“When I saw you out on the cliffs—that was the first time I’ve wanted to paint in months.”
“I don’t understand.” Her frown deepened. “You said you didn’t know who I was, that you only learned my name because of a magazine. So why would seeing me on the cliffs make you want to paint again?”
He ran a hand through his hair, tempted to pour himself a shot of Irish whiskey before answering her. But then she’d probably think he was an alcoholic stalker, rather than merely fixated on painting her.
“I’ve been painting since I was a kid. I was sixteen when I had my first major show. Painting was never work for me, never a struggle. It was just something I always loved doing.” None of this was meant as bragging, just the facts, so that she’d understand where he was coming from. “I never thought I’d hit a block. I was careful to make sure I didn’t.” He knew that part wouldn’t make any sense to her, but it was nice, for once, not to be judged by his mother and father’s tragic love story. “But it didn’t matter how hard I tried to make sure inspiration didn’t slip away. It still left. I’ve been here for two months trying to get it back. Praying for it. Yesterday I had all but given up on it.” Holding her gaze, he was struck to the core again from nothing more than being in the same room with her. Even in her Montauk sweatshirt and sweatpants, she was hands down the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on. “And then there you were.”
She didn’t say anything for several long moments, just stared at him. “You could paint someone else.”
“I don’t paint people. Ever.” When she raised an eyebrow in the direction of his canvases, he had to laugh at himself, though there was no humor in the sound. “I tried like hell to keep from painting you. I swear it. But I couldn’t.”
Oscar hadn’t left her side, and she began to stroke his fur again as she asked, “What about now?”
He knew what she was asking him—if he’d stop painting her now that she’d caught him in the act. But just having her standing in his cabin had already put a dozen new paintings into his head. More than anything, he wanted to study her longer, wanted to explore the varying shades of brown in her hair, the way her expression changed so quickly from frustration to curiosity, the sensual tilt of her exotic eyes and cheekbones, the way she dampened her lower lip when she pulled it between her teeth as she listened closely to what he was saying.
“I should stop. For both of us.” He didn’t want to lie to her. But he didn’t want to hurt her either. “It’s not good enough to tell you I’ll try. I know that.” And yet, he couldn’t get the words out to promise her that he’d stop.
“You’re a really successful artist, aren’t you?” She held up the hand that wasn’t buried in Oscar’s fur. “Actually, you don’t need to answer that. I can see how good you are.”
He’d been praised a thousand times in his career. But no compliment had ever hit him the way hers did. As though he’d just passed the most important test of his life.
“I do all right.”
“Save me your modesty,” she said with a roll of her eyes, an expression that seemed more relaxed than anything he’d seen so far. “So collectors are probably lining up to buy your work, but you’re promising not to sell these paintings of me you’ve started.”
“Yes.”
“And you want to make more?”
In a decade and a half of serious painting, he’d kept his vow not to paint women. But he’d never seen Rosa coming. Never realized that he’d one day come to a point where the only thing he could say was, “I do.”
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.”