Now That I've Found You (New York Sullivans #1) (The Sullivans Book 15)

by Bella Andre

  Rosa made herself smile as she said a quiet, “Thank you,” before she hurried toward the rack with the phones and quickly chose one that said it was Web mail–enabled. She picked up a bunch of grapes and a couple of bananas on her way back to the register, the cash she hadn’t given to Drake still in her pocket.

  She knew he didn’t care about the money, but now that he wasn’t painting her, she wouldn’t feel right if she didn’t pay him back. Of course she wouldn’t make the mistake of going back to his cabin—she couldn’t trust herself around him. Not when he made her want so much more than she deserved. As soon as she could, she’d mail him the money in a simple thank-you note.

  “You sure do look familiar,” the woman said as she rang up Rosa’s purchases, “and not just because you were in yesterday. Have you recently moved to town?”

  “No,” Rosa said, praying the woman couldn’t tell just how hard her heart was pounding. “I’m just taking a little vacation.”

  “Sorry the weather isn’t better for you.” The woman cocked her head. “I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere, though. I wouldn’t normally forget a pretty young woman like you.”

  Blood was rushing hard and fast into Rosa’s head as she said, “You’re very sweet, but I hear that a lot. I must have one of those familiar faces.”

  Fortunately, the woman simply smiled and said, “People always used to tell me that I looked like Jackie O.”

  Rosa tried not to grab her change too fast. Looking like she was panicking would only make the woman more suspicious. “I can see why. You have the same bone structure.”

  “We do, don’t we?” The woman looked extremely pleased. “I’m Mona Agnew, and I hope I see you again soon.”

  Rosa picked up the bag with her phone and fruit and headed for the door before saying, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mona.”

  Her heart was racing as she drove back to the motel and jogged up the stairs to her room on the second floor. The good news was that Mona hadn’t actually recognized her. But how long would it be before the nice woman restocked the magazines and realized that the face staring back at her didn’t simply resemble the woman who’d come by her store twice—but was one and the same?

  Rosa had spent years with camera lenses on her every time she stepped out of a building, but she’d never felt this paranoid. Then again, she’d never actually wanted to hide before. Never truly needed a few days out of the public eye to completely reassess everything.

  Drake’s cabin had been so much warmer and cozier than Rosa’s motel room with its faded bedspread, old carpet, and outdated wallpaper. But this too-quiet room was far safer than his difficult questions—and the heat between them. She’d turn on the cell phone, send a quick email to her mother, then shut it down so that she could sit in her safe, quiet room and finally figure out her next step.

  But as soon as she stepped inside, Rosa realized safety was nothing but an illusion. The bed was made and the towel she’d placed over the TV screen had been folded neatly on the bathroom counter, so Housekeeping must have been in while she was gone. Unfortunately, the person who’d tidied up her room must have turned on the TV and forgotten to shut it off when he or she left.

  And right now Rosa was looking straight at her own face—and barely clad body—on the screen.

  “As the nude photo scandal over reality TV’s It Girl continues,” the entertainment show host said, “we’ve brought in two Hollywood experts to weigh in on where we should draw the line between private and public life. Selma, I know you’re not a huge fan of Rosalind and her family, but does she have your sympathy now?”

  Selma Laskey was one of the nastiest gossip journalists in Los Angeles, and even though it was like standing in front of an oncoming train, Rosa’s eyes remained glued to the screen as the too-thin woman said, “Are you kidding? I just can’t believe she hasn’t posed for nude pictures before this.”

  “But she didn’t pose for these,” the host said. “Or do you believe she orchestrated this situation in some way for her own gain?”

  “I don’t believe that for a second,” John Canyon put in before Selma could respond. He was a well-known Hollywood lawyer, but not someone Rosa had ever personally dealt with. “Just because she’s a public figure doesn’t mean these pictures aren’t a massive violation of her rights. While she wasn’t hacked, she was attacked online, so calling this a cyber-attack is certainly in the ballpark, and I hope her lawyers are hitting the perpetrator with everything they’ve got.”

  “There’s nothing an exhibitionist wants more than to have every eye on her,” Selma tossed back with a flip of her hair, dismissing the idea of a cyber-attack with a roll of her eyes. “I guarantee the fact that the entire world is talking about her makes everything better.”

  Finally coming unfrozen, Rosa leapt at the TV to turn it off.

  She’d known people could be cruel, but what had she ever done to Selma to make her think she deserved something like this? No woman did, not even one who had opened so much of her life to cameras. A reckless mix of anger and frustration drove her to yank the prepaid cell phone from its package so that she could call the studio and make them put her on the air to defend herself.

  Fortunately, by the time the phone booted up, a tiny bit of sense had set in. Making a rash phone call would only open the floodgates to a tsunami of questions and requests that would sweep her back into the world she’d only just barely escaped. And the truth was that Selma hadn’t said anything Rosa hadn’t heard a million times. All things considered, exhibitionist was one of the kinder insults people had thrown her way over the years.

  Rosa desperately wished things were clearer and that she had all the answers she needed to move forward. But right now, the only thing she knew for sure was that she needed more time to think. Time to breathe. Time to figure out exactly what she wanted, rather than the easiest path or what would make her mother the happiest.

  She’d been barely out of high school when she’d agreed to do the show. But she wasn’t a kid anymore. She knew a heck of a lot more now than she had at eighteen. So even though the cell phone felt like a hot potato in her hand and she couldn’t wait to be free of it again, she had to at least get a message out to her family as soon as possible.

  As she went online and logged into her email, she worked to ignore the tight clench of her chest and the knots in her stomach. But when she saw hundreds of new emails waiting in her inbox, there was no point in even trying to be calm and collected. Not when there were media requests from every major outlet in the world, everything from People magazine to the London Times newspaper to US Weekly. Even Time wanted to talk to her.

  Her hand shook as she clicked on only one email from her mother’s private account.

  Rosalind, I’m praying you’re okay! Please contact me! We’re all so worried.

  Rosa’s throat swelled with emotion, and her eyes were already full of tears as she typed:

  I didn’t mean to worry you.

  She paused with her fingers over the phone. She didn’t want to make any promises about when she’d be back, but she didn’t want to cut ties forever either. After a half-dozen false starts, she finally settled on:

  I promise I’ll be back in touch soon. I hope you and Aaron and Lincoln are doing okay. I love you all.

  Rosa had hoped sending the email would make her feel less guilty. But, if anything, knowing how worried her mother was made her feel worse than ever. And more than that, she realized just how much she wanted to hear her voice.

  She was just about to switch over from email to the phone so that she could call home, when a new email appeared on her screen.

  Thank God you’re all right! I was so worried when you didn’t pick up any of my calls or answer my emails. I know how upset you were about the pictures, but by now I’m sure you can see that the public is more on our side than ever. Absolutely everyone wants to interview you and the network is ready to do a two-hour special in the top time slot. We can turn something terrible into so
mething amazing, honey, but we can’t do anything with these incredible opportunities without you. I’m waiting by the phone. Everyone here is ready to jump on a plane and come right to you, wherever you are.

  Rosa felt as if a bitter, cold wind had whipped into the motel room.

  Had she actually been stupid enough to think that her mother was simply worried about her?

  How could she have forgotten that, although they’d agreed to do the reality show five years ago to save their family, now the cameras, the interviews, the opportunities always came first?

  Her stomach roiled, but she didn’t give in to the urge to be sick. Or to cry. Or to scream. Instead, she methodically logged out of her email, shut down the phone, and placed it on the bureau next to the needles and thread she’d bought at the general store.

  She had always been able to think most clearly while her hands were busy, and as she picked up the spool and rubbed the glossy thread between her thumb and forefinger, the steady scratch of wound cotton against her skin helped her feel less numb. Less empty. Less like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff with nothing but a long dark hole beneath her.

  Fiber art had been Rosa’s secret escape during the past five years. No one outside of her family knew that she made crazy pictures with thread and, honestly, that was just fine with Rosa. She liked having something that was all hers, something she didn’t have to broadcast via photos and video clips, something she didn’t have to pull out for late-night talk shows like a performing monkey. Fiber art was her quiet place. Her time to unwind.

  She wasn’t actually an artist—not like Drake—but in the same way that she’d heard writers say they got their best ideas in the shower, she’d always had her best ideas with a needle in her hand. Her hobby had kept her sane, so maybe if she could stitch something she’d be able to get a handle on her racing heartbeat, her anger...and most of all, her hurt that even now her mother was focused only on the opportunities.

  Rosa’s hand tightened around the spool so tightly that the plastic edges bit into her skin as a hot rush of powerlessness rose up inside her again. Unbidden, Drake’s voice sounded in her head, as if to provide a counterpoint to her shame, to how painfully vulnerable she felt.

  Something about you makes me want to break all my rules. You make me want to risk the very thing that completely destroyed my parents. That’s how strong you are. That’s how much power you have. The power to do, to achieve, to have absolutely anything you want.

  She didn’t know how he saw what he saw when he looked at her. Couldn’t even begin to figure out why he felt what he felt when he was with her.

  All she knew was that she wanted so badly to go back to him, to his cabin that had seemed like a refuge in the storm howling all around her.

  She wanted to keep looking at the sketches he’d drawn, where she actually looked strong and powerful, until she somehow started to believe it could actually be true.

  And, most of all, she wanted to rewind to the moment when they’d almost kissed in the kitchen, just be able to close her eyes and forget about everything but how good it would feel to press her lips against his.

  But if she went to Drake and used him to bury her pain for a few blissful hours in his arms, wouldn’t that be proof that she was all the horrible things people had called her over the years? Rosa didn’t want to be that woman. Couldn’t stand the thought that Selma Laskey might be right about her.

  Which meant that instead of rushing out the door and over to Drake’s cabin to lose herself in him for a few sinfully hot hours, she needed to pick up her Montauk sweatshirt, thread a needle, and take a few stitches.

  She wasn’t going to be able to stitch her life back together anytime soon—especially not when she was still reeling from what she’d seen on TV and in her email. But she could at least make a start by not ripping anything or anyone else to shreds.

  Because the only thing that could possibly be worse than what she was already dealing with would be falling for a man whom she already knew was too good for her...and then ending up with a broken heart when he figured it out too.

  Chapter Ten

  Drake was beyond captivated. Miles past enthralled.

  He was full-out consumed.

  Painting as darkness fell outside his windows, he kept painting until the sun rose again. He didn’t stop to eat. Didn’t need to sleep.

  Not when all the inspiration he’d been lacking over the past months was hitting him in a hard, fast rush. His hands and shoulders began to ache, and Oscar was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind, but Drake couldn’t stop. Couldn’t focus on anything but working out the different tones of Rosa’s skin—paler when she was scared, darker when she was mad, rosier when she was laughing, and a beautiful combination of all three when she’d been looking at him with barely suppressed heat.

  As long as he was painting, Rosa was still there with him. But if he stopped, even put down his brush for five minutes?

  He’d be in his car before he could stop himself, driving to her motel, slamming down the door to beg her to come back. To come sit in the leather chair again so that he could keep memorizing every line of her face, the slope of her nose, the curves of her ears, the hollow at her throat.

  And, most of all, so that he could kiss her breathless. And just keep kissing her until neither of them remembered why they shouldn’t.

  When it started raining again, the hail hitting the roof and the porch louder than he’d ever heard it, he immediately saw Rosa sitting on the cliffs in the rain, strong even as she buried her head on her knees. Yanking another canvas up onto the easel, he painted even faster, more consumed than ever despite having worked for nearly twenty-four hours straight.

  But when the hail continued to come down harder and harder, he finally realized it wasn’t hail. Someone was outside knocking on his door.

  Rosa.

  He dropped his brushes and lunged for the door, throwing it open. But the woman standing beneath an open umbrella wasn’t the woman he’d been obsessing about.

  “Suzanne.”

  His sister’s eyebrows rose all the way up under her bangs. “Holy crap. You’re a mess.”

  He hadn’t looked in a mirror, but he had no doubt that she was right. He hadn’t slept, eaten, shaved, or changed his clothes. And he’d been painting so fast that splatters of color covered his hands and arms, clothes and shoes. His hair too, probably.

  “I’ve been working.”

  “That’s good.” His sister smiled. “I know you’ve been hoping inspiration would strike. Looks like it finally has.”

  She pushed past him to come inside out of the rain, closing her umbrella and leaving it just outside the front door. Oscar got up from his pillow to give her his usual greeting. Suzanne and Oscar had always been good buddies, although it struck Drake as he watched the two of them that it wasn’t quite the level of adoration his dog had given Rosa.

  As Suzanne gave Oscar a good rubdown, she said, “I really need to get myself a dog one d—” She looked up and finally caught sight of the dozen canvases lined up all around his living room and kitchen. “Wow.” She moved closer to one that was still wet. “These are amazing, Drake. Absolutely breathtaking. But—” She turned to him. “You never paint people.”

  He’d promised Rosa that no one would ever see his paintings of her, but he hadn’t counted on his sister dropping by unexpectedly from New York City. “They’re just something I’m messing around with. I’m not planning on anyone ever seeing them.”

  “You’re not going to show or sell them?”

  “No. I promised the woman that I wouldn’t. You aren’t even supposed to see them.”

  “Don’t tell me this is some weird commission where you’re painting these for this woman’s collection so that she can stare at herself all day in every room?”

  “Not even close.” The words came out more impassioned than he’d intended. Then again, given that he’d just spent nearly twenty-four hours painting Rosa in a reckless rush of i
nspiration, he clearly didn’t have a speck of self-control where she was concerned. “She asked me to burn them when I’m done.”

  “You can’t!” Suz looked and sounded horrified. “I know the art world can be really weird, but how could anyone possibly ask you to burn these incredible paintings?”

  He ran a hand over his eyes. Eyes he finally realized were burning from lack of sleep and too many hours of laser focus. “It’s not that simple.” They were the same words Rosa had used to describe her relationship with her mother, and though he’d argued with her, the truth was that he understood not that simple.

  It was how he’d felt about his father his entire life.

  “Wait a second.” Suz turned back to the paintings as if something had just clicked into place. “I know her. That’s the reality TV girl. The naked one.”

  “Those pictures weren’t her fault.” His growl caused his sister to gape at him in shock. Oscar looked just as offended, as if the dog could actually understand her.

  “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Suzanne held up her hands. “It’s just that it’s all over the news right now, and I spoke without thinking. What’s happened to her is horrible. Beyond horrible. If I could figure out a way to write a program that would erase all those pictures off the Internet for her, I would. I’ve actually thought about this before—about creating a tech task force that would help women protect themselves from Internet stalkers and trolls.” She put a hand on his arm. “But why didn’t you tell any of us that you know Rosalind Bouchard? Or that you’re painting her?”

  “I only met her yesterday.” He wouldn’t give away any of Rosa’s secrets, but he needed his sister to know one important thing. “No one knows she’s in Montauk, so you can’t even tell Harry or Alec.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Rosa was one of the strongest people he’d ever met. But she clearly wasn’t okay with anything happening in her life right now.