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

“Peter Lely, huh?”

“Yes, and he’s amazing. You’d think he’d be such a narcissist—I mean, you know how painters are—but he’s real y so sweet, like this closet good guy. And he’s cute, with these eyes the color of …” She groped the air, searching for the right words. “… Kit-Kat bars. And he’s got this sort of Karate Kidl Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon thing going on the way he can just look across the room and make magic happen. And don’t even ask about the way he moves when he paints. Oh my God. You can tel by the way he runs the place that he can do absolutely anything.”

“Jeez, you must have gotten a ton of stuff on Van Dyck.”

Cam clapped her hand over her mouth. She’d total y forgotten Van Dyck.

“No,” Jeanne said in disbelief. “You are not going to tel me you’ve been in the sixteen hundreds for an hour and didn’t ask anything about Van Dyck.”

“I-I—” Cam wracked her memory. Had she heard anything on Van Dyck? “He might have had a relative who managed a theater.”

“Wow, that’s gonna bust the art biography world wide open. What about dirt? And what are you doing in that getup?”

Cam looked down, confused, then remembered Jeanne had the picture. She clutched the gown tighter.

“Ah … there was an accident.”

“Mustard?”

“Funny. No. A too-many-mistresses-at-once accident.

Nel Gwyn, the one I mentioned? She’s one of them—the good one. There was a bit of a kerfuffle with the other one

—a real bitch of a duchess. But anyhow, she—Nel , I mean

—real y admired my dress—long story, but we had to switch.”

“I see. Then the olive gown in your picture is Nel ’s?”

Cam thought of Nel ’s robin’s-egg blue dressing gown upstairs on the floor near the fire. “Wel , no. Not exactly.”

There was a short pause in which she could feel the wheels turning in Jeanne’s head.

“Real y?”

“Real y?”

Cam yel ed, “Wait!” but it was too late. She heard the sound of the phone drop.

Oh, I’m toast.

“Wel , wel , wel ,” Jeanne said. “Here I am on page twelve of that lovely exhibition book and what do I see? An olive gown with ruffled sleeves. You’re posing for him!”

“What? No. Me?”

“You’re posing for him, don’t lie.”

“I-I—”

“Tel me,” Jeanne said, “that breast was not exposed.”

Cam bit back a smile. “I, uh, can’t actual y.”

Jeanne whooped so loud, Cam had to pul the phone from her ear.

“You didn’t!” she screamed.

“I did! I did!”

“Verbal high five! So how did he get you to do it?”

“What?”

“The breast. What was the secret? Magic? Hypnosis?

Some sort of Restoration era date-rape drug?”

Cam considered her answer.

“Oh God,” Jeanne said. “He didn’t actual y drug you, did he?”

“Wel , no, it wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?”

Cam shifted. “Wel , he did offer me a glass of wine.”

“We’re going to have to file charges. I hope you kept the glass.”

Cam laughed. “It was pretty strong wine.”

“The rogue. And then I suppose he made some sort of

“The rogue. And then I suppose he made some sort of offhanded comment like ‘So how do you want to pose?’

And the next thing you knew you were clawing your gown open. I mean, what’s a girl to do?”

“Wow, it’s like you were there.”

“Cam.”

Cam looked at her bare toes, smiling. “I don’t know.

You’d have to meet him. I just wanted to do it.”

“Wel , I guess that’s better than ‘He saved me from genital herpes,’ which is how you hooked up with Jacket.”

“I didn’t ‘hook up’ with Peter,” Cam said, “or Jacket, for that matter. My God, I’m practical y a journalist. I was just doing, uh, a little first-person research.”

“On Van Dyck.”

Cam felt her ears redden. “Ha-ha. So how do we get me back?”

“Maybe you should ask Peter. He clearly knew how to get you front.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Thank you. Wel , it seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“Real y?”

“Sure. I mean, if you got there with ‘Surprise Me!’ why wouldn’t it work going in the other direction?”

“Omigod, Jeanne, you’re amazing! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Mrs. Post?”

Cam jerked back into the room. Mertons was standing at the door with a look of confusion on his face. She swung the phone behind her gown, but had it been too late?

“What are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed. “To whom were you talking?”

“Myself.”

“What are you doing in