by Fae Mallory
Breaking away, Violet took a swallow of her beer to wash the taste of him off her lips. She’d been so flattered that he was interested in her that she’d willingly ignored the truth—she wasn’t interested in him.
“Do you want to go back to your place after this?” Paul leaned close enough to let her feel his breath on her cheek.
Violet swallowed hard, not sure what to say. She didn’t want to lead him on, but telling him point-blank that she wasn’t attracted to him seemed rude. “Not tonight. I’m sorry.”
Paul leaned back and nodded agreeably. “No problem. I’m not a stickler for the third date rule.”
Wincing, Violet realized that technically this was indeed their third date in a week. If she didn’t speak up now, she was going to find herself in a serious relationship with Paul just because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and it would only be harder to extricate herself later. “Actually, I’m thinking that we make more sense as friends.”
Over the top of his glass, Paul gave her a disbelieving look. “You’re dumping me?”
“I think you’re a great guy,” Violet said hastily. “Just…not the right one for me.”
“You mean I’m not Carlisle,” Paul corrected her.
As she stammered a denial, he stared at her impatiently. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. Violet, think about this. He’s Ian Carlisle. You two aren’t exactly playing in the same league. Do you really think he’s going to make you happy?”
“No,” she rasped, her throat so tight that she could barely draw breath. The only way that Ian could make her happy was if he fell as hard for her as she had for him, and that was never going to happen. The best she could hope for was the occasional fuck when he was in town and in the mood. He’d never see her as more than a bedmate who could be bought off with a painting or two. He’d never love her or want a life with her.
Even if Ian didn’t want her, there was no reason to settle Paul and his casual callousness. Surely somewhere there was a happy medium between a man who set her afire and ripped her heart in two and a man who left her utterly cold. She’d just have to hope that she could find him. “I know there’s no future for me with Ian.”
“You’re going to regret it,” Paul told her with apparent sympathy. “He’s going to break your heart.”
He already did. “I’m not dumping you for Ian. I just want to find someone who appreciates art the same way I do.” It was a good excuse, but from the look on Paul’s face, Violet could tell he didn’t believe her. Ian, for all his faults, at least listened when she talked.
“Good luck with your novel,” she said, fumbling in her purse for the money to cover her beer, wanting to make a clean break.
Paul’s hand caught her wrist. “Calm down. Don’t do anything rash. Come on, tell me what you like about art. I can learn.”
His injunction to calm down only raised her hackles since she hadn’t even raised her voice. Coming up with a ten-dollar bill, she placed it under her half-finished beer and tugged her wrist out of his grasp as she stood up. “It’s been nice getting to know you.”
Although he tried to hide it, Violet didn’t miss the way Paul rolled his eyes. “See you around, Violet.”
Feeling like she was escaping from a burning building, Violet fled the pub, vowing to go nowhere but the museum and the grocery store for the next few months. Although there was nothing untoward in Paul’s words or actions, her soul still felt battered from the conversation. Running into him on the street was the last thing she wanted to do until she’d had a little time to lick her wounds.
Ian thought she was a whore, and Paul thought she was a melodramatic simpleton who couldn’t tell Ian was out of her league. Today was not a good day.
She stalked back to the museum’s parking lot, stopping off just long enough to buy a carton of double-chocolate ice cream. After the day she’d had, she’d earned it. Placing it on the passenger seat next to her, Violet slumped forward to rest her forehead against the steering wheel. “Why me?” she muttered, letting the cool touch of vinyl soothe her frayed nerves. Once her body heat leeched into the steering wheel, she leaned back and turned her attention to the container of ice cream. “You’re perfect. You don’t talk. You don’t judge. You listen to everything I say. I’m done with men. All I need is you.” Perhaps she’d buy a vibrator, too.
Nothing had ever looked quite as good as the interior of her apartment, and Violet paused only long enough to lock the door and place her carton of ice cream on the coffee table before ripping off her clothes in favor of her most comfortably ragged pair of pajamas. She’d lost her dignity and a pair of her panties, but at least this time she was going to learn from her mistakes. “No more men,” she vowed aloud as she scrubbed off the remains of her makeup.
Her bare feet slapped against the hardwood as she stormed back into the living room and headed for the couch. Halfway to her goal, she paused as the easel in the corner caught her attention, the smeared painting that had sparked her idea for the Madden exhibit mocking her. Unbidden, Paul’s comment about making excuses for her inability to paint came to mind, and Violet screamed through her teeth as she lunged for the canvas and threw it across the room where it rebounded off the arm of the couch.
The smeared painting landed face up, and Violet stared at it, breathing hard. She’d tried to paint and failed. She wasn’t making excuses. Her muse had deserted her, leaving her incapable of more than sterile and soulless creations like her failed vase. Once she’d been a painter, and now she was just a woman who owned a collection of untouched art supplies.
The cerulean smear on the canvas was the exact same shade she’d used on the gallery’s far wall, and the more Violet looked at the ruined painting, the more vividly she saw the Madden exhibit. No, it wasn’t the exhibit she was envisioning. Violet was picturing her body entwined with Ian’s on the floor, the pair of them rutting like animals while surrounded by priceless works of art.
Violet was dimly aware that she was moving as she crossed the floor to the canvas and retrieved it, placing it upside down on her easel. Without looking, she reached for her tubes of acrylics, squirting flesh tones onto her palette before reaching blindly for a brush.
The first brush that came to hand was too big for her purposes, but Violet used it anyway, swirling it through the flesh-colored paint before jabbing it against the canvas in short strokes. Her brushstrokes were too wide, but Violet couldn’t seem to stop herself, desperate to exorcise the tormenting vision of her encounter with Ian from her mind by committing it to canvas. Somehow, the wide strokes gave the two entwined figures she was depicting a boldness and life that her painting had been lacking. She kept going, adding extra highlights to Ian’s body and shadows to hers to emphasize the difference in their personalities. He was a celebrated member of the art community where she was just the mousy curator of a small-town museum.
Slowly the exhibit came to life around the pair of figures locked in a passionate clinch. Violet filled in the background with her own renditions of Madden’s paintings, making no effort to be faithful to the original artist’s vision. This was a dream world of her own, the edges soft and blurred to emphasize the straining lines of the embracing couple.
As soon as she was finished, she leaned the canvas against the wall and grabbed another one. This time she painted Ian’s gallery, the man himself almost invisible in his dark clothes as he lounged on a black leather bench, watching something outside of the painting’s frame. Violet shivered as she completed his face, feeling like her creation was watching her as she painted a discarded tangle of clothing on the floor, hinting at the focus of his attention.
She was just placing her third canvas, the final one that was ready to be painted on, when a beeping noise drew her out of her fog, and Violet grumbled at the distraction, nearly falling over when she realized she was hearing her alarm clock. Her feet and arm were aching, and her eyes felt gritty, but none of that mattered.
She’d painted through the entire night
.
Violet stumbled backward, looking at the pair of completed canvases. Technically, she could see a dozen errors, but the two paintings were bursting with energy. From her bedroom, her alarm was still beeping, and she went to turn it off, noticing the melted puddle of chocolate ice cream on her coffee table. She’d come home wanting to do no more than eat ice cream and watch television, and instead she’d found her muse.
Apparently her muse was as obsessed with Ian as she was, but as Violet laughed with delight at her completed work, she decided that it didn’t matter. Her Impressionistic style meant that no one but Ian would ever recognize the people she’d painted, and she certainly had no intention of ever showing the paintings to him. She’d taken two of the most painful moments of her life and used them to reawaken her creativity.
Better still, her fingers were still itching to pick up a brush, ideas racing through her mind. She had something to say for the first time in years, and stopping to do things like eat and shower filled her with resentment when all she wanted to do was lose herself in the act of creating.
Not since college had she felt such a strong pull to her easel, and Violet grabbed a notebook to take stock of her supplies. Now that she was on a roll, the last thing she wanted to do was spend fourteen hours at the museum, but at least she could make plans to replenish her dried-out paints. She’d need more canvas, too.
It was all she could do to leave her apartment without setting brush to canvas again, the blank space beckoning her instead of mocking her. Her head swam as she slipped behind the wheel of her car, bringing her attention to the fact that not only hadn’t she slept, but also she hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday either. Hopefully Martha made something substantial this morning.
She pulled into an open spot in front of the bed-and-breakfast and turned on the radio while she waited, dancing in her seat as she hummed along with “Love Shack.”
“You’re in a good mood today.” Martha’s voice at her elbow made her jump, but Violet felt too elated to even be embarrassed at being caught wriggling like an idiot.
“It’s a beautiful day!” Violet enthused, belatedly noticing the overcast weather.
Martha snorted with laughter. “I’m guessing you and Paul sealed the deal.”
Even the mention of Paul couldn’t put a damper on her joy. “Nope. I dumped him yesterday.”
“You dumped a good-looking man with a steady job?” the other woman asked in disbelief.
Violet’s smile showed all of her teeth. “Yes, I did.” She took the bag and travel mug from Martha’s hand and nodded in approval of the four lemon poppy seed scones within. That should hold her over until lunch.
Martha shook her head. “I think you’re crazy, but more power to you.”
Despite Martha’s words, Violet had never felt saner. She was a painter again. Everything else was secondary to that. What difference did it make that she was overweight and single? As long as she had her brushes, she’d be just fine.
Even so, she looked around carefully before getting out of her car at the museum, relieved that Ian was nowhere in sight. That would give her time to get settled and get some food into her system before the confrontation he’d threatened yesterday. Knowing Ian, he wouldn’t show up at all, preferring to jet off to New York instead of settling things with her. He’d be back in a week or so wanting to scratch an itch, and she’d tell him to go to hell. He’d already given her enough material to inspire a lifetime of paintings.
He’d broken her heart, and she’d harnessed that pain and used it for inspiration. He’d given her a gift, albeit unintentionally, but there was no reason to keep letting him hurt her. Any further interactions would be strictly business.
Nodding in satisfaction at her decision, Violet settled herself behind her desk and set to work devouring a scone. Putting her list of art supplies aside for the time being, she opened up a document on her computer and started to type one-handed, roughing out a basic want ad. If she was going to have time to paint, she would need to hire some more help.
It was time to make some changes around here.
Chapter 9
Someone was trying to pound a screwdriver into his head.
Ian opened bleary eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t as the sun’s rays met his face. He was alone in his wide bed, no intruders with screwdrivers in sight, meaning that he had only himself to blame for his splitting headache. Last night, he’d intended to think calmly and rationally about how to earn Violet’s forgiveness, but no solution had immediately presented itself. Frustrated by his inability to create an acceptable apology and tormented by images of Violet in Hallar’s arms, he’d turned to the whiskey bottle for solace.
In hindsight, that hadn’t been a good idea.
Fighting the urge to roll over and sleep off the hangover, Ian dragged himself out of bed. The sun was already high in the sky which meant that the museum was open and Violet was at work, making her a captive audience for the reconciliation plan he didn’t have yet. With Hallar sniffing around her, there was no time to waste. Ian needed to think of something and fast.
If only he’d been more careful with his wording when he offered her Geminids, none of this would have happened. Violet would be in his bed right now, and he’d be aching for vastly more pleasant reasons. At the thought of Geminids, an idea finally occurred to him, and Ian laughed with relief. There was no way Violet could possibly misunderstand this gesture.
Yanking on a pair of jeans, he padded barefoot and bare-chested to his office, pausing only long enough to gulp down a glass of water and a handful of aspirin. He turned on his computer, dimming the screen to a less painful level, and called up a document, neatly typing in the relevant information.
Once finished, he printed it out and buzzed for Xavier, his assistant materializing a few minutes later. Raising an eyebrow at his employer’s disheveled state, the other man took the paper from his hand. “Double-check that I did it right,” Ian requested, stretching his neck to banish his nagging headache. This was too important to risk a mistake thanks to his groggy state of mind.
“Everything seems to be in order,” Xavier told him after reading it through. Lowering the paper, he gave Ian a searching look. “Are you sure about this?”
Geminids was the first painting he’d ever purchased. Ian had spent hours sitting in front of it, examining every brush stroke until he could have recreated it with his eyes closed. There was something magical about Madden’s abstract meteor shower, the painting soothing and energizing at the same time. It spoke to the boy who’d grown up in the chaos of New York City, longing for quiet and wide-open spaces. Although he’d made a point of buying every Madden painting he could get his hands on, none of them moved him more than Geminids.
Which was why he was giving it to Violet.
Too many people in the art world wasted their breath deconstructing the artist’s work, trying to prove that they were the smartest ones in the room during conversations about theory and symbolism. It was the rare individual who would simply sit in front of a painting and feel. Ian appreciated art that touched his emotions. If a painting made him feel something, he had no need to tear it apart to see how it worked.
From the moment she first walked into his gallery and her face shone with wonder as she examined Sea Glass at Dawn to her choice of Mountain Sunrise as the exhibit’s centerpiece, Violet had proven that she responded to art the same way he did. Whether she knew it or not, in designing the Madden exhibit, every choice she’d made had been designed to provoke the viewers’ emotions instead of their intellects. For that alone, she’d earned the right to exhibit Geminids.
However, he wasn’t signing ownership of the painting over to Violet because of her skills as a curator. He was giving it to her because it was the best way he knew to show her how much he loved her. Nothing he owned meant more to him than Geminids. Once, that had meant that Ian wanted to keep his prized possession locked away for his eyes alone. Now, his collection could serve no higher purpos
e than to make Violet happy. Ian wasn’t just signing over a painting. He was handing Violet his heart and soul and praying that she’d accept them.
“I want her to have it,” he said softly, answering Xavier’s question.
Xavier’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I love her,” he admitted. Love was a complication Ian had never wanted, but now that Violet had won his heart, he couldn’t imagine why he’d once planned to spend his life alone with his artwork when seeing his collection through her eyes was so much more fulfilling.
“I gathered as much,” Xavier said dryly.
The ringing phone saved him from further teasing, and Ian cursed when he saw the number. “Carlisle,” he said briskly, bracing himself for the worst.
It was worse than he’d thought. His thieving vice president had slipped the net, leaving the company in an uproar. Feeling his headache returning, Ian sank into his desk chair, trying to formulate a plan.
“Hold on a minute.” Turning to Xavier, he nodded at the paper his assistant was still holding. “Take the painting to Violet.”
Xavier started. “Wouldn’t you rather do that yourself?”
“Of course I would!” he snapped, massaging the bridge of his nose as he strove for patience. More than anything, he wanted to abandon his responsibilities in favor of returning to Violet’s side. He wanted to see the joy in her eyes when he gave her the painting and told her he loved her. Unfortunately, that was exactly what he couldn’t do. The current crisis was going to take all of his time and attention for the foreseeable future even if he managed to escape another trip to New York. In the meantime, Violet was thinking all sorts of bizarre things while Hallar circled her like a shark. He couldn’t risk waiting.
“Give it to her and tell her I’ll see her as soon as I can,” he ordered, waiting only long enough for Xavier to acknowledge the directive before turning his attention back to the phone call. The sooner he settled this, the sooner he’d be able to see Violet. That was motivation enough to focus. “All right, Kevin. Start from the top.”