Chapter Ten
Chapter 10
SIENNA
I ADMIT, I ALMOST FOLLOWED Declan to the shower. Almost. Then I looked at my surroundings again to give myself a big dose of reality.
Here I am, in a 5-star hotel, a tropical paradise, with a ridiculously handsome man who can afford to drop 30K on a five-hour flight. Whatever insanity I’m experiencing, it’s temporary.
I should pack my bags right now. After getting a good night’s sleep, I was supposed to make a plan for my new life and figure out a way to tell Declan ‘adios.’ I shouldn’t be here, relaxing on the patio of this suite while gazing at the unbelievably blue ocean.
Why am I hesitating to leave?
I adjust my bra strap underneath my T-shirt, garments I changed into so Declan won’t get more fuel for his dirty thoughts. I try to focus on the birds and the stunning view instead of the sound of the shower running inside.
This suite is a dream. It’s the size of a small house. There’s an enormous living room with cream-colored couches and wooden floors. The kitchen is decked out in marble, the bathrooms too. Every room has floor-to-ceiling windows, so no matter where you are, the ocean is in plain sight. I can even see the translucent water from the enormous tub in my bathroom. This place is like something out of a movie.
I’m completely drowning in my own guilt—guilt from using Declan as a means for escape, guilt from abandoning Jada. Throw in gradients of anger at myself for still being here. Since Anthony is looking for me, I shouldn’t be lounging around like I’m on vacation.
I need to leave. Just pack my shit and…
The shower turns off, and I can’t stop myself from imagining Declan stepping out, grabbing a white towel off the rack as steam swirls around his tan skin. His muscular body glistening with water, damp hair falling into his eyes as he dries off. If that man walked out onto this patio, right now, wearing nothing but a towel and a smile, I might give in. Might beg.
I’d beg him to fuck me as I stare at the endless ocean.
I wish I hadn’t been so stupidly concerned about where he was earlier.
But when he was gone, when I thought, I don’t know, that he’d had enough of me and left, or that something bad had happened, that he just wasn’t coming back, I felt the loss.
The man makes me feel safe.
If he leaves, or if I step outside this hotel room without him, I’m no longer safe.
But really…I’ll never be safe. The world can’t promise that. As long as Anthony is out there, he’ll look for me; anywhere I go is only a temporary sanctuary, not true freedom.
As long as he’s alive, I’m trapped.
So what if I just surrendered to Declan and to this entire Hawaii fever dream? For nine more days, I can live in a fantasy where a rich, hot guy wants to fuck me, and I can pretend life is perfect. I can be happy, even if it’s all make-believe.
Is temporary happiness better than none at all?
The heavy stone in my stomach says no—I shouldn’t let myself get mixed up with any man. Instead, I should focus on starting over. Again.
This temptation to ignore the truth must be part of Margaret trying to bubble up to the surface, to break the locked door I sealed her behind.
Margaret hid behind men and excuses. She didn’t have self-respect and let a man control her, possess her, trap her. She wanted to belong so badly that she fell for Anthony and let him pull her deep into his world. Then she committed crimes for him, watched him do horrible things. She infiltrated rival groups, stole, committed fraud, cleaned his bloody clothes, hid evidence of his evils. And so much more.
He never physically hurt Margaret, but he trampled everyone else to maintain his way of life and satisfy his boss; Margaret never tried to stop him. She was only complicit, believing that his special mix of possession and manipulation was love.
Sienna is nothing like her. At least, she’s trying to be the opposite. Declan has been testing her resolve to stay away from men who like control.
What if I only get myself in trouble again?
I should just go. I’m confident Anthony can’t find me here—at least not for several months—but me being with Declan is still dangerous for him. I think I just attract danger.
Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath of the salty ocean air. Being homeless on the streets of Hawaii for a while won’t be so bad. At least it’ll be a paradise around me.
Just get back up.
Today. I’ll pack my shit today and just leave to start my new life. No more excuses.
I hear footsteps through the living room behind me, then the fridge opens. Though he’s several feet away across the suite, I sense Declan as if he’s mere inches away, breathing hot air along my skin, giving my entire body goosebumps. My resolve starts to crack.
Quickly, I stand and move to the patio railing, wrapping my fingers around it with a death grip. I can’t let go, because if I turn around, if Declan is half naked in a towel, it’s over.
His footsteps travel across the floorboards, getting closer.
“You hungry?” he asks, only a few feet away now on the patio.
I can smell the tropical shampoo he used to wash his hair. It must still be damp, so my fingers would glide right through, twisting the strands so easily…
I angle my head down, staring at the buildings below. He’s probably clothed, but I’m not going to risk it. “Um, no, I’m okay for now.”
“When you get hungry, feel free to call room service.”
“Yup. Thank you.”
“Don’t be stubborn and starve yourself,” he grumbles, and it’s such a sexy sound. “I don’t want to come back to find you passed out from not eating.”
My chest tightens. He’s leaving? My head involuntarily starts to swivel in his direction, but I stop myself from looking at the last second, staring down at my feet instead. “Oh, um, you’re going somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
I wait, giving him an opening to tell me where he’s going, but he doesn’t. His conference, whatever it’s about, doesn’t start for a few days, so I don’t know what he might be doing now. I guess he could have friends who live here, or business contacts.
Women.
I hate how that thought makes me sad. We don’t have any ties to each other, so he can do what he wants.
I don’t respond, so he walks back into the living room through the open French doors. “If you need something, call me. Sean will be across the hall, so don’t feel bad about bothering him if you need something. That’s what I pay him for.”
Call him? That’ll be hard to do since I don’t have a phone. I don’t remember his number, so I can’t even use the suite’s phone.
I just nod.
My fingers tap restlessly along the railing until I hear the front door open. That’s when I whip around. He’s wearing slacks and a black button up, damp hair somehow looking styled.
“How long will you be gone?” I call out.
He pauses in the doorway, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Not sure.” He looks so passive it’s irritating.
Why do I care so much?
“Where, um…where are you going again?”
He turns around, letting the door close on its own behind him. The loud click echoes through the suite. He moves into the living room, the warm morning light hitting the angles of his face perfectly.
I’m mesmerized. This man is definitely a work of art, and I’m craving to paint him.
Putting a casual hand in his pocket, he asks, “Would you rather I stay? I’m happy to give you…company.” His voice dips lower at the end, and my body does not miss the subtext.
I’m instantly flushed.
“I could paint you,” I blurt out. But dammit, I didn’t really mean to say that. I should pack and leave while he’s gone.
This is an opportunity to slip away without any questions.
Declan leans against the couch and crosses his arms, the shirt fabric straining against pure muscle. “Naked?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Clothed.”
Dammit, why am I continuing this conversation?
“Do you need supplies?”
“Only a canvas.” Shut your mouth, Sienna!
He rubs the stubble on his chin, glancing up at the ceiling as he considers it. “Well, I was going to set up a few business meetings to make my VP happy, but this sounds a lot more interesting.”
Business. Not women.
Just some business meetings.
I hate how relieved that makes me.
He pulls out his phone. “Let me make a call, and I’ll get that canvas for you.”
A BLANK CANVAS SITS ON a wooden easel in front of me. We’re in my room because I like the angle of my window as it faces the ocean. Declan is sitting on my bed, probably getting his scent all over the sheets.
This was a bad idea.
Declan on a bed is sending my mind into some wild fantasies.
At least he’s fully clothed; there’s no way I’d get through this if he wasn’t.
His black button up is open at the top and he’s on the edge of the mattress, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The ocean is framed through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him; his eyes match the water.
My hand trembles slightly as I grab a pencil. It’s going to be hard to focus on anything except his piercing gaze. The way he’s looking at me…It’s like he can see every shadowed corner.
I want to run.
No, I can do this. It was my idea to paint this ridiculously intense man, and I’m not going to chicken out now.
One stroke at a time.
I start by sketching the basic lines of his form. The broad shoulders, strong jawline, the crisp folds of his suit. The slight weight and hunch in his posture that people might not notice.
The more I study him and pay attention to every detail, the more I notice the subtle things. There’s a faint scar on his left outer wrist, a long thin line, as if from a sharp blade. I notice another scar like that on his neck, just under his left ear.
His eyes are a mesmerizing, deep, aquatic blue, but also…tired. There’s a slight puffiness around each one, and his gaze…there’s something deeper behind the intensity. It might be that open wound I sensed when we first met. And there are no laugh lines or creases edging his features.
I have yet to see him fully smile. Does he ever smile? Right now, his lips are set impassively in what could be a practiced position. He’s objectively striking and handsome, but a closer look shows he really only has three expressions—intense, neutral, slightly amused.
My heart aches the more I discover those little signs that he’s troubled in some way. Maybe he’s simply a stressed businessman, working himself to the bone. Still, my heart is aching for him.
I finish the sketch and reach for my paints and palette. As I grab some tubes to mix a cream color for the bed, my hands hesitate. When I saw him from a distance in the living room, I was struck by his beauty, thinking only of that. I had intended to paint a classically composed scene, focusing on his sculpture-like features.
After a closer study of him, I can’t. Maybe he’ll hate me for it, but I have to follow my gut. A new vision is blossoming in my mind, and I simply can’t paint anything else. Instead of adding any tans, greens, or browns to my palette, I add only three colors: white, black, aquamarine. Then I mix several shades of grays and a range of light and dark blues.
Brush in hand, I get to work.
Since I’ve been painting for almost a decade and I’ve taken several studio classes, my body has built a certain amount of stamina for this. Painting is draining. I’m often sitting or standing in the same position for extended periods, and my arms and wrists certainly get tired. But repetition has trained me to handle a few hours.
For a model, though, which is Declan today, holding a position longer than 45 minutes is tough. I had told Declan he could ask for breaks, but he hasn’t. For two hours, he’s been a statue, with his elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped. Staring at me. He hasn’t flinched, spoken, and he’s barely blinked.
The painting is nowhere near finished, but the foundation is set. After setting my brush and palette down, I grab my sketchbook, making some quick notes and drawings about details I’ll add to the painting later.
Finally, I step away from the canvas. “Okay,” I tell him.
“Done?” he asks, still not moving.
“No. It will take several more hours, but I’m done for now. I have everything I need to finish the finer details later.”
Nodding, he starts to straighten but winces. He moves his arms slowly with a groan, then rubs his neck, groaning some more.
I bite back a smile. “Sorry. I told you to ask for breaks.”
He returns my smile with a smirk that makes my stomach flutter.
Finally straightening fully and stretching his back, he says, “I didn’t want to interrupt. You turn into a different person when you paint. It’s captivating.” He rolls his neck and then stares right into me again. “You’re beautiful.”
My face warms as I look at my hands, dirty from graphite and paint splatter. “I doubt that,” I say softly.
He steps toward the easel. “Can I take a look?”
I block his path. “Oh, it’s not ready yet. And you don’t really want to see my poor techniques.”
“Of course I want to see it. How long will it take to finish?”
“Maybe…twenty hours.”
He smirks. “Guess you have something to do while I’m at the conference.”
My nod is filled with guilt because I plan on leaving before his conference starts.
He rubs his wrist, right above the scar, and I’m so curious about it. Before I can ask, he points near my luggage in the corner. “Will you let me see that one?”
He’s pointing at my small color study, the one I couldn’t leave behind. It’s propped up next to my luggage, facing the wall so only the wooden frame is showing.
I hurry to pick it up, shaking my head. “Oh, you don’t want to see this. It’s just a rough version of a larger painting I want to do. It’s very unfinished and doesn’t look good.”
Undeterred, he walks over, holding out his hand. “May I?”
“You’re going to think I’m an awful painter because it’s very messy.”
He only waits.
Sighing, I hand it over, rambling about details he probably doesn’t care about. “I came up with a charcoal sketch in class. My teacher actually thought it was okay, so I’m trying my best to turn it into a painting. I want to do a large canvas though, so I’m practicing first and figuring out the best colors. I have a tendency to mess up when painting final pieces so…”
I’m not entirely sure if Declan is listening because he looks like he’s blocked out the entire world while staring at the color study. Pressing my back against the wall awkwardly, I wait.
He only keeps looking at it, brow furrowed, eyes shifting around the canvas to things they’ve already seen.
“That bad?” I finally ask, even though I’m not sure I actually want to know. My teachers have always been harsh critics of my work, but I care about Declan’s opinion more than all of theirs.
He shakes his head slightly. “How much?”
“How…much what?”
“How much do you want for the finished painting?”
I laugh, breaking the tension that had coiled in my stomach. He lifts his eyes from the canvas, not looking amused, so I stop laughing. “You’re serious?”
“Of course.”
No one has ever wanted to buy one of my dumb paintings, even when I’ve tried to list them for dirt cheap online. Trying to keep things light, I shrug and say with a smirk, “I don’t know. Ten bucks? Maybe a hundred to cover the materials I’ll use. I know that’s a lot—”
“Be serious.”
I swallow because he has moved closer, making my body hum. “Well, I’ve never sold a painting, so I have no idea. I’m hoping to put it on a thirty by forty canvas. Maybe bigger if I can afford it.”
His eyes drop back down to the color study. “Make it bigger. I have a Marlene Dumas hanging in my living room. I paid five hundred for that, but this is better.” Gripping the small canvas like he doesn’t want to let go, he says, “This will replace the Dumas, so I’ll give you seven hundred and buy the canvas and paints you’ll need.”
My mind must be glitching because I know who Dumas is and how much her paintings are worth, so I don’t understand how he got one of her pieces for only five hundred dollars. Still, seven hundred plus the materials I’ll need is beyond anything I could’ve hoped for.
I’m about to say yes when reality smacks me in the face.
I can’t paint anything for him. I can’t even show him the finished painting I started today. I’ll be disappearing soon.
Since I’m taking too long to gather my thoughts, Declan adds, “Just to be clear, I mean seven hundred thousand.”
The sound I make next is some mix of laughter and shock. “That’s…No…I…I’m a student. My paintings are nothing.”
His eye twitches. “I’m an avid art collector who is well known in the SF community, yet you’re suggesting my tastes are bad?”
He moves an inch closer, and I struggle to get words out as he pins me with those blue, serious eyes. Pressing my palms against the wall behind me for support, I say, “Of course not, but…how could you like my painting that much? That’s just a practice canvas, so I could completely fuck up the final piece.”
The rough edges around him smooth out and he’s back to staring at my sloppy watercolors. “It strikes a chord, I guess you could say. The couple embracing at the bottom are in their own world, while the male figure at the top of the stairs can only watch. He’s lonely. He’s an outsider. He’ll never be able to touch them, get close to their experience, yet he’s stuck watching. The door behind him is open, but he’ll never walk through it. He’ll never look away; he’ll never get close.”
That ache in my heart for him flares, so I gently take the canvas from his grip. “That’s interesting, because I see the man on the stairs as a protector. See?” I point to the figure’s little accidental smirk. “He has a smile. The couple is embracing in a dangerous world, but he’s there to protect them and ensure the darkness on the edges of the canvas never hurts them.”
His voice wavers. “A protector?”
I nod, then admit something I probably shouldn’t. “I, um…I was thinking of you when I drew this.”
A look of broken inhibition flashes across his eyes. Pressing his palm on the wall next to my head, he leans dangerously close. “Tell me your name. You’ve withheld it long enough.”
The canvas slips from my hands to the floorboards. That same broken inhibition courses through me too.
I can’t stand this anymore, the way he makes my pulse race and my body hum. The way my heart aches to hold him while also yearning for him to take control and tell me every dirty thought he’s had about us.
I can’t go on this way.
“Declan?”
A smirk tugs at his lips, his gaze intense and hungry. “That’s my name. Funny if we have the same one.”
I shake my head. “I’m ready to beg for…”
He groans and lowers his head, his mouth hovering inches from mine, daring me to bridge the gap. “I don’t like games. I have to know you truly want this.”
“Want isn’t the right word. It’s more about need.”
“Then fucking kiss me.”
My mind is screaming at me to run away, but my body eagerly obeys his command.