The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize. Maisey Yates

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      Gabriella sniffed. “Actually, I am Princess Gabriella D’Oro. So when I say that my grandmother is not available to see you, I speak from a place of authority. This is my home, and I regret to inform you that we have no space for you in it.”

      “Strange. It seems quite spacious to me.”

      “Well, things are organized just so. Quite a few too many American businessmen have been by of late. We would have to store you in the attic, and you would just collect dust up there.”

      “Is that so?”

      “I fear you would atrophy completely.”

      “Well, we can’t have that. This is a new suit, and I don’t particularly want to atrophy in it.”

      “Then perhaps you should be on your way.”

      “I came a great distance to speak to your grandmother. This may surprise you, but I did not come to Aceena to engage in frivolity. But rather to speak to her about a painting.”

      “Yes, so you said. I regret to inform you there is no such painting. I’m not entirely certain what you heard about it...”

      “My grandfather. He is...the collector. I came to see about purchasing the painting on his behalf. I’m willing to offer a generous sum. I imagine disgraced royals might not be in a position to turn such an offer down.”

      “Oh, we do just fine, thank you for your concern. Should you like to make a donation to someone in actual need of your charity, I would be happy to provide you with a list.”

      “No, thank you. The charity was only a side effect. I want that painting. I’m willing to pay whatever the cost might be.”

      Her mouth was dry. It made it difficult to speak, and yet she found she also couldn’t stop the flow of words. “Well, I’m afraid to disappoint you. While we do have paintings, we do not have that painting. That painting, if you weren’t aware, might not even exist.”

      “Oh, I’m well aware that it’s what your family would like the public to think. However, I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

      “No,” she said, and this time she did push her glasses up her nose. “I’m just a teenager headed out to the mall. What could I possibly know that you,” she said, sweeping her hand up and down, “in all your infinite and aged wisdom, do not?”

      “The appeal of Justin Bieber?”

      “I’m not entirely certain who that is.”

      “I’m surprised by that. Girls your age love him.”

      “In that case, can I offer you a hard candy? I hear men your age love those.”

      She was not sure how this had happened. How she had wound up standing in the hallowed entry of her family estate trading insults with a stranger.

      “I’ll accept the hard candy if it means you intend to give me a tour while I finish it.”

      “No. Sorry. You would be finishing it on the lawn.”

      He rubbed his hand over his chin and she shivered, an involuntary response to the soft noise made by the scrape of his hand over his whiskers. She was a sensualist. It was one of her weaknesses. She enjoyed art, and soft cushions, desserts and lush fabrics. The smell of old books and the feel of textured pages beneath her fingertips.

      And she noticed fine details. Like the sound skin made when scraping over stubble.

      “I’m not entirely certain this is the tactic you want to use. Because if you send me away, then I will only circumvent you. Either by contacting your grandmother directly, or by figuring out who manages the affairs of the royal family. I am certain that I can find someone who might be tempted by what I offer.”

      He probably wasn’t wrong. If he managed to find her parents, and offer them a bit of money—or better yet, an illegal substance—for some information on an old painting, they would be more than happy to help him. Fortunately, they probably had no idea what the painting was, much less knew any more about its existence than she did.

      But they were wretched. And they were greedy. So there was very little that she would put past them.

      Still, she was not going to allow him to harass her grandmother. Tempting as it was to keep him here, to question him. She’d been studying her family history for as long as she’d known how to read. Rumors about this painting had played a large part in it.

      Part of her desperately wanted him to stay. Another part needed him gone as quickly as possible. Because of her grandmother. And partly because of the dry mouth and sweaty palms and strange, off-kilter feeling that had arrived along with him.

      Those things defeated curiosity. He had to go.

      “I’ll chance it. Do feel free to meander about the grounds before you go. The gardens are beautiful. Please consider limitless viewing time on the topiaries a conciliatory gesture on my end.”

      The corner of his mouth worked upward. “I assure you, I have no interest in your...topiaries.”

      Something about the way he said it made her scalp prickle, made her skin feel hot. She didn’t like it.

      “Well, my topiaries are all you’re going to get. Good day to you, sir.”

      “And good day to you,” he said, inclining his head.

      He sounded perfectly calm, but a dark note wound its way around his words, through his voice, and she had a feeling that somewhere within it was also woven a threat.

      However, she didn’t allow him to see that she had picked up on it. Instead, she turned on her heel—ignoring the slight squeak her bare skin made on the marble tile—and walked out of the entry without a backward glance, leaving him there. She fully expected a servant would show him out. Either that or she would have to have him installed in the attic. The idea of collecting a man like him and putting him in the attic like one might do to an old, rusted suit of armor amused her.

      She let that little smile linger on her lips as she made her way down the hall, toward the morning room where her grandmother was having her breakfast.

      “There was a man here, Gabriella. Who was he?” The queen’s voice, wispy, as thin as a cobweb, greeted Gabriella as soon as she walked into the ornate room.

      There was no sense asking how her grandmother knew about the visitor. She was never ignorant about the goings-on in her own household.

      “An American businessman,” Gabriella said, walking deeper into the room, feeling somewhat sheepish, yet again, about her bare feet.

      Her grandmother was, as ever, impeccably dressed. The older woman made no distinction between her public and private persona. As always, her crystal white hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her makeup expertly done. Her fingernails were painted the same pale coral as the skirt she was wearing, her low, sensible heels the same cream as her blouse.

      “I see,” the queen said, setting her teacup down on the table in front of her. “And what did he want?”

      “This СКАЧАТЬ