Dance Away with Me - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,6
joint, a Dollar General, and a redbrick building that housed city hall, the police station, and the post office. There were three churches, a suspect establishment that called itself a coffee shop, and more churches tucked away in the hills.
At the end of the highway, a newer, one-story building declared itself the Brad Winchester Recreation Center. Ian had already learned that State Senator Brad Winchester was the town’s wealthiest and most powerful citizen. In the old days, Ian would have tagged that building first chance he got—IHN4 in yellow Krylon spray paint with one of his gargoyles weaving in and out of the letters. He’d probably have gotten arrested for it, too. The public had narrow tastes when it came to public art, especially in small towns. They all wanted their murals, but they hated the tags, not understanding you couldn’t have one without the other. But the line between vandalism and genius was open to interpretation, and he’d long ago abandoned the role of misunderstood artist.
The town was too small to disturb the region’s natural beauty: the hills and mountains that looked as though they’d been drizzled in watercolors, the wispy morning mists, extravagant sunsets, and clean air. Unfortunately, there were also people. Some came from families that had lived here for generations, but retirees, artisans, homesteaders, and survivalists had also settled in the mountains. He intended to have minimal contact with all of them, and he’d only come into town on the slim chance that the Dollar General might have the English muffins Bianca craved. The muffins had been missing from the order he paid a fortune to have delivered every week from the closest decent grocery store twenty miles away. But English muffins were too exotic for the Dollar General, and he was in no mood to make the drive to get them.
As he reached his car, he stopped.
The Dancing Dervish.
She was gazing into the window of the Broken Chimney, the town’s so-called coffee shop, a place that also sold ice cream, books, cigarettes, and who knew what else. It was odd. Despite how furious he’d been, he’d noticed the complete absence of joy in her dancing. Her fierce, percussive movements had been tribal, more combat than art. But now she stood still, suspended in a dapple of sunlight, and that quickly, he wanted to paint her.
He could see it. An explosion of color in every brushstroke, every press of the nozzle. Cobalt blue in that fierce gypsy hair, with a touch of viridian green near the temples. Cadmium red brushing her olive skin at the cheekbones, a dab of chrome yellow at their highest point. A streak of ocher shadowing that long nose. Everything in a full palette of colors. And her eyes. The color of ripe August plums. How could he capture the darkness there?
How could he capture anything these days? He was trapped. Imprisoned in his youthful reputation as surely as if he’d been fossilized in amber. His father had failed at “beating the artist out of him,” and now Ian was doing the job for himself. Street artists like Banksy might be able to carry their careers into middle age, but not Ian. Street art was the art of rebellion, and with his father dead and more money in his bank account than he knew how to spend, what the hell did he have to rebel against? Sure, he could cut more stencils, make more posters, paint more canvases, but it would all feel phony. Because it would be.
But if not that, then what?
A question he couldn’t answer, so he turned his attention back to the Dervish. She wore nondescript jeans and a bulky maroon sweatshirt, but he had an excellent visual memory. What he’d seen of her body as she’d danced her primitive dance had been too thin, but with a few more pounds, she’d be magnificent. He thought of Rembrandt’s luscious Bathsheba at Her Bath, Goya’s Naked Maja, Titian’s sensual Venus of Urbino. The Dervish would have to eat up to match those immortals, but he still wanted to paint her. It was the first creative impulse he’d experienced in months.
He pushed the idea out of his head. What he had to do was get rid of her. And quickly. Before she caught Bianca’s attention more than she already had.
He set off toward the coffee shop.
Chapter Two
Tess knew he was close by even before she saw him. It was a stir in the air. A scent. A vibration. And then the