Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | The Man in the Painting |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Flora Ferrari |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
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. | |
| Books by Author: | Flora Ferrari |
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.