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

Her breath caught, and he kissed her.

Peter, now was the only message that registered.

47

She smoothed her skirt and gazed at her reflection. Peter had insisted she wear the sweater without the bra, saying no woman would be tortured by whalebone on his account, but she suspected more than general bonhomie at work as she’d twice caught him stealing sidelong glances at her.

With hair streaming in uncombed waves down her shoulders, spots of pink on her cheeks, a button missing from her sweater and a skirt that looked like she’d just crawled through the climbing tower at Burger King, the lack of bra was pretty much in keeping with the theme. She supposed she should just be glad there were no teeth marks on the wool. Ah, well, self-confidence, right?

“I won’t be too long,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Three hours of forced smiles, air kisses and wine spritzers is about al I can take. I don’t want to miss a minute with you I don’t have to.”

Peter’s pencil stopped on the words air kisses—he had retreated to his desk and was sketching her—but he continued on with a shrug. “You won’t miss a minute with me. I am invited. Bal ’s guest.”

“Oh.” This threw a slight wrench in the evening because Cam knew she had to talk to Jacket, and Peter’s presence would make things more awkward. “I, um—”

“Fear not, fair lady. I shal make myself scarce. You need to focus on fil ing the room with the confidence of a sultan, er, sultaness, and in any case, I shal not be the cause of any further embarrassment for you and Jacket.”

“Thank you, Peter. But after, can we—”

“Aye.” He put his arm around her waist and pul ed her close. “After. And for as long as we have.”

She looked at the clock. Time was her enemy. “Are you ready? My car’s around the corner.”

He took a glance out the window. “Bal was sending a carriage—I mean, car—for me—Oh, I think it’s here. Long and black, aye? I’l tel the driver I don’t need him. ’Twould be a pleasure to see you drive.”

For an instant she had a vision of Scarlett O’Hara seated high on her carriage, driving her horses around Atlanta, but then the recol ection that her eight-year-old Honda hadn’t been washed since June cleared her head.

“Um, I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you.”

The corner of his mouth rose. “I shal temper my anticipation.”

A particularly loud snippet of “Walking on Sunshine”

began to trumpet through the room. It was her ringtone and Cam scurried toward the couch. Her phone was in her purse, but she didn’t have the faintest idea where her purse might be.

The noise seemed to be coming from the floor. She dove to her knees and looked under the coffee table.

Nothing. She checked under the couch. No joy.

Peter was looking now, too. He crouched by the desk.

“Are we looking for the music?”

“Yes. It’s coming out of my purse.”

“Ah.” He unfolded himself, strode to the credenza and found her clutch on the floor. It must have fal en out of her coat.

She grabbed it and answered just as the music stopped.

“Crap.” She looked at the display. “It’s my boss.”

Jabbing the button to cal him back, she gave Peter a “no worries” look and said, “I’l just be a minute.”

Packard answered on the first ring. “Oh, thank God.”

“What is it?” She could hear the concern in his voice.

“Cam, there’s a problem with Bal ’s Van Dyck.”

“What do you mean, a problem?” The painting had passed every insurance and curate review and was now sitting on an easel behind a velvet curtain, ready to be revealed at the gala.

“I mean it’s not by Van Dyck.”

48

Peter buckled the belt across his lap just as Mertons had shown him and watched Cam as she twisted the key and the car roared to life. Even in the shadows of the evening she looked beautiful, and he burned with pride, lust and a terrified gratitude that for however long he could al ow himself to stay, she would be with him. As