Page 107 of Flirting with Forever

He took a glance out the window. “Ball was sending a carriage—I mean, car—for me—Oh, I think it’s here. Long and black, aye? I’ll tell 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 recollection that her eight-year-old Honda hadn’t been washed since June cleared her head. “Um, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high, if I were you.”

The corner of his mouth rose. “I shall 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 fallen 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 call him back, she gave Peter a “no worries” look and said, “I’ll just be a minute.”

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

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

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

“What do you mean, a problem?” The painting had passed every insurance and curatorial 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.”

Forty-eight

Peter buckled the belt across his lap just as Mertons had shown him. Cam 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 allow himself to stay, she would be with him. As she busied herself with the handling of the carriage, something behind him caught his eye.

A warmth came over him as he realized it was the portrait he’d done of her.

“How…?”

“Mertons,” she said inexplicably.

He damned the man silently. He’d asked Mertons to dispose of it and instead he’d given it to her.

“He wanted me to convince you to go back. I was going to return it. Never quite got around to it.” She gave him a lopsided smile, but the lights of a passing car showed lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier.

“What is it?” He laid a tentative hand on her wrist. He knew it was the call. She’d laughed it off, but something in her had changed.

“Nothing, it’s…I’m sure it’s nothing.” She pushed the rudder into place and turned the wheel, and the car sailed into traffic.

“Tell me.”

The beacon turned from yellow to red. The car slowed and stopped. Cam pulled a lever until it squealed and touched her lashes with a finger.

“It’s the Van Dyck,” she said. “But it just doesn’t make any sense.”

Peter felt a trace of foreboding. “The painting from Ball?”

“Yes. My boss just called. He says it’s not a Van Dyck.”

Peter’s heart thudded in his chest. “Turn around. I need to return to my rooms.”