Page 70 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4
Faye continued around the walls, taking in a snowy Dutch landscape. ‘Truly, that’s the best way to buy art—not because youshouldor because something is in fashion.’
‘Is that how you buy art?’
Faye looked at him. He was watching her, his face no longer hidden, a shoulder leaning against the wall. For a second she couldn’t breathe. He looked so beautiful.
How could this man really want her?
She was nothing that special.
She struggled to remember what he’d just asked her. Art. How did she buy art.
She shook her head. ‘Actually, apart from curating my own family’s collection, I don’t collect a lot of art. I’m too conscious of what my clients are looking for. I have bought pieces along the way, but invariably I end up selling them on.’
Primo took her glass out of her hand and put it down, then said, ‘Give me your hands.’
Faye did so, bemused. Primo tugged off the gloves that matched the dress. Silly to feel so exposed when it was only her hands. Primo put the gloves aside and then took the hand upon which her engagement and wedding ring sat and lifted it.
He arched a brow. ‘You’re a married woman?’
Faye scowled at him and he let her hand go, putting his hands up. ‘You’re the one still hiding behind a mask.’
Reluctant to let go of the last shred of illusion, but knowing it was silly to keep it up, she turned around and presented Primo with her back. For a long moment Primo did nothing, and Faye almost turned around again, but then she felt his hands at the back of her head, undoing the mask. It fell into her hand.
She would have turned around then, but Primo’s fingers were in her hair and he was pulling out the pins holding up her chignon. Strands of hair started to fall down around her shoulders. When all the pins were out, he speared her hair with his fingers and massaged her scalp.
Faye had not expected that. She closed her eyes at the delicious sensations of Primo’s big hands on her head. She felt like purring. She forced her eyes open and turned, dislodging his hands.
His eyes were a very bright blue. He said, ‘You’re still wearing your cape.’
Faye lifted her chin in a silent gesture for him to undo it. He did, his fingers making light work of the tie. She shivered lightly as it fell to the floor, baring her shoulders and the top of her chest.
He put out a hand and Faye looked at it for a moment before putting her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers and he led her from the living area, down a corridor to another doorway.
His bedroom.
It was a feast for the senses. Parquet flooring. A Murano glass chandelier. Hand-painted wallpaper in the Chinoiserie style. Gold trim. French doors leading directly out to a balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. A vast bed with a Rococo-style headboard trimmed with gold. Pristine white linen.
Faye couldn’t take her eyes off the bed, but then Primo said, ‘Okay?’
He was giving her permission to say no. Something about that consideration, especially now that they were married, made a piece of Faye’s defences crumble.
She nodded. She couldn’tnot. She wanted him.
But just when she thought he’d waste no time in getting her on her back, he said, ‘Look up.’
She did, a little bemused, and gasped out loud. The ceiling was an explosion of colour and clouds and cherubs, much like the ceiling in the main room, but there was a subtle difference to this one. She recognised the artist and couldn’t quite believe it.
‘Tiepolo?’ she asked, naming a famous Venetian painter known for his Rococo style. There’d been rumours that he’d worked on palazzos for private families, but she’d never seen the evidence.
‘Yes.’
‘This ceiling must be priceless,’ she breathed.
‘It is. I own this entire apartment, but I don’t own this ceiling,’ Primo revealed.
‘Art like this belongs to the world, not to one person.’
‘Indeed.’
