Villa Blue (24 page)

“It’s fantastic,” Aiden responded, cutting Emmett off.

Ivy frowned at the men around her who’d jumped in with their heads and hearts—the way she saw it—and helped. She’d never experienced anything like it. “I really appreciate the opportunity. More than you know. I have a lot of ideas for the exhibit and I can see it all perfectly in my mind.” She grinned like a fool and she knew it. “I was also thinking about teaching some watercolor and wine classes at the gallery in town. Klem’s idea, but I’m coming around to it. And another idea I had is to host weekend art trips—you know, people come and stay at Villa Blue and we do painting instruction and excursions to paint
en plein air
. A package deal. You think that would be interesting to people?”

He took the time to look her over, almost as if he’d never seen her before, she thought.

“Your mind has been a busy place. And I think it’s brilliant.”

“You do?” She beamed, simply beamed. “I do too. Okay, enough about me. How was the trip?”

“Before I answer that,” Aiden started then pulled her in for a hug, wrapping her inside the cocoon of his strength, just as she’d dreamed of the night prior.

Logan punched Emmett and they took the cue, hoisted their bags, including Aiden’s, and left Ivy and Aiden alone.

“I missed you.” Aiden pulled her in closer. “I hate that this happened to your show because of what we’re doing.”

“Me too.” Ivy’s breath rippled out. “I hate that this happened too.”

“But you didn’t miss me?” He leaned back far enough to look at her, to study the face he’d missed every inch of.

“I missed you,” she told him, her voice quiet. “Tried not to, but I did.”

This time when he leaned in, his lips met hers. Held there together by breath, by familiar feelings, lips lingered and tongues touched. Life circled around them, as did the fast-moving clouds, keeping Ivy and Aiden tucked close to one another.

“Get your asses in here!” Logan’s voice echoed out to them. “Donatella’s agreed to the offer. We’re buying a villa!”

Aiden ignored Logan, took Ivy’s hand and walked toward her favorite perch where she painted.

“So your trip was a success?” She glanced at him when he didn’t answer. “You’re buying Villa Blue?”

When they reached where the weeds were trampled down by her daily visits, he stopped. “Yes. And once escrow closes and it’s ours, I want you to move in with me.”

He watched her eyes, the brilliant blue of them, open wide with questions.

“I’m going to move here,” he told her. “I’ve committed to being here for the first year of things. We sold the investors on one of us being here on the island throughout that initial period to get things going.”

“You want me to move in with you for a year?”

“I want you to move in with me. I want us to live together at Villa Blue.”

“What happens when the year is over?” she asked, conflicting emotions taking flight.

“I don’t know yet. All I know is that I want to be with you.” He readjusted the hold of her hand, feeling it warm in his. “We can figure the rest out as we go. I don’t know what the future holds, and I don’t think I want to know. I just know I want to be with you. You’re always a surprise to me, Ivy. Every time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me. And I love that. I love you.”

She wondered if he could hear the unsteady beats that pounded wildly in her chest. “I’m glad to hear that because I love you too, Aiden. More than I think I was aware of before this weekend.”

“Move in with me,” he said again. “Be with me. And I’ll be with you. Let’s be together.”

“Why does everything you say sound like it’s the prospect of an adventure?”

“Because it always is an adventure. Let’s have adventures together.”

“Adventures together,” she said, raising onto her toes to kiss the man she adored, the man she wanted next to her, the man she couldn’t wait to paint again.

In light, she thought, just like this.

Chapter Twenty

August brought thick golden rays of sunshine to Parpadeo Island. It also brought rowdy contractors, adorning tarps, and noisy power tools to the estate of Villa Blue.

With renovations underway, Aiden had moved into the greenhouse with Ivy rather than both of them moving into the currently messy villa. Their windswept summer nights were spent making love beneath the sparkling stars, with the calling chorus of crickets around them, and their mornings were spent tangled in each other, surrounded by lush greenhouse plants and bold, bright paintings.

By day, Aiden managed the new business he’d started with his brothers, and oversaw the renovations at Villa Blue and on select properties in town, while Ivy did exactly what she loved—paint.

And in keeping with her plan, she’d begun teaching art classes on the island. The fact that she enjoyed it so thoroughly had come as quite a surprise.

On this particular Saturday, she had a full class of eager, thoughtful students in her second floor space at Villa Blue. She’d turned the room into a makeshift studio, which was perfect given that the floors were already covered in milky white tarps.

Plus, she thought with a glance around at the faces of her students who were each absorbed in their paintings, she’d talked Klem into joining the class, as well as Donatella who’d moved into a small bungalow in town.

For once, she was sharing her art, her love, her creative process with people who had become her family. And she shared because she trusted them, she thought with pride shining just as vibrantly as the afternoon sun.

“As you’re using your pallet, don’t be afraid of colors running together. That’s the beauty of watercolor, especially at this stage. Let go of preconceived notions, let go of your mind’s expectations, and allow yourself to see deeper. Let your heart and your paints surprise you. It’s the adventure we’re looking for, here.”

“Easy for you to say, hun,” Klem sang out from behind his front-row easel. “Who wouldn’t feel friskily—is that a word? Anyway, who wouldn’t feel friskily adventurous with a boyfriend like yours around?”

Ivy tried to give him a warning look—too much personal information for a class setting—but it came out as a smile she just couldn’t seem to hold down.

Aiden James had been as much of a surprise as the intense happiness that thrummed through her. She’d been content in her life, striving to live on her own terms, but Aiden had brought new colors with him, and she’d let them mix with hers. And what they created together was a messy mix of love and life.

“Ivy?” one of the student’s asked. “Will you show me, again, how you did that water in the vase of flowers? I don’t remember the technique.”

Ivy made her way over to the student’s easel and leaned in, making choppy strokes with a semi-dry brush on a stray piece of paper, talking her way through the approach.

“Ivy!” Aiden’s voice carried up to the open window.

Frowning—and never very good with distractions—she ignored the breezy holler and tilted her head, studied the example she’d provided, then began showing the student another technique. “Remember,” she said, her voice lifting, “when learning new techniques, play with them, make them your own. Sometimes it’ll work out, sometimes it won’t. But the journey of it is the fun part.”

“Ivy!” Aiden’s voice called up again, as if delivered by the afternoon breeze.

Klem, seeing Ivy’s faint look of annoyance, eagerly hopped over to the window to answer the call. “I’ll see what he wants. Maybe it’s me!”

“Tell him I’ll be down after class,” Ivy told Klem then moved to the back of the room to view the rows of art her students were creating.

“Hun, you’re going to want to see this.”

“Not now, Klem.” She sided up next to Donatella. “Oh, I love this flow here. That’s great. And your use of negative space is—”

“Ivy!” Klem yelled then clapped his hands in one sharp thwack that had everyone looking up. “Seriously. You need to get over here. Now.”

Concern mixing with annoyance, she trekked over the tarps to the window, joining Klem.

She sucked in a quick gasp then held still as she took in the scene.

There was Aiden, grinning, gorgeous, standing beside a giant message written in chalk.

Marry me?

Her heart lifted like a field of a thousand butterflies flying free from their perches among the flowers.

“This is the part of the movie where you run down and tell him yes,” Klem offered.

In shock, she only barely heard the words as her focus was on the man standing below, looking up at her, offering his heart.

He was there for her. He loved her. And more, he loved her for who she was—not who he wanted her to be, or who he thought she could become. He simply loved her for her.

And the man wanted to marry her.

Donatella approached, touching Ivy’s shoulder as she glanced out. “Oh, my heart. Go get your man,
bella
. He’s waiting for you.”

Ivy looked to Donatella then to Klem. Words slipped from her brain so all she could do was smile at them with filled eyes.

“Seriously, I’m going to marry him if you don’t,” Klem added.

She laughed a little nervously, held her hand to her heart, then zipped off for the stairs.

“God, that’s one sexy man,” Klem said to Donatella, each of them keeping watch out the window.

“
Si
. A sexy man who loves our girl.”

“Lucky bitch.”

Ivy’s legs felt like hot jelly as she sped down the pathway toward where Aiden waited. As she got closer, she hopped into a hurried, giddy run then leaped into his arms.

“It’s not an Ivy Van Noten, but do you like my chalk drawing?” he asked, setting her down, needing to see her face.

“I love your chalk drawing.”

“I love you, Ivy. I’m head over heels in love with you. I used to think I was the adventurous one, but it’s you. You’ve taken me places I’ve never been. You’ve shown me what it means to be in love. Marry me, Ivy. Let’s have adventures together for the rest of our lives.”

He dipped down onto one knee and displayed a ring with a square diamond solitaire that glinted under the warm, gilded sun.

“I thought about giving you a diamond with some color to it—suitable for a painter who likes color. But then I realized this one catches all the color, reflecting all colors inside of it. And that suits you. You have so much life, so much color, so much beauty inside and out, Ivy. And all of it, all of your colors are beautiful. Marry me,” he said again.

She was speechless. Utterly and completely speechless.

So, because she was better with chalk than words, she grabbed a piece of it from the nearby bucket then leaned over and wrote:

Yes

Cheer erupted from the second floor window where her class had gathered for the show.

Aiden rose just as Ivy launched into his arms.

“Yes, my love,” she whispered in his ear.

He gripped her hips, lifted her up so her legs wrapped at his waist, then he found her lips and devoured.

She was home, she thought. No matter what happened next, they would live life together, on their terms—unapologetically colorful and peacefully defiant. Just like Villa Blue.

*****

KEEP READING FOR A SPECIAL BONUS EXCERPT FROM THE THIRD BOOK IN THE ONE NIGHT COLLECTION

BY ISLA DEAN

ONE SPRING NIGHT

AVAILABLE NOW FOR PRE-ORDER

ON SALE APRIL 2016

Cheer rang long and loud in the little pub in Stonebridge. The sounds of happiness echoed off the old pine walls in walloping gusts, flittered through the air in a merry, meandering breeze, and barked loud and boisterous like a gregarious beast on a contrastingly soft spring evening.

Ben Roberts gazed over the crowd jammed into the Plumber’s Pub, taking in the many smiling faces, most of them rosy from the gushing overflow of booze. There was barely room to lift an elbow to pull a drink, but somehow the people managed to get heartily plastered in the name of love just the same.

The loyal herd had come out to support his sister, Abigail, in her marriage to Declan Fitzgerald of the Connecticut Fitzgeralds. Not that Abigail would enjoy such a label, being part of the “anyones” of anywhere. She certainly wasn’t known for her love of pomp and circumstance. Instead she was known for her fiery tenacity, generous spirit, and, now, for being the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country.

A wife, Ben thought to himself. His sister was now a wife. Funny how quickly life could turn directions on you.

As the eldest male in the family, he had walked his beaming sister down the aisle and handed her over to the love of her life that afternoon. And, to his mind, his sister deserved all the love and happiness crammed into that after-party at their family pub, and more. Even after Abigail and Declan left on a private jet for their honeymoon, Ben dutifully continued pouring beer and whiskey for the motley crew of regulars, and he was as proud a man behind the bar as he’d been standing beside his sister in the ceremony.

The wedding itself had been enjoyable enough, though Ben hadn’t attended any other weddings to compare it to. And he’d gotten through the whole tuxedo business without itching too badly. His younger brother Beckett had, of course, disappeared for a time with one of the perky blond wedding guests, while Ben had observed the elegantly attired crowd—the “important” acquaintances of the Fitzgeralds—with his usual, deep-rooted stoicism.

Beckett often referred to him as a stick in the mud, and—on most days—meant it in the most loving of ways. But Ben wasn’t a stick in the mud. He simply knew what it was to ground deep and stand tall through whatever blew in his direction.

And because what had blown his way that day was a wedding reception, he’d found himself eating—and disliking—Beluga caviar, while comparing where he, Beckett, and Abigail had come from. The lavishly decorated, extravagantly orchestrated afternoon provided an anchor to look back at what their lives had been like not too long before. The three of them—the Roberts kids—had been dirt-poor outcasts from even the most trivial collections of society, had gone to bed hungry most nights, and had barely owned a thing to their name. And now the trio proudly owned and ran the Plumber’s Pub—a local watering hole in their small Connecticut town. And their afternoon was spent surrounded by scents of flowers Ben couldn’t have possibly known the names to, eating food fancier than any he’d ever seen, and being catered to by a staff of men and women clothed in white tuxedos and pressed gloves.

While they’d been on the verge of losing the pub the prior year, his sister’s tenacity had ensured they not only kept the pub, but also could complete the construction renovations necessary to ensure the building was back in good standing with the health department. And somehow along the way, she’d managed to get engaged to her high school sweetheart who was, inarguably, the richest man Ben figured he’d ever know.

He thought it would change things, change the way day-to-day life ticked along, knowing his sister would never be poor again, but not much was different. And, because Ben was attune to changes and shifts in mood and meaning, there was a certain blanket of relief that soothed, knowing that his sister was taken care of.

In the monetary, sense, he added to his thought, chuckling as he poured three generous fingers of whiskey. His sister was extremely capable of taking care of herself. He’d once walked through the pub’s kitchen door in time to see her physically tossing out a man three times her size. The drunkard had enthusiastically reached for—and made contact with—her ass after too many tequila shots. And out the man went, on the sidewalk—nose first—with little sweat from Abigail.

“You as drunk as I am?”

Ben glanced over to his brother who sided up behind the bar. “No one’s as drunk as you are,” he told him, then slid the whiskey to their meat supplier who’d joined the celebration.

“Then why were you laughing by yourself?”

Ben eyed Beckett. “Because I’m just that hilarious.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular riot.” In response, Beckett jabbed Ben with his elbow, on purpose of course, as he hefted a collection of to-go containers onto the bar.

The noise rose and roared—someone’s story had caused fits of giggles and table thumps in the corner. Ben and Beckett looked toward the commotion, the two pairs of golden eyes sharpening for just a flash. 

“Old Barley Bill, telling tales,” Beckett announced.

“Same stories, same crowd, same laughs.” Ben loved the reliability of it, the hold of knowing that the crowd of humans crammed into the pub would return, laughing and telling tales, day in, day out. It was like a baseball mitt that’d been worn in through the years and fit your hand—the curves and movement of it—just perfectly.

Plus, it was springtime, Ben thought with a slightly whiskey-sodden, meandering mind. Which meant baseball season. And that, too, was just perfect.

“So what’s all this?” Ben motioned toward Beckett’s delivery of goods as he pulled another pour of pale ale.

“A to-go order.”

Ben looked at his brother. “I can see that much. You went back and cooked in a closed kitchen during a private party?”

The two men were nearly identical in stature—both were built with the strength and solidity of naturally lean muscle, both featured chestnut brown waves of hair that tended to go unruly, and both had brilliant honey-gold eyes. But while Beckett’s eyes broadcast the sparkles of his boyish charm, Ben’s were warm and vivid with hints of darker waters that ran deep.

“Someone called with an order.” Beckett lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Couldn’t say no.”

Ben passed a beer along to the town’s kindergarten teacher who’d just arrived, then flicked a look at Beckett. “You mean a
woman
called with an order and you couldn’t say no.”

Beckett’s face widened with a smile. “I’m a sucker.”

“Clearly. What’d you make her?”

“Three boxes of whatever the hell we had left of all the food back there.”

“Is that what she ordered?”

“It’s what she’s getting,” Beckett offered, companionably.

Ever the responsible one, Ben retrieved the containers from the top of the bar and set them out of the way. “And I’m guessing you’re leaving me to explain that to her?”

“That’s why you’re the one running the bar and I just run the kitchen. Well,” Beckett corrected, “that’s the setup for several reasons. You’re better with customers and money, and I’m better with food and all things that happen behind closed doors.”

“You should try closing the door more often. That girl last night moaned like a machine gun.”

“That was fun.”

“Not for me. Abigail and Declan better move out of the upstairs apartment so you can move into it. Then I won’t have to put in shooting range earplugs when I sleep. The neighbors probably backed away from their windows, just in case.”

“You know what you need?”

“Better sleep.”

“Sex. Machine-gun loud, meaningless sex.” Beckett reached for a handful of peanuts from one of the many bowls on the bar, tossed them in his mouth. Most of them made it in while the strays tumbled to the floor.

The glare Ben gave Beckett was one only a big brother could give.

“Come on,” Beckett continued. “When was the last time you got laid just for fun?”

“I already clean up your messes when girls come in here crying, looking for you. I don’t need my own messes on top of it.”

“Have I thanked you lately for that?” Beckett tossed another peanut into his mouth but made a show of missing it, letting it hit his cheek and bounce to the floor.

“No, you haven’t. And I’m not cleaning up after you or anyone else tonight. You’re on cleanup detail, so that’s a start in thanking me.”

Beckett, who’d attempted to score a laugh from his brother, sighed at the lost cause. “Fine, fine,” he lobbed out then slipped into the crowd.

Loud music chimed into the conversations, keeping the rhythm of the evening going. So when Ben glanced up and saw the newcomer swimming among the sea of people, he had a beat already thrumming through him. But at the full sight of her, the beat pounded harder, like an army of drummers in his chest.

She wore a powder blue sweater that accentuated her long black hair. And her eyes—a smoky gray color—struck him, piercing through his pulsing insides.

The noise hushed—or maybe that was only in his mind—and the people cleared away like a parting sea for a split second.

Like a dream, he thought. If he was thinking at all…

She was at once familiar and exotic, like a mystery he wanted to solve and solve again. The mass of shimmering hair, light eyes, milky skin, and a wide, generous mouth… He all but drooled on himself as she continued her approach toward him.

For just that moment, he forgot that he was behind the bar, that he was in charge of the collective ruckus, that they were in a busy establishment celebrating his sister’s marriage. And instead, he was, in the most primal sense, merely a damn lucky man, waiting while a woman approached.

“I placed an order,” she called out to him, breaking the spell that had scrambled his brain.

“Ah, uh,” he fumbled, then held up a finger to wait given that he’d lost his ability to form words. And, he thought ruefully, it was probably too loud—in the pub and in his brain—to hear much clearly at the moment anyway.

Regaining his composure as he moved away to lower the speaker volume, he retrieved the containers on his way back and set them in front of her, then reached down below the bar for a bag to carry the load.

“Is it always like this in here?” she asked, her voice finding a way through the thick chatter.

And it was music for him—the melody of her voice. The way her mouth moved as she spoke just added to the tune, mesmerizing him. Her lips were naked, unpainted, and her top lip bowed perfectly, he thought. And her bottom lip made a pout that he wanted to explore, to feel the warm pliancy of.

“You’ll have to come back and see for yourself,” he told her, his lips tugging into a side grin. “You live around here?”

“As of this week, yes.” She lifted her wallet to the bar. “How much do I owe you?”

“On the house.” He slid the bag of food toward her, leaning in to the movement, and took in the scent of her. It was light, clean, with some hints of floral, he thought. And it was intoxicating. “A welcome to Stonebridge gift. Plus, I honestly don’t know what my brother packaged up for you. It may or may not be what you ordered, so the surprise dinner is on us.”

He wanted to ask questions, to get her talking and find out if she was married, or had a boyfriend, if she would stay until the party thinned out so he could have an actual conversation with her. But the woman looked like she had a goodbye on the tongue. And having watched his own mother disappear, he’d become acutely cognizant of those subtle signs, those small hints a person gave when their sights were set somewhere else.

“Oh,” she said to him, puzzled. “Well, that’s nice of you. Thank you.”

“Trust me, it’s my pleasure. You going to tell me your name? Since I’m buying you dinner and all,” he finished. His golden eyes flicked into playfulness, though his gut felt a hard punch of serious lust. It really had been a pleasure—if even a shortly lived one.

“Kara.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kara.” He wiped his hand on the nearest dry rag before reaching over the bar to shake her hand. And when her slim hand met his, a quick bolt of electricity charged through him. “I’m Ben. Part owner of this crazy pub.”

She nodded, her face polite, reserved. “Thank you, Ben. I appreciate the food.”

He was right, he decided, watching her take the bag from the top of the bar. She itched to get out of there just as he’d itched to get out of his tux earlier that day.

But he was still wearing the slickly lined, black and white get-up. He’d somehow managed to make it through the events of the day and evening wearing the thing. And now, just as surprising, he was damn smitten with the woman who was a mysterious combination of day and night. Light eyes, dark hair. Sparkling scent, and a serious, set mouth. Vibrant and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a little sad.

On a charge, he rounded the bar, abandoning post and leaving a few regulars without their refills, then quickly pushed through the crowd to reach the door before she did.

Tugging it open, companionably elbowing back those in the way, he held the door for her to walk through.

“Thank you,” she told him, a thin line of puzzlement creasing once again between her groomed, dark brows.

His head dipped forward, acknowledging her words, while he enjoyed watching the woman’s face. It was fascinating—it gave away nothing, yet there were traces of thoughts, skims of emotions, revealed for the taking if one paid close enough attention.