Page 28 of The Prince Who Loved Me

Sebastien laughed. “I think she did it to see if I’d notice.”

Brandi fixed the disorganized titles and curled back up on the sofa. “Have you even logged in to the dating sites you signed up for?”

He had made his account inactive the moment after it was created. “No one’s yet caught my attention.”

“We can look for love together,” she said.

“I think I have other plans,” he managed to say.

“Oh, yeah? Doing what? And with whom?”

He adjusted the stack of mail and the postcard from the art gallery slipped to the floor. He wasn’t running, that was for damn sure.

“This.” It wasn’t a half bad idea. Spend some time with other artists, refill his creative well, not watch Brandi get dressed up for someone else.

Brandi took the card from him, her fingers warm against his own. “An art walk in Atlanta?”

“The kickoff is tomorrow, but it’s every night for a week.”

“I love how cultured you are. I mean, I took an art history class. I’ve been to the Dali museum in Florida and done an architecture tour of St. Augustine, but I have to rely on what people tell me about art. I never see what I’m supposed to see.”

“You’re not supposed to see anything. Different people can look at the same picture and interpret it in different ways.”

“Like that picture of Lincoln that’s made with squares.”

“Or the painting of people strolling on an island that’s made with dots. But that’s not what I mean. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

He left the library and bounded up the grand staircase from the lobby to the second floor. Brandi knew he sketched, but he rarely showed anyone the pieces he did for himself. But if he wanted her to bare herself to him, he was going to have to do the same.

Massimo stood when Sebastien opened the door and managed a crisp bow. “Your High…” He cut himself off and made sure no one else was in the hallway. “I mean, Mr. Casagnes, do you need—”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” He rummaged around in his art portfolio and found the pictures he was after.

Brandi was standing by the side table that held the whiskey when he returned. She put the bottle into the cabinet, then handed him his glass. With ice.

He clinked his glass against hers and downed some of the amber liquid.

“What do you have there?” she asked.

He scooted back to the brown sofa and lay the first picture on the coffee table. The blue swirls and yellow lights shown with streaks of black weren’t anything real, so it was a good example of what he was trying to say.

He held out his hand and she took it, sitting on the couchnext to him, her body heat lingering on his skin. “What do you feel? First impression. There’s no wrong answer.”

“There’s always a wrong answer,” Brandi said. She took a deep breath and studied the picture. “I feel peace. Soothed.”

He replaced the sketch with a charcoal drawing of a litter of mixed-breed puppies.

“Did I get it right?”

Sebastien didn’t answer, only tapped the drawing. Brandi pressed her lips together. “Happiness. Warmth.”

“Okay.” Sebastien put other one down. The gold and maroon lines ended in thick strokes of black.

“This one makes me feel like there’s impending doom somewhere.”

“See?” Sebastien nudged his thigh against hers. “You know something about art.”

She nudged back. “What do they make you feel?”