Shock Heir For The King

A frisson of excitement ran down her spine.

For years she’d been struggling. Establishing oneself as an artist was no mean feat, and every spare penny she made was funnelled into trying to keep a roof over their heads. It was one thing to be a starving artist when you were footloose and fancy-free—there was even a degree of romance to the notion.

The reality was a lot less enjoyable, particularly with a rapidly growing two-and-a-half-year-old to care for and a mountain of bills that seemed to go on for ever.

But this show...

It could be the game-changer she’d been waiting for.

Two broadsheet newspapers had already sent reviewers to have a pre-show viewing, and the opening night had been advertised across the city. Her fingers, her toes and the hairs on her head remained crossed that she might finally catch her big break into the competitive New York art scene.

‘I did think of using small spotlights here.’ Charles nodded towards some of her favourite landscapes—sun rising over oceans, but all in abstract oils—gashes of colour scratched over the paper to create the impression of day’s dawn. Each picture would be interpreted differently by the spectator, and Frankie liked that. It was her take on each day being what you made of it.

‘I like the overheads you’ve chosen,’ she demurred, another shiver running down her spine. Her whole body was a tangle of nerves—and she told herself it was because of the exposure. Not the media exposure—the exposure of herself. Every thought, lost dream, wish, fear, feeling had been captured on these canvases. Even the paintings of Leo, with his stunning crop of black curls, intense grey eyes, so shimmery they were almost silver, lashes that curled precociously and wild. He was her little love, her heart and soul, and his image now hung on the walls of this gallery, waiting to be seen by thousands, she hoped, of viewers.

‘The door,’ Charles murmured apologetically, in response to a sound that Frankie hadn’t even noticed. She was moving closer to the painting she’d done of Leo last fall.

He’d been laughing, collecting dropped leaves from the sidewalk and tossing them into the air with all the enthusiasm a two-year-old boy could muster, and as they’d fallen back to earth he’d watched their progress before crouching down and crunching a new selection into his chubby grip.

His joy had been so euphoric she’d had to capture it. So she’d snapped hundreds of photos from different angles, committing the light to her memory, and then she’d worked late into the night.

And she’d done what she did best: she’d taken a mood, a slice of one of life’s moments, and locked it onto a canvas. She’d created a visual secret for the viewer to share in, but only for as long as they looked at her work. It was a moment in time, a moment of her life, and now it was art.

‘The opening is tomorrow night, sir, but if you’d like to take a brief look at the collection...’

‘I would.’

Two words, so deep, and from a voice so instantly familiar.

A shiver ran down Frankie’s spine of a different nature now. It wasn’t a shiver of anxiety, nor joyous anticipation, it was one of instant recognition, a tremble of remembrance and a dull thudding ache of loss.

She turned slowly, as if that could somehow unstitch the reality she knew she’d found herself in. But when she looked at Charles, and then the man beside him, all her worlds came crashing down at once.

Matt.

It was him.

And everything came rushing back to her—the way she’d awoken to find him gone, no evidence he’d even slept in the same bed as her, no note, nothing. No way of contacting him, nothing to remember him by except the strange sensation of her body having been made love to, and a desire to feel that sensation again and again.

‘Hello, Frances,’ he said, his eyes just exactly as she remembered, just exactly like Leo’s. How many dreams had she spent painting those eyes? Mixing exactly the right shades of silver, grey and flecks of white to flick, close to the iris? The lashes, with their luxuriant black curls, had occupied much of her artist’s mind. How to transpose them onto canvas without looking heavy-handed? They were so thick and glossy that no one would actually believe they really existed.

It had been three years since Frankie had seen this man but, courtesy of her dreams, she remembered him as vividly as if they’d met only the day before.

Oh, how she wanted to drag her eyes down his body, to luxuriate in every inch of him, to remember the strength in his frame, the contradictory gentleness he’d shown when he’d taken possession of her body that first time, when he’d held her in his arms and removed the vestiges of her innocence. How she wanted to give into the temptation to hungrily devour him with her gaze.

With the greatest of efforts, she crossed her arms over her chest and maintained her attention on his face. A face that was watching her with just as much intensity as she was him.

‘Matt,’ she murmured, proud beyond description when her voice came out steady and cool. ‘Are you looking for a piece of art?’

Something seemed to throb between them. A power source that was all its own, that Frankie pushed aside. It wasn’t welcome.

‘Would you show me your work?’ he responded, and it wasn’t an answer. It was an invitation, one that was fraught with danger. Belatedly, she recollected that the wall of paintings behind her was of their son and if he looked a little to the left or right he’d see clearly for himself the proof of their weekend together.

‘Fine,’ she agreed, a little rushed, moving deeper into the gallery, towards another annex. ‘But I only have a few minutes.’

At this, she saw Charles frown in her peripheral vision. No wonder he was confused. Without knowing anything about Matt, it was clear that he had enough money to buy everything in the place, probably a million times over. From the fit of his suit to the gleam of his shoes, this was a man who obviously lived very, very comfortably. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t dream of rejecting a potential investor in her work.

But Matt?

Matt who’d crashed into her world, seduced her effortlessly, triumphed over her and gone away again, just as quickly? He was danger, and not for anything would she spend more time with him than she had to.

He’s your son’s father. Her conscience flared to life and she almost stopped walking, so intense was the realisation, the moral impetus that stabbed into her sides.

‘I will take over when Miss Preston leaves.’ Charles’s offer came from just behind them.

Matt stopped walking, turning to face the other man. ‘Miss Preston’s company will be sufficient.’

Frankie saw pink bloom in the gallery owner’s face and sympathy swelled in her. Charles La Nough’s gallery was renowned in New York, and he was used to being met with respect, if not a degree of awe.

To be dismissed in such a way was obviously a new experience.

‘I’ll call if we need you,’ Frankie offered, to soften the blow.

‘Very well.’ Charles sniffed, turning and disappearing in the direction of the rooms that would eventually lead to the front door.

‘You didn’t have to be so rude,’ she responded, only this time the words were breathy and her pulse was rushing inside her. They were close—just a few feet apart—and she could smell him, she could feel his warmth and her skin was pricking with goosebumps.

Responses she had long since thought dead were stirring to life and demanding indulgence. But she ignored them—such feelings had no place here, or anywhere any more. She tilted her chin defiantly and stared at him. ‘And now that he’s gone you can tell me exactly what you’re doing here. Because I know it’s not to buy one of my paintings.’

* * *

He regarded her through shuttered eyes. Memory was a funny thing. He’d recollected her in intimate detail over the years, but there were a thousand minute differences now that he stood toe to toe with Frankie Preston. Things his mind hadn’t properly written into his memory banks, so that he wanted to hold her still and just look.

She remained the most distractingly intriguing woman he’d ever seen, and yet there was no one thing in particular he could ascribe that to. It was everything about her—from eyes that were feline in shape and just as green as he remembered, to a nose that had a tiny ski jump at its end and a flurry of pale freckles rushing over its bridge, and lips—Dio, those lips.

Pink and pillowy, soft, so that when he’d crushed his mouth to them three years earlier they’d parted on a husky sigh, surrendering to him, welcoming him. His body tightened at the recollection.

Then, she’d been coming home from an art class, carrying a rolled-up canvas in a bag, wearing a pair of paint-splattered jeans and a simple white singlet top, also marked with the signs of her artistic labour. And she’d been so distracted in her own thoughts that she’d walked right into him, smearing a healthy dose of what he’d later discovered to be Cerulean Blue on his suit.

He’d liked her in those clothes—so casual and relaxed.

Now, she wore a dress, black with puffy sleeves that just covered her shoulders and a neckline that dipped frustratingly close to her cleavage without revealing even a hint of the generous curves beneath. It fell to her ankles, and she’d teamed it with leather sandals and a bright yellow necklace. It was a more elegant ensemble, but still so very Frankie.

As she was in his mind, anyway.

But wasn’t it more than likely that the woman he’d slept with three years earlier was more a creation of his than a real-life, flesh-and-blood woman? Wasn’t it more than likely he’d created a fantasy? How well could he have really known her, given that they’d spent so little time together?

‘How do you know,’ he drawled, considering her question, ‘that I am not here to make a purchase?’