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

looked at the curls framing her shoulders and felt a shiver as she remembered him removing that hairpin. “And this is what he’s been working on?”

Her companion’s moral superiority appeared to down-shift. She felt the lurch of the Mertons-mobile.

“Peter’s been working on a number of projects,” he said obscurely.

“So what are you tel ing me? I should stop the book because Peter found a conscience and now has feelings for me?”

Mertons let out a long sigh. “Yes.”

How much of the book is revenge, she asked herself, and how much is a story that should be told? She shifted.

“Mertons—”

“Look, I’m not saying you’re another Romeo and Juliet

—”

“You’re aware they ended up dead?”

“Fine, a Scarlett and Rhett—”

“Estranged and unhappy? You’re getting warmer.”

“What I’m trying to say is, look at the work. You’re an art expert. What does that art tel you?”

She al owed herself to remove the lens of anger and hurt that had colored her thoughts about Peter since they’d parted. She was a trained curator, after al . What would she see if she real y let herself look?

She closed her eyes and opened them. What she saw made her heart ache, not just because what Peter had seen in his mind’s eye when he painted was the sort of moment of comfortable intimacy that makes the best part of a relationship, but because it reflected what she herself had desired for the two of them. If this is what Peter’s art said about Peter, she thought, what does my book say about me?

Touching the corner of the canvas with care, as if it might spark under her touch, she said lightly, “It tel s me a lot of things, actual y.”

“You see! I’ve seen his work! He has not painted something like this ever before, not even of his wife. Don’t you see the impact you’ve had on him?”

Wife? Ursula was his wife? She fought to keep her hand from shaking. “He painted his wife?”

“Oh, any number of times. She was his muse, I am told.

But it was never like this.”

No, one never paints one’s wife the way one does the woman one draws into adultery. She felt il .

“I think,” she said softly, “you had better leave.”

Mertons frowned, obviously confused. “But—”

“Go. Please.”

“I should like to leave you the painting.”

“That’s unnecessary. Peter wil see it’s missing.”

“No. No, he—” Mertons came to a dead stop.

“He what?”

Mertons shifted his weight. “He asked me to dispose of it.”

“Then I’l ask you to do the same.”

“Miss Stratford, al sentiment aside, do you have any idea how much a Peter Lely is worth in today’s market?”

“Not enough to tempt me a second time. Take it.” Cam made her way to the entry hal , hoping Mertons would take the hint.

His shoulders fel . He slipped on his coat, placed the canvas under his arm and picked up his briefcase and valise. “And the book?”

She pressed the security button to cal the elevator. “Tel Peter he’s been my muse. Now, if you’l excuse me …”

Cam made it al the way to her bedroom before she started to cry.

* * *

Jacket was sneaking into the kitchen, hoping to grab a beer without being forced into the torturous insurance conversation, when he overheard Cam say, “Go. Please.”

He stopped. He’d heard that sound in her voice before.

Hel , he’d heard the same words from her before. But why would she be saying them to an insurance agent? He took his hand off the refrigerator door and strained his ear in the direction of the living room.

The next bit was garbled, as the ice maker dropped a fresh batch into the storage compartment, but then, clear as a bel , he heard the insurance guy say, “Miss Stratford, al sentiment aside, do you have any idea how much a Peter Lely is worth in today’s market?”

Peter Lely again? What the hel was going on? Who was this guy?

He barely had time to process her answer before the sound of approaching steps made him run to the studio, a smart move on his part since she rushed by the door an instant later and went straight into her room.

When he heard the door close, he stuck his head out for a look. The insurance guy stood in front of the elevator with a canvas under his arm. The door opened, and the man hesitated. He held the door with his foot, put his cases on the floor and placed the painting down, front side against the wal . Then he picked up the cases and got in. The door closed.

Jacket ventured from