“Let’s go.”
***
Darcy
The next thing I knew, we were back in a booth at Maison Rose. In the early evening, it was a more elegant place, with linen napkins and real china. Ian even ordered a bottle of Bordeaux for us.
So much for my plan to back away from Ian. I hadn’t even made it a full week before caving in.
“Are we supposed to be drinking together?” I frowned at my glass of wine.
“We’re both of legal age, right?”
“Right.”
“Then I don’t see a problem. Do you?”
“No, I guess not.” And now I felt like a stick in the mud.
But there was a perception problem here. We were no longer on campus, and we sat at a candlelit table, with wine. Everything about it screamed date. While nothing untoward had happened, precisely, the stage had been set for it. Or I’m paranoid.
“Then drink up.” Ian took a sip. “Americans can be puritanical when it comes to alcohol.”
“What do you mean?” The wine was good, rich and dark on my tongue. Ah, the taste of temptation.
“My grandmother’s French and I used to stay with her in the summer. Wine is considered a national treasure, along with all the cheese. They used to give me sips as a child.”
Hmm, maybe the relaxed atmosphere was the reason you didn’t see viral videos of French frat boys chugging on a beer bong. Alcohol was “forbidden fruit,” which gave it even more appeal.
“Makes sense. We want what we can’t have.”
Ian’s nostrils flared. “I agree.” His voice had a ragged edge.
Yikes. Why hadn’t I phrased it differently? And I wished I could crawl under the table and hide.
I cleared my throat. “France must’ve been exciting. I’d love to travel.” I hoped the topic change would help.
“You haven’t?”
“No, my family had the means, but my dad’s a bit of a homebody.” His publishing schedule didn’t leave much wiggle room. “After I get a teaching position, I’ll use my summers to travel.” Assuming I didn’t get loaded down with courses to teach.
“And what about your other calling?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve read your work, Darcy. It’d be a shame if you didn’t pursue it. Are you going to write during the summers?”
“I’m not sure. Writing isn’t a practical way to make a living.” I feared relying solely on my creativity.
“Nothing fun is. Take it from me: your passions won’t die just because you don’t pursue them. Like Poe’s raven or even Keats’ Nightingale—they’ll haunt you.”
Hmm, Ian said it as though he spoke from experience.
“And what passions have you been denying?”
Ian sucked in a breath.
Ugh. What’s wrong with me? I’d become the queen of innuendo. Poppy would say my subconscious mind reared its ugly head—and she’d be right.
“I mean in the creative sense, obviously.”
“Painting.” His lips twitched. “Among other things.”
I ignored the last bit. “You’re a painter? Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“Like you, I have many secrets. And in college, I was originally a theater major.” He ran a hand down the length of his tweed coat. “You’re looking at Macbeth.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“What medium do you use?”
“Mostly oil paint.”
“Portraits? Still life?”
I knew a bit about art, but not much. And I itched to see some of his work.
“Mostly portraits.”
“Why’d you give it up to pursue teaching?”
He shrugged. “It’s a long, involved story, but things were chaotic at the time. Stability is something I needed badly, and a professor’s job is steady and predictable.”
“You make it sound like a minivan.” Was being a professor Ian’s fallback position? Odd. He’s a good teacher.
“I suppose it is. So, I chose my love of books, and the rest, as they say, is history.” He leaned forward. “Tell you what, when we’re finished, I’ll show you some of my work. My flat’s not too far away.”
My breath caught. I should say no, call it a night, and then go home. But Ian made me want to do something wicked, outrageous.
All of a sudden, I channeled Kate. The thought should’ve frightened me—it didn’t, which really should’ve scared me.
What had I gotten myself into?
Chapter Eight
Darcy
Ian owned a loft apartment not far from Columbia.
No way he could afford it on a professor’s salary, which meant he’d come from money, like me. No surprise, since he’d graduated from Oxford.
He flipped on the lights, one by one, revealing gleaming wooden floors and white walls, which were a showcase for his many paintings. Ian’s place was masculine—vaulted ceilings, spacious, leather furnishings.
I shouldn’t be here, but I didn’t want to leave. Ever. If I could freeze the moment, I would. And perversely, I wanted to run out of here and never come back.
Hello, mixed emotions.
He extended a hand. “Go on, take a look around.”
While he hung our coats in the hall closet, I roamed around his place, gaping at his art, getting to know him. In many ways, painting’s like writing. Like any creative pursuit, his work was personal, a piece of himself in each brush stroke, which made this an incredibly intimate act.
It looked as though he’d spent weeks on some of these works. While I didn’t take any art history classes, I could plainly see his talent. Ian had created dozens of portraits, and most of them were women.
He’d not only captured their likenesses but a hint of their souls as well. The tilt of a head, a hint of worry in the eyes.
My favorite was a portrait of a woman sleeping, curled up in a nest of blankets. They were bunched around her hips, rising over her thighs. Her eyes were closed, features peaceful—a lover’s view, a stolen moment forever preserved.
Like I said, these were intensely personal. And I shouldn’t be studying them. I felt a bit like a voyeur. But then again, I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.
I envied these beautiful ladies. Had they all been this lovely in real life? Or was this how Ian saw them? Idealized, poised. And forever his.
I’m far from flawless, no matter how hard I tried.
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. “These are incredible.”
“Thank you.”
All of a sudden, he stood behind me, and I nearly jumped. I couldn’t decide whether he was sly, or if my attention had been diverted.
“Who are all of these women?” Did the jealousy show in my tone?
“Friends, acquaintances—but a true gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“Says the man who commemorated his conquests.” I turned to look up at him. “And something tells me you aren’t a gentleman.”
He smirked. “You’re very perceptive.”
Like I said, he had a rebellious side, an inner bohemian. Resistance to authority and rules came with the territory.
“How long have you been painting?”
“Let’s put it this way: my mother has some of my watercolor work from preschool.”
“I see. So it’s something you were born with?”
He nodded.
Like writing was for me. All my life, I’d been a storyteller. Even before I had the ability to write. My mother said I’d crawl into her lap and make up fantastic stories—telling her about fairies and gnomes I’d “seen” hiding in the shrubbery.
“I wish I could paint you. You have exquisite bone structure.”
The compliment made my cheeks burn, but I didn’t respond.
“Why can’t you?” I didn’t understand his reluctance.
“It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
He paused a moment, as though searching
for the right words. “Whenever I’m painting, I become a different person—out of control, more reckless.”
Hmm, I’m missing a piece of this puzzle. And I could tell the conversation made him uncomfortable, so I didn’t press the issue.
“What about these?” Several were draped in sheets, leaning against the walls. I wondered why he hadn’t hung them up with the rest.
“Have a look, if you like.”
Not all the paintings were sensual. Some were dark and fluid—Jackson Pollock-like smears of paint, sharp lines, conveying blackness and despair. Others featured lonely vignettes. One in particular—shadowy woods, a lone figure sitting by the side of the road, head in his hands, an ominous plume of smoke in the distance.
Something about it gave me chills.
“What is this one about?”
For a moment, I didn’t think he’d answer me.
“We all have layers, Darcy, depths.” Ian’s tone was low, subdued. “Mine are deeper, darker than most.”
“I understand.” And I did. I wrote about murder, but I’d never dream of committing one. Yet I explored all of those impulses in a safe way. So, in a way, they were shady pieces of myself.
“How could you? You’re lit from within—like the sun.” He closed his eyes as though relaxing in an imaginary glow.
My throat ached. Now, I knew those portraits were idealized. Ian must’ve projected his feelings about these women into the work.
I glanced away. “Like you said, we all have layers.”
“Perhaps, but I only feel your warmth.”
I could relate. As A kid, we took a rare trip to New England in the fall. We stayed in a rustic cabin by the lake, picked apples, curled up by the fire at night. At the end of each day, I was tired but happy, curled in the heat of a cozy blanket.
Being around Ian felt the same way. Unlike my family, he didn’t find me lacking. Ian appreciated me for who I was, and it felt so good to be seen, valued.
“I often wonder what Keats or Byron or any of the other romantics would say.”
“About?”
“Abandoning my art for commerce.”
Ian discussed the romantics with a deep passion. I wondered if he identified with them. They were all creative, volatile men.
“They’d judge you harshly.”
“And with good reason.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Are you still writing?”
“I don’t have the time, but it pours out of me anyway.” I’d tried to stop writing before, but I’d flipped a switch inside myself and couldn’t shut it off. “Usually, when I least expect it. And when it’s most inconvenient—like when I’m trying to sleep, or I’m showering.”
Bits of dialogue and story ideas plagued my thoughts. I’d taken to shooting off emails to myself in the middle of the night, so I didn’t have to get out of bed. Sometimes they were incoherent, autocorrected messages.
He chuckled. “In college, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d go to the studio to clear my head. Painting was a relief.”
“Maybe it’d help you again.”
“No, it’d only bring me more grief.”
I didn’t know what to make of his statement, so I changed the subject. “So you’ve had insomnia a really long time.”
“Only the innocent rest easy.”
What wasn’t he telling me? I had a feeling an enormous elephant had walked into this room, and I couldn’t quite see it.
“What are you guilty of?” It was a bold question, but I had to know.
“That’s a long conversation.” His gaze caught mine. “One we shouldn’t be having.”
“Why?” I could feel the pulse pounding in my throat.
“Because it opens dangerous doors.” And then he stood far too close—eating up all the space in the room.
“But we can decide whether we walk through them or not.” I licked my lips, and his gaze followed the movement.
“Can we?” Ian stepped nearer, and I backed up. “I’m not certain it’s so easy.” He moved even closer until my back hit the wall.
Breathless, I stood right beside the sensual woman wrapped in a sheet.
“You don’t see it, do you?” He placed a hand on the wall, on the other side of my head.
“See what?” Why did he always speak in riddles? Ian gave me a headache.
“How special you are—how unique. I shouldn’t have brought you here, but I wanted to share something of myself with you.”
Strange. We agreed I shouldn’t be here, yet neither one of us ran for the door.
“Why?”
“You know why,” he said hoarsely.
I sucked in a breath. Our mouths were inches apart. All I had to do was lean forward, and our lips would touch—an actual kiss, this time. Not a near miss.
But my conscience had a sick and twisted sense of timing.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this. You’re my professor.”
“I haven’t forgotten our roles, but admit it, pet. We’re much more than that to each other.”
Ian had called me pet. My knees felt a bit weak. But was I ready to have this conversation? Nope, not even close.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Yes, you are.” His smile was a touch sad. “You just refuse to admit it.”
While he waited for a response, I just stood there, not sure of what to say or do—one of those deciding moments.
But I couldn’t make myself close the gap. Not yet.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here before we do something you’ll regret.”
Did it mean he wouldn’t regret kissing me? Touching me?
Ian offered me his hand, and I took it. It was large, swallowing mine up—comforting, yet possessive.
“I’ll take you home. My motorcycle’s around the block.”
***
Ian
“I can’t get on that thing.” Darcy’s eyes were wide.
“Sure you can.” I owned a sleek red Ducati Multistrada 950. It was more form than function, but I loved it.
“Motorcycles are dangerous.”
“Which makes them fun.”
Like smoking cigarettes or petting a wild animal—no risk, no reward. This machine was a remnant of my wild days.
And then Darcy’s proceeded to give me all the stats on accidents.
I listened with a raised brow.
“…so, we could wind up in the hospital.”
“Not if you know what you’re doing, and I do. Come on, Darcy, live a little.”
She never did anything on impulse. Darcy kept a to-do list and crossed every item off by the end of the day, no matter how long it took her. I admired her resolve, but she could use a break now and then. Darcy was far too hard on herself.
I grabbed a spare helmet from the saddlebags and tossed it to her. She stared at it as if I’d thrown her a snake. Then I straddled the bike and started her up. With a growl, my baby rumbled to life, then mellowed into a slow purr.
Did I mention how much I loved this machine? It’s all about freedom. I smoothed a hand along the shiny crimson surface. Since my prick was in good working order and because, at thirty-two, I’m a bit young for a midlife crisis, so I chalked my fixation up to misspent youth.
Yeah, that’d do until I turned forty.
“You’re sure it’s safe?” Darcy fastened her helmet and looked at me doubtfully.
“Of course not, but do it anyway. Besides, she won’t bite, pet.”
Her eyes flared.
Too late to take it back. The endearment slipped out. Again.
Englishmen have a need for formality, for barriers, and order, but a decade living in the States had gradually worn down my crisp edges, chipped away any shred of propriety I still possessed.
Much like Darcy herself. She made me want to cross so many boundaries.
She hopped on as if she expected the bike to buck her off. And then she curled her arms around my waist.
I stifled a groan. Her breasts were buried in my back, s
weet thighs bracketing mine. I can detect a hint of vanilla in her perfume—the smell of innocence.
And I hardened in response—not a full-on stiffie, mind you, but enough to be noticeable. This shouldn’t happen—I’m no longer a naive adolescent.
But I was drunk on Darcy—her scent, her smile, the wicked nature of this game we were playing. More than anything, I wanted a bite of forbidden fruit. It’d been years since I did anything this scandalous.
And I loved it.
“What’s your address?”
She whispered it into my ear and then we were off—zipping through the streets, careening around corners like we were on a rollercoaster ride. Admittedly, I was showing off for her.
All too soon, I slowed down and pulled up in front of her building. I didn’t want to her to go, but we should’ve parted at the restaurant. No, in the classroom.
“How’d you like the ride?” I couldn’t resist revving the engine after she stepped off.
“It was…an experience.” Her lips curled into a smile.
Like a bloody fool, I had the urge to kiss her again. But we hadn’t gone on a date, and I wasn’t her annoying college boyfriend.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, later.”
I took off like a bat out of hell before I did something even stupider.
Chapter Nine
Darcy
“What are you doing?”
I stared at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror. Of course, I didn’t have any answers. I’d gotten up a little after four in the morning. I had trouble sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ian, felt his warmth. Like he’d hijacked my thoughts—couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep.
Somehow, I’d become utterly focused on him.
If I walked away from a personal relationship with Ian, I’d always wonder what if. What if I’d pressed my lips to his? What if I’m missing out on something wonderful? Somehow, I knew we’d be spectacular together. The tension between us was both excruciating and electrifying.
Maybe Ian was right—dangerous things were more attractive. And I no longer felt like making the right decision. I couldn’t even worry about the consequences. The truth was that I’d nearly run out of excuses and reasons to stop this.
With a sigh, I toweled off and got dressed. My existential crisis wasn’t an excuse to slack off.
Joy Ride: A Virgin Romance (Let it Ride Book 3) Page 6