He heard light footsteps coming out behind him and turned to see Marco and two collared women. One of them stayed close behind him at his shoulder. In a black string bikini with a floppy black sunhat and heels, she was the embodiment of Spanish perfection—all straight lines and curves in the right places, with dark caramel skin. The other woman had smooth straight hair and wore a black bodice, strung tightly, and thigh high boots. Her tits were spilling out. She carried a riding crop and passed Colin with a nod.
He nodded back. Not his type, but impressive all the same. He watched as she approached a man laying face down on a lounge chair. The man yelped when she smacked his arse with the crop and pointed to the toe of her boot. He scrambled to the ground, kissed her foot, and allowed himself to be leashed around the neck and led inside the house on his hands and knees.
Now, there’s something you didn’t see every day.
Marco chuckled and patted Colin’s shoulder. “Come, Se?or Douglas. Have a drink with me.”
A warm breeze kicked up as Colin and Marco took their places under a wide umbrella. The slave woman knelt beside Marco with her hands on her knees. She looked healthy, if not a bit thin, and content. In fact, the villa had a way of making the taboo seem almost normal. Acceptable. Which might’ve been the case if slavery weren’t involved. To each his own, and all that. But when unwilling participants were forced to comply, that was a different situation, no matter what kind of happy mask they wore.
A servant was immediately at their table, and Colin asked for a scotch on the rocks. Marco ordered the same.
“What do you think of my quaint villa, Se?or Douglas?”
Quaint? Was he fucking kidding?
“I’m mesmerized by it, Se?or Ruiz. Already feeling more relaxed.” The second bit was a lie, but Marco seemed to buy it as their drinks were delivered and they clinked the lips of their glasses. Naturally, the scotch was top notch and smooth. Colin drank it all in one go, and another appeared thirty seconds later.
“Se?or Douglas, I’d like you to meet Perla.” Marco nodded his head to the slave on the ground by his side. She raised her eyes long enough to catch Colin’s and nod, then dropped them again. “She’s not blonde, but she’s a master of her trade.” He removed the woman’s hat and set it on the table, her brown waves blowing away from her shoulders. She sat up taller, causing her full breasts to jut out further. Colin felt a stir of lust.
Fuck. Fuck.
“She’s gorgeous,” Colin said. “Not my fantasy, but she’d definitely do.” He gave Marco a wink and drank half his second glass. He needed to make the man think he’d take her. And unfortunately, if he had to, he would. To reject such an offer from a man like Marco would only raise suspicion and distrust.
Marco’s head cocked and he ran an index finger back and forth over his chin.
“One of my patrons owns a blonde girl.” Marco inclined his head toward the European woman, whose mouth was now as busy as her hands. “I’m certain I could work a trade.”
Bloody fucking hell. Was Angela truly not here, or was Marco hiding her because he was a Westerner who might’ve heard of her? Was Colin going to have to fuck one of these slaves to prove himself? The thought repulsed him, though his traitorous body was more than willing.
Colin forced a grin. “Aye, pal. That’d be brilliant.”
Marco nodded, a half-smile on his lips. “I shall work out an arrangement for this evening.”
Colin stood. “Many thanks, Se?or Ruiz. Until then I think I’ll retire and paint my view from the balcony.”
Marco stood also, and the men grasped hands. Colin finished his drink and set it down. The last thing he heard as he left the pool was the shout of feminine ecstasy rising up from the hot tub to a background of mariachi music.
As much as the high priced whorehouse gave Colin the creeps, he had to admit the view was inspiring. Se?or Acosta had requested a painting that incorporated the sea. Colin stood on the balcony with his paints. So many colors. But too much darkness stirred inside him. His brush went to the blue, dabbing in a bit of red, then black to make a deep navy color.
When his brush hit the canvas his mind swelled, blocking out all thought and letting the movement of the strokes take over. His hand moved with a ferocious speed as anger and sadness coursed down his arm. It was the only time he let his emotions surface. What they created was a dark image of a terrifying sea, its mysterious depths swelling, a wild wind blowing shadowed sea flowers sideways with powerful force.
He dropped his arm and realized the muscles were sore. What time was it? The sun was lowering, preparing to set. He lay down his paint brush and went in the room.
“Fuck me,” he mumbled, running his palm over his barely-there hair. He’d been painting six hours. In the mirror, he caught sight of himself and a smudge of blue across his jawline. He brought the easel and painting inside the room, and then showered, dressing in khakis and a blue button up shirt. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the bottom of his tattoos, and left the top three buttons open to stay cool.
A light knock sounded and Colin found the male slave at his door, shoulder length hair tucked behind his ears, wearing only a pair of crisp, black trousers and that damned collar.