legend of how love gone wrong had made one of the greatest modern-day painters abruptly put down his brush forever--had always made Drake's life too much of an open book. Sure, Drake could play the game in the city at galleries and with art investors, but he preferred not to. Especially now that he was at the point in his career where he could hole up and focus on painting full time, letting his agent take care of the deals. Because while Drake honestly didn't care what the world thought about him, his family, or his paintings, that didn't mean he was going to help feed people's glee over rehashing the past either.
During the past few weeks, his siblings and several of his cousins had been asking when he was going to head back to the city, but he refused to go back until he'd done what he came here to do: create a dozen great paintings.
Telling himself to just forget the woman on the cliffs already, he picked up his nearly empty sketchbook. After all, he didn't even like painting people, apart from deliberately silly portraits of his cousins' kids, who were all so full of life and laughter. Even when they were naughty, Drake couldn't resist the playful twinkle in their eyes.
But as the pencil in his hand seemed to move of its own volition over the page, it wasn't a stormy ocean vista that formed--it was the woman on the cliffs. If only her face hadn't been obscured by the distance and rain. If only he'd gotten closer...
His phone rang and Oscar made a grumpy half-growling sound at having his nap interrupted. Drake cursed as he dropped the sketchbook as though it were on fire. What the hell was he doing? Where was his self-control?
He normally kept his phone off, but he'd needed to check in with his agent earlier that morning before she came to Montauk and hunted him down. Seeing Candice's name on the screen, he picked up.
Dispensing entirely with pleasantries, his agent said, "Drake, I need those paintings."
"Soon."
But they'd worked together long enough for Candice to know when he was full of it. "I've already bought you two extra months. You're a hotshot talent, Drake. Which is why the top gallery in NYC is thrilled to give you their entire space next month. Please tell me you've at least started something."
He looked down at the sketchbook before forcing himself to shut the cover on the beautiful, enigmatic face that stared up at him. "Their walls won't be empty."
"Good. I hope you're taking care of your gorgeous self all the way out there in the wilds."
"The Hamptons don't count as wild, Candy."
He could practically see his agent shiver with horror at the thought of being more than a hundred feet from the latest fashions, gourmet coffee, and must-eat-at restaurants.
"Call me as soon as you've shipped the paintings."
Drake shut down the phone, knowing that although his agent had played it fairly cool, both she and the gallery were clearly freaking out that he hadn't delivered any paintings yet, with the show barely two weeks away.
It was long past time to kick his muse in the ass and paint. Especially now that he could see at least a dozen new paintings in his head already, images bursting with passion and emotion, visions that centered around the beautiful stranger he couldn't stop thinking about.
Cursing, Drake told Oscar to keep sleeping on his dog bed in the corner, then grabbed his car keys to get the hell away from his sketchbook, paints, and canvas before he dug himself into a hole he might never be able to escape.
Chapter Three
Rosa pulled up to a general store that looked to have seen better days. She'd passed a new grocery store a mile back, but she figured the odds of getting in and out of a store without being recognized were more in her favor if she went somewhere teenagers were likely to avoid.
When she'd climbed back into her car fifteen minutes ago, she'd immediately soaked the seat. Unfortunately, she didn't have any dry clothes to change into. And her growling stomach
reminded her that she didn't have any food either.
But just because she hadn't prepared for this trip to Montauk didn't mean she was ready to go home. How could she go back to a life where there was a "bright side" to people sneaking naked pictures of her and then selling them so that the entire world could see her completely exposed?
Her chest hurt and her stomach cramped every time she thought about the pictures. She hadn't known anyone was filming her as she'd stripped off her clothes in her hotel room, that they were taking one shot after another of her getting into the bathtub, that even more shots were taken while she'd dried off before slipping on a robe. She had thought she was finally off the clock for a precious thirty minutes in a steaming tub without cameras following her.
She'd been wrong.
Tears started to come again, but she forced them back. She didn't want to keep falling apart, was determined to pull herself together. Because if she didn't, then it would really feel like they'd won. Everyone from the guy who'd taken and sold the pictures, to the strangers who said such awful things about her online, to a mother who was just so damned thrilled by how high their social media numbers had jumped in the wake of the scandal.
No, Rosa definitely wasn't going back. Not until she had made a decision about her next step. But she needed her head to be clearer as she worked to figure that out. She couldn't stay hidden forever, but she also wouldn't let herself rush or panic again. She might only have a high school diploma, but she'd been accepted to a great university before she'd chosen reality TV instead. If she'd learned anything from the legal teams her family had worked with over the past five years, it was that a well-drawn plan was always better than something carelessly slapped together.
Which meant that right now, since she was still reeling and hurting too much to make any good decisions, she simply needed to get some clothes and food, then find a place to stay for the night without alerting anyone as to her whereabouts. If she remembered correctly, the motel where she and her father had stayed when she was a kid was only a mile or so up the road.
Fortunately, Rosa carried a stash of cash in her bag at all times. Her just-in-case money. No one in her family liked to talk about the downside to being so famous, but another reality TV star had advised her early on that using cash instead of credit could help buy her a little freedom if she ever needed it.
Of course, back when they'd signed on to do the show--both because their family desperately needed the money and because it sounded so exciting--Rosa had never expected to need that freedom quite so badly.
Grabbing her bag from the passenger seat, she checked to make sure there was no one around before she got out of the car. Fortunately, the heavy rain seemed to be keeping people at home. She was about to put on her sunglasses when she realized that would only make her look more conspicuous.
Her heart pounding a million miles an hour, she stepped into the empty store. A gray-haired woman was sitting behind the register watching a soap opera on the TV that hung in the corner.
"Hello, honey." The woman looked at her kindly--and with zero recognition. "The storm caught you, did it?"
Rosa nodded. "It did."
"Well, it's warm and dry in here, so you just let me know if you need help with anything."
Rosa tucked her head down so that her wet hair fell over her face just in case anyone came in, then grabbed a hand basket and started looking for essentials. A toothbrush and toothpaste. Some apples, oranges, and microwave dinners. A couple of tourist Tshirts. A sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants with Montauk written down one leg. And a pack of white cotton underwear and socks.
Hoping this would be enough food and clothes to make it a few days while she hid and figured out her next steps, she was heading to the register when she walked past an aisle containing sewing supplies. Unable to resist them, she ran her fingers over the beautiful blues and greens, reds and yellows on the spools of thread. Even when she was a little girl, she'd been totally drawn to playing with her mother's needles and thread. Not to make clothes, but because she loved to watch patterns and pictures emerge from her stitches. The quality of the thread and yarn here wasn't great, and there was no embroidery floss, but she could make do by doubling or even tripling the thread. She couldn't help throwing some spools and a pack of needles into her basket.
Rosa didn't realize the magazine and paperback section was on the facing side of the aisle until she turned and flinched at her own face staring back at her. Her stomach twisted when she thought about how excited she'd been the first time she'd landed on the cover of a magazine. But back then she'd never dreamed there'd be headlines that shouted, America's Favorite Bad Girl: Nude Photo Scandal? Or Another Brilliant Business Move for the Bouchards?
Rosa was doubling down on her prayers that the woman working the register wouldn't recognize her without her usual makeup and couture clothes, when the bell over the front door clanged and shook her back to reality. She needed to buy her supplies and get away before someone spotted her.
Fortunately, the gray-haired man who walked in didn't look as though he'd be any more likely to know who Rosa was than the woman behind the register. He leaned over the counter and gave the woman a sweet kiss before saying something that made her giggle like a schoolgirl in love.
Love. It was something Rosa had once longed for, but as her fame grew, she'd quickly learned that the odds of finding it in the middle of her crazy life were so low there was no point in even trying. Not when every guy she'd been out with over the past couple of years only wanted to be with her to become famous himself.
Her chest felt tighter than ever as she walked up to the register and put her basket on the counter. The woman hummed softly as she rang up each item. At the end, when she put a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie into the paper bag "on the house," that little bit of unexpected kindness had Rosa nearly bursting into sobs again.
Her hands shook from the effort of trying to hold her emotions at bay as she drew out a few twenty-dollar bills. Just as the woman was making change, the door flew open and the loud laughter of three teenage girls filled the store.
Oh God, they were going to recognize her.
Rosa's heart started pounding so fast that she was glad her stomach was empty, or she might have thrown up all over the counter. As it was, she was so lightheaded from the quick rush of blood pounding through her that when she grabbed the bag, she tripped over herself making a dash for the door.
"Honey, you forgot your change!"
It was change she'd need, given that her cash was likely to run out soon and she couldn't risk being tracked down by using her ATM card. But right then, it was more important to get out of the store as fast as possible.
She kept her head down, the grocery bag clasped tightly to her chest as she rushed through the pouring rain toward her car. She wouldn't feel safe until she was back inside with the door locked. Wouldn't even feel safe then, actually. Not when she no longer felt in control of anything in her life.
She was so out of control, in fact, that the next thing she knew, she ran straight into a wall. The chocolate chip cookie tipped out of her bag and landed--plop!--in a muddy puddle, a couple of apples following it a moment later. But as she blinked the rain out of her eyes, she suddenly realized she hadn't hit a wall.
She'd slammed into a man with a very broad and muscular chest.
Rosa needed to hightail it to her car before he recognized her, but when he picked up her dropped groceries, then straightened to give them to her, she couldn't get her legs to move.
He was gorgeous. But not in a slick Hollywood way. The total opposite, actually, with his bristly jaw and muscles flexing beneath wet flannel and denim.
What was she doing? This was the very last moment she should be drooling over some guy. Especially considering that, unlike the lady behind the register, he was the right age to know who she--
"It's you." He looked stunned. "I can't believe I've found you. Here at the general store."
Oh no. She
needed to get into her car and start driving again. Somewhere far away from here. But when she moved to the side to skirt around him, he shifted his big, rugged body into her flight path.
"You were just on the cliffs outside my cottage in the rain. It's private property, so I'm not used to seeing anyone there."
Wait...that was why he recognized her? Because she'd been on the cliffs outside his house? Not because she was a star whose naked pictures were currently plastered all over the media?
The way he was looking at her--not as though she was some reality TV sideshow freak, but as though he truly couldn't believe how lucky he was to have run into her in the general store's parking lot--made it hard to think straight. So instead of hightailing it away from him, she found herself saying, "I didn't mean to trespass. Back when my dad and I--" The words stilled in her throat as she choked up. "Last time I was there, I didn't know the cliffs were on private property."
"It's okay." The look he gave her was as gentle as his voice. "It looked like you needed to be there. I know we've just met, but if you need any help, maybe I can--"
Oh God. Of course he'd witnessed her meltdown. Her endless, wracking sobs, which had ended with her throwing her phone off the cliff.
"I'm sorry I trespassed," she said again, her gut twisting at what a fool she must seem to him. She supposed she shouldn't have any pride left at this point, but somehow she still did. "I need to go."
He held out her food. "Don't you want these?" She shook her head as she finally managed to get around him. "At least tell me your name."
Shock sent her skidding through a puddle. He really didn't know her name? Was he for real? But she couldn't risk his finding out as she yanked open her car door and threw herself inside.
Only, before she slammed it shut, she heard him say, "If you want to come back to my cliffs, you can."
Her heart was leaping as she gunned her old car out of the lot. But even though she wouldn't let herself look for him in the rearview mirror, his invitation played over and over in her head.
