Erotic Painting

BELINDA

It only took ten minutes to get down to the parking lot, get in the car, and pull up in front of a villa. If I had known his house was this close, I wouldn’t have bothered going to the office—I’d have called a locksmith and walked in as his wife.

“It’s pretty close,” I muttered as I unbuckled my seatbelt, clutching Paspas tight in my arms.

Stepping out of the car, I let out a low whistle. Clearly the scam artist married the wrong person. Darian should’ve married himself.

“We’ve been here for two years. When the land went up for sale three years ago, we bought it.”

“You all live here?”

“Yes. The ground floor is Marcus’s, second floor is mine, top floor is my brother’s.”

“He knows how to choose,” I said, eyeing the massive villa. “Saved the best view for himself.”

Normally villas had a single entrance, but this one had a separate outdoor entrance to each floor.

“Big property,” I commented, noticing there were no houses nearby.

“Big enough,” he murmured. My version of “enough” and his version of “enough” probably weren’t the same.

“Why separate entrances? Is it that hard to live together as brothers?”

“When we had the house designed, we thought we’d keep living here after marriage, so we figured separate doors were smart.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor when we reached the second floor. A pool in the yard wasn’t surprising—but a pool on the terrace of the second floor? That was insane.

The front of the floor was one huge terrace: a pool on one side, a big dining table on the other, and behind it a cozy covered lounge.

“My brother’s entrance is on the other side. I’ll leave your suitcase there,” he said, heading around the corner. He dropped the suitcase at the door and turned, handing me a key.

I took it, fighting the urge to explore immediately.

Pulling my gaze from the view, I narrowed my eyes at him. “Real smart giving me a key when your brother already suspects me.”

He laughed. We walked to the front entrance, but before we could go inside, a woman stepped out and approached us.

“Welcome,” she said, her curious eyes lingering on me—which was fair. If I saw a woman next to my husband, I’d stare too.

Luke kissed her neck. Of course. Not everyone was as dumb as me. Some people actually married the right guy on the first shot. I could go cry that into a diary later.

Inside, I still felt shock buzzing under my skin. I was terrified of that loan shark, though. If I had to use the real Darian to survive, so be it. I didn’t survive this long to die stupid.

And after seeing his house and his company? Five million clearly meant nothing to him. He could pay off those men and save my life. I’d pay him back slowly—preferably without fearing for my existence.

“This is Belinda,” Luke said, gesturing to me. “Belinda Freeman.”

“Rose,” he added, introducing his wife.

I shook her hand with a shamelessly calm smile. Yes, I was that kind of brazen idiot.

Thing is, if I acted awkward, I’d freeze up forever. Better to be cheeky and unpredictable. In the orphanage, you either shut down or you made people laugh. Outside I was loud and carefree—inside, locked doors and barbed wire.

My biggest mistake in life? The man I married. I spent three months with a stranger named Darian. When I found out, I didn’t know whether to spit in his face or shake his hand.

“Freeman?” Rose repeated, blinking at Luke.

“I’ll explain later,” he told her, grinning.

He, Marcus—everyone seemed entertained. I perched politely on the couch like I didn’t want to snoop around like a goblin.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Rose asked. I clutched Paspas tighter. The last thing I needed was my cat peeing on a million-dollar rug.

Rose’s expression was unreadable. Balanced. Impressive. I smiled back anyway. I could dissect her later. For now—I was playing nice.

“I need to go deal with the hurricane I left at the office,” Luke said.

“That means Darian,” Rose said immediately.

“How did you know?” I praised her. “He’s the troublemaker of the family, right?”

Luke rolled his eyes and filled her in. Rose listened—and then burst out laughing.

“Karma finally got Darian,” she giggled.

I rolled my eyes. “Glad I could provide entertainment. If your brother’s not plotting my death and my cat’s, then my name isn’t Belinda.”

Luke stood. “You two hang out. We’ll have dinner tonight and figure things out. I’ll go calm him first.”

“Any special dinner requests?” Rose asked.

The way Luke looked at her… men like that should be illegal. Meanwhile my fake husband never once looked at me like that. He was too busy scamming me.

“He’ll eat whatever you make,” I grumbled internally.

After he left, Rose asked, “Do you think he’ll calm him?”

“Three people can convince Darian: his mother, Luke… and Amanda.”

Amanda? Who the hell was Amanda?

“Who’s Amanda?” I asked sharply.

“His cousin. Basically his sister.”

Oh thank God. The universe could give me one mercy, at least. Then paranoia kicked back in.

“…He doesn’t have a girlfriend, right?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. That was not reassuring.

“You’d know if he did, though… right?”

“…Probably?” she answered, unsure. “For someone who just met him, you’re very curious.”

“He’s my husband.”

“Fake,” she reminded me sweetly.

Everyone enjoyed calling me stupid. Everyone.

“Maybe it becomes real,” she teased.

Me? With Darian? The man would drown me in a teaspoon of water.

We made coffee, I eventually trusted her enough to leave Paspas with security, and finally—finally—I went to Darian’s apartment.

After three days in a freezing hotel shower? I smelled like fear and misfortune. I needed to be human before dinner.

The house lights turned on automatically when I entered. I nearly died. So the house was smart. Shame the owner wasn't.

I headed to what I assumed was the bedroom—nailed it—and stepped inside.

Dark blue and silver. Elegant. Expensive. Then I saw the painting above the bed…

Holy. Hell.

It was erotic. Tasteful. Mysterious. Seductive. Bold and restrained at once. Like desire on canvas.

And suddenly I knew too much about a man I barely knew.

I shook myself, grabbed my towel, and jumped into the bathroom.

Shower was five minutes in my head—fifteen in reality. The fancy water sensor kept cutting off like it was judging me for being poor.

I walked out in my towel—and the bedroom door opened.

Darian looked at me, annoyed and very much present. My brain blanked for half a second. Then instinct kicked in and I went for my suitcase.

“Hotel had no hot water,” I explained casually.

“There’s a bathroom in the hallway. And in the guest room. You chose mine on purpose?”

“I didn’t make love to your shower. I washed and left.”

He didn’t move. Fine. Let him watch. I pulled on underwear under the towel, turned my back, strapped my bra, grabbed a dress—

“You must strip on stage too, judging by how casual you are.”

Cute. He tried to insult me.

“Considering you clearly chose not to leave, don’t act like a saint now.”

“Put the dress on. I’ve seen enough.” He started unbuttoning his shirt.

I put the dress on.

“I’m sure you’ve seen plenty.”

“Not impressed,” he muttered.

Then he took his shirt off. Then his undershirt.

My brain melted like cheap ice cream.

“Wipe your drool,” he said. He got a shirt from the closet.

He stood inches from me. “Didn’t you say you’d seen better?”

“…Not this good up close,” slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

He smirked.

“Shame. I can’t say the same. I’ve seen much better.”

Arrogant bastard.