Page 68 of Flirting with Forever

“The latest Jacket Sprague? I do.”

He turned the easel. She pulled out a pair of glasses and perched them on the end of her nose. Leaving one foot at a right angle to the other, like a ballet dancer, she stepped back. A scent he could only describe as flowers in a harem hung on her shoulders.

“Ballsy,” she said at last. “Ironic. Postapocalyptic Duchamp crossed with John Singer Sargent. Congratulations, you’ve reinvented yourself.”

Jacket beamed. That was exactly what he’d wanted to hear. “I told you it was good.”

“You were right.”

“Did you get a chance to talk to Ball?”

“I did,” she said. “I don’t think this is what he’s looking for.”

“He hasn’t seen this.”

“True. Still, the aesthetic is not—”

“It is true what I heard, then—that he’s buying big?”

“What you heard, my dear,” she said, touching his nose, “is that he’s building a new postmodern house in Florida with an entry hall the size of a small European country. He wants a dozen pieces, same artist. He wants to make a statement. He’s willing to go as high as twenty-five million.”

“Jesus, that’s a hell of a statement.” He took her arm. “Listen, I want it.” Their eyes met, and he felt a tingle of excitement mixed with fear. It was like looking into the eyes of a hungry panther.

“I hope you get what you want, then.” She gave him a sly smile and walked past the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows, her stilettos clicking out the ball-tightening code of a streetwalker. “Let me ask you something,” she said when she finished a long sweep of the skyline. “Why is it you’re asking me for help with Ball and not Cam?”

He took a breath. He didn’t really understand all the rules about women, but he had a sense talking about Cam in this way was crossing the line. “She doesn’t like to get involved in that sort of thing.”

“For her fiancé?”

“We haven’t quite gotten to that stage yet.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “We’re still in negotiations.”

“Jesus. Are you fucking her, or are you actually stuck in the guest room like it looks?”

He rubbed his hands on his jeans. “C’mon, Anastasia.”

She dug a cigarette out of her purse and held out a pack of matches. He struck one for her and lit the cigarette. The sound made his heart do a weird sort of jump step, even though he’d never been a smoker.

“What’s this?” She looked at the sketchbook on his work desk.

“Oh, that. A detail. For a portrait.”

“You’re going back to portraits?”

“Well, just one. The last, probably.”

“The last portrait of Jacket Sprague,” she said with an interested glint. “Now there’s something that sounds interesting. Who’s your model?”

“Well, I don’t usually work with models, but in this case—”

“How about me?”

“What?”

“Me. How about me?” She lifted herself onto the table and crossed her legs. Her hair was as straight and shiny as a slice of onyx.

“I, uh…”

His cell phone buzzed. It was Cam. He held up a finger and stepped into the hall. “Where are you, doll?”