Page 73 of Flirting with Forever

Peter knew he was getting dangerously close to getting tossed out, and now that he’d made it here, he didn’t want to go. “For that, I am sorry. Your fiancée and I have friends in common—in London. She gave me her card and told me to stop by the next time I was in town. I arrived at her office, and her assistant, Jeanne, graciously brought me here and let me in.” He relaxed his face into something he hoped would pass for a smile. “Jeanne should arrive momentarily.”

The ridiculously named Jacket grunted. “Well, Cam’s out with a donor. We’re not likely to see her for a while.”

Convenient for an early evening idyll, Peter thought. It was nothing short of villainous, especially conducted on the lady’s own doorstep. He would have scarcely believed it possible, but the mores of the twenty-first century had sunk lower than those of the seventeenth.

“I was told otherwise.” Peter held the man’s gaze. “Has Miss Stratford seen this portrait? I am of the understanding she has a particular appreciation for painting, and I’m certain this one would interest her.”

“No.” Jacket shifted uncomfortably. “It was begun this evening.”

“Ah.”

The dark-haired woman called out, “Can I get a wine for you?”

“A beer, please,” Jacket said. “And a second for our friend here.”

The woman returned with two bottles and a glass of wine. She handed out the bottles and gave Peter a predatory look. “I’m the model, by the way.” She held out her hand.

Peter took it and bowed. “A remarkable likeness. ’Tis not an easy job.”

After an uneasy silence, Jacket lifted his bottle. “To Budweiser.”

“To Budweiser,” Peter repeated. “King of beers.”

“L’chaim,” the woman said, and they drank.

Jacket wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I think,” he said carefully to the woman, “you had better get dressed. Cam’s on her way.”

The woman pulled the glass from her lips, coughing. “She is?”

“So it seems. She asked Peter to meet her here. You might want to use the other door.”

She scurried into the room she’d come out of, snatching up a pile of clothes from the floor as she went.

When the door closed, Peter said, “I should like to buy it.” He pointed to the canvas.

Jacket raised a brow. He drew his eyes over Peter’s clothes and returned to his work. “It’s not finished,” he said dismissively.

“I don’t care. Name your price.”

“You can’t afford it.”

“My means are extensive.”

“A million,” Jacket said, and Peter swayed a little. “A million and four weeks.”

“I want it now.” Peter pulled off the emerald and thrust out his hand. When Jacket took the ring, Peter felt as if a great weight had been removed.

“How do I know it’s real?” Jacket said, examining it closely. “Besides, it’s got something engraved on it.”

“It’s my mark.”

Jacket tossed it back. “Nothing personal, man, but I’ll stick with cash.”

Peter’s heart sunk. “I don’t have any coins with me,” he said, though he knew where he could get them.

“Coins?” Jacket laughed, and Peter’s vision darkened. “Come back when ya got ’em, pal.”

A voice—Jeanne’s voice—called, “Hello? Is anybody here?”