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Ruthlessly.
‘I tend not togiveultimatums.’ Her voice was deeper than he’d expected. Almost...aristocratic in its tone. It feathered his spine the way a stroke of her paint-ingrained fingers might. And in these moments he couldn’t avoid the pressing sense of déjà vu, as if he was missing something. Everything about her seemed...strangely familiar.
She claimed not to know him but was as skittish as a colt in spring when he’d first mentioned it. Perhaps it had something to do with his security detail. They tended to suck the air out of the place with their professional brand of malevolence, which was why he’d asked them to leave. Stefano stayed, of course. Alessio didn’t spend time alone with women he didn’t know, not any more. There would be no ugly rumours. Everyone who surrounded him was carefully vetted and explicitly trusted. He’d learned lessons about putting faith in the wrong person. His father might have courted the press with his outrageous behaviour but Alessio gave them nothing.
‘We seem to be at a stalemate,’ he said.
She cocked her head. Raised her eyebrows. ‘Yet you’restillhere.’
Perhaps there was an answer which could accommodate everybody. His life had been spent trying to find solutions to every problem, mostly regarding his father. He’d become an expert at it, spending his hours working to silence hints at his father’s worst excesses, the rumours about the missing gems from the crown jewels. As for Hannah Barrington—when he’d asked Stefano to find the best portrait artist in the world he hadn’t expected it to be a reclusive young woman of twenty-five, whose paintings looked as if they contained the experience and insight of a life long-lived. On viewing her portfolio of work, he knew he’d found the person for his portrait.
He turned to his secretary. As he did so, Hannah seemed to start towards him, then checked herself. Interesting. Did she think he was about to leave? Perhaps she wanted this commission more than she was prepared to admit? If so, everyone had their price. And he was prepared to pay a high price for her. Hannah Barrington was the best, and he’d have nothing less.‘Start as you mean to finish,’his English nanny had used to say, teaching him her language as a young boy and what it meant to be leader of his principality. Better a foreigner who knew the value of royalty and duty, than his father, who valued none of those things. The lessons Alessio had learned at his knee were all about excess, indulgence and infidelity. Not the qualities of the leader Alessio wished to aspire to be.
Stefano raised an eyebrow as Alessio approached looking far too entertained at developments. His friend, partner in crime in the years gone by and now private secretary remained his most trusted confidant.
‘It gives me great satisfaction that there’s one woman in the world who’s immune to your charms,’ Stefano said in their native Italian, presumably so Signorina Barrington couldn’t understand. ‘Although you’re not being charming today.’
Whilst he knew it was rude, Alessio didn’t switch to English, and wouldn’t until he had his solution. ‘I need to know the state of my diary. I’venoneed to charm anyone.’
He’d set aside that reputation years ago. Alessio would admit in his youth he had relished in the position his birth gave him. He wasn’t proud of those things now, especially the string of women who had cemented his playboy reputation.Like father, like son,the press used to say. A creep of disgust curled inside him. Not now. An advantageous marriage to a perfect princess was next on his agenda. To give Lasserno the stability it had lacked since his mother’s death. Some heirs to continue his line. The royalty in Lasserno would soon be feted in its perfection, not mocked for its all too human failings. That was his mission, and he would succeed.
Stefano pulled up Alessio’s diary, showed it to him. Busy, but not impossible.
‘Your problem is that you don’t like people saying “no” to you,’ Stefano murmured. In English this time.
How many times had he tried to stop his father? Curb his behaviour? It was what he’d ostensibly been brought home to do, ripped out of his life showjumping and studying in the UK when his mother had fallen ill, because at least when she was well she’d formed some sort of brake on his father’s worst excesses. And yet when he’d brought up ideas to reinvigorate the economy and tourism in a country whose beauty and natural riches were equal to anywhere in their close neighbour, Italy, he’d been met with disparaging refusal. No answers as to why his ideas wouldn’t work. Nothing at all.
Stefano was correct. Alessio didn’t like being toldnoon things he was right about. Not without a sensible reason. Since his father’s abdication he’d not heard that cursed word from one of his government or advisors. It was...gratifying in a way he could never have imagined. A vindication of all he’d been trying to achieve over the years.
Alessio turned his attention to Hannah. Checked his watch. ‘I will not write answers to your questionnaire, but I do have some limited time in my schedule.’
Time he could control. Leaking of information he couldn’t.
A slight frown creased her brow and he wasn’t sure whether the disapproval was back, or whether something else was at play.
‘Then I can’t—’
‘My calendar is free of more onerous engagements. You wish to know me to paint my portrait? You’ll travel to Lasserno. Become my official artist for two weeks. Follow me and learn about me. It should be enough.’
He could almostsensethe weight of Stefano’s incredulous stare but he didn’t much care what his best friend thought at this moment. The woman in front of him had his complete focus. The plump, perfect peach colour of her mouth. The rockpool-green of her eyes. Eyes which stared deep inside as if they saw the heart of him. Eyes a man could drown in and die happy if he allowed himself, which Alessio could never do. It was no matter. He was used to compartmentalising that side of himself. There would benorumours of improper behaviour on his part. His life was one of supreme control, Lasserno his only mistress.
She planted her paint-stained hands on her hips. ‘Now, look. That’s—’
‘Not your process. I’m aware. This will be better.’
He could get anyone else to paint him. Most people would climb over themselves to take the commission and the accolades it would afford. In coming to his decision he’d been shown the work of many artists who were all superb and could acquit themselves admirably. The minute he saw Hannah Barrington’s work, he knew. It was her he must have. No one else would do. And yet here she stood, utterly uncompromising. As if she were still intent onrefusinghim. The challenge of it set his pulse beating hard. He’d not felt anything like it since the last time he’d taken his stallion, Apollo, over the high fence behind the vineyards on the castle grounds.
‘I have other clients.’ Whilst her hands were still firmly on her hips, her teeth worried furiously at her bottom lip.
‘You have an agent. She can tell clients you’re painting a portrait of a prince. They’ll understand, because my patronage will increase the value of their own pictures. I promise, this commission will be themakingof you.’
‘It’stwo weeksaway from my home. You’re not the only busy person in the room.’ All the glorious fire in her, such a contrast to the cool mint of her eyes. For a moment he wished he were an ordinary man who could explore these ordinary desires, but that was a folly he would not indulge in.
This portrait, theperfectportrait, would show the world exactly how he meant to carry on his role as a leader. It would be the best.Hewould be the bestprince Lasserno had seen in its long and proud history. He would write over his father’s legacy, scratching it out in a neat and perfect script till it disappeared and was forgotten.
Hannah was the first piece in a larger puzzle. Time to sweeten the deal. To make it irresistible.
‘I’ll offer youfivetimes your normal fee for the inconvenience.’
