Free Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready Page B

at the studio.
    The hel with it. This guy needed his ass kicked.
    Mrs. Post burst into his studio like a savage, shoving the door aside with a bang, but Peter, who heard her in the hal , ignored the theatrics. He gave her a cool glance, damning his heart for its inexplicable rise, and returned to the mixture of cobalt and oil.
    “I have come for a commission,” she said.
    “My diary is ful .”
    “Is this how al of your patrons are treated? I had heard you were rude. I didn’t realize you were also a fool.”
    Peter stiffened. Only one other person in his adult life had ever dared speak to him in such a manner. He thought of Ursula with a viper’s tongue when she so chose and an angel’s mouth. How he had liked to put that mouth to use when their arguments had ended. He looked at his companion’s ful , wide lips and found himself unexpectedly wondering if she’d resemble Ursula in that way as wel .
    “I apologize if I have offended you.” He bowed briskly and reached for the bowl.
    She didn’t move. “Is there something more, Mrs. Post?”
    “Aye. You’re a total shit.”
    Peter jerked upright, unable to believe his ears, and Stephen, who had just reached the doorway, stopped dead in his tracks.

    “Madam—” Stephen began.
    “Leave us.” Peter held up a hand and turned the ful power of his gaze on the woman. He was a large man, and his glare made the blue fire in her eyes rise, just as it had in Ursula. A charge ran down his back. Stephen wheeled in a half circle and disappeared.
    Peter clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed his companion. However despicable Peter found the effort, Stephen had executed his job wel . She had the shapely hips and earthy, round breasts of Ursula as wel as the damn-you-to-hel face when she was crossed. His only question now was, was this interloper a woman freely interested in him or had Stephen purchased her interest in the back lanes of Covent Garden? He was surprised and a bit ashamed to find himself pruriently eager to know the answer.
    “What is your name?”
    “Mrs. Eugenie Post.”
    “Your real name.”
    She seemed to falter. Had she thought him blind to the game?
    “None of your goddamned business.”
    He exhaled. There was something irritatingly entrancing about a woman who refused to bend.
    “But you are a widow?”
    “I am.”
    Then not a whore? He narrowed his eyes. The dress was beautiful—especial y with her coloring—but dresses could be bought. There was a regality to her posture, could be bought. There was a regality to her posture, however, that could not be pretense. She was an intel igent, wel -bred woman.
    “Did you speak in such a manner to your husband?”
    She picked a speck of lint from her sleeve. “When he deserved it.”
    He had circled behind her now, and the woman turned to hold his gaze.
    “I should speak to any man or gentleman so,” she added with a significant look, “should he deserve it.”
    He dropped his gaze, abashed. He had been inexcusably rude in the waiting room.
    “I beg your pardon. I was unnecessarily abrupt.”
    She pursed her lips. His defenses were crumbling.
    “You understand I am in no mood to be played upon,” he said.
    “I have no intention of playing, I assure you.”
    He gave her a sidelong glance. “Whence are your people?”
    She blinked. “My people? I am German and Welsh. Is that what you mean?”
    He’d been right. The accent, the eyes, the skin.
    “German, is it? Where?”
    “North. Bremen, I believe.”
    He nodded. He knew Bremen.
    “It is not,” he said after a long pause, “that you do not tempt me. If I am honest, you do. But I am simply not capable of such a thing now.”
    “Of a commission?” She looked at him, confused. “I treated you like a scrub, and for that I apologize, but I cannot …” Oh, why had Stephen chosen such a moment to push this?
    “Cannot? Cannot what?”
    As he searched for words, he discovered he was not as certain about what he could and couldn’t do