It’d been ages since Colin stayed up all night painting, but he did that night. He finished Se?or Acosta’s dark sea image, and started right in on a different one—this one a golden flower that almost seemed to be dancing, pulled to and fro by the wind. Its petals were open, inviting, the center of it like a soft mouth.
Damn it. Colin’s head was in a fucked up place. He’d felt similar to this in the past when he pushed limits, but he’d crossed one tonight. And worst of all he’d enjoyed it. Knowing he’d had to do it made him feel no better. When he got her out of this place and returned her to her parents, would she think he’d taken advantage of her? Would she resent him? He wouldn’t blame her, and he expected her father to want to kill him—to say he was no better than the thugs who held her captive.
Who cares? You did what you had to do, and you’ll never have to see her again after this.
Colin groaned. He was tired, and his subconscious was trying to do battle in his mind. He shook his head, scrubbed his face with his palms. He couldn’t sleep because he had to get the image transferred from his mind to the canvas before the spectacular surge of details disappeared.
Just a bit longer.
He finally crashed in the giant bed after eight in the morning and allowed the comfort to engulf him until nearly dinner time. He was hungry and groggy when he woke, his internal clock out of sync.
He perched on the end of the bed and caught sight of the golden, seductive flower. That quickly, it all came rushing back. Every sensuous curve of the stem, leaves, and petals. Every golden edge popped brilliantly against the black and gray streaks of background. It’d been a long time since he loved something he painted, and this was his favorite creation yet. When he looked at it he felt his chest constricting. But he could never keep this piece. In fact, he knew exactly what he needed to do with it.
Colin showered and dressed business casual. He probably should have shaved. The scruff on his face was as long as the shadow of hair on his head, but he hardly cared for his appearance at that moment. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows to free his wrists and forearms from their cotton confines, picked up the gold flower painting, and headed for the dining room.
He was the first guest to arrive, and he slumped into the chair he’d occupied the previous night, hell bent on not remembering the erotic encounter. Kitchen staff bustled around him and he vaguely realized they weren’t quite ready for guests. He closed his eyes, not caring, because his head was pounding as if he had a hangover.
Five minutes later Marco entered the room with one of his bodyguards. Colin stood to greet him, and the two of them shook hands before sitting. A staff woman brought two glasses filled with dark, thick port.
“Mr. Douglas.” Marco raised his glass, so Colin took his up and they cheered. “Good to see you out. I hope your stay here has been pleasant so far.”
“Aye, Se?or, it certainly has. I’ve been more inspired these past two days than I have in years.” He revealed this truth to Marco with reluctance, and the man grinned.
“Excellent.” Marco sipped his port, his ankle resting on his knee.
“I have a gift for you, Se?or. To thank you for allowing me to come to your home. You’ve been most hospitable.”
Marco lowered his foot and sat up taller as Colin pulled the canvas around from his other side and held it for the man to see. The artist in him relished the look of awe in Marco’s eyes as he absently set his port on the table and took the painting to view it closer.
“Stunning.”
“Thank you, Se?or. I hope you’ll accept it.”
“I will. With great pleasure. I’m not much of an art connoisseur—what you see around my home was all chosen by the interior designers—but it would be impossible not to appreciate the beauty of this.”
Colin inclined his head in thanks. Marco snapped his fingers and a servant appeared at his side. In quick Spanish, Marco ordered for the painting to be framed and mounted in the dining room. He pointed to the centerpiece on the great wall, saying this painting would replace it. Pride and shame spun in Colin’s chest, a wicked dance.
Other guests soon began to arrive, talking animatedly. Marco was in a jovial mood. Nearly every guest had a slave next to them. Marco had the woman Perla on one side, and then Angela came in and knelt between Marco and himself. Knowing Marco’s eyes were on him, Colin allowed himself to take in the sight of the girl. She wore a vibrant purple dress, short and tight, with strappy black heels. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, strands falling around her face. Gorgeous.