Escape From Paradise (21 page)

It’d been ages since Colin stayed up all night painting, but he did that night. He finished Se
ñor 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, Señor, 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, Señor. 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, Señor. 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.

Guilt assaulted him again.

He turned his attention to dinner as it arrived: a paella of saffron rice with local shrimp and chorizo. As Colin ate, his awareness of the girl so close never left him. He noticed the guests feeding the slaves now and then, but not nearly enough. They were all too thin. With sour distaste, Colin also noticed that Marco fed Perla two bites for every one Angela received.

“Señor Ruiz,” Colin said. When the man looked over Colin asked, “May I?” He held a shrimp, as if to feed Angela.

Marco’s eyebrows went up. “Of course.”

Colin felt strange, almost shaky inside, as he brought the piece of food to her mouth in his fingers. Her lips opened in acceptance, taking in the shrimp, and biting down at the edge of the tail. Her lips were soft and warm against his fingertips.

Do not react
, he commanded his body. Colin thought about rugby—running and dodging. Anything not to let himself become aroused and have a repeat of the previous night.

Angela dropped her head and chewed in silence. He fed her several more bites before dinner was over, experiencing a small rush each time she accepted his offerings. He wondered how often she felt hungry. Her collarbones jutted out. The thought upset him. When his creme brule came he took two bites and proceeded to feed her the rest.

Marco chuckled next to him. “You’re going to make her fat.”

Was he blind? Or simply a fucking arsehole?

“Not possible,” Colin said. He set the spoon down with a clink and looked at the man. “I’ve never…fed anyone before.”

Marco smiled, seeming to understand the sensual empowerment that came from holding a lover’s sustenance in your very fingers. To be so needed at the apex of one’s existence. To control another person in such a way…damn it…Colin could see the allure of it for the first time in his life, and he didn’t want to feel that way. He cleared his throat and pushed back from the table, setting his napkin beside his plate.

“I think I’ll take a walk and then retire to work for the evening. The meal was lovely, Señor Ruiz.”

Marco nodded, a small smile hiding under his mustache. “As was the company. Enjoy.”

Colin didn’t like that shit-eating grin, like Marco knew his internal struggles. He felt the eyes of Marco’s men on him as he walked through the halls and breezeway onto the veranda. As always, he was poised to fight if it came to that. He passed the empty pool, listening to the rush of water and feeling the warm breeze against his skin. Colin went to the edge and stared over the side at the rocks and distant crash of waves below. His mind began devising routes of escape. He could scale these cliffs down, but he couldn’t expect Angela to do the same. A jump from this high would lead to death or maiming.

With surveillance cameras surely covering the property, and armed men at every corner, Marco’s villa was the perfect prison. Colin loved a good challenge, but only when his own life was on the line, not an innocent’s. He had no clue how he’d get her out of here, and he didn’t enjoy the unwelcome nervousness and doubt that rose up in his gut.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as more immediate concerns filled his mind. He couldn’t feign “inspiration” the entire time he was here based on one instance of good head. He’d be expected to do something more during his time. But not tonight. He would worry about that tomorrow. Tonight he would force himself to start another painting. An image of soft, luscious lips curling around masculine fingertips came to mind and he had to adjust himself.

This place was already getting to his mind. The way it all seemed so damned…
normal
. Acceptable. He was grateful this would be his last mission, because he’d need a long break to find himself again after this.

Something felt amiss as Colin walked through the empty great room toward his hall. He couldn’t place where the threat stemmed from, but warning alarms went off in his head, his senses going on high alert. He’d always had a keen intuition for danger. He glanced behind him. Nothing. When he turned the corner he saw one of the guards standing in front of his door.

Colin’s muscles were readied for action and his heart was thumping hard as he approached. He was prepared to strike first, if need be. The guard nodded and stepped aside, clearing his throat and speaking in broken English. He thought his name was Luis.

“Master Ruiz have one rule for his slaves. No permanent damage to the bodies. Sí?”

What the fuck? “Okay,” Colin said evenly.

“For his slave Angel he have special rule. No anal sex. And she can no go outside.”

Colin nodded, baffled. Luis opened the door for him.

All at once, the blood pumping hard through Colin’s body flooded one particular area, because there, dangling from his bedpost like a creamy gift, was Angela.

A “thank you” from Marco for the painting, no doubt.

Colin, already forgetting the guard Luis, closed the door behind him and stared. Her arms were stretched tight over her head, wrists chained to the top of the post. She wore nothing but a blindfold, black lace underwear, and those strappy black heels, which barely touched the ground. Her chest moved rapidly with breaths, showing her nervousness.

She’d been a captive for two years. Was she always nervous like this? The idea of it made him want to crush something. Namely, every man who’d ever taken advantage of her in this kind of vulnerable scenario.

Like he was about to do.

He hated himself as he reached into his pants and pulled his cock higher, attempting a more comfortable place for the damned, out of control monster. As he prowled closer to the girl he felt his own breaths coming faster and harder, matching the rise and fall of her chest. Those pretty, dark pink nipples calling to him.

He had to touch her. It was expected of him. And he
had
to. He felt like he might explode if he didn’t.

But a horrible thought occurred to him. She had no idea he was there to save her. To her, he was just another perverted john, wanting a piece of her. He wished he could explain to her. The thought that she might be repulsed by him was nearly enough to deflate every ounce of lust from his system.

A low groan came from his throat and she gasped, apparently realizing his nearness. Her breasts seemed to rise up, calling to him.

I’m sorry
, he thought to himself. One day, he hoped to be able to apologize properly, and God willing she could forgive him…and he could forgive himself.

His hands slid around her waist to the small of her back and she arched toward him. His mouth came down around her sweet nipple and they both moaned.

She’s acting
, he told himself. But he couldn’t think that way. He had to pretend she was enjoying it too, or he didn’t know if he could go through with it.

He circled his tongue around her nipple, feeling it tighten and perk so he could suck it properly. Then he moved to the other side until both nipples were at attention.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Marco he loved the scent and taste of a woman. Colin moved slowly to his knees, running his tongue over her ribs, kissing her belly button, and trailing his hands over her ass and the back of her toned thighs. Too thin, but so beautiful.

She was panting when he lowered her thong to her ankles and lifted her feet one at a time to step out of them. At her core was a thin strip of trimmed hair, light brown. The rest looked incredibly smooth. Silky. Grasping her hips, his mouth covered her and she cried out. Colin needed better access, so he lifted one of her legs and draped it over his shoulder, glad when he felt her put some weight onto him. He used his thumbs to gently open her, and he dove in, his tongue going wild at the sweet and salty taste of her.

She was so vocal. Under his hands and mouth she bucked her hips. His tongue dipped further, finding complete wetness at her opening, and he groaned again. He wanted to put a finger in and feel her, but all his concentration was centered on her clit. As his tongue went back to it, flicking rapidly, he swore he felt her tense. And then she was moaning, her thighs tightening around his face. He felt the undulations of her orgasm, the pumping of blood through her sex as he suckled. Her breathing and shouts came in short, feminine spurts.