Page 22 of Virgin's Night with the Greek

‘This is it,’ she said coolly.

He examined the work from top to bottom and then back up again, his expression inscrutable. ‘I didn’t know my mother owned a throne.’

‘It’s not just any old throne,’ she said, more than happy to keep the conversation solely on the art. ‘It’s a replica of Louis the Fourteenth’s.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘She had it made specially. To go with the tiara.’

‘The tiara originally belonged to my grandmother.’

‘So I understand.’

‘She was one hundred and fifty centimetres tall and the same wide,’ he said with an assessing tilt of his head. ‘I can’t imagine her in quite such a pose.’

‘Selene drapes—and smoulders—very well.’

‘She should. She’s had plenty of practice.’ He leaned forwards and frowned at the tiny red heart on the inner thigh of his mother’s right leg, which was hooked over one gilded arm of the ornate throne. ‘Is that a tattoo?’

‘It is,’ she confirmed. ‘She had it done two years ago. A birthday present for a former lover. She thought a portrait might be less painful this time.’

The one eyebrow she could see rose. ‘Less painful for whom?’

Willow bit her lip to prevent the smile that developed at Leo’s wry observation since he still hadn’t said what he thought of the piece and for some reason that was annoying.

‘Lazlo likes it,’ she said, reminding herself yet again that his opinion was as irrelevant as his approval. Her clients—past, present and future—were the only people who mattered. ‘He’s going to hang it in his bedroom.’

Leo grimaced. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I saw him when I arrived a few minutes ago.’

‘You missed his speech. It was very impassioned.’

‘I dare say I can live with the disappointment.’

‘Given your antipathy towards the work, I am rather surprised you didn’t try and put a stop to this evening.’

‘That was the original plan.’

‘What happened?’

‘The plan changed.’

‘With your need for order and control, that must have been irritating.’

The glimmer of a smile hovered at his sensual mouth. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’

‘So is it as bad as you feared?’ she asked, giving up all pretence of indifference because she might as well admit she badly needed to know one way or another. ‘The picture, I mean.’

‘Not quite,’ he replied after a moment’s consideration. ‘Obviously, it’s not something I’d have on my wall, but you were right. Itistasteful. And unexpectedly beautiful. You are exceptionally talented.’

The intense delight that spun through her at his praise nearly took out her knees. She filled with the disturbing urge to throw herself at him and smother him in kisses, which was bizarre. She remained where she was and offered up a small smile instead. ‘Thank you.’

‘What made you choose portraits?’

‘Because I’m better at them than anything else. I feel a stronger connection with animate objects.’

‘And why pastels?’

‘I like the luscious velvety texture they achieve. The colours are deep and rich and easy to blend. The luminosity they can create is magical. And on a practical level they’re easy to cart around, which was useful when I had to bring them to Athens. It’ll make the new commissions I’ve taken on logistically more manageable, too. Shockingly,’ she added dryly, ‘your friends and acquaintances don’t want to come to a tiny studio in London. They expect me to travel to them.’

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