The Man In The Painting: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Read online

  CONTENTS

  The Man in The Painting

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Five Years Later

  Fifteen Years Later

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  INKED BY LOVE

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  THE MAN IN THE PAINTING

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 302

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2022 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  THE MAN IN THE PAINTING

  I’ve always wondered why no one has ever stayed in this particular summer house.

  I’ve always wondered why my friend insists that I clean the place when it stands empty.

  I’ve always wondered who the handsome stranger in the painting is.

  My life is a mess, but it seems like each time I look into the dreamy eyes of the man in the painting, everything seems to become better.

  His dreamy blue-green eyes hold so many sinful promises that set my heart pounding and my skin tingling each time I look into them.

  He’s the man of my dreams, but that’s just about it...because men like him don’t go inexperienced curvy virgin like me.

  Despite my late night wishes and daydreams, I never thought I’d see him in real life.

  I was ready to contend myself with dreams of him and one painting...until I open my eyes to his gorgeous turquoise ones.

  This time, it isn’t a dream…

  The clearly handsome older man, with steel peppered hair, and broad shoulders was here. With me.

  * The Man in The Painting is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Melody

  An unconscious smile drifts to my face as I stare at the huge twenty by twenty-four inch painting on the wall.

  It’s almost like a ritual, admiring this image every day after work. For me, it’s a kind of self-indulgence – that little moment where I let my mind wander and dare to dream….

  The virility of the image never fails to amaze me.

  It draws me like a moth to fire, ready to burn me to ashes if I wander too near.

  This subtle excitement runs through my veins every time I look deep into its perfect blend of colors. It makes me want to throw caution to the wind and succumb to a strange whirl of impulses. Something about the painting makes my heart race every time.

  Maybe it’s the enigmatic aura so perfectly conveyed by the artist or the very man in the painting. He’s a real work of art.

  And for the thousandth time, my heart fills up with an indescribable feeling of happiness as I take in his handsome face’s hard planes and sharp angles.

  The contrasting softness of his drooping eyelids vividly depicted by the painter’s brush with intricately delicate strokes makes me wish I had him next to me in bed.

  His turquoise eyes seem so alive, the gorgeous blue-green depths shimmering with an oddly exhilarating ruthlessness. He seems like an impossible mixture of fire and ice, a god in his own right.

  My fingers itch to run along the lines of his firm yet supple lips, curved in a slightly mocking smile. One would think he was passing an audacious yet unspoken message to the artist.

  He radiates power, even from a painting. I allow a dreamy sigh.

  If only I could meet him in real life.

  Just a glimpse of his face and....

  What would you do, then? He wouldn’t even glance your way.

  That’s no lie. Besides the fact that he’s way older, there’s no way

  A man with such good looks and obvious class would never notice plain Melody Hanson with nothing to her name and no real future in sight.

  I glance at my old leather watch and realize I have been staring at the portrait for way too long.

  I tear my gaze away and swallow down the wishful sigh in my throat. I look around the living room, taking in every piece of tasteful furniture while doing a mental sweep of the bedrooms and bathroom.

  Not a speck of dust…. Brenda’s mellow voice filters through my thoughts at that moment.

  Brenda is the manager of Summer House, the summer getaway homes company where I work as a cleaner.

  She’s a pretty brunette in her late thirties with a perfectly proportioned body and the most good-natured personality I’ve ever met.

  It always makes me wonder what kind of man would treat her like her ex-husband, Matthew Spencer, did. Brenda is recently divorced and lives alone with her lovely five-year-old, Ella.

  Brenda is a great boss and a good friend.

  Over the years since I’ve been working for Summer House, we’ve gotten close. Even though she’s several years older, I consider her a friend, the only one I have in all of Hudson.

  Sometimes, we’ll chat over a cup of coffee in her office whenever I drop by to get the keys to the homes I need to clean. And, on some weekends, I volunteer to watch little Ella whenever Brenda has to attend to urgent business out of town.

  Even from the first day, I started working for Summer House, Brenda has always been particular about keeping this house clean, even though no guests have ever occupied it.

  Once I asked her why this particular house hadn’t been assigned to any of the visiting tourists but must be kept clean every day.

  Brenda had mentioned that the house belonged to a special guest. She never did explain to me why but before long she was filling me in on the most recent local gossip. I’d taken that as my clue to stay off the subject. I would just have to make do with my assumptions.

  So many times, I’ve had to hold back from asking questions about the man in the painting. I have no business being curious about him.

  I glance up at the huge antique clock above the
fireplace and gasp quietly.

  I’m late.

  I have to leave now, or I’ll miss my bus home. I’ll have to wait a long time for the next one.

  I don’t have the liberty of extra time, though, so I quickly snatch my coat from the hanger and head out of the house in a hurry.

  As usual, the bus ride home is quiet.

  I make a mental list of what I have to do when I get home. I’ll freshen up, scrap some leftovers from my fridge, and then prepare for my online night classes.

  I have three homes to clean tomorrow, but first I have to drop by Brenda’s office to pick up the keys.

  As usual, I was already half-asleep when the bus pulled up to my stop. I jerk awake thanks to the sharp cry of a distraught mother sitting close to me.

  I throw a pitiful glance at the poor mom trying to console her wailing daughter and quickly descend from the bus.

  I hurriedly walk down the dingy alleyway that leads to my apartment, staying alert for any strange sounds or movement behind me.

  I live in the less savory parts of Hudson, and it’s not uncommon to get attacked in dark alleyways like the one that leads to my house.

  I let out a deep breath of relief as soon as I reach my door.

  I quickly open my door and slip into my apartment, locking the door after me.

  I strip mindlessly, piling my clothes on the single sofa in my room. I walk naked into the bathroom, softly humming the tune to Adele’s ‘Don’t You Remember.’

  My life is a boring repetition, and I actually prefer it that way. I enjoy the peace that comes with it.

  It’s a contradiction to my stormy childhood and teenage years back in Texas. Moving to Hudson was the best decision I’ve made for myself yet.

  I feel the onset of a familiar rush of emotions pushing against the mental barrier I created to shield myself from the pain.

  I can’t let go, though.

  I don’t know what I’d do if I let my demons catch up with me. So, I focus on lathering some shampoo in my hair while going through the next day’s tasks.

  Again.

  I turn off the shower and step out of the bathtub.

  I reach out to pull my towel off the rack when I suddenly hear a strange rustling sound outside my bathroom door.

  I freeze, craning my neck to listen better.

  The sound comes again, and this time I’m almost certain that there’s someone else in my apartment.

  My head instantly fills up with several gory scenarios of women who have been attacked and molested in their homes in this very neighborhood.

  My heart lurches violently in my chest and settles into an unsteady rhythm. I look around wildly for anything that can act as a sort of weapon, and my eyes fall on my shampoo bottle by the sink.

  I knit my towel tightly around me and grab the shampoo bottle. I hold the shampoo bottle defensively above my head, tiptoeing quietly toward the door.

  I close my fingers around the doorknob and turn slowly. I open the door and peep out. My heart almost stops when I see a tall, hooded figure by my door. His back is turned to me, and he’s hunched over doing something to my lock.

  I run blindly at him, ready to draw blood with my shampoo bottle. Instead, he turns just in time to avoid a fatal hit to the head. He grabs my hand tightly and violently jerks me against his chest.

  A shrill scream escapes my throat, my eyes tightly shut in horror.

  “Melody? Melody!”

  The deep raspy voice penetrates through my fear.

  I open my eyes, momentarily disoriented. My gaze focuses on the familiar gaunt face of my landlord.

  I jerk away from him, suddenly conscious of my semi-naked state. His translucent blue eyes seem to take in my appearance in an unhurried sweep that sends chills down my spine.

  “Wh... What are you doing here?” I stammer, slowly putting some distance between us. “How... How did you get in here? The door....”

  “The door was open,” Jack interrupts, his thin mouth pulling up in a slow smile, revealing his slightly yellowed teeth.

  Jack is a twenty-seven-year-old divorcee who recently inherited the apartment building where I stay from his mother. He doesn’t stay in the apartment building but sometimes comes around for maintenance checks.

  There is an eeriness about him that always puts me on edge every time.

  Or maybe it’s because I once heard Mrs. Albert, one of the tenants, telling her friend that Jack was once a druggie and convicted for rape, too.

  Anyway, I’ve always done my best to avoid him.

  I glance at my lock again, my brows pulling up in a slight frown of confusion.

  I could have sworn that I locked the door. But how did Jack come into my room then? I raise my eyes to Jack’s again, swallowing nervously.

  “Wh... What do you want?” I ask again.

  “I was going around for maintenance checks, and I saw that your door was open,” Jack replies with a slight shrug. “I was worried. Do you need anything repaired?”

  I quickly shake my head. “No. No... I don’t need anything.”

  Please, leave!

  Jack nods, slowly looking around my room as if he has all the time in the world.

  His gaze returns to mine, his smirk widening creepily. “You shouldn’t leave your door open like that. You never know what kind of danger lurks in the dark.”

  I shiver slightly at the insinuating undertone in his voice. “Th...thank you,” I mutter, lowering my eyes from his.

  Jack nods and heads out the door, but not before throwing one last meaningful glance over his shoulder.

  I quickly bolt the door behind him, placing my hand against my chest to regulate my heartbeat.

  I sag weakly against the door behind me, my shampoo bottle hanging limply between my fingers.

  What the hell just happened?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Abram

  “What do you mean a heart attack, Doc? He’s not even fifty!”

  I open my eyes to the panicked voice of June Barley, my long-time friend, and personal secretary.

  My throat feels parched, and my body feels like it weighs a ton.

  I turn my head to see June and a doctor standing a few feet away from my hospital bed. June is wringing her hands, frowning up at the doctor. He’s trying his best to explain the situation to her.

  Tendrils of her honey-colored hair fall messily across her pretty round face, and her usually neat ponytail is in a hazardous condition, an indication of her being distraught.

  She suddenly looks eons older than her thirty-two years of age. I feel my chest tighten with a pang of guilt as I watch her bite her lower lip in worry.

  “You make it sound like forty-nine is any different from fifty,” I say lightly, drawing the attention of both of them.

  “Abram!” June cries, walking over to my bedside in hurried steps. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been asleep for too long,” I reply through the dryness in my throat. “What the hell happened to me?”

  “You slumped over in the middle of a meeting, dummy,” June replies in a high-pitched voice, her brows still pulled together in a worried expression. “You work too hard, Abram.”

  I drape an arm lazily over my eyes to avoid her pointed gaze. “You nag too loud, June,” I mutter.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Harden?” the doctor asks, finally stepping forward.

  I lower my arm to give the middle-aged man a reassuring smile. “I feel like I just woke up from a long nap after having been pumped with loads of strong meds. Can I have some water, please?”

  June quickly retrieves a plastic cup from the bedside table and wordlessly holds it out to me.

  I sit up slowly, supporting my weight against the headboard. June leans over to plop pillows behind me, fussing until I smile up at her in satisfaction.

  One would think she’s my wife.

  “Thanks, June,” I say with a slight teasing wink.

  June rolls her eyes at me in exasperatio
n, but it warms my heart to see a ghost of a smile on her lips. I must have given her quite a scare.

  The same way she worries about me, I worry about her, too.

  And although I don’t show that emotion often, June knows me like the palm of her hand.

  To the world, I’m a cold-hearted yet genius artist. Some blogs have described me as a ruthless businessman.

  I play my part too well. I don’t care much for things that aren’t of any benefit to me, including people.

  I am surrounded by people who want to associate with me because of the things that I can offer them. Therefore I close my heart to them all and deal with them in accordance with their usefulness to me.

  There used to be a time when I craved validation so badly, but that was a long time ago.

  But things are different with June. With her, I can take off the mask and be myself. There aren’t any expectations or condemnations. She genuinely cares for me and my career.

  Over the years, we’ve slowly built a strong friendship that has passed the trials of time. June has seen me at my lowest and best.

  I consider her my only friend.

  She accepts my jadedness, even though she doesn’t understand it. It hasn’t always been that way, though. I remember when June started to work for me.

  She was fresh out of graduate school, inexperienced, and full of aspirations. She was a stark contrast to her cynical boss.