Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (new books to read TXT) 📕

“No comment.”

“Yep, that’s about what I expected.”

42

Jake Ryan? Ha! How could she have ever been so blind?

Peter’s brand of chivalry was far more in the line of, say, Henry VI I than anyone John Hughes had ever dreamed up.

Cam sat at her desk feeling like her world had been turned upside down—upside down, shaken like a maraca and kicked into the end zone of Peter’s infuriating game plan. Her face would be splashed across every newspaper in the world, irretrievably linked to a work of art that would excite prurient interest for years to come. She’d be the punch line of a joke. Her relationship with Jacket had set enough tongues wagging. Now she’d be seen as the woman passed around the art world, some paint-and-canvas groupie. She felt powerless. She hated that artists had held al the cards, and she real y hated that she’d brought it on herself by shoving Peter in front of the reporter. She might as wel have stood next to the painting and had LOOK AT ME, THAT’S MY PUBIC HAIR tattooed across her forehead.

Bal had managed to convince the Pop City guy to hold the story until Monday, long enough to al ow the board to meet and choose the next executive director. How he’d done it, she didn’t know, but she expected it required not only the promise of an exclusive interview, but a big check made out to the reporter’s favorite charity as wel .

She’d told Bal she thought she should withdraw her name from consideration, but he’d disagreed—vehemently disagreed. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to that place,” he’d said. “This is the world of art. They should b e thrilled to find themselves smack dab in the middle of the story. Once I buy the paintings, I’l be taking ’em on tour.

I’l start the tour there. That oughta quiet their complaints.”

But she noticed Bal ’s confidence hadn’t extended to notifying the board immediately. As certain as he was of her notoriety being seen as a benefit, he didn’t think it was a good idea to risk it in advance of the vote.

So Cam was safe for somewhat less than seventy-two hours, assuming no one who’d been in that carriage house talked. Bal had taken care of the reporter. She presumed his wife and friends could be trusted. And when Bal had asked Peter to keep the story under wraps until Monday, Peter had said only, “I have no intention of discussing the paintings ever.” But the art world was a smal one, even more so in Pittsburgh, and she wondered exactly how long anyone could be counted on to keep what would be such a monumental y satisfying secret to share.

She looked at the clock. The gala started in a few hours.

Her outfit was hanging on the back of her door. It was a gorgeous olive angora sweater with pearl buttons down the front and a shimmering ful white organza skirt that reached to the floor. She knew she should try to look forward to wearing it. It would probably be the last time people would remember her wearing clothes at al .

The door banged open and she jumped. It was Anastasia. She was wearing over-the-knee suede boots and what looked like a jacket of an officer in the Russian Imperial Guard.

“Nothing like casual Fridays,” Cam said.

Anastasia didn’t respond. She seemed preoccupied, which in many ways, Cam thought, was even scarier than her being mad. Anastasia sank onto the corner of Cam’s desk, tapping a blood-red nail on the stapler.

“I ran into that friend of yours the other day.”

Cam girded herself. “Friend?”

“Peter Lely.”

Cam nearly slid off her chair. “Peter?”

“That’s his name, right?”

“Wel , yeah, but—Wait, how did you know he was my friend?”

“He introduced himself,” she said quickly. “He’d heard me talking about the museum and said he knew someone who worked there, too. Smal world, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“We had a very interesting time.”

Anastasia’s gaze moved slowly from the stapler to Cam, and Cam immediately felt a disturbing change in the force.

A brisk slide show of potential sister betrayal flipped through her head. Anastasia slept with