At least Elle hadn’t questioned him yet.
But then, he wasn’t sure she was really paying attention to anything he said anyway. Which sorta bugged him.
However, he had the perfect opportunity to dig a little deeper and he wasn’t going to waste it.
“What? Oh, it started when I was three and painted a beautiful—” a small smile touched her lips and made something inside his chest tighten “—what I thought was a beautiful butterfly on the den wall with my finger paints.”
She turned to him, looking him in the eye for the first time since he’d entered the salon. “The rest was history. It’s just part of who I am. I see something—pretty, scary, upsetting, anything—and I want to capture that moment on paper or canvas or clay or whatever I can get my hands on. Other people keep their memories in their head—” she turned back to the painting “—I keep them all around me so I can touch them whenever I need to.”
Whether she’d meant to or not, she’d just given him a wide view into her psyche. He could see the girl she’d been, surrounded by scraps of paper and paint—smeared cardboard, the good and bad things accessible so that she could process them however she needed to. She was probably saner than the rest of the world because she’d figured out the best way to deal with the inevitable pain, fear and unhappiness.
He sure as hell hadn’t figured it out.
Clenching his fists, Zane pulled himself back into the moment. This was not about getting to know this woman. It wasn’t about finding things about her that he could like. It was about learning why she was really here so he could prevent her from hurting the people around him.
“Did you study or are you self-taught?”
They moved slowly into the next room, an echoing ballroom. The space was cavernous and empty. A shiver snaked down his spine. There was something about the loneliness of the place that gave him the heebie-jeebies. It seemed like the perfect spot for a sad ghost to hang out. Hell, considering the history of the place, there probably was one. He could almost see an old woman, dressed in her finest ball gown, twirling in the center of the room. Alone.
As a cocoa plantation, Île du Coeur had a rich and difficult past. Slavery was part of life back then, and that meant unhappiness and fights for personal freedoms. There were many gruesome stories of inhumane owners, but equally uplifting stories of triumph over adversity. Gentility had been the outward face, but the underbelly tended to be ugly.
There were stories of lovers and quarrels and things that had likely been embellished over the years. Hell, there was even a local legend that said visitors to the island would find their heart’s desire…even if it wasn’t what they’d expected. That was how the island had gotten its name. And while he didn’t believe in that kind of stuff, he couldn’t help but watch Elle and wonder what she’d come to the island searching for.
Weak sunlight filtered through a wall of windows and French doors that led out to balconies. At strategic intervals between the old-fashioned wall sconces hung several works of art. Escape didn’t tend to host weddings or large receptions, so this room was rarely used.
Walking around to an alcove, Zane flipped several switches and flooded the space with light. Three crystal chandeliers swayed softly above their heads. They were original to the building, and expensive as hell.
He heard her quick intake of breath as she walked unhurriedly into the center of the room.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yep.”
“Why wasn’t this in the brochure? This would be an amazing place for a wedding. It just feels like it holds so much history.” She spun around, slowly taking in the room with eyes that missed nothing. “I can imagine the balls that must have once been held here.”
“Next on Marcy’s list. She has big plans for special-events marketing. Assuming Simon agrees.”
Elle turned toward him, taking several steps closer. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Ah, the million-dollar question. “Why does Simon do anything? Or not do anything? No one really understands what goes on inside that cluttered and scary place Simon calls a brain.”
She laughed. The sound was rich and…real. It was real. After hearing so many women walk around the resort tittering and giggling and faking their way through, it was unexpected to find someone who was so comfortable in her own skin that she had no artifice.
Elle Monroe was who she was and she made no attempt to hide that or change or gloss over even the things about herself that weren’t perfect.
It was…attractive.
“Anyway, I’m a little bit of both.”
“What? Both of what?” He stared at her, slack-jawed, trying to figure out what the heck she was talking about.
“Schooled and self-taught. I went to the Savannah College of Art and Design. But before I got there, I had years of experience to fall back on. I took classes in high school. I spent hours in my own head and room, learning through trial and error. So, both. And I think I needed both.”
“I know what you mean. You can run mock drills and go through all sorts of training, but until you’re on the street with a criminal who was a gun pointed at your head, you just don’t know. It isn’t the same until it’s real.”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“So, are you successful?”
“So, why aren’t you an agent anymore?”
He raised a single eyebrow, they both knew he wasn’t going to answer that question. It was too complicated. It dredged up issues he wasn’t ready to deal with. And he wasn’t here to share with her. He was here to interrogate her. And he wasn’t doing such a great job of that.
“I support myself with my art, if that’s what you’re asking. I just finished a gallery showing and sold most of my pieces. It’s taken a while, but I’m building a name for myself.”
She wandered off across the room, her footsteps echoing hollowly. “At first, it was difficult. My father and brothers gave me hell on a regular basis, kept telling me I needed to live in the real world and get a real job.”
Elle stopped in front of a painting, one that had been sold with the property. Simon hadn’t been motivated to replace it, content to use what was already here. Less work. It was appropriate for the space, the scene of a Victorian-era ball, with glittering women and dashing men.
He didn’t think Elle was actually seeing the painting, though—it was unremarkable in just about every way. But her eyes darted back and forth across the canvas and her forehead was furrowed as if the scene held the secret to world peace.
“I know they were just worried about me. I couldn’t afford an expensive apartment and settled for one in an area of town that had a reputation. But I refused their help. And I refused to move back to my dad’s. I needed to live on my own, to support myself.”
“To show them you could do it.”
Her eyes were sparkling as she glanced over her shoulder toward him. He felt as if he’d just received a gold star from his favorite teacher.
“I’m surprised you understand. I would have expected you to agree with them.”
“Well, apparently you’re successful enough to afford a vacation at this place, so it’s easier now. I probably would have agreed with them then.”
Her lips twisted in a grimace telling him she didn’t like his answer.
Something snapped between them. Understanding. Attraction. Connection. A sizzle of energy he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. It was seductive and scary.
After Felicity’s death, he’d pushed everyone away. It was easier than dealing with their pity and sadness. He had enough issues of his own to contend with, he couldn’t handle everyone else’s, too.
But it was lonely, this solitary confinement he’d condemned himself to. At first, he hadn’t minded living in his own head. Simon was here if he’d really needed someone. Although, their relationship had never really been like that. They would do anything for each other, but they didn’t get too deep into the important things.
Elle intrigued him. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be pulled into anyone’s orbit—especially that of a woman who might be a criminal. He’d tangled with enough criminals, and Felicity had been the one to pay the price. While Elle didn’t strike him as the kind of person to hurt someone…he wasn’t sure he trusted his instincts anymore.
He found himself stepping closer to her anyway. Dust motes swirled between them in the weak sunlight that filtered deeper into the room. Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating, pushing out the gray for a black circle that dragged him in.
Her lips parted and her breath sighed across them, waiting. He reached for her. He couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d tried. He should have walked away. But all he could think of was kissing her until they were both numb, senseless with desire.
The scent of her, a mixture of sunscreen and tropical flowers, slammed into his chest. The tempting tip of her pink tongue darted across her lips, leaving them gleaming. His arm wrapped around her back, arching her into his body. There was no easing into the moment. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t careful. But then, neither was she.
His lips crushed hers. His palm buried in the hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her into an angle that brought them tighter together. The strands of her hair slipped through his fingers, soft and silky, even as their tongues, teeth and lips dueled against the strength of an attraction neither of them wanted.
Warring emotions—hunger, misgiving and blind greed shot through him as her teeth nipped at his bottom lip. He growled deep in his throat. Somehow they made it across the room. In the back of his brain, he heard the reverberation of her back hitting the wall, the rattle of paintings and sconces jarred for the first time in years.
She’d whipped him into a frenzy with little more than her lips.
Her fingers dug into his back, raking down his skin even through his shirt. His hands raced over her, trying to experience everything all at once. One of her legs found its way up over his hip. She used her heel to press into him and urge him tighter against her. The welcoming warmth of her body awakened feelings and sensations he hadn’t experienced in way too long.
A purr of satisfaction vibrated through her as he dragged his lips down the column of her throat. It tickled and awoke in him a need to taste her entire body, to touch and lick every inch of her before he starved to death.
A loud bang echoed through the room. Instincts kicking in, Zane spun on his heel. Gunshot. No, it couldn’t be. It hadn’t sounded quite right. But, he couldn’t afford to take that chance. They were out in the open, completely vulnerable with nothing to hide behind, nothing for protection. Tugging her wrist, he pulled her as close to the ground as possible.
“Stay low,” he hissed at her as he scanned the room. It was empty. Nothing moved.
Behind him, Elle ignored his order. With a snarl, he whipped his head around to her and said, “Stay down!”
It took him a few seconds to realize that she held something in her hand. For a brief moment, he wondered if she was the threat.
With a twist to her lips, she let the object go. It dropped to the polished wood floor with a loud crack. The thud echoed off the walls, making it sound as if it was coming from all different directions.
The thing bounced up once and then rocked before settling on its side. A sandal. A teeny tiny sandal with a large wooden wedge heel.
Her shoe had fallen off her foot in their melee.
Laughter fizzed inside him. It was better than giving in to the embarrassment.
With a sheepish grin, he pushed up from his crouch on the floor and shrugged. What else could he do?
Admit that shoe had just saved him from making a huge mistake? Not likely. At least, not to her face. He might be rusty, but he wasn’t suicidal.
With a stilted laugh, Zane said, “We hope you’ve enjoyed the Île du Coeur art tour. If you’ll see Marcy on your way out, I’m certain she has some questionnaire so you can evaluate my performance as tour guide. And if she doesn’t, I’m sure she’ll make one up.”
Elle’s eyes clouded at his words. “Wait. What?”
“Tour’s over.”
She gave a quick shake of her head, as if trying to bring everything back into focus. He understood the urge. He was trying to make the two alternate universes before him merge together—the one where they were back against the wall, finishing what they’d started, and the one where he kept his distance from the woman who was far more than she said she was. He needed to get away from her. Now. Before he did something stupid.
“This can’t be it.”