by Bea Paige
I haven’t forgotten about the weird way he acted when I first met him or the intense way he seems to look at me. Though this time, that intensity seems to have dialled down a notch. Tiredness and worry have dampened that, it would seem.
“You didn’t just come here to tell me about Erik, did you?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.
Anton reaches up and runs a hand over his hair. In the bright overhead light of the kitchen I can see that a good portion has dried blood in it. He laughs a little, but it isn’t filled with mirth, merely a grim acceptance.
“No, I didn’t.”
“So, what then? What do you want to tell me?”
“Not tell you, ask…” His voice trails off as he looks down at the mug clasped in his hands. If I didn’t know any better, I could’ve sworn I heard a little vulnerability in it, and I wonder why.
“Ask me what?”
Anton looks up at me, his brown eyes searching mine. “I came here to ask you not to abandon us.”
“Abandon you? What do you mean?”
“I meant what I said before, working for Ivan, for me and Erik by extension, won’t be easy.”
“No kidding,” I retort with a light laugh, trying and failing to ease the tension.
“I’m serious, Rose. You can still back out.”
“Look, I’m not a complete idiot. Believe it or not, I know what I’m getting myself into.”
This time.
Anton nods his head sharply. I watch as he pulls at a loose nail on his finger. “Are you certain of that?”
“Pretty certain, yes. Ivan wants to fuck me, Erik wants to kill me and you… well, right now I’m not sure what you want, but I’m guessing you didn’t just come here for a cup of tea?”
“Erik didn’t want to kill you. In fact, I’m betting my inheritance that when he wakes up you’ll be the first person on his mind,” Anton responds, choosing to ignore my last statement.
That kind of throws me a bit, the fact he believes that the first person Erik will think about when he comes around is me, but before I get chance to question it, Anton continues.
“You’re right about Ivan, he does want to fuck every woman he comes across. It’s a sickness, Rose.”
I blanche at that, suddenly feeling a little sick myself. There’s me thinking I’m special, and I’m no more than another notch to gain on his bedpost.
“No offense meant,” he adds quickly.
I laugh it off, trying not to show how that statement has affected me. “None taken… So, what about you? What do you want?”
His shoulders tense as the silence stretches out between us once more.
“Just one thing… well, two actually.” His voice trails off as he looks up at me. This time that odd stare is back, the one where I feel like he’s committing my face to memory, taking in every blemish, every flaw, every goddamn piece of me.
“What’s that?”
He takes in a deep breath, before blowing out the air noisily.
“That you agree to become my muse.”
Chapter Seventeen
Muse?
“Muse?” I say, out loud this time.
“Yes. Exactly that. The first moment I saw you I wanted to paint you. I’ve been trying to capture you on canvas ever since.” He holds up his hand, wiggling his fingers. “I just can’t quite do you justice and it’s driving me insane.”
He gives me a lopsided smile at that and it changes his face completely. He should smile more often. He doesn’t seem so odd when he does.
“You want to paint me?”
“Yes. I want to paint you. You have such an expressive face. One that holds many truths and even more secrets. I see them bubbling beneath the surface. It’s quite fascinating to watch…”
My cheeks flush at that. I certainly feel like he’s peering into my soul every time he looks at me, just like the way he is now. I squirm under his gaze, suddenly unable to return his stare. Despite what I’d said to Ms Hadley to throw her off her game, my privacy is important to me and Anton seems to know just how to look past the walls I’ve built to protect it.
“Your skin is flushing again, isn’t it?” he asks.
What an odd thing to say. Surely, he can see that for himself. I frown, not understanding.
“I’m colourblind… I have Monochromatism. I see only black, white, and shades of grey. There’s no colour, not even a glimpse of it,” he explains
My hand flies to my mouth in shock. “I’m sorry, that’s awful.”
Anton shrugs. “When you don’t know any different, it’s not so bad. I was born this way.”
“But you’re an artist. How is that even possible if you don’t know what colours to use?”
“Not the best career choice, is it?” He laughs a little at that, but there’s a sadness beneath the laughter. What is it with these men and their sadness? It draws me in like nothing else.
“No, it isn’t,” I agree, trying to rid myself of such dangerous thoughts. “But then again, being a ballet dancer wasn’t a choice for me either. I had to dance in order to live.”
“And now?”
“Now I dance to survive, I guess.”
He nods his head and takes a sip of his tea, regarding me beyond the rim of the cup. As we look at one another, I begin to feel as though I understand him better. He’s not staring at me to be creepy, he’s staring because he’s desperately trying to figure out the colours that bring me to life. Colours he’ll never be able to appreciate. Something about that makes me inexplicably sad.
“Why torture yourself?” I ask before I can stop myself, because it seems to me that’s exactly what he’s doing.
“Because I have to, because it’s all I have. Why do any of us do the things we do? Why do you continue to dance when it pains you to do so?” he asks.
“How do you know…?”
“Being colour blind makes you observant out of necessity. I saw what it cost you to dance tonight,” he says, looking at me pointedly.
I’m pretty sure he isn’t just talking about the ache in my back and knee. He knows Ivan better than anyone, I suspect.
“Yet, we do these things anyway…” My voice trails off as I mull over the truth of his words.
He sighs heavily. “It’s like wanting something you’ll never be able to have. Just because you can’t have it, doesn’t stop you from wanting it, from trying to get it.”
“You sound very similar to another man we both know,” I mutter.
Anton laughs. “Ivan and I are similar in that respect, yes, but that’s where it ends.”
He looks at me sharply, trying to establish whether I believe him. And whilst I don’t think he’s lying, I don’t think he’s telling the whole truth either. Lying by omission is still lying, no matter how you look at it.
“There’s no cure?” I ask, moving on. Not willing to get into an internal argument about whether this man is lying for the right reasons or the wrong ones.
“I’ve tried every treatment possible. None have worked. That’s why I need a muse, I need someone who inspires me, but more than that, someone who can help me to see…”
“And you want me to be that person?”
“Yes, very much so,” he replies, honestly this time.
“But I’m not sure how I can do that. Starting Monday I’ll be working for Ivan. He doesn’t seem like a man who’s able to share.”
In fact, I already know he’s not a man who’s able to share. The way he kissed me told me that even if his words hadn’t.
“You’re correct in that assumption. Ivan has always been possessive. When we were young he would never share his toys… that hasn’t changed.”
“There’s a but isn’t there?”
Anton chews on his lip. “He’s already agreed to you helping Erik. He loves him enough to do that… Despite all his faults, and believe me there are a few, he understands how integral you are to Erik’s recovery. We both agree that it’s important you spend time with him.”
“
And you think he’ll allow me to help you in a similar way?”
Anton shakes his head. “Christ, no. There’s no way he’ll agree to that.”
“So, if I agree to be your muse, how’s this going to work then?”
Anton swipes a hand over his beard as he mulls it over.
“Ivan goes away for weeks at a time on business trips. You’ll need to look after his affairs whilst he’s gone. I’m hoping you’ll agree to helping me then. Just an hour or so a day…”
“I’m not sure about this,” I say, remembering the possessive, hungry way Ivan had kissed me. That kiss wasn’t from a man who would readily give up his possession, despite that possession’s own free will. I’m certain that what I want wouldn’t even register as something to be concerned with, let alone considered.
Are you admitting you’re his possession? That dark little voice asks me. I shake my head trying to free myself of it.
“Please, I’ll do anything…” Anton says, taking that shake of my head as a no.
He stands abruptly, moving around the kitchen island so that he’s standing next to me. I look up at him, as he stares at me. Slowly he raises his hand to cup my cheek.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, as the rough calluses on the palm of his hand scrape against my skin. “Please,” he repeats, running the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone.
To my surprise, I lean into his palm a little, enjoying the tenderness I find there. What is wrong with me? One minute I’m craving the fierce touch of Ivan, the next I’m basking in the gentleness of another.
“And if I say yes, what do I get in return?” I manage to murmur.
“Whatever you want from me…”
I smile at that. I know he’s lying, even if he isn’t aware that he’s doing it. He’s easier to read than he thinks. I’ve become an expert at reading people, I learnt from the best. It’s why I am the way I am. As a naïve teenager, I may have believed everything Roman had said in the beginning, but by the time our sordid love affair had ended I’d learnt that behind every lie lived a truth far more harmful.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he continues.
Another lie.
It's funny, normally I associate people who lie with pain and heartache. My parents had lied to me most of my life. Roman had lied the whole time he’d known me, and I’d lied to myself for years. I guess that’s why Ivan is a breath of fresh air. Even though he’s still dangerous, he’s not lied to me once since I’ve met him. Yet, somehow with Anton, who I know is lying to me now, I get the distinct impression that he’s doing it for my own good, whatever that may be. It’s more than most in my life have.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” Anton questions, his hand dropping from my face as though he’s only just realised he’s been touching me.
“Okay, I agree to be your muse, on one condition.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“That in your presence, I’m allowed to dance.”
Anton chews on his lip as he considers my terms. I seem to be making a lot of them lately. First Ivan, now him.
“I agree,” he replies.
The sense of relief I feel is great, as though a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest and I can breathe again. Thank God, I can breathe again.
“And Ivan?” he questions.
“Tonight I’ve already failed the one and only condition he set, so what difference does it make? Besides, he isn’t going to find out… is he?”
“No,” Anton agrees, returning to his stool.
“That’s settled then. I will become your muse, I will help you to see in exchange for the freedom to dance,” I say, knowing that this is the only way I’ll be strong enough to protect myself from Ivan, and from the demon in his heart.
Anton stands. “Thank you, Rose,” he says, moving to leave. He gets to the kitchen door, then turns on his feet. “I almost forgot, here’s your phone. Ivan had it, he wanted me to give it to you.”
“Thank you,” I respond, taking it from him.
“I guess I’ll see you Monday sometime?”
“Yes, Monday,” I confirm.
A minute later I’m alone once more.
Absentmindedly, I push my phone back and forwards between my hands on the countertop. My thoughts flick between the three men of Browlace Manor, so very different from one another and yet with a familiar thread running between them all. I know if I really try and dissect who they are as men, I’ll be up all night. What I need is mindless distraction, so I turn my phone on with every intention of finding my e-book app and reading one of the books I downloaded recently. Instead, I’m distracted by a red dot above my telephone icon indicating I have a voice message.
Putting the phone on loudspeaker I press the button.
“Rose, it’s Ivan… I thought you’d like to know that Erik is going to be okay, at least physically. Ms Hadley is with him now. She’ll make sure he has company when he wakes up and whilst he recovers in hospital. I, I just…”
There’s a heavy sigh and a long pause, and for a moment I think Ivan has hung up. I’m about to press the delete button, when he begins talking once more.
“I’m going away for a week or so. There’s some business I need to attend to…” Another long pause. “I understand from Ms Hadley that you still want to take the job. After everything that’s happened tonight… I’m, I’m glad, Rose…”
In the background I hear the sound of a male voice call for Ivan’s attention. Ivan covers the mouthpiece, muffling the conversation between him and whoever he’s talking to. Half a minute later he’s back on the line.
“Sorry about that…” A long sigh. “What is it about you that makes me want to apologise for every little thing I do?” he blurts out, then rushes on. “Look, you don’t have to start until I’m back, there won’t be a great deal for you to do anyway until I return, but if you want to, you can. I’ll pay you either way.” Silence ticks away once more. “Rose… about the kiss...”
There’s confusion in his voice, uncertainty. But thinking better of it, he coughs and starts again. “If you want to start work Monday, call Fran. I’ve texted the number to your phone. Ms Hadley will be staying in a bed and breakfast near the hospital, so she can be close to Erik. If he’s released before I return, I’ve asked Ms Hadley to give you space. She’s agreed to that at least. I’ve not mentioned our discussion about you visiting with Erik. Maybe that should wait until I’m back. Anyway, I’d better go. Goodbye for now, Rose,” he says finally, before hanging up.
I replay the message another three times before I finally press delete. Why is he going away now? Is it really because he has a business trip, or is he running away? I know if I think too much on it, it will drive me crazy. Instead, I haul my tired arse out of the kitchen and upstairs. It takes me a long time to stop thinking about the men of Browlace Manor and an even longer time to fall asleep.
Chapter Eighteen
Monday comes around quicker than I’d expected. The whole weekend I kept my mind off the men of Browlace Manor by reading and scrubbing every inch of my house. Both served as a welcome distraction. This morning I was up, washed and dressed before sunrise. Now as I sit and wait for the clock on my kitchen wall to tell me it’s seven o’clock and time to leave for work, I wonder whether returning to the manor is really the best idea I’ve ever had.
There are so many arguments against it. I’m sure if I had any girlfriends they’d all be telling me to sell up and move as far, far away from the men of Browlace Manor as I possibly can. But the argument is moot. I have no girlfriends, or common sense it would seem, because as soon as the clock strikes the hour I’m out of my seat, pulling on my coat and heading out the door.
Fifty minutes later, filled with adrenaline and a little achy from the long walk, I step up to the front door. Yesterday I called ahead to Fran, like Ivan had suggested, and told her I would be coming this morning, so it isn’t a surprise that when I reach the front door, it’s open.
Stepping
into the warmth, I hear the sound of drum and bass music coming from one of the other doors to the left of the entrance hall. Ignoring the rules, and the voice inside my head that sometimes likes to obey them, I follow the sound. To my surprise, the door to the corridor is unlocked, though it stands to reason given Erik is in hospital and there’s no need for locked doors. Pushing it open, I make my way along the hallway towards another door at the end. Through the gap I can see a room filled with natural light and splashes of startling colour.
This must be Anton’s art studio.
Feeling like a lurker and that I’m somehow encroaching on his sacred place, I get halfway down the hall and decide better of it. Just as I’m about to turn on my feet and slope off to my office, the music turns off and the door swings open. Anton stands before me bare chested, his hair hanging about his face with a paintbrush clutched between his teeth.
For a second, he stares at me in shock, then he grabs the paintbrush whilst simultaneously running a paint covered hand through his hair.
“Shit, I wasn’t expecting to see you today, at all this week, in fact. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve made more of an effort,” he says, apologising for his state of undress.
“I’m the one who should be apologising. I heard the music… I was intrigued, I suppose.”
“Is that so?” Anton smiles lazily, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway. “You do know that curiosity killed the cat?”
I laugh a little at his playfulness. “Yes, my mother used to remind me of that fact regularly as a child.”
“So, you’re here now. Do you want to come in?”
I hesitate. Despite the amusement in his eyes, my mother’s voice lingers in the back of my head. Every time my curiosity got the better of me as a kid, I ended up knowing things that were better kept secret.
“No, I really should get to work. That filing in Ivan’s office won’t get done on its own. Whilst he’s away I may as well make myself useful.”
Anton pushes off from the door and steps into the hallway. The natural sunlight coming from the studio behind him making a halo of his tawny hair, and just for a moment I am struck dumb by how attractive he is. He has a different kind of beauty compared to Ivan’s. He’s not as tall, or as muscular, but he’s still fit, strong. I can’t help but appreciate the light tan of his skin pulled across the taut muscles of his chest and stomach. There’s not an ounce of fat on him and no chest hair to speak of, despite the copious amounts growing on his head and chin. He’s beautiful in his own way, not unlike an oil painting himself, though without any of the softness that oils often imbue in the canvas. Anton is more like the sharp tones of acrylics; potent, powerful, bright, which is even more heartbreaking given his condition.