Teardrop Lane (19 page)

“To Colorado. I want to go home to Eternity Springs.”

He muttered an epithet, then said, “Just calm down, Rose.”

At that, she blew. She punctuated her words with a hard poke of her index finger on his chest. “Don’t. You. Call. Me. Rose! And don’t you tell me to calm down, either. I’m perfectly calm. I’m perfectly, calmly pissed. The only calling I want to hear is you calling whoever needs to be called
in order to get me off this island. And while you’re at it, call a cab to take me back to the house tonight, too!”

He let a long moment pass before he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. He thumbed a number, then said, “My companion needs a ride to Heliconia. Pick her up in front of the studio. Make it fast.”

He ended the call and spoke in a frigid tone. “I may not save lives like you do, Dr. Anderson, but I have four young children depending on my financial assistance. My work isn’t without value.”

Cicero turned and walked away, reentering the studio and leaving her alone on the street. Rose breathed short, shallow breaths as she attempted to calm her pounding heart and hold back the tears that once again threatened to overflow.

It seemed like days before Mitch arrived driving an old Ford Crown Victoria. He pulled to a stop beside her and rolled down the passenger side window.

“Climb in, Dr. Anderson.”

He didn’t say anything to her during the first few minutes of the drive. She paid him little attention, her thoughts a whirlwind as the reality of the evening’s events sank in.

She’d let her temper get away from her and voted herself off the freaking island. Okay. Well. Was she having second thoughts about the demand?

My work isn’t without value
.

That’s not what she thought. He’d jumped to a huge conclusion, fired it like a bullet, then walked away before she could set him straight. The jerk. He didn’t even pay her the courtesy of fighting fair.

Had he displayed that tendency before tonight? She hadn’t noticed. Of course, they hadn’t really fought about anything in the weeks they’d been together, had they? They’d argued music and politics and sports teams, but they’d never had a real disagreement. Before now.

They’d certainly started off big.

No. They hadn’t started anything. They’d already had their beginning. What they’d done tonight was end.

In the wake of her breakup with Brandon, one thing she demanded in every relationship—romantic or otherwise—was basic common courtesy.

“You are a friend of my friend Gabriella, are you not?” Mitch asked, drawing her from her reverie.

“I am.”

He nodded and drove another block.

“What has she told you about Cicero?”

Rose went still. “What do you mean?”

“About Cicero and women. Has she—”

“
Warned
me?” Rose guessed, her stomach sinking. Mitch shrugged. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, but you seem like a very nice lady. Like a lady. You’re different from all the others.”

All the others?

“He told me the day he took me as his apprentice that glass isn’t art. It is life. He meant it. He is serious. Anyone who is part of his life must compete with his art for his attention. Up until recently, I thought art would win every time. Up until recently, I saw it win every time.”

“What happened recently?”

“His sister, Jayne. The children. He put his family before his work. I’d never seen him put anything before the work, lovely Rose. It was the first difference in him I witnessed, but not the last. When Flynn was injured, Cicero went out of his way to be a friend. Family. Friends. Women. You are not the beach bunny/bored trophy wife type who he ordinarily hangs with on Bella Vita. With you—with the way he looks at you—I see something more, something bigger. Maybe something special. He’s changed. He’s not the same man he used to be.”

A lump formed in Rose’s throat and she swallowed hard as Mitch concluded, “The point I want to make to you is that if he matters to you, then you shouldn’t give up on him too easily.”

The young man’s words stayed with her after he dropped her off at Heliconia and as she packed her suitcase and moved her things to a bedroom on the opposite side and different level of the house.

He’s changed. I see something bigger. Maybe something special
.

She’d thought she had been special once before, but she’d been wrong. She’d been a connection to her father, a boon for a career. At least Cicero had wanted her for herself.

You shouldn’t give up on him too easily
.

She hadn’t done that, had she? That wasn’t her way. She didn’t give up easy. She’d tried to make her relationship with Brandon work. Oh, how she’d tried. She’d dedicated seven years to trying. She’d given up her chance to have the family she longed for. How could she possibly take a risk on a man again?

She certainly hadn’t intended to risk anything when she’d begun this affair. She’d thought her heart had been sufficiently hardened after the beating Brandon had given it. Cicero was supposed to be a fling, but apparently, she wasn’t cut out for flings. The man had managed to worm his way into her heart when she wasn’t looking. Otherwise, his neglect today wouldn’t hurt so bad, would it? She wanted—she needed—to matter to Hunt Cicero.

If he matters to you, then you shouldn’t give up on him too easily
.

“Easy for you to say, Mitch,” Rose murmured, standing at the bedroom window, gazing out to where silvered moonlight reflected from the surface of an indigo
sea. “You didn’t have your heart sliced from your chest and shredded the last time you didn’t give up.”

If he matters to you
.

Rose released a long sigh. Heaven help her.

He mattered.

“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. Women usually begged him.

But not Rose.

He downshifted to make the climb up the mountain. Like they say, there’s a first time for everything.

The house was dark when he arrived. The door locked. He punched in the door code, then went straight to the bedroom they’d shared. He wasn’t surprised to discover it empty and her things gone. He called Mitch.

“Did you take her somewhere?”

“To Heliconia, just like you asked me.”

“She didn’t ask to go somewhere else?”

“Where would she go, mon? How would she get there?”

Cicero hesitated.

“Did she—?”

“You need to fix this, mon. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

The dial tone sounded in his ear. His apprentice had a point, Cicero conceded as he pocketed his phone. Bella Vita had a taxi. A single taxi. But you had to know to call Jorge to avail yourself of the service. Rose wouldn’t know that. It worked in his favor.

This house had seven bedrooms. It made a lot more sense for her to have moved to another room for tonight than to have decamped entirely.

The first three bedrooms he checked showed no signs of having been disturbed. The fourth door was shut. Bingo.

He rapped on the door with his knuckles. She didn’t respond.

“Rose, please open the door.”

Still hearing no sound from inside, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. He tried the knob. It turned. He opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the silhouette of her suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed.

He glanced toward the connecting bathroom. No lights there. However, a filmy white window curtain billowed as the night breeze floated in through the door leading to the verandah.
She’s outside
.

His deck shoes squeaked against the wood floor as he crossed the room. His nerves jangling, he pushed back the screen and stepped outside. It was bright outside. The full moon cast a silvered glow across the land. Cicero searched the beach below for Rose. Then a creak behind him caused him to turn around.
There
.

She sat in the wooden porch swing, one leg folded beneath her, the other extended to push against the floor and keep the swing swaying.

Cicero shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Now that the moment had arrived, the words he’d planned to say stuck on his tongue. They didn’t feel right, but he didn’t know how else to start. He wasn’t sure what to say. Should he go with a simple “I’m sorry”? Should he attempt to explain? Should he go all out and grovel?

He opened his mouth, still unsure about what to say. The words that emerged shocked the hell out of him because he never, ever, talked about this.

“I never knew my father, and I was four years old the first time my mother went to jail. She was an addict, in and out of jail, in and out of rehab, for the next nine years. As a result, I was in and out of the foster system. She OD’d when I was thirteen.”

Hidden by the shadows, Rose stopped swinging.

“By then, I was too old and too much of a troublemaker to be an attractive prospect for adoption. Jayne had a similar background, only her surviving parent was her father. We had the same caseworker and he placed us with the same family, when I was nine and she was six. We bonded. We both bounced back to our parents more than once, but our guy placed us in the same foster
house as often as he could manage. When I aged out of the system, I took off. But I always stayed in touch.”

He fell silent then, remembering. Rose resumed swinging, and the chain made a rhythmic squeak.

“She was my sister. I was her brother.” He cleared his throat, ridding himself of the lump of emotion that had formed there. “I’ll bet you are wondering what the hell this has to do with my being an ass to you today.”

She let out an audible sigh.

“Well—”

He laughed without humor.

“I’m selfish, Rose. I learned to be selfish to survive. Before you, I’ve never had a romantic relationship last longer than—I don’t know—a week? Two at the most? I’ve walked away from women all of my life, but I stuck with Jayne. She was the one constant, the only lasting female relationship that I’ve ever had. When she was diagnosed with cancer, it shook me to my core. I promised her and I promised myself, that I would stick by those kids.”

“That’s admirable.”

“It’s scaring the stuffing out of me. I’ve never wanted kids of my own. Most of the foster homes I was placed in had lots of kids. Growing up the way I did made me prize my solitude. Jayne’s reaction was the polar opposite of mine. I’m honestly surprised she only had four of the little curtain climbers.