Page 82 of Flirting with Forever

Mertons let out a long sigh. “Yes.”

How much of her book was revenge, she asked herself, and how much was a story that should be told? She shifted uncomfortably. “Mertons—”

“Look, I’m not saying you two are another Romeo and Juliet—”

“You’re aware they ended up dead?”

“Fine, a Scarlett and Rhett—”

“Estranged and unhappy. But you’re getting warmer.”

“What I’m trying to say is, look at the work. You’re an art expert. What does that art tell you?”

She allowed herself to remove the lens of anger that had colored her thoughts about Peter since they’d parted. She was a seasoned art expert, after all. What would she see if she really let herself look?

She closed her eyes and opened them. What she saw made her heart ache, not just because Peter had painted the sort of moment of comfortable intimacy that makes the best part of a relationship, but because that moment reflected what she herself had desired for the two of them. If this is what Peter’s art said about Peter, she thought, what does my book say about me?

Touching the corner of the canvas with care, as if it might spark under her touch, she said lightly, “It tells me a lot of things, actually.”

“You see! I’ve seen his work! He’s not painted something like this ever before, not even of his wife. Don’t you see the impact you’ve had on him?”

Wife? Ursula was his wife? She fought to keep her hand from shaking. “He painted his wife?”

“Oh, any number of times. She was his muse, I’m told. But it was never like this.”

No, one never paints one’s wife the way one does the woman one draws into adultery. She felt ill.

“I think,” she said softly, “you’d better leave.”

Mertons frowned, obviously confused. “But—”

“Go. Please.”

“I should like to leave you the painting.”

“That’s unnecessary. Peter will see it’s missing.”

“No. No, he—” Mertons came to a dead stop.

“He what?”

Mertons shifted his weight. “He asked me to dispose of it.”

“Then I’ll ask you to do the same.”

“Miss Stratford, all sentiment aside, do you have any idea how much a Peter Lely is worth in today’s market?”

“Not enough to tempt me a second time. Take it.” Cam made her way to the entry hall, hoping Mertons would take the hint.

His shoulders fell. He slipped on his coat, placed the canvas under his arm, and picked up his briefcase and valise. “And the book?”

She pressed the security button to call the elevator. “Tell Peter he’s been my muse. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Cam made it all the way to her bedroom before she began to cry.

* * *

Jacket had been sneaking into the kitchen, hoping to grab a beer without being forced into the torturous conversation, when he heard an odd tone in the conversation Cam was having with the insurance agent. He’d turned in the direction of the living room and strained to hear. What he’d picked up had been garbled, as the ice maker had dropped a fresh batch into the storage compartment, but then, clear as a bell, he’d heard the insurance guy say, “Miss Stratford, all sentiment aside, do you have any idea how much a Peter Lely is worth in today’s market?”

Peter Lely again? What the hell was going on? Who were these guys?