Page 35 of Flirting with Forever

Out of ideas, she tossed back a gulp. The wine was cool and velvety. Unlike a Pinot or Chardonnay or, in fact, any other white she’d ever had, this wine boasted the intensity of a brandy or sherry. Prickles of warmth stung her cheeks. Yowzah! It was heavenly. The Macallan of whites. She took another sip and suddenly the wool of Lely’s coat began to feel warm. She flipped it off her shoulders and caught him observing her.

He looked away but not before another round of warmth rose up her neck. She liked the way he looked at her. It was neither intrusive nor surgical. It was warm and admiring.

“Won’t you pour one for yourself?”

“I don’t drink while I work.”

Cam wished she had something on which to take notes. Lely was emptying powders and liquids from different jars into tiny ceramic bowls. She thought it might be alcohol, but when the scent reached her nose, she knew it was turpentine. The techniques of Lely’s time were the subject of a certain amount of conjecture by art historians. She watched his preparations with interest. She watched his face with even more interest.

“That’s quite a selection,” she observed, gesturing toward the shelves stacked with supplies.

He shrugged. “Tools of the trade.”

“I thought you asked for Stephen to prepare your palette.”

“There are a few colors I prefer to make myself.”

The fire began to do its job, and he loosened a button under the hollow of his throat. The linen fell open and a narrow swath of chestnut hairs came into view. Cam took another long sip and watched them sparkle in the firelight.

“This is really strong wine.”

“Rhenish,” he said without lifting his eyes from his work. “Finish it and pour yourself another.”

Ah, so that’s how it worked, was it? The wine loosened the tongue, then the inhibitions, then the dress. She thought of the woman with the peony and that pale, unfettered breast. Had that been the gleam of Rhenish in her eye? Is that what those finishing touches of white in the iris had captured? And what had come after the finishing touches? Or in an artist’s garret like this, were the finishing touches something quite removed from the canvas? Cam turned her gaze to that low, cushioned settee and drained the glass.

She had been seduced a handful of times—not that she intended to allow Lely to seduce her, of course—but she didn’t think she had ever been so acutely aware of the machinations of seduction in a man who had not touched her and who, in fact, had barely spoken to her. It was unusual and intriguing.

He finished his table work and gave her a long, considering look.

“The blue,” he said. “It will not suit.”

She almost laughed. If he intended to strip her of the dressing gown, it would take more than a simple declaratory sentence.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She refilled her glass and stretched out on the chaise. “It’s stunning.”

“It brings out your eyes,” he said, raising the tray of the easel a few inches, “which are stunning. But in this portrait your hair will predominate. We need a paprika or an olive. If you do not mind, find something pleasing in the wardrobe. There’s a mirror. Make certain it puts flames to your curls.”

Cam was flattered he had chosen to pay homage to her hair. She knew exactly the colors that set off the lustrous red-blond best, and she made her way to the choices.

“Mr. Lely? Are you there?”

A thin, quavering voice rose on the stairs. A woman. Not Miss Kate.

Lely’s eyes narrowed. Rubbing his hands on a clean rag, he stepped to the top. “Aye?” Immediately he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Dear heavens. My poor Miss Quinn. Has someone not attended to you?” He hurried down the stairs to the small landing.

Miss Quinn of Sir David and the canceled portrait. Oh dear, Cam thought, this is going to be awkward. Had Miss Quinn not been sent to Sir David’s place of business for the brush-off from his secretary?

Cam had been the recipient of more than one undeservedly harsh brush-off in her time—what woman of thirty-four hadn’t?—and none had been quite so crushing as finding Jacket and the ring designer settling their creative differences in her bed. Her heart went out to Miss Quinn, but she had to admit it amused her to imagine the squirming Lely would have to do.

“Miss Quinn,” she heard him say, “I am most sorry. Did Stephen—my clerk—not explain to you about the portrait?”

Stephen, Cam thought, had only been instructed to provide her with the address.

“No,” Miss Quinn said. “I have been waiting since you moved me.”

“Come. Step up to the landing, where we shall be a little more private.”

“Why?” Her voice quavered. “What have you to tell me?”