Page 37 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
I really need to stop mumbling out loud.
Brazenly, I question, “Where are they then?”
Mortified by my bold question, my eyes seek anything that isn’t Isaac’s amused face. Sheets ruffling fills the awkward silence when he adjusts his position. The fine hairs on my body prickle when his warm breath flutters against my neck.
“They’re in myvery exclusiveprivate collection.”
A grin tugs my lips higher, pleased my panties are valuable enough to be added to Isaac’s private collection.
“And unless you want to add another set of your panties to my collection, I suggest you have a shower, get dressed, then join the rest of us for breakfast.”
Harshly gulping, my eyes flick to his. I stare at him in silence, contemplating his request. My eyes absorb every attractive feature of his striking face before I climb out of bed and walk toward the bathroom Harlow exited earlier. Isaac groans in frustration. That groan alone will warrant an icy cold shower.
CHAPTER19
Ijust broke the world record for the quickest shower. Not just because I failed to put any heat into the water to lessen the excitement coursing through my body, but because I’m interested in finding out what had Harlow so rattled earlier. Once I throw on a pair of denim shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, I exit the elegant guest bedroom.
Holy crap!
If the hallway is this elegant, what’s the rest of the house like? Leisurely strolling down the hall, I stop to appraise a range of beautiful oil paintings adorning the corridor. One painting captures my attention for a little longer than the rest. It’s a beautiful self-portrait of Frida Kahlo. If it’s an original—and I have no doubt it is—its estimated worth would be in the millions.
“She isn’t my type,” says a raspy voice in the distance. “The whole one eyebrow thing just doesn’t cut it.”
Turning my gaze to the voice, I’m met with a pair of light blue eyes brimming with mischief. His eyes offset a very handsome, preppy face. His blond hair is long enough the tips curl upward. He’s wearing long, black board-shorts and a light blue tee that matches his eyes perfectly. A smile stretches across my face when I notice he’s also barefoot.
Once his eyes finish studying me as eagerly as I pursued him, he winks.
“You, on the other hand, are very much my type.” He struts toward me. “Colby McGregor.” He offers me his hand to shake. “If I’d known you were out in the hall waiting for me, I would’ve awakened earlier.”
A broad grin creeps onto my face from his playful banter. “Isabelle Brahn.” I accept his handshake. “Is it an original?” I nudge my head to the painting.
“Uh-huh,” he answers, not the slightest bit impressed he has a painting worth millions of dollars hanging on the wall in his corridor. “When my mom found out Madonna brought some of Frida’s self-portraits, she had to get one, too.” He shrugs. “If you think this one is impressive, wait until you see my favorite painting.”
Placing his arm around my shoulders, he directs me down the impressively long hallway. When we reach the very end, he swivels me to face an oil painting displayed in an ebony frame.
A giggle erupts from my mouth when my eyes roam over the hideous painting in front of me. Seeing an unimpressed frown forming on Colby’s face, I quiet my laughter and appraise the picture with more diligence. When I squint my eyes and tilt my head to the left, I can see the outline of a face.
“Is that you?” I try my hardest not to laugh.
“Yep. I figured if Freda could make millions selling self-portraits, I may as well give it a go.”
“I hope you didn’t quit your day job.” I bite hard on my bottom lip to stop inappropriate chuckles escaping my lips.
The portrait is beyond revolting. It looks like someone painted a picture then threw a glass of water over it, but it’s endearing his family framed his painting and displayed it just as proudly as the masterpieces worth millions of dollars.
“Maybe self-portraits aren’t my thing. Maybe I need something more inspirational to paint,” he remarks. His gaze turns from the painting to me, so he can run his glistening eyes over my body. “Maybe nudes are more my thing?” He gives me a cheeky wink.
“Jeez, Colby, could you lay it on any thicker?” interrupts a perky female voice. “Did you check if she was here with someone, or are you going to whip it out and pee on her leg before any other guy sniffs her?”
“I’m going to whip it—”
Before Colby can get his entire sentence out, his chest is slapped so hard it winds him, which stops his playful taunt midsentence.
“Hello, I’m Cate McGregor. Cate with a C. This douchebag’s little sister,” introduces a cute, petite blonde.
Cate is so short she’d be lucky to be five-feet tall. She appears several years younger than me. If I had to guess her age, I’d say late teens. She has platinum blonde hair cut in a daringly bold pixie design. Her small-framed body is dressed in a pair of tiny, fringed denim shorts and a pink bikini top. Cate has the aura that makes me want to befriend her.
“Hi, I’m Isabelle,” I give her a friendly reply.
