Drake had been only six months old the day his mother left. While his older siblings had talked with him about it in the years since, it was mostly other artists and dealers who never tired of rehashing the tantalizing details of personal destruction. Because when William Sullivan quit painting out of the blue, it hit the art world in the same way his death would have, with most of his remaining unsold works jumping to nearly ten times their original value. Even his oldest paintings, which were little more than dreamy love letters on canvas to the woman he had been obsessed with, became priceless collectors’ items.
Drake knew enough about psychology to understand why he personally preferred his Montauk cottage to his New York City penthouse. His father’s fame—and the legend of how love gone wrong had made one of the greatest modern-day painters abruptly put down his brush forever—had always made Drake’s life too much of an open book. Sure, Drake could play the game in the city at galleries and with art investors, but he preferred not to. Especially now that he was at the point in his career where he could hole up and focus on painting full time, letting his agent take care of the deals. Because while Drake honestly didn’t care what the world thought about him, his family, or his paintings, that didn’t mean he was going to help feed people’s glee over rehashing the past either.
During the past few weeks, his siblings and several of his cousins had been asking when he was going to head back to the city, but he refused to go back until he’d done what he came here to do: create a dozen great paintings.
Telling himself to just forget the woman on the cliffs already, he picked up his nearly empty sketchbook. After all, he didn’t even like painting people, apart from deliberately silly portraits of his cousins’ kids, who were all so full of life and laughter. Even when they were naughty, Drake couldn’t resist the playful twinkle in their eyes.
But as the pencil in his hand seemed to move of its own volition over the page, it wasn’t a stormy ocean vista that formed—it was the woman on the cliffs. If only her face hadn’t been obscured by the distance and rain. If only he’d gotten closer...
His phone rang and Oscar made a grumpy half-growling sound at having his nap interrupted. Drake cursed as he dropped the sketchbook as though it were on fire. What the hell was he doing? Where was his self-control?
He normally kept his phone off, but he’d needed to check in with his agent earlier that morning before she came to Montauk and hunted him down. Seeing Candice’s name on the screen, he picked up.
Dispensing entirely with pleasantries, his agent said, “Drake, I need those paintings.”
“Soon.”
But they’d worked together long enough for Candice to know when he was full of it. “I’ve already bought you two extra months. You’re a hotshot talent, Drake. Which is why the top gallery in NYC is thrilled to give you their entire space next month. Please tell me you’ve at least started something.”
He looked down at the sketchbook before forcing himself to shut the cover on the beautiful, enigmatic face that stared up at him. “Their walls won’t be empty.”
“Good. I hope you’re taking care of your gorgeous self all the way out there in the wilds.”
“The Hamptons don’t count as wild, Candy.”
He could practically see his agent shiver with horror at the thought of being more than a hundred feet from the latest fashions, gourmet coffee, and must-eat-at restaurants.
“Call me as soon as you’ve shipped the paintings.”
Drake shut down the phone, knowing that although his agent had played it fairly cool, both she and the gallery were clearly freaking out that he hadn’t delivered any paintings yet, with the show barely two weeks away.
It was long past time to kick his muse in the ass and paint. Especially now that he could see at least a dozen new paintings in his head already, images bursting with passion and emotion, visions that centered around the beautiful stranger he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Cursing, Drake told Oscar to keep sleeping on his dog bed in the corner, then grabbed his car keys to get the hell away from his sketchbook, paints, and canvas before he dug himself into a hole he might never be able to escape.
Chapter Three
Rosa pulled up to a general store that looked to have seen better days. She’d passed a new grocery store a mile back, but she figured the odds of getting in and out of a store without being recognized were more in her favor if she went somewhere teenagers were likely to avoid.
When she’d climbed back into her car fifteen minutes ago, she’d immediately soaked the seat. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any dry clothes to change into. And her growling stomach reminded her that she didn’t have any food either.
But just because she hadn’t prepared for this trip to Montauk didn’t mean she was ready to go home. How could she go back to a life where there was a “bright side” to people sneaking naked pictures of her and then selling them so that the entire world could see her completely exposed?