Page 268 of Naughty Nelle

The Prince places his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. “Jane, please stay.”

To my delight, his mood brightens, and he gives me a whirlwind tour of his studio. He springs to life as he talks about the inspiration behind each painting. Never having seen him so animated and passionate, I find myself engrossed in his every word. Stimulated. Sharing my reactions and interp­retat­ions. Asking him questions. Challenging him. Challenging myself.

“You’re a master,” I say, meaning it. “Your paintings belong in a museum for the world to behold, not hidden from the human eye.”

Finally, we come to the covered painting. “What’s under there?” I ask with curiosity.

The Prince takes a deep breath, then sweeps off the damask cloth. Before me stands a large canvas. It’s obviously a work in progress. A portrait of a woman picking flowers, still at the outline stage.

Gallant’s eyes, glimmering just moments ago, are laced with melancholy. He turns away from the canvas and remains silent.

“My last painting,” he says at last. “A portrait of my wife. I was going to surprise her with it on her twenty-first birthday. But she died before I could complete it. I have not been able to paint since then.”

So, grief shut him down. Is that what love does?

“My Lord, you should finish the painting. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Calla.” I stare at the unfinished portrait. “And you owe it to her.”

With a sigh, Gallant carefully re-covers the painting and changes the subject.

“Forgive me. What did you say you were doing here?” he asks as if we’ve just met up.

I tell him again about Marcella’s missing earring. Uh oh. I was supposed to keep this under wraps. Oh well. Whatever the consequences, I can’t undo what’s been done.

“I am sure it is not here,” says Gallant. “My studio is off limits to everyone, including Calla.

“Then I’d better get going.” Truthfully, I don’t want to leave him.

A mutual loss for words forces us to lower our eyes.

“Look!” We say it simultaneously. As if we had timed it.

There it is on the ground…Marcella’s emerald earring. Right under the easel holding the unfinished portrait of Gallant’s wife.

We squat down together. Meeting face-to-face, we’re very close—our eyes just a palm’s width apart. His warm, sweet breath blows on my face. My cheeks grow flush, and I’m getting tingly hot all over. My heart thuds so loudly I can hear it.

The Prince studies my face. I gaze at my reflection in his piercing blue eyes. What does he see in me?

With his long, skilled fingers, he delicately traces my features. It’s as if he’s drawing me. My skin prickles from his touch, but I don’t dare blink an eye.

His mouth curls into a smile that renders me breathless. “You are meant to be painted.”

I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not even my “magic” mirror.

We each reach for the sparkling earring. Our fingers touch; a spark flies between us, and then we quickly pull apart. I let Gallant pick it up. As he hands me the jewel, our fingers interlock. This time he doesn’t pull away.

“I’ve got to go,” I stammer, struggling to my feet before my knees give in.

“Jane, please do not leave yet,” he says, tightening his grip.

“Marcella will have my head if I don’t get back,” I force myself to say.

As I finally manage to pull away, a rustling sound distracts me. It’s coming from outside. Has someone been watching us?

I hurry to the door. Clutching Marcella’s earring, I sprint back to the castle and wonder—how did it end up where it did?

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