The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize. Maisey Yates

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 is not something we’ve ever discussed before, I know, but he was...he was inquiring about a painting. The Lost Love.”

      Her grandmother continued to sit there, poised, her hands folded in her lap. Were it not for the subtle paling of her complexion, Gabriella would have thought she had merely been commenting on the weather. There was no mistaking her grandmother’s response to what she had just said.

      “But of course,” Gabriella continued, “I told him that it has never been confirmed that there is any such painting. I told him it was nothing more than salacious rumor. And I sent him on his way. Though he may be meandering around the gardens.”

      Her grandmother turned her head to the window and Gabriella did the same. Just in time to see a figure in a dark suit pass by quickly before disappearing down the path.

      Something in Lucia’s expression shifted. “Call him back.”

      “I can’t. I just...I just sent him away. That would be... Well, it would seem fickle. Plus, it’s rather silly.”

      “You must call him back, Gabriella.” When Lucia used that tone there really was no point in arguing. Still, Gabriella thought she might try.

      “I don’t trust him. I didn’t want him to upset you.”

      “I need to know who he is. I need to know why he is asking about the painting. It’s important.” There was a thread of steel woven into her voice now, a command that Gabriella could not deny.

      “Of course, Grandmother. I will go after him right away.”

      “For heaven’s sake, girl, put some shoes on.”

      Gabriella nodded, turning and scampering out of the room, heading down the corridor toward her bedroom. She found a pair of easy slip-on canvas shoes, then continued to head out to the front door. It was firmly closed, the visitor nowhere to be seen.

      She opened the door, heading down the paved walk, toward one of the gardens. He didn’t exactly seem like the kind of person who would take her up on the offer of a garden tour, but she had to make sure. He might still be here.

      Her grandmother had commanded an audience with him, and she would be darned if she would disappoint the older woman.

      Her grandmother meant the world to her. Her parents had preferred a life of partying to that of raising children. Her brothers were so much older than her so she could scarcely remember a time when they had lived in the same household. As soon as Gabriella had been old enough to have a say in her own situation, she had asked to go to Aceena to live with Queen Lucia. The older woman had been more of a mother to her than her own had ever been, and she could deny her nothing.

      She looked around, and she didn’t see him. Of course he was gone. And she hadn’t gotten any of his contact information, because she hadn’t wanted it. She was annoyed. At him, at herself. But mostly at him.

      She walked farther down the manicured lane, turned left at the first hedge, ran squarely into a broad back covered in very high-quality black fabric. She could tell the fabric was high quality, not just because of how it looked, but because of the way it felt squished up against her face.

      She stumbled backward just as he turned to face her. He was even more arresting, even more off-putting, up close. He exuded... Well, he just exuded.

      “Well, I see you were making use of my offer to tour the gardens.”

      He straightened his tie, the action drawing her eyes to his hands. They were very large. Naturally, as he was quite a large man. So really, they were nothing quite so spectacular. They were proportional. Useful. In possession of the typical number of fingers.

      “No. I was skulking. I thought I might hang around long enough that I can try my hand at getting an audience with your grandmother later.”

      “That’s quite sneaky.”

      “Sneaky is not typically a word I associate with myself, but I’ll take it. Determined, I think sums it up.”

      “I don’t see why you can’t be called both.”

      “Whatever makes you happy. Why exactly are you looking for me?”

      “It turns out...my grandmother wants to speak to you.”

      “Oh,” he said, a slow smile spreading over his arrogant face. “I take it you’re not the voice of authority when it came to your grandmother’s desires, then?”

      “I was trying to protect her. Surely, you can’t fault me for that.”

      “Sure I can. I can fault you for anything I like.”

      She