Page 95 of Flirting with Forever

He said it with such a look of pained sorrow, Cam hesitated.

“I know you’re doing this because you’re hurt,” he said, “and I’m sorry. But you must stop. She was not my wife. I never married her.”

Cam looked into his haunted eyes and saw the desperation there. “The way I see it,” she said slowly, “either you’re lying or you’re sacrificing her name to avoid being called a liar. Either way, Ursula would not be proud.”

“You’re not fit to speak her name.” He was white-faced with anger. “And you’re certainly not fit to lecture anyone on the truth.”

The rebuke was too much. She brought her hand across his cheek, a gratifying crack that finally broke his infuriating calm.

Like a tempest unleashed, he took her by the wrists and kissed her, a bruising, searching kiss, and her body betrayed her, telling him her feelings hadn’t changed.

When he released her, leaving his salty-sweet taste on her tongue and his crisp scent in her head, she saw him holding something. It was her ring still on its chain—the ring Jacket had given her—and she realized her shirt was agape.

“Perhaps,” he said, still breathing like a runner, “when we write the summary of that fateful night, you’ll consider the possibility that not every lie told then was mine.”

He opened his hand and the chain fell back against her skin.

The reporter stuck his head around the corner and cleared his throat. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said in Peter’s direction.

“Nothing,” Peter said without turning. “I have nothing to say.”

The reporter looked at Cam. “Would you like to—”

“No comment.”

“Yep, that’s about what I expected.”

Forty-two

Jake Ryan? Ha! How could she have ever been so blind? Peter’s brand of chivalry was far more in the line of, say, Henry VIII than anyone John Hughes had ever dreamed up.

Cam sat at her desk feeling like her world had been turned upside down—upside down, shaken like a maraca, and kicked into the end zone of Peter’s infuriating game plan. Her face would be splashed across every newspaper in the world, irretrievably linked to a work of art that would excite prurient interest for years to come. She’d be the punch line of a joke. Her relationship with Jacket had set enough tongues wagging. Now she’d be seen as the woman passed around the art world, some paint-and-canvas groupie. She felt powerless. She hated that artists had held all the cards, and she really hated that she’d brought it on herself by yelling at Peter in front of the reporter. She might as well have stood next to the painting and had That’s my pubic hair tattooed across her forehead.

Ball had managed to convince the reporter guy to hold the story until Monday, long enough to allow the board to meet and choose the next executive director. How he’d done it, she didn’t know, but she expected it required not only the promise of an exclusive interview, but a big check made out to the reporter’s favorite charity as well.

She’d told Ball she thought she should withdraw her name from consideration, but he’d disagreed—vehemently disagreed. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to that place,” he’d said. “This is the world of art. They should be thrilled to find themselves smack dab in the middle of the story. Once I buy the paintings, I’ll be taking ’em on tour. I’ll start the tour there. That oughta quiet their complaints.”

But she noticed Ball’s confidence hadn’t extended to notifying the board immediately. As certain as he was of her notoriety being seen as a benefit, he didn’t think it was a good idea to risk it in advance of the vote.

So Cam was safe for somewhat less than seventy-two hours, assuming no one who’d been in that carriage house talked. Ball had taken care of the reporter. She presumed his wife and friends could be trusted. And when Ball had asked Peter to keep the story under wraps until Monday, Peter had said only, “I have no intention of discussing the paintings ever.” But the art world was a small one, even more so in Pittsburgh, and she wondered exactly how long anyone could be counted on to keep what would be such a monumentally satisfying secret to share.

She looked at the clock. The gala started in a few hours. Her outfit was hanging on the back of her door. It was a gorgeous olive angora sweater with pearl buttons down the back and a shimmering full white organza skirt that reached to the floor. She knew she should try to look forward to wearing it. It would probably be the last time people would remember her wearing clothes at all.

The door banged open and she jumped. It was Anastasia. She was wearing over-the-knee suede boots and what looked like a jacket of an officer in the Russian Imperial Guard.

“Nothing like casual Fridays,” Cam said.

Anastasia didn’t respond. She seemed preoccupied, which in many ways, Cam thought, was even scarier than her being mad. Anastasia sank onto the corner of Cam’s desk, tapping a bloodred nail on the stapler.

“I ran into that friend of yours the other day.”

Cam girded herself. “Friend?”

“Peter Lely.”

Cam nearly slid off her chair. “Peter?”

“That’s his name, right?”