by Maisey Yates
“Why don’t you try to hold me to them, Gabriella?”
“Say something real,” she said, moving closer to him, slowly, as though it were taking great effort for her to move nearer to him, as though it took everything she had in her to keep herself from running away. “You’ve been playing a game with me from the moment we met. So now, if you want this to go on, I want you to tell me something and I want you to say it without that mocking gleam in your eye, or that wicked curve to your mouth. I want you to be real for one moment. Just one.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“Whatever you want.”
He could tell that the words had left her lips before she had given them her full permission. He could also tell that she wished she could call them back.
“A very dangerous gift to offer to a man like me.”
“I have no doubt.” But, to her credit, she didn’t rescind the offer.
“A real kiss for a real confession,” he said, “it’s only fair.”
“All right,” she said, her words breathless.
“You are beautiful,” he said, keeping his gaze locked with hers. He kept his grip on her chin tight, didn’t allow her to look away. “Quite apart from this quest, this game, apart from…me. The fact that no one has ever told you before, or at least has never made you feel it before, is a crime unspeakable in its cruelty.”
She blinked, relaxing in his hold. “I… I don’t know what to say. No one has ever… No one has ever said anything like that to me.”
“You were very angry yesterday. I… The way that I dealt with you was wrong. I hurt you. It was not my intent. You are sweet, Gabby. I am a man who licks the sugar off sweet things and leaves them discarded. But even if I shouldn’t say this, I want you to understand that while we might be here putting on a show for others, while I may have confessed to you my boredom with life, the attraction I feel for you is separate from that.”
She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed, and then, her hands still curved around the back of his neck, she stood up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his mouth. It was quick, short, but he felt branded by it. Was certain that she had left a crimson stain behind from her lipstick, but something deeper than that. Something permanent.
“Now,” he said, “I think it’s time for us to excuse ourselves.”
*
Gabriella had failed in her objective. And she wasn’t entirely sorry about it.
She was supposed to seduce him. She was supposed to flip the tables on him. But from the moment she walked out of her room wearing that dress, she had felt like putty. Particularly when he looked at her, with all that heat and masculine energy radiating from him. He certainly looked like a man not entirely indifferent to what he saw before him.
And that, she supposed, was the variable she hadn’t counted on. The fact that coming close to seducing him might seduce her right back.
Then there had been the touching. Her touching his face, him kissing her hand. She had felt very much the frustrated mouse in the paws of a cat that wasn’t really hungry, just looking for amusement.
That was when she’d remembered herself. When she’d realized she was failing at her own objective. And so she had tried a different approach.
Yet again, he had come out on top. She had turned to nothing more substantial than spun sugar when he complimented her, then she’d nearly lost her nerve when she’d kissed him. Then she nearly dissolved when his lips had touched hers.
She was not a very good seductress. That was just the truth.
But…it turned out she was eminently seducible. Beautiful words from a beautiful man that touched her down deep beneath her clothes, beneath her skin, changed everything around inside of her. Made her forget to protect herself.
The wing of the palace they were in now was completely empty of guests or staff, it seemed. Everyone was in the ballroom, or on the other side of the house wearing a path between the kitchen and the ballroom.
“Come with me,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist and moving at a brisk pace toward a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.
She did. Because this was the game. Because there was nowhere else she wanted to be. And after tonight it was over. This hunt. This flirtation. Whatever it was.
The only flirtation she’d ever had in her life.
The thought made her want to cry. Sit and weep in the middle of the corridor. But she couldn’t do that because they were on a painting quest.
She hoped it took all night.
That they could spend the whole evening wandering through vacant halls on a quest, and if he never touched her it would be okay. It would be okay as long as she was walking with him.
Are you that easy? A few compliments and you’re ready to melt all over him like butter.
Yes. She was.
But the strange thing was, she knew Alex now. And she knew that what he’d said in the ballroom was real. What she didn’t know was what it meant for him, for them, and for the ticking clock that was winding down to midnight, when the enchantment would break and Cinderella would go back to being a bespectacled bookworm beneath his notice.
He opened one of the doors and slipped through the crack, bringing her with him, before closing it behind him.
“Do you suppose he has some kind of security camera system?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” Alex said. “And believe me, I’ve been keeping my eye out. But he has no reason to think that any of the guests are going to make off with the art. And we’re not going to make off with any of the art that he knows about.”
“A fabulous technicality.”
“Speaking of technicalities, I want my kiss,” he said, turning to her, his expression suddenly hard, like granite.
The breath rushed from her body. “I kissed you,” she said. “Already, I mean.”
“You kissed me in front of everyone else. You wanted real words for me, and I want a real kiss from you. That kiss always had to happen for the two of us to excuse ourselves from the ballroom. I want one that isn’t inevitable.”
“Is that so?”
“Though I’m beginning to wonder if a kiss between the two of us was always inevitable.”
She laughed, a shaky, breathless sound. “Since when? Since you first walked into my grandmother’s house when I was barefoot and in my glasses?” She wished it were true. She wished he had.
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t. You’re right. Nothing about this makes sense.” He was the one who closed the distance between them, who reached out and curled a lock of her hair around his finger before letting it fall free. “I’m not certain it matters.”
“It should.”
“There are a lot of shoulds in the world, Gabby. But they very often become shouldn’ts. There isn’t much to be done about it. Except perhaps do the one thing that feels right.”
She didn’t know if this felt right. No. It didn’t feel right. It felt wrong. Very, very wrong. But she still wanted it. That was the thing.
She took a sharp breath, taking a step in toward him, pressing her hand to his chest. She looked up at his eyes, hard and dark, his expression still mostly concealed behind the mask. She flexed her fingers, scrunching the stiff white material of his shirt, then smoothing it again, relishing the feeling of his heat, his hardness, beneath the fabric. He was so different than she was. She had never truly fully appreciated just how different men and women were. In a million ways, big and small.
Yes, there was the obvious, but it was more than that. And it was those differences that suddenly caused her to glory in who she was, what she was. To feel, if only for a moment, that she completely understood herself both body and soul, and that they were united in one desire.
“Kiss me, Princess,” he said, his voice low, strained.
He was affected.
So she had won.
She had been the one to make him burn.
But she�
��d made a mistake if she’d thought this game had one winner and one loser. She was right down there with him. And she didn’t care about winning anymore.
She couldn’t deny him, not now. Not when he was looking at her like she was a woman and not a girl, or an owl. Not when he was looking at her like she was the sun, moon and all the stars combined. Bright, brilliant and something that held the power to hold him transfixed.
Something more than what she was. Because Gabriella D’Oro had never transfixed anyone. Not her parents. Not a man.
But he was looking at her like she mattered. She didn’t feel like shrinking into a wall, or melting into the scenery. She wanted him to keep looking.
She didn’t want to hide from this. She wanted all of it.
Slowly, so slowly, so that she could savor the feel of him, relish the sensations of his body beneath her touch, she slid her hand up his throat, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint scratch of whiskers.
Then she moved to cup his jaw, his cheek.
“I’ve never touched a man like this before,” she confessed.
And she wasn’t even embarrassed by the confession, because he was still looking at her like he wanted her.
He moved closer, covering her hand with his. She could feel his heart pounding heavily, could sense the tension running through his frame. “I’ve touched a great many women,” he said, his tone grave. “But at the moment it doesn’t seem to matter.”
That was when she kissed him.
She closed her eyes and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, her heart thudding against her chest so wildly she could hardly breathe. She felt dizzy. She felt restless. She felt…everything.
It was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world to be in his arms. And also the most frightening. The most torturous.
She felt as though she’d come home, as though she’d finally found a place to rest. One that was hers and hers alone. But it wasn’t enough. And it never would be. His suit and her gown put too many layers between them.
Her title and his lack of one.
His age and experience coupled with her relative youth and inexperience.
Thirteen years. Thousands of miles. Lord knew how many women.
An unbridgeable divide, but one that was reduced to nothing as she stood here, tasting him. Savoring him. Holding him.
There was no space between them now. None at all. They were both shaking, both needing, both wanting.
She curled her fingers into a fist, holding him tightly as she angled her head. Then she jolted when he parted his lips, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth, requesting entry.
She couldn’t deny him. Not now. Possibly not ever.
He wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her, holding her close. One hand pressed between her shoulder blades, the other sliding low, just low enough to tease the curve of her buttocks without actually going past the line of impropriety.
Her world was reduced to this. To his hands, his lips, his scent. His every breath. If they had come into this room for anything other than the kiss she didn’t remember it.
If there was anything beyond this room, this moment, this man, she didn’t remember it, either.
They parted slowly, so different from that kiss in the garden. This felt natural, even though she regretted the end. They were both breathing hard, both unsteady. She lifted her hand and touched his cheek, felt the rasp of his whiskers beneath her palms, drank in the sight of him. What she could see of him that wasn’t covered by the mask, anyway.
“We should look for the painting,” she said, knowing she sounded dazed.
Her lips felt hot. Swollen. She wondered if they looked different, too. She couldn’t possibly have any lipstick left on them—that was certain.
“Painting?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up.
“Yes,” she said, her tone dry. She cleared her throat and started to walk toward the back wall. “She said there was a painting in one of the rooms, and only I could open it…”
“The key,” he said.
“Yes. I’m good at keeping secrets, it turns out. All those years of not having very many people to talk to, I guess.”
She reached beneath the neckline of her gown and fished the necklace out, holding it up in front of her.
“The key,” he said, his tone slightly different than it had been a moment earlier.
“Yes. It fits into a frame. She said it was scenery. Of a farm.”
“There’s a lot of that here.”
“I know,” she said, moving closer to the far wall and examining the different scenes in front of her. “They really do like their geese,” she muttered as she moved down the row, examining the frames, looking for any evidence that one might not be a typical picture. “There are some farm scenes in here, but nothing quite like what my grandmother described. I feel like this is the wrong room. The sorts of farmhouses my grandmother described were from a slightly different era. They predate these more modern houses.”
“Do they predate the geese?”
“There were always geese, Alex,” she said, enjoying the way his words played off her own. A thrill the way their lips worked together, even when they weren’t touching.
“Then let’s keep looking,” he said.
He took hold of her hand and another thrill shot through her as he led her from the room and back down the hall. He opened another door.
“What sorts of paintings are those?” he asked.
She looked in, her heart pounding hard due to the excitement. Sort of. Mostly it was the proximity of Alex.
“Cityscapes,” she said, “it won’t be here.”
They continued through a room filled with the portraits of royals, and one with scenes of the beach. Finally, they opened up a door to a room with a wall lined with paintings of farms. Pale, rosy cheeked children with animals, thatched roof homes and, well, more geese.
“It would be here,” she said, “I’m sure. So now…we just have to figure out which. Which painting looks different? Which one might be a false front?”
Alex squinted looking around the room. Then his posture went straight as though a realization had shot through him like a lightning bolt. “Here,” he said.
She turned to look at him. He’d stopped in front of a painting with a farmhouse, and a young girl in front of it. His fingertip was pressed into the corner of the frame.
“What is it?” she asked.
“There’s a small…a notch here in the corner. Look.”
She moved over to where he was and her mouth fell open, her fingers trembling as she held the charm on the necklace out in front of her. “I think… I think this is it,” she said.
He moved aside and she stepped forward, pressing the back of the necklace into the notch and pushing it in. The frame popped away from the wall about two inches and Gabriella stood back, bringing her necklace with her.
She stared at the picture for a moment, then looked over at Alex. “Well, now I’m nervous,” she said. Her stomach was flipping over, her hands sweating. She was…excited. But terrified. If the painting was there…who knew what would happen. If it got out and it created more waves for her family it would be disastrous. She would never be able to salvage their reputations. Not even with a more complete and fair history compiled.
But if it wasn’t there…
She had wondered about the painting for so long. If it was real. And now they knew it was real and the possibility of seeing it…
Alex swung the painting open and revealed a large rectangle behind it, set deep into the wall, covered in burlap.
“Oh,” she breathed, “that could be… I mean, it probably is…”
Alex reached out and grabbed hold of the burlap, drawing it down to reveal the painting underneath.
“Well,” she said, “you kind of took the drama out of it.”
“You don’t think this is dramatic enough?” he asked.
It was. Even without fanfare. Because lowering the burlap had rev
ealed what could only be The Lost Love. It was a woman, sitting in front of a vanity, hands in her dark curls as she gazed into the mirror. She was naked, her bare back on display, the suggestion of her breasts in the reflection of the mirror. She was seated on a cushion, the curve of her bottom visible.
It was…provocative, certainly. But beautiful. And hardly the salacious, distasteful scandal the press had insinuated it might be so long ago.
“And this is why…” she breathed. “This is why we search for the truth. There’s nothing… There is nothing filthy about this. Nothing wrong with it.”
“I’m inclined to agree. But then, I am a fan of the female form.”
She turned to look at Alex. “I only mean that the media made it sound as though revealing this photo would be detrimental to my grandmother’s reputation. Certainly…” She looked back at the painting. “Certainly, it suggests that she was intimate with the painter. It is not a standard sort of portrait that one might sit for. And someone in her position was hardly ever going to pose nude. Plus… There’s something… There’s something more here than you see in a portrait that simply contains a model. The painter was not detached from the subject. I can feel it in every brushstroke. There’s so much passion.”
Her fingers reached out to the corner of the painting, where the artist’s initials, B.A., were faintly painted.
“Or,” Alex said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “he was a very good painter.”
“It was more than that, Alex.”
“It makes no difference to me. My job is simply to bring the painting to my grandfather.”
Gabriella frowned. “Why does your grandfather have more of a claim to this than my grandmother? It’s her in the painting.”
“Yes, it is. But my grandfather owned this painting at one time. He will be willing to pay whatever price is fair. It was not your grandmother’s dying request, but it is his.”
“We will bring it back to Aceena. She wants to see it. At least give her that.”
“I can’t be away from work indefinitely, Princess,” he said.
She looked at him, unable to make out the finer points of his expression behind the mask. “Please. Let’s bring it back to her.”
