Flirting with Forever

by Gwyn Cready

  “Surrender to me.” He pulled her onto the couch and spread her across his lap. “I want to paint you.”

  “Here?” She brushed his cheek and saw her hand was trembling.

  “No. There isn’t time. Later. And often. And forever. But to do that I need to see you, to memorize you, to possess you with every sense.”

  She squirmed. He was granite beneath her. “How?”

  “Your hair,” he said. “Let me unpin it. Please.”

  She bowed her head slightly, and he inhaled. With a gentle tug, the first pin slid free. The curl tumbled down her shoulder, almost to her breast.

  “Oh, God. ’Tis just how I remember it.”

  Rocking her gently, he removed the second, third, and fourth. Cam’s skin turned to gooseflesh.

  “Breathtaking,” he said. “Rust and paprika and umber and even rich Kentish loam—all filtered through bars of heavenly gold. May I?”

  She nodded, and he drew his hands through the waves, scattering them like rays of sunlight.

  “Oh, Christ, how I’ve wanted this.” He fumbled under her skirt and found his buckle. The clack-clack as he loosened it made her belly contract. When he’d lowered his trousers, he lifted her effortlessly, slid her panties aside, and entered her.

  She came down slowly. Each movement brought her an exquisite heat that reached almost to her throat. He dandled her slowly, drawing his luminous gaze over her body, and her silk skirt sizzled as its slippery weight resettled again and again over his hips.

  His palms grazed her nipples, hardening them into rubies.

  Her experience was broad. There wasn’t a position or surface she hadn’t tried, but to luxuriate here in his adoring gaze, while he rolled the tiny seed pearls of her bra between his thumb and her tender flesh, was beyond any pleasure she had known.

  His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes held hers, unblinking. She didn’t want to think about what would come next. Whatever they could have, she would have here, now.

  He found the hook of her bra, and in an instant her breasts were loose. She felt him thicken as he brushed the lace and boning away. With a groan, he jerked his hips and the weight of her flesh bounced against her chest. He caught each nipple between knuckles and tortured her, plucking the burning flesh until fire scorched a path between her thighs.

  Then his hands left her chest. He brought them to her shoulders and down her arms. He drew his thumbs along her chin and over her cheekbones. She closed her eyes to hold on to the moment, but it was flying too far in front of her to catch.

  “No,” she whispered, and he stopped.

  “No, no,” she cried, and began to ply her hips on her own. Each circuit brought the cool metal of his loosened belt under her overheated flesh. He stroked her knees, bringing his hands up her straining thighs until at last he palmed her buttocks. She could feel the panties’ crystals as they swayed, and she knew he could feel them too.

  “Harlotry,” she said, smiling.

  “Yes. I shall never forget you.”

  They were rocking in tandem now, feverish, long sways that filled her with a heartbreaking joy. It was as if he were trying not so much to possess her as disappear into her, and she opened her arms and legs to offer him safe harbor.

  She wanted to stop time, to hold him here, safe in her arms forever. She closed her eyes, and he brought her down his length, again and again, in a thumping staccato, and kissed the valley between her breasts. He held her there, filling her with his desperate hope, until there was nothing but two hearts, wedded in a fire she could no longer contain.

  “Oh, oh,” she cried.

  His thumb found her bud and he held her at the peak, twitching her higher and higher until her breath stopped and her lungs burned and the conflagration between her legs consumed her.

  A long, shuddering moment later, she realized he hadn’t finished and she brought him close, losing herself in his thick brown-black waves. She moved reverentially, stretching out each moment like taffy. Only when she laid a hand on his cheek did she feel he was crying.

  “Oh, Peter. I’ll never forget you, either.”

  He brought himself high into her, pressing her almost to standing with his need, and his groan echoed in her ears.

  His body jerked reflexively, once and again, but his shoulders, cool and damp under her touch, did not relax. “Don’t move,” he said. “Don’t move.”

  She saw their reflection in his mirror, his back as straight as a castle wall, his lips on her glistening breast, and her long white skirt streaming from the couch. It was a wedding night fantasia, and she tried to capture it in her mind’s eye to hold as a replacement for the wedding night they would never have.

  With an easy heave, he moved her from his lap to her back on the couch, where he found purchase in the midst of the silk. He laced his fingers in hers, their rings touching, and looked in her eyes.

  “Tell Jacket he is to have you, but not until I’m done. For now, for today, until I am gone, I will have you for my own.”

  Her breath caught, and he kissed her.

  I have Peter now was the only thought she registered.

  Forty-seven

  She smoothed her skirt and gazed at her reflection. Peter had insisted she wear the sweater without the bra, saying no woman would be tortured by whalebone on his account, but she suspected more than general bonhomie at work as she’d twice caught him stealing sidelong glances at her since she’d re-dressed. With hair streaming in uncombed waves down her shoulders, spots of pink on her cheeks, a button missing from her sweater, and a skirt that looked like she’d just crawled through the climbing tower at McDonald’s, the lack of bra was pretty much in keeping with the theme. She supposed she should just be glad there were no teeth marks on the wool. Ah, well, self-confidence, right?

  “I won’t be too long,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Three hours of forced smiles, air kisses, and wine spritzers is about all I can take. I don’t want to miss a minute with you I don’t have to.”

  Peter’s pencil stopped on the words air kisses—he had retreated to his desk and was sketching her—but he continued on with a shrug. “You won’t miss a minute with me. I am invited. Ball’s guest.”

  “Oh.” This threw a slight wrench in the evening because Cam knew she had to talk to Jacket, and Peter’s presence would make things more awkward. “I, um—”

  “Fear not, fair lady. I shall make myself scarce. You need to focus on filling the room with the confidence of a sultan, er, sultaness, and in any case, I shall not be the cause of any further embarrassment for you and Jacket.”

  “Thank you, Peter. But after, can we—”

  “Aye.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “After. And for as long as we have.”

  She looked at the clock. Time was her enemy. “Are you ready? My car’s around the corner.”

  He took a glance out the window. “Ball was sending a carriage—I mean, car—for me—Oh, I think it’s here. Long and black, aye? I’ll tell the driver I don’t need him. ’Twould be a pleasure to see you drive.”

  For an instant she had a vision of Scarlett O’Hara seated high on her carriage, driving her horses around Atlanta, but then the recollection that her eight-year-old Honda hadn’t been washed since June cleared her head. “Um, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high, if I were you.”

  The corner of his mouth rose. “I shall temper my anticipation.”

  A particularly loud snippet of “Walking on Sunshine” began to trumpet through the room. It was her ringtone and Cam scurried toward the couch. Her phone was in her purse, but she didn’t have the faintest idea where her purse might be.

  The noise seemed to be coming from the floor. She dove to her knees and looked under the coffee table. Nothing. She checked under the couch. No joy.

  Peter was looking now too. He crouched by the desk. “Are we lookin
g for the music?”

  “Yes. It’s coming out of my purse.”

  “Ah.” He unfolded himself, strode to the credenza, and found her clutch on the floor. It must have fallen out of her coat.

  She grabbed it and answered just as the music stopped.

  “Crap.” She looked at the display. “It’s my boss.” Jabbing the button to call him back, she gave Peter a “no worries” look and said, “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Packard answered on the first ring. “Oh, thank God,” he said.

  “What is it?” She could hear the concern in his voice.

  “Cam, there’s a problem with Ball’s Van Dyck.”

  “What do you mean, a problem?” The painting had passed every insurance and curatorial review and was now sitting on an easel behind a velvet curtain, ready to be revealed at the gala.

  “I mean it’s not by Van Dyck.”

  Forty-eight

  Peter buckled the belt across his lap just as Mertons had shown him. Cam twisted the key and the car roared to life. Even in the shadows of the evening she looked beautiful, and he burned with pride, lust, and a terrified gratitude that for however long he could allow himself to stay, she would be with him. As she busied herself with the handling of the carriage, something behind him caught his eye.

  A warmth came over him as he realized it was the portrait he’d done of her.

  “How…?”

  “Mertons,” she said inexplicably.

  He damned the man silently. He’d asked Mertons to dispose of it and instead he’d given it to her.

  “He wanted me to convince you to go back. I was going to return it. Never quite got around to it.” She gave him a lopsided smile, but the lights of a passing car showed lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier.

  “What is it?” He laid a tentative hand on her wrist. He knew it was the call. She’d laughed it off, but something in her had changed.

  “Nothing, it’s…I’m sure it’s nothing.” She pushed the rudder into place and turned the wheel, and the car sailed into traffic.

  “Tell me.”

  The beacon turned from yellow to red. The car slowed and stopped. Cam pulled a lever until it squealed and touched her lashes with a finger.

  “It’s the Van Dyck,” she said. “But it just doesn’t make any sense.”

  Peter felt a trace of foreboding. “The painting from Ball?”

  “Yes. My boss just called. He says it’s not a Van Dyck.”

  Peter’s heart thudded in his chest. “Turn around. I need to return to my rooms.”

  * * *

  Peter flung open the door and hit the switch for the light. In two strides he was at the desk. But his hopes sank as he flipped to the back of the sketchbook. The letter from Anthony Van Dyck was gone.

  Forty-nine

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Cam said.

  Peter gazed at her in the light of the museum’s entryway, looking so beautiful and so worried, “I mean, try not to worry.”

  He kissed her forehead, which felt as soft as a summer breeze, and slipped the coat off her shoulders. “Go talk to your master. The gala doesn’t start for half an hour. I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out.”

  “But how…?”

  “Have faith.”

  “Faith, huh?”

  “And self-confidence, aye?”

  She nodded uncertainly, and he kissed her again before pushing her gently on her way. As he watched her climb the long staircase, he thought that though he’d seen more than one queen crowned in glory at the head of a court, he’d never seen anything to match this Cenerentola, with her breathtaking fall of flame-kissed curls. If she lost a slipper as she rose higher and higher, he would not have batted an eye.

  When she disappeared, he turned to a guard. “Where might I find a woman named Anastasia? I need to speak to her. ’Tis a matter of great import.”

  Fifty

  “This is a disaster, Cam.” Lamont Packard stood at the window, gazing out at the rolling hills of Schenley Park, fists stuffed deep in the pockets of his tuxedo’s trousers.

  “But it doesn’t make sense. The painting passed every review, including mine.”

  He turned, sighed, and lowered himself onto the edge of his desk. “Experts make mistakes all the time. You know what happened to Andromeda Chained to a Rock.”

  She did. The painting owned by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, supposedly by Van Dyck, had been attributed to him and then de-attributed so many times she didn’t think anyone believed what the title card read anymore, including the staff.

  “But that was different,” she said. “That painting had a very sketchy provenance. Ball bought this one from an earl whose family had forgotten it had been stowed in their cellar for the last two hundred years. For God’s sake, they still have the bill of sale for eighteen guineas, eight shillings from when the first earl bought it from Van Dyck’s agent right after Van Dyck’s death. Can you let me see the letter?”

  Ball shrugged, reached across his desk, and handed her a fragile sheath of vellum.

  Her heart sunk. The writing was Van Dyck’s. She’d seen it enough times on paintings and letters to recognize his distinctive script anywhere.

  “It’s Van Dyck’s.”

  Packard nodded. “The paper fits the period as well.”

  She unfolded the note carefully. It appeared to be a page torn out of a diary.

  I have made the Decision to close my Studio for a fortnight. Until the Fevre which rages in the city passes, I will take no more commissions. ’Tis a bitter potion, to be Sure, but my Luck this year has been Strong and, with the recent Commissions from His Majesty, I can easilee manage the pause in Income. To pass the Tyme, I have given my Apprentices leave to practice under my Watchful Eye. One, Albertus, a most skilled man of Mantua, has taken the opportunity to attempt a Portrait of his dear wyfe, Sarah. Albertus’s lady will be pleased. Albertus’s ability to compose a Van Dyck countenance is most pronounced, and the ladye is more comely than even I could render, tho Albertus adds a Lamb and shepherds hook in a fit of Metaphore that is a distraction to my eye. The ladye beres a Strong resemblance to the new bride of Baron Milton, which pleased Albertus when I tolde him, tho why I could not say. Albertus shall have the painting when—

  The entry ended. Cam flipped the page over, but the other side was blank.

  Ball tapped his finger. “‘Albertus shall have the painting when…’”

  “‘I die’?” Cam said, seeing exactly where goddamn Van Dyck was heading.

  “‘…he finishes’?” Ball suggested. “It almost doesn’t matter, because instead of Albertus giving it to his lady—”

  “He keeps it until Van Dyck can no longer disclaim it and then sells it to Van Dyck’s agent as a real Van Dyck.”

  “Who then turns around and sells it to Baron Milton.”

  “Crap.” Cam felt an iron weight drop in her gut and sunk into a chair. “I guess Albertus wasn’t quite the romantic Van Dyck would have liked us to think.”

  Packard gave her a weak smile. “Perhaps he used the money for a pair of diamond bobs.”

  Cam tried to summon the painting in her head. Much of her examination technique relied on intuition, intuition based on years of study and admiration. She thought of the ringlets framing the woman’s forehead, the sharp, clear expression in her chestnut eyes, and the stippled fur tippet that hung over her shoulder. It was a Van Dyck. She had absolutely no doubt—not then, not now. Not that her certainty would carry much weight here, not when her career was the one that would benefit from the decision, which is why she’d taken such care to have others establish its authenticity too.

  Packard took off his glasses and massaged his temple. “We’re in trouble, Cam. Ball’s down there waiting to be honored for his generous gift. The museum’s already iss
ued the press release. Hell, the gift’s going to be the cover story in the paper tomorrow. No matter what we do at this point, it’s going to be a huge embarrassment to everyone involved.”

  Ever the gentleman, Packard made a point not to bring his eyes to rest on her, but Cam realized she was going to be sucked into the quicksand of this debacle as well. In fact, her shoulders were going to be where everyone else would try to find a toehold. She knew what she owed Packard. She knew what she owed the museum.

  “I’ll tell Ball.” She held up a hand to stop Packard’s protest. “He’s a good guy. He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll understand. And,” she said sadly, “I’ll resign.”

  Packard sighed, and she knew it was over.

  “Hate to see it, Cam.”

  You and me, both, pal. “Best thing, I think.” She fought back the waves of disappointment that seemed intent on drowning her tonight. “I’ll work the gala—er, unless you’d prefer I didn’t.”

  He clapped her on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stood to rebutton his jacket and gave her a sly grin. “Too bad, really. I was sort of looking forward to seating an executive director most of the world would have seen nude. Would have knocked the board biddies on their asses.”

  “Ack! You saw the paintings?” She felt her face turn six shades of crimson.

  “Of course. Ball called me for advice. Who do you think helped quash the story till Monday?”

  “Gosh, thanks.” Not that the delay made much difference now.

  “Of course, the price was an exclusive interview. Sam Arnofsky from the paper will be here Monday at nine for an in-depth interview. I left the contact info and a sheaf of photos he dropped off on your desk—Oh, and I also left a note Ball wrote on how he thinks they’re going to frame the story. He thought it might help.”

  “Super. Appreciate it, boss.”

  “Boss no more. Just an admirer. Tell you what, though. This Peter guy’s a hell of a painter. Starkly postmodern, yet this undeniable reference to classical proportion and light. And the scale… Jesus, it’s like walking into a room and finding yourself face-to-face with the Taj Mahal or the top of the Chrysler Building.”