Drake wished like hell that Rosa could say the same about her own family.
Chapter Five
When Rosa woke the next morning, she was momentarily surprised by the faded drapes, the old diamond-pattern wallpaper, and the double bed with the orange and gold comforter.
Too soon, everything came back to her. The photos. The things her mother had said. Getting in her old car and driving nearly twenty-four hours straight, only stopping for gas a couple of times along the way. Crying out on the cliffs. Her car breaking down.
And then, Drake Sullivan.
A little sigh escaped her, just from quietly saying his name in her head.
He'd been right--walking on the side of the road hadn't been smart. But she'd had to do something. Had to at least try to save herself, instead of giving in at the first sign of adversity. Especially when the truth was that she'd already given in for far too long...
Drake had been her knight in shining armor, modern-day style. And amazingly, even through her haze of frustration and panic, she'd been unable to ignore her reaction to him. He was simply that sexy, even by Hollywood standards, his muscles defined by the wet clothes that stuck to him. Yet again, she worked to shake him out of her head. She had so many far more important things to worry about than some hot guy.
Yesterday, she'd headed straight for the warm shower as soon as she'd checked into the motel under a false name, paid in cash, then dead-bolted the door behind her. She'd stood beneath the spray until the water had started to go cold. The new clothes she'd just bought had been too wet to put on after falling out of her bag, so she'd simply wrapped a towel around herself, wrung her clothes out and hung them up to dry in the bathroom, then heated up one of the TV dinners in the microwave. Even in the midst of this mess, she was starved, which was clearly why her body would never be anything but curvy. After wolfing down her food, she'd planned to blow-dry her clothes, but she was so tired that she crawled into bed instead.
Every single second she'd been in the room, she'd had to work like crazy to ignore the TV set on the scratched dresser across from the bed. It was crazy, wasn't it, that even when she knew no good could come of turning it on and seeing what the various entertainment shows were saying about her, it had only been the sheer magnitude of her exhaustion that had actually kept her from doing it? She was tempted to ask the guy at the front desk to take it out of her room so that she didn't give in to temptation. But since she couldn't risk drawing unnecessary attention to herself, she would just have to control her self-destructive impulses.
Now, as she came fully awake, she reached for her phone on the nightstand to see what time it was. But she didn't have her phone anymore. It felt so weird to be without what had essentially become her security blanket over the past five years. But there was something freeing about not having it too. For once, she couldn't go online to see what people were saying about her and end up with her stomach twisting at the horrible things they so often said. This morning she didn't have to document her every move--what she was eating, putting on, looking at.
For a few precious moments, she could just be.
Surprisingly, she'd had a better night's sleep in this dingy motel room than she'd had in any five-star penthouse suite. Feeling halfway normal again, she grabbed an apple and took a bite out of it as she went to the window and pulled back the curtain a couple of inches. It was still drizzling, but she could tell that it was early morning, rather than late evening.
Had she really slept for more than twelve hours?
Finishing her apple, she tossed the core into the wastebasket, then got back in the shower. God, that felt good. She'd never take feeling warm for granted again. Her clothes were almost dry, but instead of putting her too-tight jeans back on, she fluffed her new Montauk-themed sweatpants and sweatshirt with the blow-dryer and slipped them on over a new pair of cotton undies and her bra. Her clothes from the general store were a little big, but it was actually nice to wear something that didn't cling to her skin like plastic wrap.
She heated up another microwave dinner, made a cup of coffee in the coffee maker, and sat on the bed to have breakfast and come up with a plan. All the while, however, she couldn't forget about the darned television.
What would it really hurt to turn it on just for a few minutes? After all, if she was going to make a plan, it would probably help to have more data as to just how bad things were, right?
No, a voice inside her head warned her, don't do it!
Normally, when the press said nasty things about her, she was able to tell herself that they were simply talking about a character she'd been playing for the cameras. Rosalind Bouchard, who liked glittering parties and front-row seats at international fashion shows, not the real Rosa, who was happiest in a quiet room with a needle and thread.
But she hadn't been Rosalind in the pictures that guy had taken without her consent--hadn't been posing, hadn't had her mask on, her armor to face the public. She'd already stripped all that away by the time he took the pictures. And in some ways, that was what made her feel the most naked of all. Not just exposing the parts of her body that the public had never seen before, but the real version of herself that she had always been careful not to give away to anyone she didn't know and care about.
Turning on the TV would only lead to more regret. Regret she simply couldn't deal with right now on top of the shame that had fueled her every move so far. Which was why she got up off the bed, went into the bathroom, and came out with a dry towel to drape over the screen. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it helped a little bit, at least.
Sitting back down with her slightly congealed microwave meal, she took a deep breath and tried to focus on what her next step should be. The problem was that she didn't yet know what, precisely, she wanted. Because turning back time so that the naked photos had never been taken wasn't a plan she could actually act on.
Could she go back to her current life, or was it time to make a change? If so, what kind of change could she possibly make when the entire world thought she was only capable of being a "bad girl"? And if she did leave reality TV, how deeply would it affect her family? Would they lose the show? Would she lose them?
Or had she already lost them long before now, when their TV show and brand had become more important than protecting one of their own from true harm?
For eight years after Rosa's father passed away, her mother had worked double shifts at the two hospitals in town as a nurse to try to make ends meet. Unfortunately, it simply wasn't enough to withstand the crushing debt their father's death had left them in when his aerial reporting company failed after his death. The day the casting agent had "discovered" their family in town had seemed like manna from heaven.
But none of them could possibly have imagined how five years could change everything yet again. Still, the fact remained that, whichever way she chose to go, Rosa wasn't sure if she could forgive her mother for selling her out.
Voices in the parking lot outside her room drew her off the bed and back to the window. Peering out from between the curtains, she was surprised to see her car parked at the edge of the lot. She wanted to thank the guy getting back into his tow truck--Drake had said his name was Joe--but she couldn't risk being recognized again. While she hoped she could trust Drake to keep his promise about not disclosing her whereabouts to anyone, she knew the odds were low that a second person would be willing to keep her secret.
Maybe it was foolish to trust Drake when she'd been betrayed so many times recently. Maybe she was mistaking his good looks for a good heart.
Or maybe it was just that she needed to believe in something--anything--right now.
In any case, as great a refuge as this motel room had been last night, she couldn't spend the whole day here. Especially with the TV set still beckoning to her to turn it on and see exactly how bad the fallout from the pictures was.
With the sky having cleared, for a little while at least, maybe she could find a stretch of empty beach somewhere nearby wi
thout too much risk of discovery. Somewhere she could stretch her legs a bit and hopefully get her brain working again.
As she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she nearly broke out laughing at how ridiculous she looked in her head-to-toe Montauk gear. One thing was for sure--no one would even think of looking for Rosalind Bouchard in these clothes. No makeup or hairstyling helped too.
Only her purse--next season's Versace satchel--might give her away. Slipping some twenties into the pocket of her sweatpants, she grabbed her car keys and left her purse in the room. Feeling a little like she was in a spy movie, she made sure no one else was in the parking lot before going to her car. She'd been lucky that the guy manning the motel office last night had been a contemporary of the woman behind the register at the general store, and she hoped he would remain just as uninterested in her today as he'd seemed yesterday.
She was about to unlock her car when she stopped with her key still in the door. There was an envelope on the seat. Her brain immediately raced with a dozen possibilities--most of which centered around her fear that Joe, or someone else at his garage, had figured out who she was and was now interested in seeing exactly what he could squeeze out of her for his silence. It wouldn't be hard to run her plates, but she'd hoped that Drake's kindness would extend to the guy he'd called in to help her.
Her hands were shaking as she finally unlocked the door and picked up the envelope. She'd never seen a blackmailer's note in person before. Then again, she thought as she pulled out the note, the past couple of days had contained plenty of terrible firsts for her.
The bill for repairs and towing is taken care of. Call if you have any other problems with the car. - Joe
Relief swept through her. Not only because it wasn't a blackmailer's note--but also because she hadn't been wrong about Drake being a good person.
Actually, her feelings about Drake weren't entirely about relief. Rather, she was feeling an emotion she couldn't quite pinpoint. Some combination of gratitude and attraction.
Well, now she knew what she needed to do next. She needed to find Drake and pay him back. Sure, she could find his address in the phone book and mail him the money, but the truth was she couldn't resist seeing him again. Couldn't stop herself from wanting to know if he was as handsome and kind after her full night's rest as he'd been when she was freaking out and losing it.
Her car started right up, and as she headed toward the cliffs again, if she tried really hard she could almost pretend that she was on vacation and simply enjoying a beautiful day in a seaside town. She couldn't pretend forever, but she wouldn't begrudge herself a few minutes of forgetting in the car.
She entered the state park, then parked in the same spot where she'd left her car the day before to head toward the cliffs via the same unused storm drain her father had showed her so long ago. She hadn't seen a house in the woods yesterday, but she hadn't been looking for one either. Now, she scanned the trees until a small brown cabin finally came into view. It didn't take her long to get to Drake's front door, at which point she suddenly realized that just as she should definitely not turn on the TV in her motel room, she probably shouldn't have given in to the urge to come here either.
But before she could turn around and hightail it out of there, the door opened.
"Rosa?"
Oh my. She definitely hadn't exaggerated his good looks yesterday. Or his rugged physique. Or the concern in his eyes as he said, "Are you okay?"
No, she wasn't okay. Not by a long shot. So rather than answering his question, she said, "I wanted to pay you back for the car repairs and towing."
"Don't worry about it. You don't have to."
But she'd stopped listening a couple of words back, because to his left she could see a couple of canvases up on easels in the living room.
And her likeness was painted on both of them.
Chapter Six
"Why are you painting me?"
Drake was so surprised to see Rosa standing on his doorstep that his brain pretty much stopped working--just the way it had every other time he'd looked into her eyes. Which was why it took him far longer than it should have to realize that she was pointing at his canvases.
At herself on his canvases, damn it!
Even worse, every answer he could think of sounded lamer than the next.
I was blocked until I saw you.
These paintings are just studies to see if I can get my mojo back.
You're the most beautiful woman I've ever set eyes on.
No, he definitely couldn't tell her that. Not when he knew for a fact that her beauty had brought her more bad than good, at least in the past week.
She'd pushed past him by then and was standing directly in front of the painting he'd just been working on. She stared hard at it for a few long moments before whirling back to face him. "Why?"
In the end, he didn't have anything for her but the truth. "I couldn't help myself."
His honesty seemed to disarm her a little. "Oh!" She jumped as a wet nose pressed into her hand. She looked down to find Oscar gazing up at her in his characteristically serious way. "Where did you come from?"
"That's Oscar."
Most people who met Drake's dog took one look at his big body and sober expression and assumed he was vicious. But Rosa immediately got down on the ground and began to stroke his ears. "Aren't you sweet?"
Oscar's eyes were all but rolling back in his head from the extreme pleasure of having such beautiful hands stroking his fur. As woman and dog connected with each other, the bright halo of fiery color that Drake always saw when he looked at Rosa began to shift to a calmer blue-green. But instead of continuing to let herself relax, she gave Oscar one more sweet stroke over his big head, then stood to face Drake again.
"Normally, I would be flattered that someone as talented as you had painted me. But the way things are right now, I just can't allow you to--"
"I'm not going to sell them." He needed her to know he wasn't looking to exploit her the way everyone else was. "I promise you that's not why I'm painting you."
She frowned. "Why else would you do it?"
He hadn't admitted to anyone just how bad his block had become. Yes, his siblings and agent knew he wasn't exactly having a good run of it, but he hadn't actually told anyone that inspiration--hell, even the urge to paint--had completely dried up.
But Rosa was going through more than enough crap already. He'd never forgive himself if he added to it. Which, unfortunately, meant that he was going to have to take the truth yet another level deeper.
"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 st
ared 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."