Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy, #1)(44)

After filling several jars with water, she set out brushes, palette knives, a palette.

And began to prep a canvas. She chose a golden, fluid acrylic—it would give the painting she saw in her head an underglow. She covered the edges first, then began to scrub the paint into the canvas so it would soak in. She kept the mix thin and lean, brushing it out, wiping it down until it satisfied her.

Then she set the canvas on her easel, began a line drawing. Clouds and sea, the curve of sand, the rise of cliff, the shape of the channel that cut through.

A sweeping view, she thought, not the more dramatic and focused study she’d been compelled to paint, not the storm-tossed night, but sparkling day. No figures caught in that storm and one another on the cliff, but the hint of people on shore and sea, bright drops of color and life.

She mixed colors—greens first—the deep, dark green of cypress, the duskier hue of olive, the richer of citrus trees. All this against the sun-bleached brown of the cliffs.

It gave her peace, the process of it, and the ability to translate not only what she saw but what she felt with paint and brush and canvas.

The blues, dreamy, bold, soft, sharp—the hints of green and aquamarine around the rocks. The pale gold of sand flowing into deeper tones where the sea rolled over it, retreated, rolled again.

The clouds she painted cotton white against the pulse of blue sky, then changed brushes to add their shadows, like an echo on the sea.

She lost track of time in the work, in the pleasure. With the sparkle in front of her, and on her canvas, the cold, dark shadows of the cave in the hills didn’t exist.

She stepped back to study what she’d done, reached for a detail brush. Stopped when she heard Riley’s voice, heard her coming up the terrace steps.

“I’m all over that. Yeah, yeah, probably by nine. Really appreciate it, and tell Ari I owe him.” She laughed as she came to the top of the steps. “I don’t owe him that much. Later.”

She swiped off her phone, stuck it in her pocket as she saw Sasha and the easel.

“Hey, sorry. Didn’t know you were playing up here. I just got us . . . Wow.” She stopped in front of the canvas. “And let me repeat. Wow. That’s amazing.”

“It’s not quite finished.”

“You’re the boss, but it looks perfect to me. I Googled you, you know.”

“You did?”

“Oh, yeah, the first night. Wanted a sense of who was what. I brought up some of your paintings, and they were pretty great. But this? Alive and in person, it’s freaking awesome.”

“Thanks. I wanted to do something sunny, something clear and beautiful. Like cleansing the palate, I guess.” A thought struck her. “I’ll trade you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll make you a trade for the painting if you want it.”

“I did enough digging to have an idea what an original Sasha Riggs goes for. But . . . I figure my firstborn’s a ways off, so that’s safe.”

Interested, she shoved her hands in her pockets, studied the painting again. Wanted it. “What did you have in mind?”

“Teach me to fight.”

“You want me to teach you to fight?”

“Today, in the cave, I froze. Now that I’ve calmed down, and finished my pity party, I accept that wasn’t altogether my fault.”

“A god had you by the throat, Sash. It’s give-yourself-a-break time.”

“Yeah, there was that. But my instinct right along was duck and cover, or run and hide. It wasn’t stand and fight. You had the gun, but now that I can look back on it, see it all more clearly than when it was exploding around me, you weren’t just shooting. You used your fists, your feet. Kicks and spins. And Annika . . .”

“Yeah, she had that whole Cirque du Soleil thing going.”

“And I just stood there because I don’t know how to fight, not physically fight. You could teach me.”

“You don’t have to give me the painting for me to teach you some basics.” Thumbs hooked in her pockets now, Riley studied the painting again. “But since I’m not an idiot, I’ll take it.”

“Can we start now? I just need to clean my brushes.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“But somewhere more private.”

“You should change into a T-shirt or a tank, something that gives you more room. Meet me in the olive grove around back.”

“All right. Thanks, Riley.”

“Hey, fun for me—plus the painting. I need a couple of things.”

She cleaned her brushes, knives, jars, exchanged her shirt for a black tank. By the time she got out to the grove, Riley was there, and pulling on leather gloves.

“Private enough?”

Sasha looked back at the villa. You could see if you looked, she thought, but she wouldn’t feel nearly as exposed as she would have on one of the terraces or on the lawn in front of the house.

“Yes. Just enough.”

“Okay, first things first. Make a fist.” When Sasha did, Riley shook her head. “Just as I figured. You keep your thumb up like that, you’re going to—”

“Ow!” Sasha snatched her hand away after Riley bent her thumb back.

“Exactly. Remember that, and keep your thumb folded down. See?” She demonstrated; Sasha mimicked her.