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

Though she had anticipated the brutality of the sentiment, she was surprised to find her eyes wel ing with wetness. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“Someone who loves your sister, a post you may want to consider at some point. You should be ashamed.”

And she was.

52

Cam walked down the hal , stunned. Could Peter have been involved in this? She didn’t want to believe it. But he came here to stop her. He’d admitted as much himself. And who was more likely to have had access to an old Van Dyck letter? How would she know? Had everything been a lie?

Calm down. You’re blowing this out of proportion.

“Whoa!”

Jacket caught her by the waist in an effort to keep them both from spinning off their feet.

“What’s up, babe?”

She turned her face away and burst into tears. “I’m not going to be the director.”

“Oh, Cam.” He took her in his arms and held her tight.

“Who needs that stuffy old job anyway? You’re too smart for this place.”

“But I wanted it,” she cried into his soft lapel, then shuddered under another wave of emotion.

“I know, I know.” He patted her head.

“And they’re going to give it to Anastasia.”

“Jesus, they’ve lost the plot, then. It’s the only way to explain it. You’re so much smarter than she is, so much more capable, so much more equipped to lead.”

“It’s not fair. Nothing is.”

“It’s not. It’s absolutely not. C’mon, let’s get you into your office.”

He took her by the hand and led her down the hal and through the door.

Cam hurried to the tissues and tried to mop her eyes and cheeks. No job, no book and no more Peter—that is, if she’d ever had him. She knew she’d be okay—she always was—but three blows at once was too much for even her, and a fresh round of tears began to fal .

“The painting,” she said, gazing out the window. “It’s not a Van Dyck. I mean, I’m sure it is, but Packard has a letter or a page of a diary or something, and it’s clearly Van Dyck’s handwriting, and it says the painting was done by one of the apprentices in his studio. So now I have to tel Bal , the poor guy, and I have to resign. I have to. It’s a huge embarrassment to the museum. And in any case,” she said, turning, “if Anastasia is going to be the new director, I don’t real y want—Oh God.”

Jacket had found a seat, and now he stared, dazed, at a dozen photos arranged around her desktop. The photos of the Wednesday Afternoon paintings. In his hand were the interview notes from Bal . She recognized his tight block printing.

“Jacket …”

If he heard, he didn’t acknowledge it. He ran a hand over his forehead, opened his mouth to speak, but whatever it was seemed to catch in his throat. She knew what it must look like.

“Jacket, I’m sorry. I meant to tel you.”

“‘The reporter,’” he read from the paper in his hand, “‘wil be most interested in the lover angle. The paintings reveal a relationship that goes far beyond the usual rhetoric of artist and subject, seemingly beyond that of artist and lover.

Was Stratford Lely’s lover or just his muse? Does this relationship have any connection to Stratford’s recently announced fictography of Restoration painter Peter Lely?

And why is Stratford intent on keeping the paintings a secret?’”

The letter dropped, and he touched the photos hesitantly, only at the edges, as if respecting some imaginary boundary.

“They’re good,” he said, honestly. “Very good.” Then he dropped his head in his hands.

“Jesus, Jacket. I am so sorry. I …” She hadn’t posed for the paintings, but she had been Peter’s lover. “I should have told you. Once you came back in my life, even if we weren’t official y a couple, I owed you that much, at least. I know this must hurt. And I know it’s going to be embarrassing. I’m sorry.”

He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his mouth with a fist, and gave a faint, amused chuckle. “I wish we had the chance to start over. God knows I haven’t made it easy for you.” He sighed and stood. “You don’t owe me an explanation, but I’m grateful for it, anyway. I don’t want to lose you from my life, Cam, and I hope someday we can figure out how to make it work for us.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

He gazed down at his boots. “Are you lovers?”

Her cheeks