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‘That’s not going to work when I’m trying to draw or paint you.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘So let me ask.’ She swept her hand across the room, taking in all the ancestors hanging on his walls, staring out at them disapprovingly. ‘Given you have an opinion on all things, what do you want your portrait to look like?’
He frowned, making the merest of creases in his perfectly smooth forehead, but she saw it none the less. ‘Isn’t it your job to decide?’
‘How about that one?’ She pointed to a man on horseback in a grand uniform braided with gold. There was no emotion on his face at all, nor in the way he watched the room impassively, with dark eyes. All the emotion was contained in the wild eyes of the rearing bay on which he sat, as if it were nothing but a plump little pony and he was going for a quiet afternoon ride. ‘He looks suitably warrior-like.’
She could imagine Alessio that way. She’d seen him ride, the fearlessness which made everyone hold their breath. The memory was like a stab at her heart, a constant reminder of everything she’d lost. Because she’d loved flying over jumps too. Encouraging herself and her horse to go hard, be better.
‘Since we’re not at war, no.’
Relief crashed over her like waves in a storm. Not on horseback, then.
‘What about him?’ She pointed to another grand portrait. The man on the gilded seat. With distant eyes and a hard mouth. His demeanour stern, looking like a disapproving relative. One hand clasping a gleaming sceptre. The other gripping the arm of the chair on which he sat. A large, bejewelled ring adorning his finger. Not a relaxed pose, even though you couldn’t tell from his face. The face told her nothing. ‘He’s sitting on a throne. Very regal and proper.’
‘The throne is...no.’
Alessio stood and walked towards her. His flawless grey suit gripping the masculine angles of his body. Every movement long and fluid. It was clear this was his domain and he was comfortable in it. He moved next to her. Not too close, but any distance was not far enough. He had a presence. Not threatening, but overwhelming, as if everything gravitated towards him. She swallowed, her mouth dry, her heart tripping over itself.
‘Then who do you want to be? How do you want to be seen?’
He stared down at her. Like a ruler lording over his subject. Except she’dneverbe that. But still, he radiated such authority she almost wanted to prostrate herself in front of him and beg forgiveness for some minor and imagined infraction.
‘Iwillbe the greatest prince Lasserno has ever had. That is how I will be seen. Nothing less will do.’
As she looked into his coldly beautiful face, Hannah had no doubts he’d achieve it. Her only problem was, how on earth was she going to paint it?
He should have remained seated. He shouldn’t be standing anywhere near her, but he was sucked into Hannah’s orbit like a galaxy falling to its doom in a black hole. He still couldn’t overcome the niggling sensation that he knew her. That alone should have sounded some kind of warning, but he was too enthralled by the way she fought him to worry about a creeping sense ofdéjà vu. Most people bowed or curtseyed. Pandered to his every whim. She didn’t seem inclined to do any of those things. She treated him as if he were nobody at all.
It should annoy him, and there was a thread of cool irritation pricking through his veins, but it tangled with something far hotter and more potent. Especially now. When he had last seen her she had been sweetly dishevelled. All mussed up and messy. Somehow completely unattainable because of it. She had looked as if she had no place in his world since there was nothing messy about his life. Not any more. Not since his mother died and he had had to grow up fast, pulling things together because his father had made enough mess for a hundred men.
Yet Hannah today...
Her hair wasn’t some tangle of a bird’s nest knotted carelessly on top of her head. It swung past her shoulders in a fall of sleek dark chocolate. Soft layers framed her face. Standing this close, he was captivated by her hypnotic green eyes, a wash of deep gold surrounding her pupils, which made them gleam as mysteriously as a cat’s. She wasn’t paint-spattered, as if that had been some kind of barrier separating them. Her shoes weren’t trainers, but polished black knee-high boots which wrapped round her slim calves. Dark jeans hugged her gentle curves. A crisp white shirt was unbuttoned enough to interest, but too high to give anything but a frustrating hint of her cleavage. Somehow, in this moment she looked more woman and less...waif.
What the hell was he doing? It was as if without the paint she’d been stripped of her armour as his artist and become someone attainable. She could never be that. She couldn’t beanythingto him. He was on a quest for his bride, to join him on the throne. A professional matchmaker was putting a list together at this very moment. And now he’d set down that path, his behaviour must be impeccable. No casual liaisons to report to the press in a tell-all that sought to bring him down to his father’s level where Alessio wouldnevergo.
This woman, whilst beautiful and challenging, was effectively his employee. Someone to be afforded appropriate distance and dutiful respect. Not to be the subject of carnal thoughts about her mysterious eyes, or how luscious and kissable her mouth appeared when smoothed with a little gloss...
He stepped away. She’d travelled many hours to be here, and yet he’d brought her to his office and not even offered her refreshments. No doubt she’d need her room and a rest. He’d ask Stefano to take her there and he’d work to regain his equilibrium.
She took a step towards him, hands on her hips. Eyes intent. A picture of defiance. Nothing like the behaviour dictated to her by the dossier he’d asked Stefano to put together, which was as much about his protection as hers.
‘If I’m going to paint thegreatestprince Lasserno has ever had, I need to see where I’m going to work.’
‘Of course, follow me.’ He said the words without thinking, before his brain engaged to remind him the less time spent in her presence the better. But it didn’t matter as his feet carried him towards the door of his office with her following behind. Past Stefano, who simply looked at him with a quizzically raised brow that had become all too familiar since Hannah had entered his life, rose, and followed as well. Against all better judgement, Alessio almost stood him down. Told him to get back to whatever he was doing on his phone and he would handle this, but his better judgement won.
Nowadays, it always did.
‘Your home is beautiful,’ Hannah said in a breathless kind of voice better suited to quiet, candlelit dinners aimed at seduction than a stroll through the palace halls, but this place inspired similar reactions in those who’d never seen it before. There was nothing special about her.
‘Thank you.’ He supposed it was the polite thing to say, but he always felt more of a custodian than anything else. It was all a workplace to him. ‘My ancestors built it as a fortress in the Renaissance. However, they refused to eschew comfort and style over practicality on the inside. It was designed to intimidate those who sought to intrude, and delight those invited in.’
Which is what the tour guides parroted, through the public areas. He’d learned their script. It was easier that way, because his view of the place was tainted by the memories of a childhood where even as a young boy he had recognised the chilly dysfunction between his parents, which had soon descended into a fully blown cold war. Before his innocence and any belief his father could be a good man had been shattered for ever in the throne room he would only sit in once, to take the crown. Then he would never enter it again.
‘What was it like living here? In all of this? Did you ever break anything precious?’
