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

It was a fantastic triangle. Plenty of sex. Plenty of behind-the-scenes maneuvering. Now al she had to do was fit it into her biography, send it to her publisher again, and she’d have Bal ’s gift of the $2.1 mil ion Van Dyck painting as wel as a book deal to lay before the museum board. She thought of the scene in Flashdance, a scene actual y filmed in the Carnegie’s great hal , where Jennifer Beals points a victorious finger at every sour-faced judge during her dance audition and wins them over to her obvious suitability.

Yep, she thought as the scene played in her head, that would be her, though there would be no Michael Nouri waiting with a bunch of roses at the end, and there would certainly be no Jake Ryan sitting on top of his Porsche, making sure she celebrated her big day in the best way possible.

Peter had retreated into a polite reserve. He told her the Van Dyck story without emotion, answering whatever questions she asked, before excusing himself, saying he had an appointment he’d forgotten. He had not asked her to stay. He had not asked her to schedule another sitting.

He did not mention another Wednesday afternoon. She had simply gathered her purse, stumbled down the stairs with a general murmur about the privy and walked to the models’

room. Within a minute she’d cal ed up Amazon on her phone, as Jeanne had suggested, replayed the steps she’d taken before and been deposited with a bang at her desk.

Her only problem was that a biography, at least in theory, was supposed to be based on facts. The Agnes story was a fact, but Cam could hardly footnote it with “From an interview with Van Dyck contemporary Peter Lely, November 5, 1673.” She’d need to find some mention of it somewhere in the records.

Jeanne stirred. “Mmmgph. Are you stil up?”

“Yeah. Thanks for staying.”

“You know I like to rack up as much overtime as possible. Besides, the only way I could explain my panic about your absence earlier was saying you’d found a vein of gold, researchwise, and had rushed off to the library without tel ing anyone.”

“I take it you didn’t mention the explosion and the orange Crush?”

“Do I look like I want to be carted away by men in white coats? I said I’d heard a noise in your office and that when I went in you were gone.”

“You should be a writer.”

“Tel me about it. I’m glad the reverse trip worked, though. You didn’t come back right away, so I wasn’t sure.”

Cam thought about how much smarter it would have been if she had. She hadn’t told Jeanne anything that had happened after her il -conceived posing.

“I’m having a problem.”

“Hit me.” Jeanne sat up and rubbed her eyes. “This story about the virgin Agnes is great stuff, but I’m supposed to be an academic. What am I going to list as a source on that?”

Jeanne rubbed her chin. “I’ve got an idea. You know how news used to be objective old men giving us the facts and nothing but the facts?”

“Yeah?”

“But people gave up wanting to hear news? They only wanted to hear fairy tales or WWE smack talk disguised as news?”

“Yeah?”

“Why does your publisher want you to sex up your story?

Because it sel s better. Which is the same reason those cable news stations have created a new model.”

“So are you suggesting I rewrite this so al my characters are either interrupting one another or shouting?”

“No. I’m suggesting you create your own model. Fiction plus biography. Have it be based in fact. Lord knows, you’ve done the research. But sel it as fiction, or at least a weird hybrid. Campbel Stratford, art world expert, cracks open the world of sex-crazed, egomaniac painters. People wil eat it up. Better yet, they’l believe it’s true. After al , would a nice girl like you lie?”

Cam leaned back. A fictography. In a flash, she saw the whole book rewrite itself. It was a great idea. And best of al , she wouldn’t have to do a stitch more research.

Whatever she didn’t know, she could make up! It was beautiful!

“Jeanne,” she said, “I don’t pay you enough.”

“Hush.” Jeanne punched the cushion and pul ed the blanket over her head. “It goes to triple time at twenty-four hours.”

Cam’s finger went to her lashes. Most of the last twelve hours had been a highly embarrassing mistake. At least she could salvage something.

“Hey,” Jeanne said. “I can see that.”

Cam put her finger down. “So?”

“So what happened with Lely?”

“Nothing. I found out what I needed to know.”

“Uh-oh. That sounds