Painted Passion Read online

  Painted Passion

  Latisha Brandon

  Genesis Press, Inc.

  Indigo

  An imprint of Genesis Press, Inc.

  Publishing Company

  Genesis Press, Inc.

  P.O. Box 101

  Columbus, MS 39703

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, not known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher, Genesis Press, Inc. For information write Genesis Press, Inc., P.O. Box 101, Columbus, MS 39703.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  Copyright© 2012 Latisha Brandon

  ISBN-13: 978-1-58571-644-9

  ISBN-10: 1-58571-644-8

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Visit us at www.genesis-press.com or call at 1-888-Indigo-1-4-0

  Dedication

  Thank you so much Genesis Press for giving me this opportunity. In my opinion writers are dreamers. However, every dreamer is in need of individuals steeped in reality. In my world those individuals are editors. Thank you for every bright red correction, blunt explanation, and your feet to the fire-focused driven demeanor. I humbly tip my hat to your greatness. I would also like to dedicate this book to every woman who ever had a dream, but didn’t let life beat it out of them…no matter how late in life you achieved it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Philadelphia, PA

  He couldn’t take his eyes from her. He didn’t want to miss a minute, not even a mere second. Her movements were rippling, fluid. He saw her through the eyes of both an artist and a man. He could tell she was uninhibited, which made her the best of subjects. How would she react if he asked to paint her? Deep reds and golden yellows would attest to her sheer vitality and her bright energy. His palm tingling, he grabbed his charcoal and sketch pad, the beginning phase of a painting.

  A symbolic tattoo swathed her waist, dipping beneath the top edge of dark denim. The black ink contrasted nicely against her skin. Where did the emblem end? Did it snake down her long legs, or end at her pelvis? She raised her arms, and the white tank she wore lifted, revealing her flat belly. She bent, contorted, and he gazed at her well-rounded bottom. She was not by any means slender, nor was she Rubenesque, except maybe to those who prized waif-like physiques. Her size was the same as that of the average American woman, yet there was nothing average about her.

  Auburn and vermillion curls, cut pixie close, showed her high, sharp cheekbones. She wasn’t what one would call beautiful, but she was amazingly striking. What was the color of her eyes? He was too far off to tell; his mind listed the possibilities. He watched her sway her hips and tap her sandal-clad feet to the bass-infused beat, while she wielded her professional digital camera with its AF high-powered zoom. The camera seemed an extension of her hand. Was she as comfortable in front of the camera as she was behind it?

  She approached perfect strangers, asking if they would mind if she captured their image, charming them with simple smiles and genuine probing questions. The skateboarders pulled out all the stops for her, performing their best tricks, each attempting to outdo the last, gliding across granite steps, leaping over park benches, and sliding down stair railings. She lay on her back while a young man clutching a battered board jumped over her. She was feeding off their exhilaration. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, his sketches filling numerous pages.

  She seemed one-half rock star, and one-half bohemian, the two merging with awesome originality.

  * * *

  Ashlyn lifted her hands above her head; the stretch felt magnificent to her back. She rolled her head and at last moved it forward into the sunlight. She reflected how she thrived on stifling days, even as sweat rolled down between her shoulder blades. Though she’d grown up in bitterly cold, windy Chicago, she was a creature of heat, at her creative best in it. The energy around her was insane. Folks of all ethnic groups came out to watch some of the pro skaters and new up-and-comers.

  Whether people enjoyed the sport or not, they had to admit appreciation for the daring stunts, all achieved in jeans, cargo pants, shorts, sneakers, and fitted caps. At the last minute she’d decided to take this assignment photographing young urban youth skateboarding in Love Park. The photo essay would be in black and white except for the red park sculpture in the background—a sculpture created by Robert Indiana, a man known for his message-driven imagery.

  Ashlyn felt relieved after accepting the assignment; it would bring a breath of fresh air into her conflicted brain, and a little cleansing never hurt a soul.

  “There’s a man over there with a sketch pad eating you up with his eyes,” her assistant, Bernard, hurriedly informed her while handing over a thermos of water before Ashlyn asked for it. “Pull your shirt down…you might have a stalker on your hands.”

  Ashlyn turned toward the man Bernard spoke of. Her leaf-green eyes met his, and he did indeed devour her with his eyes. She didn’t know how long she held his gaze before turning her back to him, flustered. She took him for a few years younger than her thirty-three years.

  He was golden like warmed bergamot-scented body oil. Blue jeans sat low on his lean hips, and a green Polo shirt covered his chiseled chest. He wore brilliant white sneakers. How did he manage to keep his shoes so clean? He fit in perfectly with the patrons in the park, who casually slapped hands and pounded backs.

  However, he also stood out, a lone figure unto himself. He gave off the vibe of Philly born and bred, a ride-or-die dude with an obvious artistic streak. His long fingers frantically swept across the pages, beginning a new drawing before the previous page settled. Did he sketch her, or was that simply wishful thinking on her part? She would love to be a ladybug settled on his shoulder, gazing unobtrusively down at his work.

  “He’s too young for you, but for me, that’s an entirely different story,” Bernard observed. “I like ’em young and fresh, but with my luck he won’t swing this way.”

  “Bernard, turn around. We have a few more frames to capture. Besides, you’re right, he is entirely too young…and he probably likes fronts, not backs.” Ashlyn pushed him further away from the prying eyes of the stranger, who had instantaneously caught her attention and laid her bare. She silently thanked her best friend, Makayla, for the gift of the dark denim she now wore. It showed her body in the best light, flattering her curves.

  The last thing she needed was a daydream about a mysterious guy who caught her eye across a crowded park. The day was for a last day of skating before the park underwent renovations. The façade would drastically change. Where there was once urban steel and concrete, there now would be sterile and generic cookie-cutter creations. The city had promised a new skate park, but no one truly believed it would happen. So the purpose of the day was twofold, to celebrate and to mourn.

  Since there were complaints about wayward youth and a lack of activities for them, why take away a place for activities? DC Shoes offered the city one million dollars for the upkeep, security, and maintenance of Love Park, but the city had turned them down.

  “Is he still watching us?” she asked, too timid to turn around.

  “No, he’s gone,” Bernard whispered, or at least his version of a whisper. He exhibited no intimidation, turning and eyeballing the spot were her admirer had stood. “You two had strong chemistry, even
from this distance. How intriguing, a summer romance.”

  Ashlyn continued shooting as they talked. “I promised myself no flings. I’m ready to settle down, maybe even start a family.”

  “I feel the same way.” Of course, Mr. Bernard Ingle couldn’t stop at that. “I’m ready to find my husband and have some kids. You know we can marry in Massachusetts, D.C., Iowa, New Hampshire, Connecticut, and Vermont. Hopefully again in California.”

  Ashlyn didn’t mention Maryland. What a disappointment that had turned out to be.

  “Maybe my future spouse is a budding Oscar-worthy movie star or a pundit on Capitol Hill. Better yet, how about a Hyannis Port Kennedy?”

  Ashlyn laughed at his farfetched scenario as she ended the shoot, kissing cheeks and receiving bear hugs. During the photo session, she’d allowed herself to be a part of what she captured on film, not the outsider she felt like most of her life. It had taken her years to reach self-acceptance.

  Ashlyn and Bernard began to pack the equipment.

  “Are you still reeling from the comments you hear on the news about gay rights? The hateful rhetoric is certainly heating up,” she said.

  Bernie had known Ashlyn long enough not to find the question offensive. Ashlyn supported gay couples’ right to marry. If he looked up the word liberal, he would find Ashlyn’s picture shown beside the definition.

  “It’s very upsetting when the majority rule for the minority. Why doesn’t it seem obscene to the majority that I don’t have the same rights as you?” Bernard spoke honestly, in the way of family and close friends.

  Ashlyn slung the heavy bag over her shoulder while Bernie pulled the bag on wheels. “When I saw the couples lined up to get married, I called Makayla and we watched…crying like babies. Especially the couple who had been together for over fifty years. Sheppard took Makayla and Jeff out to celebrate.” The group knew it was a long way from happening in the state they resided in, Georgia, but it was home, and neither would live anywhere else.

  “How are Makayla and Sheppard?” Bernard asked.

  “She’s in love for the first time in her life. She even gave him a key to her place…and her security code,” Ashlyn said, still shocked by the revelation.

  “What? The only other person who knows that fifteen-digit code is you.”

  “Why don’t you let me introduce you to Jeff? You two have so much in common.”

  “Sorry, sweetie, but two divas in a relationship is a cat fight waiting to happen. Besides, I may be gay, but I’m old fashioned. My daddy would have a fit if I brought a drag queen home. He said if I insist on marrying a man, I should at least get a sensible one, a banker or a gentleman farmer like himself.” Bernard’s family actually bred thoroughbreds on a ranch in central Georgia, and had for four generations.

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. It won’t happen.”

  “Anyway…tonight is our last night here, so how about drinks? My treat.”

  “Ashlyn, I told you about my twenty-one-day program. No sugar, alcohol, flour, red meat, or gluten,” Bernie pointedly informed her.

  Ashlyn perused Bernie’s teeny-weeny waist and bird-like chest. “Sweetie, you could use some gluten in your diet. I’m not sure I could go a week without a glass of wine.”

  “All right, to rehab you go…you redheads are so sad,” Bernie snickered. “That’s your Irish side speaking…hell, it could be your black side, too.”

  Ashlyn’s father was Irish-American and her mother African-American. Her parents met as sophomores while attending Notre Dame. Over the winter break of their senior year, they eloped to Vegas. How they even got the nerve to travel to sin city Ashlyn didn’t have a clue, because she’d never met two more conservative people. They were still happily married after thirty-five years. How could she not desire to possess what her parents shared?

  Her last long-term relationship had ended over two years ago. She’d thought Franklyn was the one. Their backgrounds very similar, two parent households, Catholic religion, suburban upbringing, and large extended family. He was her equal in every way—except the one that counted in the end. He’d never lied to her. From the beginning he’d told her he never wished to marry, but Ashlyn had naively believed she could be the one to change his mind. Foolish of her. She’d found out love didn’t truly conquer all; not every time, anyway.

  “Ashlyn, stop daydreaming. This isn’t the time for your adult ADD to surface. We have company approaching…cutie from earlier.”

  “What…?” she stuttered.

  “He has eyelashes I would kill for. Step aside and let me see which way the wind blows.” Bernie tried to push in front of Ashlyn, but he lost the battle. “Look at how the ladies follow him with their eyes…but that doesn’t mean anything. We are living in confusing times.”

  Ashlyn watched the stranger approach, his walk in slow motion. Where was his sketchpad? Probably in the canvas mailbag he carried. Various people stopped him, but his eyes always drifted back to her. He had a smidgen of celebrity persona, as if he were well-known in the community. Ashlyn racked her brain, trying to place his face.

  * * *

  He watched her assistant flutter around her like a winged fairy, instructing her to wipe her brow, straighten her back, puff and lick her lips. She swatted away the last tidbit. He was finally close enough to see the color of her eyes, they were the color of live vegetation. He assumed she had a generous scoop of Mother Africa in her. Hips do not lie.

  * * *

  Ashlyn didn’t know what made her feet move, meeting him halfway. The top of her head reached his chin. He was a pretty boy, no other way to describe him. His skin was baby smooth, his face devoid of whiskers. Ashlyn stood five feet, seven inches in her bare feet, but he was at least a head taller. He was a type she avoided, assuming he would take her for a video girl. She admitted she had the look and shape of one, but the similarities ended there. Ashlyn refused to be anyone’s plaything; she was so much more than her looks. She’d never wanted to be a status symbol on some baller’s arm, a woman judged on how big her ass was. She graduated from college at the age of nineteen, with dual degrees in art history and classical civilization from an old, but prestigious all girls college.

  Her admirer possessed such a contagious smile that it eased her agitation and made her feel guilty for categorizing him. His approach was not the usual, “Shawty, what’s yo name” or “let me holla at chu for a second.”

  “I believe you may have noticed me earlier sketching you.” He extended his hand. “I meant no disrespect. If you wish I’ll gladly show you the sketches.” He held her hand, as if not intending to let go. “I felt compelled to capture your likeness…there really was no other choice.

  “I’m pretty sure you understand an artistic instinct.” He stopped mid-explanation and disarmed her with his smile. “By the way, my name’s Kevin.” His voice was gravelly deep, and his hand was that of a man who created.

  She slowly closed her eyes, letting the touch of his palm, and the sound of his voice swim down her spine. How would his hands feel against her sensitive inner thighs? He had the type of voice to translate French films.

  The feel of her hand crawled up his arm as he watched her eyes close. The man in him responded. Kevin refused to let her hand go, linking his fingers with hers, his thumb rubbing the inside of her palm.

  Ashlyn didn’t find it inappropriate, regardless of their circumstances. The effect on both of them was the same, heat within, radiating outward.

  Ashlyn forced her eyes open, meeting his warm brown eyes. Words escaped her.

  “Can I carry your bag for you?” Kevin asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, simply lifted the bag from her shoulder, and placed it on his.

  Ashlyn withdrew her clasped hand. “What’s your last name, Kevin?” Like her mother, haughtiness infused her voice.

  However, it had no effect on him. “Kevin Dunmore,” he told her. “Are you going to tell me yours, or should I guess?”r />
  “Ashlyn Farrell…you have to excuse my rude behavior. I think the sun is finally getting to me,” she lied. She would repent later.

  “A beautiful and interesting name. I hope you’ll tell me the story behind it.”

  He was too charming by far, with the poise and attractiveness to back it up tenfold.

  “Were you leaving?” Kevin meant was she leaving the park, but he enjoyed her flustered response.

  “Yes…tonight’s my last night in town.” Why did she feel the need to tell him that?

  “Can I walk you and your companion to your car?”

  Her brain registered a noise in the background, someone clearing a throat. Ashlyn turned to see Bernard standing behind her. She’d completely forgot about him.

  He chose that moment to speak up. “We’re staying at the Morris House Hotel, a few blocks from here. It’s a charming little bed and breakfast, with a beautiful courtyard in the middle. No need for a car. We walked this morning because it’s such a gorgeous day.” He talked non-stop, leaving no room for interruption. “We would love it if you accompanied us back.”

  Bernie motioned to a stunned and silent Ashlyn. “Please excuse Miss Rude for forgetting to introduce me. I’m Bernard Ingle, of the Georgia Ingles, but all my friends call me Bernie.” Warm Southern hospitality showed in his introduction. At times, Bernie could lay the guano a tad bit thick, not to mention the whole “gay Southern gentleman” persona.

  Ashlyn cut off Bernie’s informative speech, issuing him a scathing look. Fortunately he received the message.

  “Why don’t I run along ahead? I’ll stop by the market, pick up a few things, and we can make use of the kitchenette in the suite. Take your time, no rush. But remember, no meat…for dinner, at least.” And with that parting shot, he strutted out of the park, pulling a pair of dark Havana sunglasses from the top of his head onto his face.

  Ashlyn turned back to Kevin, speechless.

  “Do you mind if I walk with you?” he asked, filling in the space.