Off-Limits to the Crown Prince Page 3

  That the press believed the man’s austere demeanour hid greater sins.

  ‘His Highness will see you now.’

  She walked through the open door and it thudded shut behind her. She took a few steps over the plush crimson carpet then stopped, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the room.

  Magnificent frescoes covered the ceiling. Adorning the walls were paintings of what must have been former rulers. Uniformed and striking a pose, warriors on horseback with swords drawn, all staring down in their own princely kind of way from their vast gilded frames. But more magnificent than anything else in the opulent space was a man lit up in a shaft of sunlight like a god. Standing behind an expansive antique desk, he outshone any of his forebears, more regal than all of them put together in his dark suit and ultramarine tie.

  She almost forgot herself as she stared, Alessio’s black hair gleaming, his intense eyes hooded and assessing, the slash of one aristocratic eyebrow raised quizzically. What were all those rules she had to remember again? Sensible thought had fled. Before she made a total fool of herself, she gave a hasty curtsey because it seemed the thing to do, then hurried towards the desk. He made some dismissive waving kind of motion which she took to mean, Have a seat, and sank into the armchair opposite. Just in time, because her legs seemed like overcooked noodles in their inability to hold her up. The corner of his mouth threatened an almost smile, and her heart skipped a few beats, its rhythm constantly out of synch in his presence.

  ‘You had a good flight?’

  ‘The royal jet was an extravagance.’ With all its buttery leather and plush carpets. She’d been treated like a princess by the efficient flight crew. ‘I could have flown commercial.’

  ‘Think of it as a reward for uprooting your life over the next fortnight. I trust your other clients weren’t too disappointed about your upcoming absence.’

  She noticed it wasn’t spoken as a question.

  Positively enthusiastic had been the general response. The Prince had been irritatingly right. They all saw the value of their own portraits increasing because she’d agreed to take on the commission. She’d been surprised they hadn’t met her at the airport and thrown streamers in a grand farewell as she boarded the aircraft. She shook her head, which earned her another tilt of his mouth in what she suspected was Alessio’s version of a smile. Her silly little heart tripped over itself at how the tiny move softened every harsh feature on his face to something more. More handsome, more vital, more...human.

  But this man wasn’t human, he was a prince. Unattainable. Untouchable. As a young girl she dreamed of princes, but dreams didn’t make reality. She could never forget it.

  He sat in the leather chair at his desk. Even that move was perfectly executed. ‘I thought we would have a brief discussion about expectations whilst you’re here.’

  ‘You mean, in addition to the indexed folder I was given on the plane?’ There seemed to be so many dizzying rules and requirements, how to address staff, what to wear. An agenda for almost every minute of the day. It was no wonder the man in front of her looked so serious. There didn’t seem to be a moment when he sat still, apart from when he was asleep, because the time he ‘retired’ had been scheduled in as well. When was there ever space to simply be? Sit on a comfortable couch, with a warm drink in hand, and stare out of a window at a view. Imagine...a different life.

  She looked at him, sitting straight and perfect and still. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in his shirt. As if he were carved out of painted stone. It seemed he was more statue than flesh and blood.

  How exhausting.

  ‘At all times, your behaviour reflects on me. I ask you to recognise that and adjust your manner accordingly.’

  She sat up a little straighter in her seat, the heat flaming in her cheeks. A slice of something hot and potent cutting through her. ‘I might not be aristocracy but I wasn’t brought up in a shoebox. I know how to behave in civilised society.’

  He cocked his head. Those umber eyes of his fixed on her with an almost otherworldly intensity. ‘How gratifying to hear. When we’re in public together, you’ll walk behind me. The only woman who will ever walk at my side is my princess.’

  ‘So where is this princess now? Do I get to meet her too?’

  ‘There is no princess yet.’

  ‘Shame. I thought she might be able to give me some tips. Juicy gossip even.’

  The perfect Prince’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened.

  ‘There is no juicy gossip. My life is my country. My country is my life. That is all you need to know.’ His voice was ice. The cold blast of a winter gale. A tremor shuddered through her at the chill of his tone. She almost believed there was nothing more to him than this and didn’t know why that thought left an ache deep inside, because it struck her as sad.

  ‘Duly noted,’ she said. Her answer seemed to mollify him. He gave a curt nod in reply.

  ‘When we are in public you will refer to me as Your Highness or Sir.’

  ‘I’ve read the rulebook, though there was one thing it didn’t address.’ She leaned back into the soft upholstery of the armchair and tried to relax, though nothing about the man sitting opposite encouraged her to do so. ‘What about when we’re in private?’

  ‘There will be no “in private”.’

  Hannah looked about the vast room, through the windows that gave a view of rolling hills and olive groves beyond. Pencil pines spearing upwards from a garden like dark green sentinels. ‘We’re alone now.’

  ‘Stefano.’

  ‘Sì?’

  Hannah whipped round. Stefano stood just inside the closed doors of the room. He gave her a wry smile. She turned back to Alessio. Crossed her legs. Clasped her hands over her knee. He followed her every move, almost as if he were cataloguing her.

  ‘Where were you hiding the poor man—in a cupboard?’

  ‘There is a chair, in an alcove, inside the door. However, where Stefano sits is immaterial. What is material is that we will not be alone.’

  ‘Then how am I meant to begin the process of painting your portrait?’

  ‘I would have thought it quite easy. Brush, canvas.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t work with strangers...loitering about. Portrait painting is a contract between two people. The artist and the subject. Of its nature it’s...intimate. I—’

  ‘So you have said before. You don’t get to dictate terms, Signorina Barrington.’

  No. There was a way she worked and, although she tried to be a little flexible, the way he spoke to her rankled. She clenched her hands a bit harder round her knees.

  ‘It’s a wonder you don’t pick up a brush and paint yourself...Your Highness.’

  Everything about him seemed impassive, inscrutable. Having barely any expression, his face was marked only by a cool, regal kind of presence. She could get the measure of most people, but never the measure of him. Even as a far younger man, there’d been nothing on his face to tell what he might be thinking. Like a blank canvas waiting for the first, defining brushstroke.

  ‘If I could, I would.’ Alessio sat back in his leather chair, which creaked as his weight shifted. Steepled his fingers. ‘However, there’s a reason I engaged you and that’s because you’re reputedly the best. I will have nothing but the best.’

  A vice of tightness crushed her chest. Right now, she wasn’t at her best. What her uncle had done had floored her. She had thought she could at least trust her family. Now she was being forced to take this commission due to circumstance, which was not the way she’d ever worked. What would her parents have thought of all this? They believed they’d ensured the security and comfort of their only daughter and she’d let it slip away by being too absorbed in her art and not keeping a close enough eye on things, till it was too late and the money gone. The threat of tears burned the back of her nose. Even after nine years the grief st
ill hovered close. All these things had weighed on her and right now her thoughts were not about colour and light, or the gentle tilt of someone’s almost smile, but on survival again.

  Though that might suit a painting of this man. The expressionless quality. She could try losing herself in that, a simplicity which meant she didn’t need to fight the canvas to find the heart of him. Because there was nothing in his face she could grasp, apart from the impact of his sheer masculine beauty. Like the statue of David. Exquisite, perfect, coldly etched. She doubted he had a warm, beating heart. But in the end to do her best, to paint what critics said she was renowned for, she needed something curious for her brushstroke to shape. Some expression to show the person before her was man, not marble. Because sadly she was a portrait artist, not a sculptor.

  She stood and walked towards a wall on which one portrait hung, of a man sitting on a golden chair. Old. Imposing.

  ‘I didn’t invite you to leave your seat.’ Alessio’s voice was cool as the blast of air-conditioning on a hot summer’s day. She wheeled round. He was still seated himself. Was there something in that dossier she’d been given to read about this? She couldn’t remember, though the man probably wasn’t used to having anyone turn their back on him. Still, whilst he was a prince, she was a grown woman. She’d accord him the respect required because of the quirk of his birth, but asking for permission to stand?

  Ridiculous.

  ‘That’s going to make things difficult if I need to ask you for permission whenever I have to do something. Your Highness, may I drink my glass of water? Your Highness, may I use the bathroom? Your Highness, may I apply this charcoal to paper?’

  He swivelled his chair to face her, gazing at her with an intriguing intensity, as if she were an olive he was about to skewer in the tines of a martini fork.

  ‘There are rules by which the palace and my country is run. Those rules keep chaos away from the door. In this place, you follow mine.’

  ‘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’d never be 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.

  ‘I will be 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 of déjà 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 be anything to 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 would never go.

  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 the greatest prince 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?’

  The only precious thing broken here was trust. ‘Never broken anything, no. I was the perfect child.’

  ‘Of course you were. Striding the halls with purpose, even as a ten-year-old.’