Sweet Hope (Sweet Home #4)(15)

“Out the back door to the staff parking lot. It’s where he parks every night.”

I immediately began running to the staff exit door. As I swung the door open to the cool night, I watched helplessly as a black muscle car pulled out of the parking lot and raced away from the museum.

As I stood there letting the cool breeze caress my flushed face and soothe my frantic heart, I squeezed my eyes shut. I pictured him standing beside the sculpture, head down, back tense, with his hand gripping the angel’s wing as though its touch was the only thing stopping him from dropping to the ground.

My gaze followed the fading lights of his car, and I whispered aloud, “What has happened in your life to make you so broken?”





Chapter Six


Ally


No one could ever know of this moment. This one moment of pure insanity, I had to keep to myself.

It was bordering on ridiculous. Regardless, I found myself in the bathroom of the museum, spreading on a pale-pink shade of lip-gloss on my lips, and brushing out my long dark hair until it fell against my waist. I was dressed simply in an off-the-shoulder gray T-shirt that skimmed my figure and skinny black jeans. I never dressed up to curate a gallery, too much dust and mess. What I was wearing wasn’t beyond what I’d ordinarily wear. But there was no doubt, that at thirty minutes past midnight on a weeknight, I normally wouldn’t be applying makeup on the off chance a reclusive artist would show his face.

That reclusive artist I couldn’t get out of my head. That reclusive artist I dreamt about last night. That reclusive artist who had been weeping while holding on to a marble angel’s broken wing. That tall, broad, sullen artist who had fled at the very sound of my voice.

I was a bag of nerves simply thinking about what it would be like to meet Elpidio in person. I prayed to all that was holy that he wouldn’t be a pompous ass. I didn’t want my dream of this man shattered.

Checking one last time that I looked good, I walked back toward the gallery, glancing to the security desk to see if Christoph was there. He wasn’t. Which probably meant Elpidio was a no-show.

Dammit. Seeing me must have scared him off last night. If only I’d known he’d been coming at night, I could have introduced myself… I could have finally met the man whose work had stolen my heart.

Head down in disappointment, I walked slowly to the gallery and moved the dark curtains aside, entering the private workspace. Bridgette, the Museum Director, had arranged to put the curtains up this afternoon after my many complaints about art students and visitors trying to take in an early showing.

As the curtains closed behind me, I jumped in surprise when I caught movement ahead.

My eyes slowly traveled upward to a pair of legs clad in black jeans, to a sculpted waist and torso covered in a short-sleeved black shirt splashed in what looked like marble dust.

My heart was in my throat as I drank in large arm muscles, sculpted and pronounced under heavily tattooed olive skin. My gaze drifted to a muscular tattooed neck, partially covered by a dark short scruffy beard and shoulder-length dark brown hair.

Elpidio…

I had to blink to believe the man I’d wanted to meet for years was really standing right in front of me. I forgot how to breathe. I forgot how to speak, move, or anything else that should come naturally to a human being.

Elpidio’s head was down, avoiding my gaze, but I knew he knew I was here. Every inch of his body was taut, as if ready to spring.

My voice failed to work as I watched his broad chest rise and fall. Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhaled harshly through his nostrils and lifted his head.

I nearly staggered back.

He was… dark. There was no other adjective I could think of to do him justice. Dark, aggressively tattooed, and absolutely yet unconventionally… beautiful.

Elpidio was as inspiring to look at as his sculptures, and when his almost-black eyes pierced mine, I released a pent up shuddering breath.

I thought my legs would give way as I watched those curious onyx irises rove all over my body. I trembled under his scrutiny, knees weak, heart fluttering.

Italian, I thought. Austin had been right. Elpidio definitely looked Italian.

It felt as though minutes passed in silence as we stood motionless, not knowing what to say.

Trying to salvage a modicum of professionalism, I snapped out of my stupor and stepped forward, timidly holding out my hand.

“Hello…” I said in a cracking voice.

Elpidio’s stern gaze never once drifted from mine, his dark eyes stabbing. “I’m Aliyana. You… you must be Elpidio?”

In a second, I witnessed paleness spread on his cheeks and his eyes dropped to the ground, his shoulder-length brown hair falling to cover his face. He was protecting his anonymity. Vin had told me how uncomfortable he was with any acclaim or recognition. His mentor clearly wasn’t lying.

“It’s okay,” I rushed out. “I’m the curator of your exhibition. Your being here stays with me. I’m ethically bound to protect your anonymity if you so wish.”

Elpidio’s shoulders seemed to relax some at that, and sighing reluctantly, he raked back his long hair from his face and raised his head.

This time I could see him more clearly. He was ruggedly edgy, and on his left cheek, he wore a tattoo of a black crucifix just below his eye. He simply screamed danger. His eyes were unnervingly assessing as though he had no trust in me, or toward anyone else for that matter.