Art-Crossed Love Page 6

  Bullied. The word didn’t seem to fit Lissa’s insouciant exterior, though Cole was beginning to realize her devil-may-care attitude had been carefully crafted. She hid a deep vulnerability with jokes and sarcasm.

  All through the night, he’d thought of her curled on the floor of a dim high-school hallway, defending herself against blows from above. She’d hid her struggles from the people who cared about her and assured herself the punishment would stop if she were worthy.

  The physical threat had ended. The theory that Lissa was nothing but a spoiled child playing at a career had not, and Lissa had come to equate “worthy” with artistic recognition and respect.

  From what Cole could tell, Lissa allowed her parents to pamper her out of guilt for their tender sensibilities. True redemption would only come once she’d made a way for herself in the glittering—and competitive, cutthroat, small, incestuous, and judgmental—world of New York art. The more help she took from her family, especially in the way of strings-pulled gallery showings and special exhibitions, the more she was seen as a spoiled poser.

  Worse, she saw Cole as the secret to her success, either that, or the last roadblock preventing it. Cole was definitely the latter, and despite his dawning understanding of her situation, he had zero inclination to budge.

  Not until the little hellion learned to cooperate. And follow orders. And respect his space. And stopped making his brain instantaneously combust with images of her sucking his cock.

  With an exhale that was more growl than sigh, Cole refocused on the woman below. Today she wore a familiar cable sweater. The chunky knit emphasized the sleek lines of the endless legs she’d encased in another pair of fitted jeans and again tucked into those tall, sexy boots.

  And he’d thought himself a breast man. Apparently, he was ass all the way.

  Appreciation for Lissa’s physical treasures brought relief along with unease. Each time her body reminded him he was still alive, her mouth questioned why his wife wasn’t. What exactly happened to your wife? Why’s she buried in the backyard?

  Tit-for-tat questions hadn’t shut her up. Nothing seemed to shut the woman up.

  At this rate, Lissa was going to get her answers. Then their situation would lurch from bad to worse.

  Once she knew…

  Below, Lissa shifted on the swing, leaning over a rickety side to set one of Kate’s prized ceramic bowls in the dirt. She propped a foot on the tree’s trunk and used the leverage to shove sideways, twisting the supporting ropes round and round. On each rotation, she kicked the trunk with the heel of her boot until the ropes coiled like a torsion spring on a tilt-a-whirl.

  Letting go, she spun wildly, a woman who still found joy in turning her face to the sun. Right then, with her unwelcomed questions silenced by laughter, Lissa was magnificent.

  Snap!

  The first rope broke, its frayed end plummeting as the chair swung from beneath her. She hit the ground in a crunch of busted pottery.

  He whirled on his heel. She’d probably broken her tailbone, not to mention Kate’s bowl. But when he burst outside, she’d rolled off the dish in a huff, looking irritated but uninjured.

  Fine by him. Not like he’d rushed to the rescue with the intention of coddling her.

  Again.

  Lissa dusted her knees and frowned upward. “Twice.” Her peace fingers shot into the air. “That’s how many times your house has tried to kill me.”

  “Because you’re a menace.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “More like a delicate flower stuck confronting a series of booby traps I can only believe you’ve set. But don’t worry. When I mentioned revenge last night, I meant the retaliation I’d wanted, not what I ever actually got. You needn’t worry that I’ll attack you in your sleep.”

  He looked skyward like her revelation was such a relief. “I liked that bowl.” Why didn’t he care that she’d broken it?

  She rose to her feet on a slow push, rubbing at her backside. “I liked my ass.”

  His fingers twitched because, fuck, so did he. He stuck out his lower lip. “Poor baby, want me to make it better?”

  A purr escaped her chest. “Only in your twisted fantasies, where you’re the boss, and I’m a rare form of biddable.” She bent to pick up the shattered dish, a movement that stretched her jeans tight over the twin globes that would fit perfectly in his hands. His skin heated before he could control the sensation, sending pulses of hundred-proof lust straight to his hardening cock. Those long legs left her rear at the perfect height for him to sink hilt-deep.

  He killed the view with a swift shake of his head. Three days with Lissa felt like a month of shock therapy. Each of her “surprises”—streaking, snooping, whatever the hell this was—stole a little more control. But she, not he, was here to be trained. She, not he, would bend, maybe even break. He crammed the boredom of a three-hour infomercial into his voice when he said, “Charming.”

  She snapped up, juggling a stack of ceramic shards. “What?” she asked, sounding surprised, as if her little ass-sway hadn’t been figured into her grand plan to wear him down.

  “Grab your stuff.” Approaching the bench that now hung drunkenly from one rope, he pulled a pocket knife from his cargo pants and sawed through the remaining support.

  “As in?”

  He dragged the fractured bench behind him, not taking care to prevent further damage. The damn thing had dumped Lissa. Could’ve hurt her. The swing’s lifecycle had officially met an end. “Your paints, brushes. Brain.”

  She followed. “Finally, the prodigy remembers our goal.”

  “If only I could forget.” He threw the seat onto a pile of logs. More bonfire fodder. “Meet me here in ten.”

  She met him in twenty-five.

  “I had to fix the easel,” she explained with a smirk that undercut her excuse.

  He grabbed the tripod and slid it into the truck. Sure enough, she’d duct-taped a leg—probably a mishap from the unexpected wind gust on that first morning. Yet he had a feeling her delay said more about their power struggle than broken equipment. Lissa obviously nursed a belief that she was in charge, that if she proved sufficiently difficult or contrary or even provocative, he’d give in, tell her everything, and be cured of whatever affliction caused him to cling to the dowdy notion of art reflecting reality. Too bad his quest wasn’t about art, but life.

  Today would be a lesson, just not the kind she’d been gunning for.

  ******

  Switchbacks of dirt trail separated Lissa from Cole, and each hard-won step left her farther and farther behind. To Lissa, the distance felt not only physical, but metaphorical. Cole marched ahead with a few too many worried backward glances. He bore a hefty backpack like a second skin, and every step communicated a stamina she had to grudgingly respect. Her smaller tools were secure in a nap sack, but the easel proved unwieldy as she shifted it from one shoulder to the other. As Cole knew, most of her paintings had been completed in the studio. With each step, he proved she was unprepared for what he had in store—art on the road.

  All her, “How hard can it be?” died over the first mile of path that was closely hemmed with color. Brackish moss crawled over frosted earth to meet boulders the ages had marbled with everything from pink quartz to gray granite. The days had grown colder. Even a New Yorker knew a winter-long freeze barreled toward the valley, but today she could detect water running not far from the trail. At first, pine trees camouflaged their exact location, but as they climbed, the cover thinned until she could see for what seemed like forever.

  Wilderness had always meant “lack of city” to Lissa—a beach cabana, a golf resort, even a European ski chalet or her family’s well-maintained country home. She realized now that hedges trimmed to look like Rodin’s The Thinker didn’t constitute nature, and the utter freedom in escaping every living soul on the planet could define a religion unto itself.

  The weight on her shoulders shifted when she tripped over a rock, staggered, and struggled to lift everything hi
gher and keep walking. Before she could put things to rights, Cole turned and marched in her direction. His mouth was an unyielding slash, not at all softened by the golden stubble covering his jaw.

  “Such grace.” He stopped close. For a fleeting moment, she thought he might touch her. For half of that, she wanted him to, at least until she noted the flat, disinterested look in his eyes, the one that said he wouldn’t touch her like that for all of Solomon’s gold.

  Reaching out, he lifted both the tripod and the bag before she could react with either indignation or thanks. “Don’t think I’ll do this every time,” he warned. “Today the dragging is getting on my nerves.” Then he spun and headed up the path in the direction of several rocky peaks that looked days away.

  Sweat slicked her skin by the time they stopped hours later. She rasped oxygen through clenched teeth. The air at his house had been pea soup compared to this. When he handed over an energy bar and a water bottle—supplies she hadn’t even considered—she inhaled everything on offer.

  After ten long seconds under his watchful eye, he said, “You’re fine.”

  What she was, was dying. For a third time now, he’d tried to kill her.

  “No nausea,” he continued. “Your color’s high, and I know you’d be whining if you had a headache.”

  “And I know you’d be gloating if you had a point.”

  “No altitude sickness. Seems we let you acclimate at the house long enough, or did you think I was twiddling my thumbs to log extra time in close quarters with you?”

  Her lips locked like a bank safe. Don’t tell him you thought he was being an asshole. “And here I thought you were merely being an asshole.”

  He contemplated her with a look of theatrical horror. “Aww. Is Lissa not feeling liked? Not getting her way?”

  A pithy response shot to the tip of her tongue. Unfortunately, all the blood in her brain chose that particular moment to drain to her toes, and she rocked on her heels with a sudden gust of wind.

  “Is dizzy an altitude—”

  Hard fingers wrapped around her bare upper arm. No matter the chill, the physical climb had forced her to shed clothes.

  “Sit,” he commanded. “Right here. That’s right. Close your eyes and let your body sink.”

  “Not good,” she whispered, swallowing hard, not even lamenting her inability to give him hell.

  He cupped her cheek with a cool palm. “It’ll pass. I promise.”

  When she opened her eyes, he was crouched on his haunches in front of her with another aluminum water bottle. The calculated analysis he’d displayed earlier had faded to concern. He pressed the cool metal to her collarbone before sliding it into her hand. “See? You’re already better.”

  She nodded, hating how he always seemed to be right. Whenever she thought he’d slipped and made a mistake, a buzzer went off shortly thereafter. Wrong! Planned that one, Ms. Blanc.

  Leaning back against her hands, she heaved a mental sigh. They’d left the breathtaking, but closeted, valley below. Above the tree line, she saw nothing but rock chips varying in size from baseballs to BMWs, as if her dad’s fleet of dump trucks had deposited layer after layer of shale over the mountain. In the distance, she swore she could see Wichita. Where they sat? Nothing to paint.

  Seeming to read her confusion, Cole asked, “Do you know why we’re here?”

  “A test,” she said wearily, “always a test.”

  He stood and toed the easel he’d laid at her feet. “More like a start. Of course, if the start goes badly…”

  “As in worse than the one we’ve already had?”

  “That doesn’t count. You weren’t working.”

  How charitable of him. “What do you want me to focus on?” The question had to be asked even though she knew her every effort would scream “tired” and “get me the hell off Kilimanjaro.”

  “Stay put for now.”

  Happy to oblige, she slumped forward against her bent knees while Cole got busy. First he pulled a camp chair from his bag and arranged it in the rocks about ten feet away. When she thought he’d offer her the chair, or at least sit in it himself, he dug out a smaller, zippered bag, from which he extracted a serious-looking camera. Then he started snapping careful photos of the chair.

  Cole moved with a grace that spoke of many miles trudged over uneven terrain, all tackled through the limited vision of a dice-sized viewfinder. A careless stumble would have been too mundane, too predictable. He flowed over the rock like water, first inward for close-ups and then moving far up the path for a wider perspective.

  Several shots later, she couldn’t resist. “Why are you taking pictures of a camp stool?”

  Eye to the camera, he said, “This is today’s subject.” Then he prowled around the thing, clicking every few feet. A wind gust knocked the seat over, and he calmly set it back up, piling rocks around each leg to prevent another crash.

  “You marched me up here to paint a chair you brought from home.” She didn’t pose it as a question because of fucking course he did.

  He spoke without bothering to stop circling. “India won’t be raindrops on kittens and whiskers on roses. Or whatever. There’ll be no comfortable studio and no winging it in your head. You’ll pay your dues for each and every scene. A portable chair is presumably not an object of great emotive power, even for you, meaning you might actually paint the damn thing as is.”

  Unused to anyone dictating her participation in useless activities, Lissa bit back a biting retort and managed to respond with some semblance of calm. “My paintings aren’t the result of how I feel about my subjects. They’re designed—purposefully, you understand—to convey whatever emotions I decide appropriate for the particular work. Occasionally, those emotions happen to reflect what I’m feeling at the time.”

  “Occasionally?”

  “Often,” she admitted, but only because there was no way around that glaring truth.

  “I didn’t come up here to compromise,” Cole said. “Today you’ll paint the chair.” He tapped the seat with his boot. “An exact replica.”

  He was being unfair in forbidding her to contribute the only way she knew how. The man wanted Lissa because his fallen wife had appreciated her imagination. Yet he demanded she check that imagination at the door. Grappling with her fury, Lissa felt the small muscles in her face twitch. “Your way won’t get the job done. Who wants to look at replicas? There’s nothing interesting in my creating identical copies of your work.”

  “We’re comparing mediums,” he seethed, showing his own frustration in the bunching of his broad shoulders. “Regardless, we had a deal, Lissa, from day one. If you can’t, or won’t, keep your end of the bargain, you can catch a flight home tomorrow.”

  “I’ll change your mind,” she told him grimly. “Watch.”

  Chapter 8

  Lissa heaved to her feet, easel in hand. Adjusting the legs low to the ground, she built one of Cole’s rock towers around each pole, anchoring the tripod to the mountain. Her canvas was as small as the trek had been long, and she pulled it from her bag along with a travel paint kit she’d configured from a CD case. Within the circular indent, she’d stored fifteen streaks of color, each labeled in permanent marker. She’d lined the clear cover with thin white paper for use in blending. Next came several brushes and a sealed jar of water to clean them.

  Cole eyed her setup with unconcealed surprise. Part of his “test” had obviously been to highlight her unpreparedness. Hike-wise he’d succeeded, but she’d come artistically equipped. “Prepare to be amazed,” she murmured under her breath.

  Using a dark colored pencil, Lissa drew a faint outline of the chair’s basics in the middle of her canvas. Then she set to work with paint.

  The “boss” had grown roots directly behind her hunched position. His quiet judgment grew so deafening she broke the silence. “No need to monitor my every move.”

  He didn’t budge. “But there is.”

  With cold, precise movements, she methodically
smeared forest-green and then black paint across the bottom of the canvas. The need to prove Cole wrong thrummed through her fingers, but she stifled the sensation. While this painting would convey deep feeling, she wanted the sentiment to be his, not hers. More, she had to make the overall impression positive, speaking to emotions he would welcome rather than repel.

  No more broken hearts.

  His hand fell to her shoulder. “There’s no green in sight, Lissa.”

  A warning. One she didn’t miss but couldn’t heed. “Color can be tricky. What you see now might not be the endgame.” She streaked rivulets of orange upward from the dark base, careful to avoid the center where she’d sketched the chair.

  Next her brush found a yellow so pale it looked almost white, another color the obtuse man behind her wouldn’t detect between the navy chair and the grey stone. “Take another hike.” She rocked back on her haunches, brush in the air. “I’m not into creepy artistic voyeurism.”

  When he didn’t budge, she added, “Face it. You and I are similar.” He couldn’t tear himself away, after all. They shared dedication.

  “We’re vastly different.” His dry tone translated what the words left out: “different” as in she sucked and he didn’t.

  “Not so opposite we can’t meet in the middle.”

  “Yeah?” Are you painting the ‘middle’ right now?” he asked. “Planning to bring me to heel without actually complying with our agreement?”

  Tricky, tricky partner, but why not tell the truth? “Yes.” Bringing the yellow into contact with the painting’s periphery, she asked, “Are you worried we’ll fail?” They would without a compromise. She could think of little else.

  A short pause. “I’m worried you’ll fail.”

  Lissa supposed the arrogance ought to irritate her, but she knew defense when she heard it. “Except if I fail, you follow.” Cole’s quiet inactivity in the year preceding Project Impossible hadn’t bothered Lissa when she’d initially accepted the gig. In her mind, an artist lived a life of ebb and flow. At times she’d painted prolifically. At others she’d eaten a lot of Ben & Jerry’s and watched reality TV.