CHAPTER ONE

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   ‘The next item is a real treat. We’re delighted to have partnered with renowned portrait artist Hallie Alexander to auction a two-hour portrait sketch. Hallie needs no introduction, and we’re thrilled to have her as part of this year’s charity gala.’

   From her seat at one of the VIP tables, Hallie managed a polite smile. Despite the hyperbole, she suspected the majority of people in the ballroom weren’t familiar with her name. Though, as the emcee read out a list of her credentials, even she had to admit they were impressive.

   She’d painted portraits of some of Australia’s most well-known faces, from the ranks of old-money high society through to an eclectic bevy of celebrities. Five years ago, her entry in one of Australia’s most prestigious art prizes had won the People’s Choice award and now hung in the National Gallery. Three years ago, she’d taken out the top honour in the same award. That portrait was now housed in an esteemed private collection.

   Several sections of the room sat a little straighter in their chairs, recognising the prestige beneath the hyperbole—that a portrait painted by Hallie Alexander had cache, was a status symbol. And as she’d discovered in the past few years, status symbols mattered to some people. A fact that tonight’s charity auction took full advantage of.

   ‘Good,’ she murmured, careful to keep the smile on her face. Suicide prevention was a cause close to her heart.

   Her mother’s death from an overdose of sleeping pills when Hallie was sixteen had been pronounced accidental, but Hallie had always doubted the ruling. Her mother had surrendered to despair and had sought oblivion. End of story. Which was why Hallie was here this evening. If she could help raise a few pennies for such a worthwhile cause, then she would.

   Actually, she hoped to raise more than just a few pennies.

   When she’d first started out, a two-hour portrait sketch would’ve cost the sitter two hundred dollars. She crossed her fingers. Tonight she hoped to reach five figures. She didn’t do sketches anymore, and maybe that would be a point in its favour, have it considered a rarity. She crossed the fingers of her other hand.

   These days she focused on portraits in oils. It was what she truly loved and where she’d started to make serious money. Go me. Some days she had to pinch herself. This kind of success was everything she’d ever said she wanted.

   Not everything.

   She released a long, slow breath. No, not everything. She’d once sworn to take the European art world by storm. Instead, she’d run away from London with her tail between her legs, had returned home to the safety of Sydney.

   The bidding started at a flattering two thousand dollars. Five figures reached just like that. She sat up a little straighter, gave herself a little shake. Was she really ready to call game over on her European dream?

   If she wanted to achieve it, now was the time to push herself out of her comfort zone. Either that or shelve the dream forever. Deep inside, the girl she’d once been scratched and clawed at the walls Hallie had built around her.

   For the first time in a long time, she forced herself to consider the notion seriously. Why shouldn’t she resurrect that dream? She’d left London because of Lucas Quinn, but that was seven years ago. She’d given up enough of her dreams to that man. Was she really going to give up this one, too?

   The thing was when she’d been dreaming this particular dream, she’d always thought Lucas would be at her side.

   A familiar ache took up residence in her chest. It didn’t matter how often she told herself he could never have made her happy. She’d never been able to shake the man from her head or her heart. One person shouldn’t have such a huge impact on your life. It shouldn’t be allowed. She shouldn’t have allowed it. Her mother had provided her with the perfect example for exactly how foolhardy that could be.

   The bidding rose to ten thousand dollars.

   Ten thousand?

   Was it a sign?

   Go out there and achieve big things. Stop holding yourself back.

   ‘The bidding is at fifteen thousand dollars to the lady at table fourteen.’

   Holy crap!

   They did realise it was only for a two-hour portrait sketch, right? Admittedly in whatever medium they preferred, but still… She glanced at the big screen and released a slow breath. That is what it said up there in big, bold letters.

   A bull-necked man raised the bidding by five hundred dollars. She did her best not to scrunch up her face. She knew his type. He’d try to bulldoze her into a full portrait. She didn’t let anyone bully her, but it’d take a ridiculous amount of tact—not to mention time—to extricate herself from his demands.

   She bit back a sigh when the room remained silent, reminded herself it was for a good cause.

   Someone else must’ve raised a paddle, though, as the bidding rose by another five hundred dollars.

   Mr Bull-Neck immediately thrust his paddle in the air, wielding it like a battle-axe. Yep, a bully.

   You let Lucas bully you.

   She had not!

   Though she had believed his lies.

   They’d been engaged for God’s sake! Why wouldn’t she believe him? And anyway, she suspected he’d believed them, too. It was why they’d been so damn convincing. But that made her a fool, not a wimp. As soon as she’d realised how empty Lucas’s promises were, she’d walked away.

   Run, more like.

   For heaven’s sake, give it a break.

   All of this had happened seven years ago. Time to let it go. The fantasy she’d woven around him had dissolved like fairy floss in the rain. Why taunt herself with old dreams?

   Pressing her hands together, she reminded herself that Lucas would’ve made her as miserable as her father had made her mother. That was what she needed to remember. That was what she needed to focus on. He might’ve made her feel as if she’d been at the centre of his universe, but that had been a lie.

   Focus on the reality.

   And her current reality was a star-studded charity event, and she ought to be paying attention.

   Mr Bull-Neck’s paddle swung a little too close to the polished up-do of one of his neighbours. The woman’s glare, though, went unheeded as he brandished the paddle again.

   A tall man at the back of the room stood. There was something vaguely familiar about him. The light was behind him, though, so she couldn’t make out his features. But the broad line of his shoulders… She frowned. The way he held his head…

   ‘One hundred thousand dollars!’

   He didn’t shout but his voice rang around the entire ballroom. The sound of the air leaving two hundred sets of lungs followed immediately afterwards. It wasn’t the sum, though, that had Hallie gripping her hands so hard she was in danger of cutting off the circulation. It was the voice.

   The voice belonged to the man who still haunted her dreams.

   Lucas Quinn.

   Oh, God. Don’t do anything stupid. Like run over there and throw your arms around him. Or race from the room. Or throw up. Behave like an adult.

   Forcing her sagging body back into straight lines, she did what she could to respond to her table companions’ congratulations, pressed a hand to her heart and smiled, pronounced herself flabbergasted. But beneath it all, her heart hammered and her pulse twitched and flinched like a skittish cat. The refrain Lucas is here, Lucas is here, Lucas is here, went round and round in her mind.

What was he doing in Sydney? Bidding on a sketch? From her? For a hundred thousand dollars!

   Recalling the look on his face the last time she’d seen him, she had to suppress a shiver. He’d said he’d hoped to never clap eyes on her again. And he’d meant it.

   He wasn’t here to make peace; of that she was certain. He’d never forgive her for walking away from him. When she’d walked away, he’d have excised her from his heart and mind with the same brutal efficiency he was known for in business circles. A hard ball lodged in her stomach. He’d always had more important things on his mind than her.

   So what was he doing at a charity ball? Bidding on a two-hour portrait sketch from her?

   The question plagued her, but as the emcee introduced the next item up for auction—a pretty diamond bracelet—and the bidding began, she couldn’t very well leave her table to go and ask him. What were the protocols once the auction was over? Should she approach him and thank him for his support, or should she wait for him to approach her?

   Good Lord, what was she thinking? Neither of those things would eventuate. Lucas would leave when the official part of the evening was over and the dancing began. He’d leave her hanging like he always had. It had been his MO seven years ago, and she couldn’t see that having changed in the intervening years.

   That realisation made her pulse slow even as her heart gave a sick kick of recognition. Her questions wouldn’t be answered this evening. Lucas would make an appointment for the sitting when he was ready. She’d find out what this was all about then. Not a moment sooner.

   So when the official part of the evening drew to a close, she refused to so much as glance towards Lucas’s table; refused to watch her expectations be fulfilled as he stalked from the room. Not that she had much opportunity to glance anywhere. She was swamped with well-wishers congratulating her on receiving such a high sum for her sketch. The charity organisers, utterly delighted, attempted to get her to sign on the dotted line for next year’s auction while euphoria ran hot in her veins—if only they knew the truth!—and the gossips wanted to see if they could squirrel some tasty tidbit from her.

   Did she know that Lucas Quinn was ridiculously wealthy, that he’d built a financial empire through innovations in nanotechnology, that he lived in a palazzo in Venice, that he was insanely good-looking?

   Yes, she did, thank you. Not that she said as much, just smiled and nodded and made the appropriate noises at the appropriate intervals. She blew out a long breath when the crowd around her finally thinned, and she surreptitiously glanced at her watch.

   ‘I’m afraid it’s a little early to be racing off home and curling up with a good book. Especially when you’re one of the stars of the evening.’

   The voice came from directly behind her and all the fine hairs at her nape lifted. Her breasts prickled with a sudden surge of awareness.

   Behave like an adult.

   Pasting on a smile, she turned. ‘Hello, Lucas.’ She wondered if she should add, ‘It’s nice to see you.’ He’d see through that, though. But for form’s sake… The man had just forked over a hundred thousand dollars to charity.

   For a portrait sketch. For two hours of her time. It made no sense.

   ‘You’re surprised to see me. Shocked even.’

   His voice held a hint of an Italian accent that hadn’t been there when they’d been engaged. In the same way, she supposed, her Australian accent had lost the hint of English brogue it had once had. ‘To the core,’ she agreed, and had to suppress a shiver at the savage satisfaction that briefly lit those dark eyes.

   He didn’t say Good, but it was written there for her to see, and she read the subtext. Because he wanted her to. He wasn’t here to reignite their old romance.

   Did he really think her guilty of harbouring such hopes?

   ‘It would be polite of me to ask you to dance, but…’

   She raised an eyebrow.

   He shrugged. ‘You never could dance.’

   Some sixth sense told her he wasn’t trying to be offensive, but it was clear he was finding politeness difficult to achieve. For some reason, that gave her heart. ‘And clearly, dancing with me is the last thing you want to do.’

   ‘The very last,’ he agreed and then frowned, chagrin chasing through his eyes, and it almost made her laugh.

   Lucas had always held himself to impossibly high standards. He might want her to know that he took no joy in seeing her. He might want her to know he had no interest in her whatsoever. But he wouldn’t want to lose his cool. He wouldn’t want to look anything but calm and collected.

   And she would act like an adult if it killed her. ‘Thank you for your very generous support of tonight’s charity. The organisers are thrilled.’

   Firm lips pursed. ‘Suicide prevention was always a cause close to your heart.’

She’d confided to him her doubts surrounding her mother’s death. Her mother had been smart in so many ways, but not when it had come to her love life. Hallie had no intention of making the same mistake.

   Lucas didn’t move away. Something throbbed behind the darkness of his eyes. He had something he wanted to say, and she wanted a drink. ‘If you don’t want to dance then perhaps you’d like a drink?’ She gestured towards the bar.

He swept an arm out in front of him. ‘Lead the way.’

   It took every ounce of poise she had to keep her movements smooth. But she was aware of the way the silk of her dress slid against her skin as she walked, an enticing warmth spreading from the centre of her belly and radiating outwards.

   They reached the bar and she had to lock her knees to stop them from shaking when the smoky spice of his aftershave wrapped around her. She ordered a glass of champagne. He requested a whiskey sour. In the old days they’d have ordered pints of bitter.

   He stared into his glass with lowered brows. She burned to know why he was here, but refused to ask. Instead, she lifted her glass in his direction. ‘I believe congratulations are in order.’

   An eyebrow rose. ‘Because I won your portrait sitting?’

   ‘No, Lucas,’ she said gently. ‘It’s been seven years since I saw you, but in that time you’ve achieved everything you set out to—beyond even your wildest imaginings. I know how hard you’ve worked. Congratulations on your success.’

   She couldn’t read his expression. Very slowly, he lifted his glass and touched it to hers. ‘Do your insides now burn with regrets?’

   Said insides scrunched up tight. ‘For?’

   ‘Knowing that if you’d had the patience and fortitude all of it could have been yours, too?’

   Fortitude? For a moment she gaped at him. She’d had a miscarriage for God’s sake! Had he really expected to snap his fingers and make all her grief just disappear? A grief he’d never shared, though he’d been careful to hide that fact.

   In that moment, she found some of the closure she needed to put this man behind her forever. She knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to start a list. She’d record all the reasons why walking away had been a good idea seven years ago. She’d keep it somewhere handy where she’d see it every day. And the first item on that list was going to be Lucas considered my miscarriage a blessing in disguise. Second item would be his bitterness.

   It was seven years ago. Let it go, bro!

   And it was time to take her own advice.

   Face it, woman. When it came to Lucas, you dodged a bullet.

   She started to laugh with the relief of it. ‘Oh, but of course, Lucas,’ she said with a mocking tilt of her head. ‘Every single day. When I wake in the morning it’s my first thought, and my last thought when I turn in again at night. I’ve not had a moment’s peace.’

   Shaking her head and still chuckling quietly, she waved her fingers at him and turned to leave.

*

‘Wait!’

   What the hell was he doing needling this woman when what he wanted was her help?

   ‘Please?’ Lucas managed through gritted teeth.

   She halted, but didn’t turn around.

   ‘I apologise. I’m acting like a petulant child.’

   But seeing her again hurtled him back seven years. Back to when he’d had total faith in her.

   He’d had girlfriends prior to meeting Hallie, but from the moment he’d met her it was as if a key had clicked into place, as if the planets had aligned, as if fate had brought them together. He’d thought she’d stick with him through everything. He’d thought that together they’d overcome anything.

   Never in a million years would he have believed that she’d break his heart. He’d been a fool.

   Seeing her now, tonight, all of these years later—looking even more beautiful than she had back then, pulsing with an inner vibrancy and still as out of reach as she’d ever been—made him realise his heart had never fully healed. There were fault lines in danger of fracturing again. A sobering fact as this woman had never been worth the pain he’d suffered.

   And yet, he’d suffered it all the same. To realise he was still vulnerable, still in danger of repeating the same mistakes, was a slap to the face. Especially when he’d thought he’d eliminated her from his system—thoroughly and ruthlessly.

   He fought the urge to turn around and walk away. It galled him to the core that he needed her help. But he’d do anything for Enrico. Even this.

   ‘Seeing you again has taken me unexpectedly off guard. I apologise for my rudeness.’

   Her shoulders rose and fell as if on a breath. Or a sigh. She turned around. ‘Not all the memories from seven years ago are bad, Lucas.’

   He resented her. He resented her poise. He hated that she could still make him feel so vulnerable, but he reminded himself that she’d never been mean or spiteful. Hallie just hadn’t had the grit or fortitude—the patience—to go the distance.

   She leaned a hip against the bar and lifted her glass to her lips, took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. ‘Do you want to tell me why you’re here and why you bid on my prize?’

   It was an invitation, an opening, an easing of the way. As he’d said, she lacked spite. Some would even call her innately kind. Despite reminding himself of the hell she’d put him through, he couldn’t stop his gaze from travelling down the length of her body to take in the curve of her breasts, the flare of her hips, those long legs—and he found himself aching for a different kind of invitation.

   He dragged his gaze back to her face to find her glass had frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes widening with a mixture of fascination and horror.

   He snapped upright and slammed his drink to the bar, untouched. He needed to get out of here before he did something stupid. ‘I know this is an odd request, but can you do the sketch tomorrow?’

   She frowned. After pulling out her phone, she scrolled through what he guessed was her diary. She shook her head. ‘Not unless I’ve had a late cancellation…’

   She clicked through a few buttons—probably her email—but eventually slipped the phone back into her purse with a shake of her head. ‘I’m sorry, Lucas, tomorrow is impossible.’

   He almost believed her sincere. She wouldn’t work Sundays, but… ‘Monday, then?’

   ‘I can do Monday afternoon.’ She hesitated. ‘If you need this done quickly, I can make time on Sunday.’

   He’d half turned away, but swung back. ‘You will?’

   She nodded.

   Perhaps she wanted this over as much as he did? Except if she granted the request he’d come here to make, it would just be the beginning, and that thought left him exhausted. ‘Thank you, Hallie. Sunday would be more convenient. What time?’

   Straightening, she eased back a step and surveyed him. It left him prickling all over.

   ‘I think we want to use the boldness of the full afternoon light. Two p.m. Do you need the address of my studio?’

   ‘I have it already.’

   ‘Excellent.’ She didn’t sound surprised.

   He didn’t offer her his hand. He didn’t bend down to press a kiss to her cheek. He merely nodded. ‘Until Sunday, then.’

   Turning on his heel, he left. He fancied he could feel her gaze hot on his back all the way to the ballroom’s grand double doors.

*

Hallie’s studio was the top floor of an old warehouse in an inner-city suburb. There were windows on every wall flooding the space with light. A series of tables and shelving units, holding the tools of her trade, were assembled at one end of the room. The air smelled of paint and turpentine and…lemons? Which was when he noticed an oil burner flickering on the nearby window ledge.

This studio—it’s situation and size—proved just how well Hallie had done for herself.

   As if intuiting the direction of his thoughts, she said, ‘It’s a far cry from the old days when six of us shared that poky studio in Clerkenwell.’

   ‘Yes.’

   On Friday night she’d toasted his success, had even seemed to mean it. He should congratulate her on her own success, but he couldn’t push the words out. It was petty. It was mean-spirited. And he loathed himself for it.

   The raised eyebrow and the fleeting disappointment momentarily reflected in the opal-green depths of her eyes stung. But with a brisk clap of her hands, she became all business. ‘Did you have any thoughts for how you’d like to pose?’

He didn’t give two hoots about the damn sketch. He’d simply wanted two hours of her time. ‘You’re the expert. I’ll leave the artistic decisions up to you.’

   He flung the words out like a challenge.

   Why? Why had he done that?

   But it was too late to call them back.

   In the bright afternoon sunlight her full lips twisted into the mockery of a smile. ‘So you’d have no trouble if I was to tell you to remove your clothes?’

   ‘I’m not posing nude for you!’

   ‘You’re not posing for me. I’m sketching a portrait you paid a hundred thousand dollars for.’

   He’d posed nude for her in the past. And she’d painted him while not wearing a stitch herself. Quid pro quo. It had all been very egalitarian. And sexy. He did what he could to burn the memories from his brain.

   She placed a straight-backed chair in a pool of light. ‘I want you to straddle the chair like this.’ She demonstrated what she meant. ‘And I’d like you to look over there.’ She pointed to the left.

   Rising, she went over to a table and chose an object from among the ones scattered there. A cast-iron doorstop in the shape of…a chicken? Why hadn’t she chosen the porcelain lady twirling in her big skirt, or the rearing horse or—?

   ‘And you might want to take your jacket off. It’s warm in the sun.’ She gestured towards a hat stand where he could hang it, threw a cushion to the hard surface of the chair—a kindness he probably didn’t deserve—before gathering her materials.

   He straddled the chair, sans jacket, feeling oddly naked in his simple T-shirt. Gritting his teeth, he rested one clenched fist on the top of the chair and the other on his thigh, and glared at the blasted chook.

   That chicken wouldn’t be random. She’d have chosen it for a reason.

   ‘Are you comfortable?’

   His nostrils flared as he let out a controlled breath. He’d never been more uncomfortable in his life. ‘Perfectly.’

   The scratch of a pencil making lines on canvas sounded through the silence. He kept his eyes glued to the chicken, but felt the weight of her gaze when it rested on him. He clenched his fists harder, his back ramrod straight, and told himself he didn’t care that she didn’t try to make conversation. He vowed he wouldn’t, either.

   Was she frowning in concentration like she used to do? Was she remembering what it had been like the last time she’d sketched him? Could she see how much he’d aged in the past seven years?

   Was she bored and counting down the minutes until his two hours were up?

He flicked a glance in her direction. She didn’t look up from her easel, but the top of her pencil pointed at the chicken. ‘Eyes on the doorstop please.’

   He did as she ordered. Her posture and expression had given nothing away. ‘You once told me that making conversation to put a subject at their ease was a part of your job.’

   The smallest pause sounded—the space of time it took to draw a breath. ‘My apologies. I was under the impression you’d rather not converse.’

   An impression he couldn’t blame her for.

   ‘I saw in this morning’s paper that the shares for Rinngolt Holdings—’ she named a technology company ‘—rose by a rather staggering one dollar twenty.’

She wanted to talk share prices? ‘Are you looking for some free advice?’

   Her chuckle held hard edges. ‘Arsenal is doing well in the premier league. Some pundits claim they’ll win the title this year.’

   His lips twisted. She’d never liked football. ‘I’m not getting my hopes up.’

   ‘So I can see.’

   He narrowed his eyes and imagined they were lasers, imagined incinerating that stupid doorstop chicken.

   ‘I understand that Europe is on track for a glorious summer this year. Make me jealous and tell me where you’re planning to holiday.’

   It would depend on Enrico’s health and what his doctors advised. ‘I have no plans yet.’ The words snapped out more sharply than he’d intended. In all likelihood it would be his grandfather’s last summer, though, and that thought had a howl rising up at the very centre of him.

   ‘Once upon a time you used to be obsessed with the stock market.’

   ‘Obsessed? It was my job!’

   ‘And you loved the football.’

   These days football felt frivolous.

   ‘And you dreamed of all the wonderful places you’d travel to when you were rich.’

   For a moment that memory lightened something inside him, but the weight slammed back into place when he recalled why he’d abandoned those dreams. In each of them he’d always imagined Hallie would be by his side.

   ‘It appears now, though, that they’re of no interest to you. So I’m at a loss for what to chat to you about, Lucas.’

   Her voice was oddly neutral and for some reason it made his stomach churn.

‘I know there’s a reason you’re here, though you’ve not yet seen fit to inform me what it might be. And I don’t feel like drawing it out of you like some precious secret that needs its hand held.’

   He tried not to wince.

   ‘So if you want conversation, how about you initiate it?’

   He turned to face her. ‘We both know this portrait is merely a pretext for me to see you. It’s of no concern and—’

   ‘Stop!’ She had at some point switched to paints and she held her palette tightly as if afraid she might fling it at him. She pointed the tip of her paintbrush in his direction. ‘You paid a hundred thousand dollars for this portrait and I don’t care if it kills us both. We’re doing the portrait or I’m walking out of here. Your choice .’

   Swearing under his breath, he glared at the chicken. ‘Paint away! We don’t need to talk. But if you could do this in under two hours, I’d appreciate it.’

   ‘Noted.’

   Sometime later, he had no idea how long, as he was too caught up in dark thoughts, Hallie told him he was free to relax. ‘I’m just finishing up a few final details.’

   He turned towards her, not wanting to draw this interview out longer than necessary. Her attention remained on the sketch. ‘I’m here because of Enrico.’

   ‘Your grandfather?’ Her tone lightened. ‘How is he?’

   ‘Dying.’

   Her quick intake of breath sounded through the air and he had to close his eyes.

   ‘I’m sorry. I can’t talk about this with any gentleness. I’m too angry about it, too…angry,’ he repeated, probably sounding stupid. But Enrico’s illness was tearing a hole in his world and he didn’t know how to shore it up.

   ‘Understood.’

   Her tone was soft, but raw, too. He opened his eyes, but couldn’t look at her.

   ‘I’m sorry, Lucas.’

   He nodded. Enrico had adored Hallie. And she him. ‘He has asked of me a final request.’

   ‘Which is?’

   He met her gaze. ‘He wants you to paint the Zaneri family portrait.’

 

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