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Inwardly he groaned, her name just a whisper in his body, a curse too, because he had no business so much as thinking of her, let alone remembering everything about her.
Not when his engagement would be made formal within a month. Not when his future awaited—and duty to his country called to him as loudly as ever. Then, he’d been one week away from assuming the throne, and now he was weeks away from making a marriage commitment.
All of Tolmirós was waiting for its King to finally wed and beget an heir. An heir that would promise stability and the safekeeping of the prosperous nation: all of that was on Matthias’s shoulders, as much now as it had been then. He’d run from this fate for as long as he could. His family had died when he was only a teenager and the idea of marrying, having his own children, as though you could so easily recreate what had been lost, pressed against his chest like a weight of stone.
But it was needed; it was necessary. His country required its King to beget an heir, and he needed a wife. A suitable wife, like one of the women his assistant had vetted for him. A woman who would be cultured, polished and appropriate.
His eyes shut and there she was: Frankie. Frankie as she’d been that afternoon they’d met, her clothes paint-splattered, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, her smile contagious. His gut clenched.
His wife—his Queen—would be nothing like Frankie.
What they’d shared went beyond logic and reason—it had been an affair that had rocked him to his core because, after only a matter of hours, he’d known he was in danger of forgetting everything he owed to his people if it meant more time with the woman—she had been like some kind of siren, rising out of the sea, drawing him towards danger unknowingly.
And so he’d done what he was best at: he’d drawn his heart closed, he’d pushed his emotions deep inside, and he’d walked out on her without a backwards glance.
But now, back in New York, he found himself thinking of her in a way he’d trained himself not to. His dreams he could not control, but his waking mind was as disciplined as the man himself, and he saw no point in dwelling on the past, and particularly not on such a brief event.
Only she was everywhere he looked in this city—the lights that sparkled like the depths of her eyes, the elegance of the high-rises that were tall where she had been short, the nimble alertness, the vivid brightness—and he wondered what it would be like to see her once more. Call it idle curiosity, or simply scratching an itch.
He was a king now, not the man he’d been when they’d first slept together. But his needs were the same. His desires. He stared out at the city and the idea grew.
What harm could come from dipping into the past, just for a night?
* * *
‘The lighting is beyond perfect,’ Frankie enthused, glancing her trained artist’s eye over the walls of the midtown gallery. The showing was scheduled for the following day; this was her last chance to make sure everything was absolutely as she wanted it to be.
A frisson of excitement ran down her spine.
For years she’d been struggling. Establishing oneself as an artist was no mean feat, and every spare penny she made was funnelled into trying to keep a roof over their heads. It was one thing to be a starving artist when you were footloose and fancy-free—there was even a degree of romance to the notion.
The reality was a lot less enjoyable, particularly with a rapidly growing two-and-a-half-year-old to care for and a mountain of bills that seemed to go on for ever.
But this show...
It could be the game-changer she’d been waiting for.
Two broadsheet newspapers had already sent reviewers to have a pre-show viewing, and the opening night had been advertised across the city. Her fingers, her toes and the hairs on her head remained crossed that she might finally catch her big break into the competitive New York art scene.
‘I did think of using small spotlights here.’ Charles nodded towards some of her favourite landscapes—sun rising over oceans, but all in abstract oils—gashes of colour scratched over the paper to create the impression of day’s dawn. Each picture would be interpreted differently by the spectator, and Frankie liked that. It was her take on each day being what you made of it.
‘I like the overheads you’ve chosen,’ she demurred, another shiver running down her spine. Her whole body was a tangle of nerves—and she told herself it was because of the exposure. Not the media exposure—the exposure of herself. Every thought, lost dream, wish, fear, feeling had been captured on these canvases. Even the paintings of Leo, with his stunning crop of black curls, intense grey eyes, so shimmery they were almost silver, lashes that curled precociously and wild. He was her little love, her heart and soul, and his image now hung on the walls of this gallery, waiting to be seen by thousands, she hoped, of viewers.
‘The door,’ Charles murmured apologetically, in response to a sound that Frankie hadn’t even noticed. She was moving closer to the painting she’d done of Leo last fall.
He’d been laughing, collecting dropped leaves from the sidewalk and tossing them into the air with all the enthusiasm a two-year-old boy could muster, and as they’d fallen back to earth he’d watched their progress before crouching down and crunching a new selection into his chubby grip.
His joy had been so euphoric she’d had to capture it. So she’d snapped hundreds of photos from different angles, committing the light to her memory, and then she’d worked late into the night.
And she’d done what she did best: she’d taken a mood, a slice of one of life’s moments, and locked it onto a canvas. She’d created a visual secret for the viewer to share in, but only for as long as they looked at her work. It was a moment in time, a moment of her life, and now it was art.
‘The opening is tomorrow night, sir, but if you’d like to take a brief look at the collection...’
‘I would.’
Two words, so deep, and from a voice so instantly familiar.
A shiver ran down Frankie’s spine of a different nature now. It wasn’t a shiver of anxiety, nor joyous anticipation, it was one of instant recognition, a tremble of remembrance and a dull thudding ache of loss.
