Teardrop Lane by March Emily

Author:March, Emily [March, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780345542335
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2015-01-27T06:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

“She doesn’t matter,” Cicero muttered as he ripped the sheet from his sketchbook and started over with a fresh page, a clean slate. Women never mattered. Ideas were what mattered.

And damned if the idea that had lured him to the studio tonight hadn’t disappeared in a cloud of Shalimar perfume.

Disgusted, he threw down his pencil and shoved away from the drawing board. He wanted a drink, and he didn’t keep alcohol in his studios. Impaired senses didn’t mix well with furnaces hotter than two thousand degrees. His gaze lingered for a short moment on the sketch he’d been drawing when Rose burst into the studio. It was good. The work he’d done today was good, the best he’d done since getting the Albritton call.

Maybe he’d truly needed the inspiration of Bella Vita in order to break through his creative malaise.

Returning to the island had breathed fresh air into him. He felt energized. Recharged. Relaxed. Here on Bella Vita life was simple. He worked. He played. He could go barefoot and outside without pulling on three layers of clothing to stay warm.

He didn’t worry about medical bills, or music lessons, or the ridiculous cost of braces.

He dragged his hand down his face and muttered a curse. He picked up his pencil once again and resumed his seat and—nothing. Nada. The creative wind had gone silent.

Grimly, he turned away from his drawing board and moved toward the furnace. Maybe he’d done enough drawing for the day. Maybe what he needed was to work with glass. He was still on Bella Vita, wasn’t he? He could smell the sea in the air, hear the surf. He’d go straight to the pipe and let the island work its magic.

He took a long iron blowpipe from the pail of water, extended it into the crucible, and gathered glass. For the next twenty minutes he worked by rote.

He produced a piece so flawed that he wouldn’t even sell it as a second.

He broke it into the scrap bin and surrendered. Bella Vita might have contributed to the quality of his work today, but in his heart of hearts, he suspected that his true inspiration was Rose.

She mattered.

She wasn’t just another woman in a long line of women. She wasn’t just candy for his arm or a scratch for his itch. Hell, she wasn’t simply Bellissima or baby or sweetheart or honey. She was Rosemary Anderson, M.D. His Rose. She mattered to him.

And his actions today had hurt her.

She didn’t truly understand his world—his fault because he’d only shared a little bit of it. She didn’t know about his money issues. Didn’t understand that the Albritton meant so much more than a career boon.

“You really are an ass,” he said to himself.

Then he grabbed his keys, switched off the studio lights, and headed for his Jeep.

On the way back to Heliconia, he plotted his apology. He was sailing uncharted waters here. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone begging to a woman. Hell, he didn’t think he’d ever gone begging to a woman.

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