Free Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready Page A

and at least until now,” he said, drifting toward the door, “no one has thought to look for me there.” He thought if he took a spot three-quarters of the way across the room and tilted his head just far enough …
    Mertons blew out a long exhale. “I-I know you don’t enjoy being here, Peter, but we’ve talked about this. You must realize your absence could have been disastrous. If the writer had arrived while you—”

    “Bugger the writer, Mertons. Mrs. Eugenie Kay Post has arrived, and I intend to enjoy this little performance—”
    Then Peter saw her, and a searing pain cut his heart.
    Sorrow, betrayal, fear and, above al , a burning anger flared like a gunpowder charge, sucking the air from his lungs.
    She was beautiful, with ringlets of sun-polished copper, eyes as crystal blue as the Zuider Zee, the proud shoulders of a sultan and a fine, high bosom. And beautiful she should be, for she was almost the dead spit of Ursula. He knew she must have been picked by Stephen like an apple in Eden to tempt him.
    Wel , damn Stephen and his detestable machinations.
    Damn his handsome widows. He wondered if she were a widow at al . He wouldn’t put it past his meddling friend to have hired an agreeable whore so long as she had the right face and hair.
    Peter retreated a step but it was too late. The woman spotted him and smiled tentatively.
    His head started to buzz. He felt manipulated, his fastidiousness made to look ridiculous. He would be forced to talk to this woman as Stephen looked on. Peter’s cheeks flushed, and a sweat broke out on his lip. He wished to run, or to shout—something, anything to master this upsetting tumult of emotion.
    Stephen looked as if he would prefer to be hanged, and if Peter had had easy access to a rope he would have accommodated him without a second thought.
    “Peter,” Stephen said stiffly, “may I introduce Mrs.
    Eugenie Kay Post. Mrs. Post, this is Peter Lely, court painter to His Majesty, King Charles. I was just explaining to Mrs. Post that you are—”
    “I need only a moment of your time, Mr. Lely,” the woman said, interrupting. She extended an arm the color of glazed bisque. “I wish to discuss a commission for a landscape.
    My time in London is limited.”
    “I imagined as much,” Peter said cool y, but his words emerged through a mouth so dry they lost their resonance, heightening his embarrassment. He kissed her hand quickly, then released it as his own started to quake. He hated that she had this effect on him. To have felt so little in the way of attraction for so long and then to feel this … It was too much. “My clerk has failed in his duty. Desire him to explain the complexities of my diary. I am a very busy man. I suggest you take your custom elsewhere. Good day.”

10
    And this, Cam thought, is why we need men like Jake Ryan.
    She felt like she’d been slapped. She’d been sized up—
    that rake of eyes over her body had been undeniable—and dismissed. She’d known men like this before—hel , she’d had men like this before. They were general y self-involved windbags who felt the size of their wal et, talent, Mercedes or dick made up for a lack of soul.
    She watched him stride down the hal , shoulders back, head high, emperor of al he surveyed. Grrrr . She’d had enough of that in her life. Had had it up to here. First her father, then her sister, then Jacket. Someday, someone would get a piece of her mind. But at least her dismissal meant that longed-for opportunity had arrived.
    “Privy,” she barked to a startled Stephen and slipped away.
    She turned the corner, heading straight for the models’
    room. Take my custom elsewhere, huh? She’d like to tel him what he could do with his freakin’ custom. She flew past Mercury, past the stairway, past the studio.

    She screeched to a halt. Peter was in there, rifling a drawer in the bench, his back imperiously straight. She looked at the models’ door, locked but surely penetrable, then back