The Arrogant Artist : A Billionaire Boss Romance (International Bad Boys Set Book 2)

don’t think I’m going to be sunning myself in paradise with some French god.” A girl can dream, though.
“Well, lucky you’re serious. It would look fantastic on your résumé and who knows what it could lead to,” Georgia tells me.
“Fine! Why not. Not like I’ll get the job, anyway.”
The girls all scream with delight as they make the best résumé in the history of résumés. Well, as good as it’s going to get when we’ve gone through one too many bottles of wine.
“One awesome résumé down,” Rosie states.
“Next. We need to move you out of that shithole apartment,” Georgia adds.
I don’t know where I’d be without my girls.

3
Louis
I can’t believe I’ve sold all my paintings. New York has been one of my most successful trips this year. My popularity is growing every day. I never imagined I’d be here living my dream, and that people who live halfway across the world want to purchase my paintings. As much as I have loved being away, I can’t wait to see Elisabeth again, to hold her in my arms, to kiss her, to fuck her. It’s been a long week apart.
I drop my keys in the bowl beside the front door. The house is quiet. It’s early evening, but the summer sun is still out and glowing in through the open windows. She must be down in one of the studios working—the light is amazing at this time of the evening.
A couple of years ago, we built artist studios at the back of our property. We lease them for free to artists as part of the mentor program that Elisabeth set up helping the next generation succeed in this competitive industry.
We have successfully launched the careers of some truly magnificent young artists over the years. It’s something I’m very proud of. There are so many talented kids out there and no one to help them succeed. I want to pay it forward like my mentor did for me.
I make my way closer to where one of the studios is located. Light streams from under the door, and music blares from inside. Yves, my brightest artist, needs his music loud when he paints. The aggressive beats are reflected in his art, the tortured soul that simmers right under the surface.
He’s had a rough childhood, and art seems to be the only way he can get his anger out, otherwise he explodes, but that emotion has enabled him to produce spectacular works of art that are selling quicker than he can produce them. He’s becoming the new ‘it’ boy of the art circuit.
I open the door to his studio—he’d never hear me knock, so I don’t bother anymore. I step inside the whitewashed walls, one-bedroom cabin, and what I see isn’t what I was prepared for. There, spread out on her stomach against the white canvas covered in paint is my wife, who’s being fucked from behind by Yves. He’s moving her around the canvas as he fucks her harder as if she’s his own human paintbrush. My wife is moaning, calling out his name, begging for more, begging for it harder.
All I can do is just stand there. I’m caught between the utter betrayal and the beautiful art they are creating together. It’s not until my wife opens her eyes mid-fuck that she screams, pushing Yves away.
“Louis, you’re home,” she states the obvious while reaching out and grabbing her white robe, quickly covering herself.
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry, L-Louis. I…” Yves stumbles over his words.
“Get the fuck out of my house, you little piece of shit,” I bellow at him, which makes him flinch and blink a few times.
“No.” My wife grabs Yves’ arm, and my eyes widen in shock. “He’s staying.”
“You think I’m going to allow this little shit to stay in my house after I come home to him fucking my wife?”
Elisabeth’s eyes widen, her body stiffens, and she takes a couple of steps toward me. “I’m his muse, Louis. This is art, nothing more. You, of all people, should understand that.”
How dare she throw how we met in my face.
“You weren’t married to him, Elisabeth.”
She was one of my mentor’s muses, one of many who used to pose for him.
“Yes, but he loved me.” Her eyes narrow at me. “He understood I was your muse. He knew he had to let me go, so you could succeed. You, of all people, know that sometimes an artist’s muse isn’t always who you want them to be.”
I’m stunned that she’s somehow trying to validate her cheating this way.
“And that’s what you are to him?” I question, pointing at Yves.
“Yes. Have you not seen his paintings? The passion that screams from the canvas.”
Then it hits me.
Yves’ latest works have changed from anger-filled paintings to softer themes. This new direction is because they are paintings of him fucking my wife every which way. I launch myself at him, landing a punch hard in the jaw while the studio fills with my wife’s screams.
“What the fuck?” I’m drenched with water.
“I thought you were dead,” Daniel, my brother and agent, grumbles. He’s standing there with a green bucket in his hand.
“I was sleeping, you asshole.” I shake to try and get the water droplets off my face—the last strings of my recurring nightmare still vivid in my mind. Empty bottles clink as I move the wet bedspread away from me.
“Look at you.” He points at the mess surrounding me. “There are beer, tequila, and wine bottles everywhere.”
“What can I say, I like it all.” I shrug.
Daniel scowls at me. “You need to stop this, Louis.”
It’s the same story over and over again with him—stop drinking, get over it, start painting again. You have obligations. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I tend to tune Daniel out when he goes off on one of his tangents. The hidden stash of whiskey helps as well.
“Do you have a death wish?”
I flip him off, searching around trying to find something to numb the pain again.
“Have this…” Daniel hands me a bottle of