by Bella Andre
Oscar made a soft snorting noise as he shoved his head even harder under her hand. She looked down at his dog. "You're a glutton for pleasure, aren't you?" she said as she knelt on the floor to give him some serious loving.
Drake had never been jealous of a dog, had never even thought it could be possible. But Lord, if he wasn't wishing he could change places with his lazy furball.
After a good sixty seconds of focusing on Oscar, she stood and turned her attention back to Drake. "You've stood by everything you've promised so far, but--" She stopped in mid-sentence. "I want to trust you. I mean, you were so great about my car and not telling anyone I'm here. In fact, that's why I came." She pulled a bunch of twenties out of her pocket. "To pay you back. And to thank you for being so kind to a stranger."
"You don't need to pay me back."
"I do. And I know this can't possibly be enough to cover the repairs and towing, but I didn't want you to think I wasn't good for it. As soon as I can get access to more money, I'll--"
"I don't need your money."
His words came out louder than he intended, and Oscar actually bared his teeth a little. As though his own dog felt he needed to protect Rosa from his owner.
Damn it, just because not picking up his paintbrush and painting Rosa while she stood in his living room was one of the hardest things Drake had ever done, that was no excuse for being an asshole.
But before he could apologize, she said, "If you won't take my money, how can I possibly pay you back?"
"You don't owe me anything."
"I do. Tell me what I can do, Drake. Tell me what you want."
As a rule, Sullivans tended to be pretty stubborn. Especially about making sure they didn't take advantage of anyone else. Rosa was clearly no shrinking violet either when it came to doing what she felt was the right thing.
"I want to paint you."
The words were out before he could stop them. Before he could remind himself just how bad an idea it was for a Sullivan to paint a beautiful female muse--if his mother and father's destructive history was anything to go by.
Drake's only saving grace in his dearth of self-control was his utter certainty that she'd say no. Rosa was a reality TV star in hiding. Sitting for a painter would be the very last thing she'd want to do.
But she wasn't shaking her head. Wasn't looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. Instead, she was petting Oscar again, scrunching her fingers in the fur on top of his head while he gave the happiest dog moan Drake had ever thought to hear.
"I can't believe I'm about to say this," she finally said, "but if you want to paint me, I'll let you."
Drake had never wanted anything so badly. Never. But at the same time, he couldn't stand the thought of being just another person to carve his pound of flesh from her. "Having your car towed and fixed was no big deal. You don't have to offer to be my muse as a trade. I couldn't sleep at night if I thought I was forcing you to do something you don't want to do."
"That's a first for me."
Those five words were all it took for fury to rise up in him again. He'd never felt this close to violence, never wanted to hunt someone down as badly as he wanted to track down the guy who'd taken and sold those pictures of her and tear him to shreds. Not just that guy. Everyone who had hurt Rosa, who had made her this cynical, this afraid to trust. Family was supposed to be there for you, but she obviously hadn't gone running to hers. She'd run in the opposite direction instead.
But before he could force himself to let her go, she said, "Maybe a trade for your help with the car and keeping my presence in town a secret isn't the only reason I want to stay." She turned back to his paintings, looked first at one, then the other. "Maybe it's because the woman on your canvases isn't the one on any of the magazine covers."
He finally took the risk of moving closer to her, close enough that he could see her gnawing on her lower lip again as she tried to explain her motivations for offering to stay and let him paint her.
"People have been taking pictures of me for years. But they've always wanted me to look a certain way. It was fun at first to feel like I was putting on a show, playing a character. But then, somewhere along the way, that character became the one everyone thought was real." She shook her head. "God, listen to me. I really should have put my tiny violin away before I said all that."
"It can sit next to mine." He'd just done plenty of his own complaining about losing his muse and inspiration, but since no one had taken and sold naked pictures of him without his knowledge, he figured he was the lucky one here.
Her soft laughter--so unexpected and beautiful--rocked through him. And not just as the guy who wanted to paint her.
No, right now it was the guy who wanted to kiss her who was standing front and center.
He hadn't been able to keep from asking her to let him paint her, but the urge to kiss her was so strong he had to force himself to take a step back. And then another. She'd agreed to sit for him, not to sleep with him. And when her stomach growled, he felt like a total idiot. Why hadn't he thought she might be hungry? He'd seen what she'd bought at the general store. It hadn't had enough nutritional value to keep a fly alive.
"I've got a lasagna in the freezer. I can heat it up for us. And Mona from the general store saved me an apple pie."
Her lips quirked up at the corner in a surprised little smile. "I am pretty hungry."
"Then I'll go put the lasagna in."
"And I'll get ready to pose." She scrunched up her face. "Or not pose, if that's what you want."
He could still hardly believe she'd agreed to sit for him. Or that he was actually going to paint her when it went against every professional and personal vow he'd ever made.
"Are you sure about this?" Even as he said the words, he knew he was asking more than that.
"Honestly," she said in a soft voice, "I'm not really sure about anything right now." Oscar leaned even harder against her legs, and she wobbled while trying to stay upright. "Apart from how awesome your dog is. But I do know that I don't want to leave your cabin. Not until I've had some real food. So if you want to paint me while I'm here..."
He all but ran to the freezer, grabbed the lasagna, shoved it into the oven, then grabbed a sketchbook. "It'll be enough today just to make some drawings."
Her eyebrow rose at his use of the word today, but all she said was, "Will it work if I sit over there?"
The leather club chair by the fire was where he sat and read at night. Her scent would cling to it--hell, her gorgeous essence had already permeated the entire cabin. "Sit. Stand. Pace the room if you want. Whatever you do will work for me."
She headed over to the chair with Oscar tripping over her heels. As soon as she sat, he climbed up into her lap and dwarfed her while she laughed, a louder, stronger sound this time.
"Oscar," Drake warned, motioning for his big lump of a dog to get off.
"He's okay."
"I've never seen him like this." Oscar had always been a fairly aloof dog. He liked people, but didn't cling. Not until today, when he seemed desperate to be as close to Rosa as possible. The thing was, Drake couldn't really blame him--she was the kind of woman you couldn't help but want to be close to.
"If your legs start to go numb, or you just want to shove him off, say the word and I'll make sure he knows your lap is off-limits."
When Oscar lifted his head and gave her a woeful look, she said, "Don't worry, cutie, you can stay right where you are for as long as you like."
Cutie? Had she just called his one-hundred-and-fifty-pound behemoth of a dog cutie?
She turned back to Drake. "Do I need to look at you while you sketch?"
Having already begun to draw, it took him a few moments for her question to register in his brain. "You don't have to look at me if you don't want to. Just having you here is more than enough." So much more than he thought he'd ever get. And he couldn't stop staring and drawing. Staring and drawing. Staring and drawing.
"I've never met anyone quite l
ike you." She truly did sound perplexed. "Easygoing and intense at the same time. Safe, but also kind of dangerous."
"Dangerous?" His hand stilled over the sketchbook. He'd heard both intense and easygoing before, but dangerous was a new one. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel as though she was in any danger from him.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes. "Sorry, none of that was supposed to actually come out of my mouth. I think I'm still tired, or loopy, or something. I didn't mean dangerous in a bad way. I meant it more in a se--" Her cheeks colored as she cut herself off. "Never mind, forget I said anything."
She'd almost told him she thought he was sexy. How was he supposed to forget that? Sure, plenty of women had said that over the years. But he hadn't been trying like hell to resist any of them.
Only her.
"I've never met anyone like you either, Rosa." A woman who was soft and fierce, broken and strong, all at the same time.
"You mean you haven't had any other run-ins with reality TV stars whose naked pictures are plastered all over the media?"
He hated the sarcastic tint to her voice, hating most of all that the vitriol was clearly aimed at herself. "You didn't ask that douchebag to take those pictures of you." He didn't bother to contain the heat behind his words. "Don't you dare blame yourself for it."
"See," she said softly as sparks jumped high and hot between them, "that's the dangerous side I was talking about."
It took everything he had to stay where he was and draw her, when all he wanted was to steal her away from his dog, drag her into his arms, and kiss her until both of them forgot why they shouldn't.
Chapter Seven
For the past five years, everything Rosa did, everything she said, every picture taken of her, every meeting--all of it was intended to build up her media profile so high that she could guarantee her family would never be on the verge of ruin again.
But the past forty-eight hours couldn't have been more different from the life she'd become accustomed to. Driving all night from Miami to New York in an old sedan. No cell phone. Deliberately staying out of sight of the paparazzi. Sleeping at a roadside motel after eating a TV dinner.
And now Drake.
Technically, she wasn't doing anything more than sitting on a leather club chair staring out at the ocean. Maybe it shouldn't have felt like she was breaking all the rules. Maybe it should have felt like no big deal.
But it didn't feel like no big deal.
It felt huge.
Forty-eight hours ago, her agreement to pose for a painter would have come with a twenty-page contract and a price tag in the multiple hundred thousands. And she wouldn't have been sitting here in too-big sweats--she would have been dressed to the nines, in couture and full makeup. Her PR team would have been hovering over the painter, watching every stroke of his brush to make sure she looked good enough that the painting couldn't possibly harm her future net worth.
She was breaking every single rule that her mother had set up early in the game to benefit all of them. Only, in many ways, hadn't those rules stopped making sense once they had more than enough money in the bank to ensure they'd never need to worry about where their next meal was coming from? And if so, why hadn't Rosa and her mom and two younger brothers sat down together and made some positive changes? Changes that would have given them all more time to truly be themselves--or, in Rosa's case, time to figure out who she was now that she was no longer a frightened eighteen-year-old willing to do whatever it took to keep her family together.
This was the first chunk of time, the first bit of space that she'd had in five years in which to make some big decisions about her future. And if she was going to make a big change, she wanted it to be the right one. Not some rash reaction because she was mad or sad or scared. Or helplessly attracted to a gorgeous painter.
Fact was, so much had happened in the past forty-eight hours that she wasn't sure she could trust any of her instincts at the moment. Not even when the warmth of the fire felt so good...and Drake's hot gaze felt even better.
She stole a look at him from beneath her lashes, then felt herself flush as he caught her checking him out. How could he not, when he was watching her so closely? But it was more than just watching. It was as though he was drinking her in, one slow, sweet glance at a time.
The absolute last thing she needed right now was to get involved with a guy. Of course she wasn't going to do anything stupid. Her world already had way more than its fair share of stupid in it at this point. But that didn't mean she couldn't be curious, did it? And since she was already sitting here, what could it hurt to learn more about the man drawing her as though his life depended on it?
"Why don't you paint people?"
More than a little discomfort registered on his face as his pencil stilled over the sketchbook. "It's a long story."
"I like long stories." Everything in her life had been boiled down to thirty-minute episodes, two-minute interviews, six-second video clips. An actual story that took a while to tell felt wonderfully fresh by contrast. "The promise goes both ways, you know. You won't tell anyone about me and I won't tell anyone about you."
His gaze grew sharper, even more intense. "My story has never been a secret."
"What do you mean?"
"My father is a painter too. A really well-known, respected artist. At least he was until my mother walked out on him six months after I was born, then took her life. The story is up for anyone to see on Wikipedia, timeline and everything."
He said it as if he were totally over it, as if it not only didn't bother him that his mother was gone--but also that a major part of his life story was clinically detailed on an Internet encyclopedia site as if there were no human beings with feelings behind it. But how could that be? Rosa might have big issues with her mother right now, but at least her mom had made sure they stayed a family even in those difficult years after Dad had passed away and they hadn't been able to figure out how they were going to keep paying the mortgage and the grocery bill.
"I'm sorry, Drake." Though she barely knew him, she ached for his loss. No child should ever have to lose a parent so young. And she knew firsthand how hard it was to deal with people writing about you on the Internet.
"My siblings, and especially my father, were destroyed when she left and passed away. I always figured I was the lucky one because I never really had a chance to know her."
She hated that he'd had to try to find the silver lining. "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"
"Two brothers and a sister."
"You're close, aren't you?"
He smiled. "How'd you guess?"
"Your voice, your expression--talking about them clearly makes you happy."
"We're a pretty tight unit," he agreed. "We had to be."
"I lost my father when I was a kid." Suddenly, she needed to share that with him. "So I know how hard it can be to get by with only one parent left. Your cliffs were my special place with my dad." But since she still wasn't yet ready to dig too deeply into her own story--past, present, or future--she asked, "Is that how you found this spot? Because of your father?"
"No."
His voice was clipped. Definitely different from the way he spoke about his siblings. Did that mean the tight unit didn't extend to his father?
"My cousin Mia is a Realtor in Seattle. She got a tip about this place coming up on the market for the first time since it was built as a hunting cabin fifty years ago. She's the master of knowing just what people need."
"I could use someone like her in my life right about now." Though Rosa said it softly, she already knew that Drake didn't miss a thing. "How long did it take your father to recover from losing your mom?"
"He hasn't."
Her eyebrows went up. "But it's been thirty years."
"Exactly. She was his muse. His obsession. His everything. He stopped painting the day she left. And that's why I always swore I wouldn't ever paint women. Because I never want my art, or my life, to be tied that clos
ely to just one person." He looked down at the sketchbook in his hand. "You're the first woman I've ever painted. The first woman I've ever had to paint."
If someone else had said something like this to Rosa, she probably would have been flattered or creeped out, depending on how weird the guy was. But with Drake, she felt as though warmth infused her, way down deep inside where she'd grown used to feeling so cold.
"These are extenuating circumstances," she supplied for him, not wanting him to feel bad about breaking his rule--and not wanting to let herself build this up into anything more than two strangers hanging out together for a couple of hours. "I'm sure painting me isn't about anything more than getting your juices flowing. After I leave, you'll be off and running again like you were before, and then you can throw that sketchbook into the fire."
"I promised you I wouldn't show these paintings to anyone. But I won't burn them, Rosa."
She licked her lips and tried to calm her racing heart. She should get up and leave before the sexual tension sparking like crazy between them combusted and made her life even messier--and his too. But leaving was the last thing she wanted.
What she really wanted was to walk over to Drake and beg him to put his shockingly talented hands on her already overheated skin.
The dinging of the timer on the old red enamel oven broke through her inappropriate thoughts. "The lasagna is ready," she said. "I'll get it out."
But her voice was full of far more suppressed lust than an Italian dish warranted.
Chapter Eight
Drake's cabin didn't have a dining room table. He'd cleared out most of the furniture when he'd moved in so that he could fit more easels into the space. If the weather was good, he ate at the picnic table outside. If it was bad, he sat in the leather chair by the window and unfolded a small card table for his meals.
Since the rain had come in again, he set up the table, then went and got a couple of folding chairs out of the closet. Rosa had served up the lasagna on the chipped brown and orange plates that had come with the cabin, and he ripped off paper towels to use as napkins.
His kitchen was small enough that they kept brushing up against each other. Just little touches that wouldn't normally have registered--an inch of her hip against his, the tip of his elbow across her stomach--but with Rosa, nothing was normal. And when they suddenly found themselves face to face between the fridge and the peninsula, neither of them moved. Hell, he wasn't even sure either of them breathed.