Page 69 of Flirting with Forever

“At a restaurant in Regent Square. With Mr. Ball. We just sat down.”

“Oh God. Not another fuzzy navel night.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not driving. What are you doing?”

“You know. Meeting with a potential buyer.”

“Cool. See you soon—well, maybe not soon, exactly.”

He laughed. “Take your time.”

He walked back into the studio. Anastasia was naked, perched effortlessly on heels that seemed to be an extension of her body. The glossy black triangle below her waist looked like a small, hibernating animal. She walked to the bed and lay on her stomach, her lovely tight ass flexing as she crossed her ankles above it. Her breasts, boyish and firm, were visible by her bent elbow.

She looked at him through long, thick lashes. “Perhaps we should start like this.”

Twenty-nine

“He’s here,” Jeanne said over the phone.

“Who’s here?” Cam held up a finger to Ball and excused herself from the restaurant’s booth.

“Peter Lely.”

Her chest made a vigorous thump. “What do you mean ‘here’?”

“I mean here. In the museum. Whatever you did on your way back from Shakespeare land, you forgot to lock the barn door, and now a very large, very oddly dressed cow is walking around the admin wing.”

“Holy cripes! Stop him!” She ran out the door for the privacy of the sidewalk.

“Honey, I’m doing everything I can. He’s in the men’s room now.”

“Hiding?”

“Changing.”

Cam’s stomach felt like a dozen marathoners were running through it. “You’ve got to make him go back.”

“Tried it. The man’s got no interest in going back. He wants you.”

Oh Christ! “I can’t.”

“According to him, you’ve got two choices. Either meet with him now or he comes back to the museum tomorrow to talk with ‘your master’ and goes from there to the ‘gentleman who prints your books.’”

When worlds collide. Cam tried to speak but no words came.

“Where’s Jacket?” Jeanne demanded.

“Meeting with a potential buyer.”

“I’m stowing the guy at your place, then. Get your ass over there.”

Thirty

Peter gazed down at the thick boots; the stiff, formfitting brown breeks; and the odd tan shirt with half sleeves and its owner’s name sewn over the pocket. “Rusty,” he said again.

“I told you, he’s a maintenance man.” Jeanne turned the wheel of the horseless vehicle she called a “car.” “He works with the boiler and pipes. That sort of thing.”

“In that line of work, such a name does not instill much confidence.”