...Matteo yawned slowly, not self-conscious at all. Then, quite calmly, he dropped to the floor and settled himself cross-legged beside my easel. “You said it yourself. You can’t ignore the cries from inside your gut. That painting cries to me.”

Dear God. “And what does it cry to you, Matteo?” The sarcasm wasn’t as sharp as I’d intended. “You said I painted it from life, but that’s nonsense.”

He sucked thoughtfully on the orange, his nose crinkling every time his teeth bit into it. It was an innately charming, affectionate gesture. “It cries life to me. Hurt. Love. Warmth. Death.”

“Clichés,” I snapped. I was surprisingly disappointed in him. He was nothing but a high school critic, a pretentious mimic. No better than Ailsa and some of the other fawning idiots who came around, ostensibly to learn from me. A trespasser.

He shrugged again and reached for the other half of the orange. He’d sucked the first half quite dry and there were flecks of its flesh on his lower lip. He looked up at me from under thick, dark lashes. “It cries passion to me.”

My breath stilled in my chest. I’d have been scared by the fierce concentration in his gaze if I didn’t know all this couldn’t be real. “That’s not what I want. Not now.”

Matteo laughed as if we both knew I was talking complete crap. Other people had laughed at me in the past, but their laughter was full of scorn and dismissal. Matteo’s was…happy. Fond. After a moment, I smiled, too.

He snagged another orange and settled his back against the wall. He drew his legs up against his chest, well-developed muscles straining against the material of his pants, one hand resting on his knees. “But for now, you must also finish what you’ve started. All these paintings…” With the hand holding the orange, he gestured toward the stacked canvases. “You must decide on the good ones and make them better. Then sell them so you have enough money.”

I shook my head, astonished at his boldness. “You know nothing about it. They’re all crap, there’s nothing new there.” Or so my agent had said, both to my face and then in correspondence, because he was a coward. I wasn’t an idiot, I knew my bad temper had increased over the last few years. I’d scared the shit out of him more than once and also alienated most of the gallery owners in town. Even hardened art journalists thought twice about approaching me nowadays. What did I have to offer anymore? I was at the end of the road on so many levels. I’d never have admitted my failures to Ailsa, but here I was, baring my rather soiled soul to this weird, misguided young man.

Matteo laughed. Such a relaxed, untroubled sound. “But I’m here now.” He leaned his head back and planted his bare feet firmly on the floor, wriggling once more to get comfortable. “So now you must tell me about yourself, Gavin McGrath.” When I opened my mouth to protest again, he shook his head, his young, soft eyes a little grave. “While you paint, of course.”

It was nonsense. Didn’t I say so? All of it. It couldn’t be happening and it shouldn’t be tolerated. But I got up from my chair and picked up the palette. Matteo nodded at me, encouragingly. I stood at the easel and concentrated on the top section of the canvas. The red paint had bubbled there; the light in the studio caught the top of each bump, reflecting and refracting, blending the dips and shadows. I could see the opportunity there to paint the emergence of a life, bubbling into existence, raw and innocent and clean. My vision was much clearer than usual and the pain in my chest had eased. For one brief, shocked moment, I thought I caught the scent of the orange, hanging in the air of the studio, tart and sweet. And as I painted, I started to tell Matteo about myself.

Several hours later, he stopped murmuring replies to me. I no longer heard the creak of the floorboards behind me as he shifted to get comfortable. Was he asleep? I wiped a bead of sweat from my chin, but for some reason I was wary of turning around to look.

“Matteo?”

There was a slight whisper—it might have been a draft under the door out of the studio. I tried for a careless, cynical tone.

“You never said who your artist friend is.”

He sighed, then. “Concentrate on your work, Gavin. It’s not important. And maybe you won’t have heard of him? He uses the name of his town, where he lived and his parents died. It was before he came to Rome. He goes by the name of Caravaggio.”