The Flaw in His Red-Hot Revenge

by Abby Green

  After what had come later in the afternoon, those desires seemed childish. It had taken another terrible moment on that day for the world to stop turning a second time. It hadn’t restarted.

  His being here brought back too many memories of a split second when all her innocence and faith in the good of the world had ended. Riding passenger in the car driven by her friend’s parents. Rounding a corner, littered debris...the...carnage. Car and horsebox destroyed. Everything she’d loved, gone. A freak accident. A tractor in the wrong place on a narrow country road. Hannah flinched. Shut her eyes tight against the horrible vision running like a stuttering film reel in her head.

  ‘Are you all right, Signorina Barrington?’

  She opened her eyes again. Nodded. Breathed. Stitched up the pain in her heart where it would stay for ever. Hannah didn’t want to go back to that time, and if Alessio truly remembered he might start asking questions. She couldn’t deal with them, not now.

  Alessio looked at his bodyguards, standing as a brooding presence in the corner. Said something in rapid Italian and they bowed and left the room. The atmosphere relaxed a fraction.

  ‘I’m here to discuss you painting my portrait.’

  Hannah clasped her hands behind her back. ‘As my agent would have told you, I have a number of commissions...’

  Alessio stepped towards her and she was forced to look up because, whilst she wasn’t tiny, he dwarfed her. He was even more astonishing up close. Nothing marred his features. It was as if no part of the man would deign to be anything less than polished and perfect. He held her transfixed with those velvety brown eyes of his. Till looking at him any more left her head spinning.

  He must have taken her silence as reticence.

  ‘Your fee. I’ll double it. And I’m a prince, so...’

  She stepped back. It was either that or lean into him and all his solidity in a moment when she felt a little broken. ‘I know what you are.’

  What was she doing? Crucifying herself, that was what. She needed this commission, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d made a promise when she first started painting, that she’d only take the jobs she wanted. Trying to establish a connection with your subject could prove taxing some days. In the early stages after her parents died she’d drawn them incessantly, terrified that the memory of how they looked would fade. Day and night she sketched, to perfect them so she could never forget. It had exhausted her, the obsession. Made her ill. Sometimes it still did when she became engrossed with a commission. It was why she chose so carefully.

  Alessio Arcuri would never be a careful choice. Any connection with him could break her.

  ‘Then I promise if you paint my portrait I’ll ensure everyone knows who you are. So far those you’ve painted have been...inconsequential.’

  Portraiture had never been about accolades, but about preserving memories. The minutiae, the nuance of a person. Sure, she was paid well for what she did, but it was never about simply being paid. It was about ensuring people weren’t forgotten.

  She looked at the portrait of the older woman currently on her easel. A believer in justice, lover of barley sugar and Yorkshire tea. ‘I wouldn’t say a judge is nobody. The law’s important, as is doing the right thing. But I mostly like painting pictures of people the world overlooks. They deserve their moment to be seen, to be remembered. You’re seen all the time.’

  Alessio shrugged. That movement seemed out of place on a man who appeared only to move when absolutely necessary. ‘Is anyone truly seen? The press often tries to paint pictures of me and they’re rarely right.’

  ‘What picture do they try to paint?’ The cool command? The lack of emotion? She could imagine they’d claim he was more automaton than real and relish finding the tiniest chink in his gleaming armour to take him down.

  Alessio raised an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t looked me up on the internet? I thought you were renowned for knowing your subjects.’

  ‘You’re not my subject so I haven’t needed to know you.’

  ‘The judge.’ He inspected the painting, eyes narrowing as he stared at the woman on the canvas. ‘That portrait tells stories. I want you to tell mine. You’re the best. No one could see me like you could.’

  Part of her wanted to mine the essence of him, because people fascinated her. But doing so had a cost and she wasn’t sure she was prepared to pay it when Alessio reminded her of everything she’d lost.

  ‘“The best” is subjective. I have terms for everyone I paint. My agent tells me you refused mine.’

  Sue had been clear. You didn’t say no to a prince. Hannah had to keep her options open... She knew what those ominous words meant. Once her uncle’s duplicity had been discovered, this meeting with the Prince had become necessary. Resented, but necessary none the less.

  ‘I’m here now,’ Alessio said. The hard, uncompromising set of his jaw told her he might register what she said but he wasn’t really listening.

  She turned her back on him and walked to a paint-splattered desk on which her palette and scattered half-used tubes of oil paint were strewn in the haphazard way of this whole room. She opened a drawer and pulled out a few papers, then walked back to where he stood and thrust them in his direction. He took them from her paint-ingrained fingers. Flicked through.

  ‘Am I a cat or dog person?’ His eyebrows rose in disbelief. ‘What is this?’

  She took time with her subjects. The questionnaire was one small part. There were personal sittings, the live sketching. She’d been comfortable with each person she’d painted so far. Had liked them and their quirks in their own way. But Alessio Arcuri? She wasn’t sure she could. A person’s eccentricities, no matter how small, gave them personality. How could she do justice to this man, who didn’t seem to have a quirk about him? He dazzled like a flawless gemstone.

  ‘Those questions are the reason I’m so good at what I do. I get to know my subjects. Intimately.’

  At the last word his eyes widened a fraction. Surely he wouldn’t think... Heat rushed to her cheeks. The corner of his mouth kicked up a minute fraction. The moment counted in milliseconds and then it was gone, before his attention returned to the paper in his hands. But even those seconds had her heart racing in an attempted getaway.

  ‘“What is your best childhood memory?” “Your worst?”’ A frown marred his forehead. He thrust the pages back at her. ‘No. If the press got hold of this—’

  ‘They won’t.’ She ignored his outstretched arm. ‘I read it, then destroy it. I also sign non-disclosure agreements for those who want them. No information has ever reached any press outlet from me. You could take some time and fill out my questions right here.’

  He seemed to stand even taller now, imposing like the prince he was. She could even imagine the gleaming crown on his head.

  ‘All these people you paint. The press has no interest in them. Me? I’m royalty. You know how tabloids clamour for stories. I give them none. But this?’ He waved his hands over the offending document as if he were trying to bat away some pestilential bug set on biting him. ‘I don’t answer twenty questions, for anyone.’

  ‘There are eighteen questions. But the number isn’t important. You can tell me the answers.’

  He dropped the papers on the table next to him. ‘You’re a stranger.’

  And that was the way it would stay for ever, even though there was something about this tussle Hannah began to enjoy. A tiny thrill that his interest still held, no matter how she pushed. It told her he really wanted her to paint him, stroking an ego she didn’t realise needed attention. What would her sixteen-year-old self think now?

  That young girl would think all her dreams had come true.

  ‘Here’s the thing. Doing this allows me to paint at my best. The type of picture you seem to desire, seeing as you’re still standing in my studio. You want me to paint your portrait, then...double my fee and answer m
y questions.’ She rose up, stiffening her spine to match him. If he was playing the prince card then she’d pull a queen on him, because this studio was her domain and she ruled here exclusively. ‘You can take it or leave it.’

  * * *

  Alessio hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but he’d expected something more polite than this. Certainly, she’d curtseyed as expected. A seemingly respectful bow of the head when he was sure none was meant, because her eyes had flashed a kind of warning, the whole of her bristling like some disapproving hedgehog. Cute, but all spike and prickle. Right now, she stood framed by the light from the windows behind her. Dark hair mussed in an unruly topknot. Dressed in a blue and white striped men’s shirt with a frayed collar, cuffs pushed back on her forearms, smeared and smudged with paint. Loose, ripped jeans. Trainers as paint-spattered as the rest of her.

  Dishevelled and all the more enticing for it.

  ‘I tend not to accede to ultimatums,’ he said. Though he admired hers more than he’d admit. She’d hold her own with some of the best of his courtiers, this woman.

  She glared at him, no respect meant there at all, and their eyes truly met. Hers were green, perhaps. Arresting. Their depth and swirls of colour transfixed him. She carried the world in that luminous gaze and something drove him to discover what lay behind it, when discovering anything about her other than whether she was prepared to paint his portrait was impossible. He pushed the interest aside.

  Ruthlessly.

  ‘I tend not to give ultimatums.’ 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’re still here.’

  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’ve no need 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 told no on 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 almost sense the 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 be no rumours 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 on refusing him. 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 the making of you.’

  ‘It’s two weeks away 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, the perfect portrait, would show the world exactly how he meant to carry on his role as a leader. It would be the best. He would be the best prince 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 you five times your normal fee for the inconvenience.’

  Her nostrils flared, and her eyes sparked at the mention of increasing her fee. Avarice was something he understood, a common currency, and he was happy to fuel it so long as it was legal and he got his way in the end. His former girlfriend, Allegra, was a perfect study in how money won over loyalty. Luckily he had more than the reporter had offered for a story on how his father had been picking gems from the crown jewels and giving them away as favours. Replacing them with paste. He’d never forgotten the lessons learned in that episode about unburdening yourself to the wrong person.

  Hannah opened her mouth to speak. Alessio held up his hand, because there was more.