Flirting With Forever (38 page)

“Hel if I know. Conventional wisdom is she loved Victor Laszlo, and Rick knew it.”

Peter nodded. “And Jake?”

“Oh.” She chuckled. “Jake. Jake Ryan is the boyfriend every girl dreams about. He’s beautiful and wise and popular and rich, and Samantha is turning sixteen and kind of a nerd—” In response to Peter’s raised brow, Cam added, “Smart but not standardly beautiful.”

His eyes flickered across Cam’s face. “I see.”

“Samantha is turning sixteen, but because her self-centered older sister is getting married, no one remembers

—no one, that is, except Jake, who recognizes her for the worthy woman she is, and the movie ends with them sitting on a table with a cake with sixteen flaming candles between them, and Samantha blows them out and they kiss. It’s total y romantic.”

“Jake, is it?”

“Yes, Jake. And the real y amazing part is the actor who played Jake pretty much disappeared after that movie. Oh, he did a few more—you’d have to understand that being an actor in a movie is considered a real y great job, like one of the best in the world—but he decided he didn’t want to be an actor anymore, and he gave up al the pinnings of success in order to just live a quiet life with his family.”

“It sounds quite wonderful, to be truthful.”

For a long moment, Peter was silent, and Cam gazed around the smal apartment he occupied. He had already made the space his own. At the front, near the windows that overlooked Washington Road, he had placed his paints and an easel. The couch on which they sat was a wide, rich brocade, the likes of which she had not seen outside of Versail es or
Architectural Digest,
and beside it stood a gleaming mahogany secretary that reached nearly to the ceiling. On the shelves stretching over its intricate warren of cubbies were art books covering topics ranging from Romanticism to Cubism to Op Art. An armchair education, she thought. Then she saw the lone silver hairpin in a low black bowl.

He caught the direction of her gaze and flushed.

“’Tis yours,” he admitted.

“It is?”

“I-I have carried it with me since.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. It was a stirring tribute, one that she did not take lightly. She didn’t know what to say.

“I did not tel Mertons,” he said. “It seemed the least of my transgressions.”

“Where is Mertons?” she asked.

Peter’s thumb, which had been gently brushing her knuckle, stopped.

“Mertons is where I need to be,” he answered careful y.

Cam hadn’t forgotten what Mertons had said to her—that the Peter here was not the Peter of 1673. The Peter here was a man from the Afterlife who’d been broken by sadness and now awaited release in the form of a new life in which he could forget al that he had once lost.

Nonetheless, Peter’s words started a quiet thrum of worry in her.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I mean I shouldn’t be here. Apart from the foolish pride which informed this misadventure, my being here is, as Mertons has advised, something akin to yel ing ‘fire’ in a crowded theater. My actions here, in a time that is not my own, wil play Old Harry with variables I cannot even begin to understand.”

“So what?” Her bel igerence surprised her.

“Like a cursed bil iard bal , I may force people into directions they shouldn’t be moved. I may force you down a road you should not travel. I have already hurt you in a way I could not have foreseen.”

“I am entirely capable of making my own bad decisions.

Believe me. I don’t need you shouldering any of the responsibility for them.”

He laughed, but she could see he was unmoved and the thrum rose to a buzz.

“How long can you stay?” The petulance in her voice made her sound like a child.

“In truth, not as long as I could wish.”

Their eyes met and he reached for her. The kiss was hungry and sorrowful and told her everything she already knew.

“How long?” she whispered. “How long?”

“Cam, I cannot—”

“I’m leaving the museum.”

“Cam!”

“I may have to anyway. You probably don’t know this, but I’m in line for the directorship. If I don’t get it, I’l leave.”

“You’l get it.”

“You don’t know my competition. Oh, wait, you do.” She met his eyes. “Anastasia.”

His brow lifted. “She mentioned our meeting?”

His deliberately vague reply made her uneasy. “Yes.

She’s the other candidate.”

“She’s also your sister.”

“She has excel ent credentials.”

“Credentials cannot replace rectitude. She is unkind to you. The electors wil see that.”

Cam flushed at his protectiveness, and he gazed at her, unblinking.

“Unfortunately my extracurricular activities aren’t exactly what the electors are looking for—especial y the hundred and sixteen acres of activity about to break on Monday—”

She caught herself. He felt bad enough about the paintings, and the fault had been hers.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Do you think my portrait of the Duchess of Portsmouth made her any less a dynast of society? Do you think the nude of Nel diminished her influence? Self-confidence breeds power, Cam. Frank, unapologetic self-confidence is the ultimate currency.”

“Real y?”

“Their concerns are beneath you. Show courage in the face of judgment and you wil have them in the palm of your hand.”

His eyes shone with the same sort of undemanding admiration they’d had when he was painting her. She felt her spine straighten. He was right. What the museum needed was a leader. Leaders rise above distractions.

Leaders make things happen.

“Wel , I stil have that Van Dyck acquisition coming in, you know. Two-point-one mil ion.”

“There. You see? Though for the record I must add that two mil ion dol ars for a Van Dyck is beyond my understanding.” He shook his head in mock disdain. “So,

’tis settled, aye? You wil stay and fight.” And when Cam threw her chin up then down, he added, “In any case, what would you have done if you had left?”

Had she real y thought she would go with Jacket? To London? Away from the town she loved so much? But clearly she had, for why else would she be so sure that leaving was the right thing to do?

Peter saw the calculation in her eyes and must have guessed the reason for it as wel .

“What is Jacket to you?” he asked softly. A muscle in his jaw flexed.

“He is nothing.”

“Cam.”

He lifted her chin, and she hooded her eyes, unwil ing to let him see. He brushed the top of her sweater and she flushed. The necklace was gone. She had moved the ring to her finger.

For an instant Peter swayed, but then his hand found the wide band of silver and he found his composure.

“He is a good man, aye? I need to know that much, at least.”

“He asked me to marry him,” she said.

“There is a certain inarguable goodness in that, I suppose,” Peter said, smiling, though the smile died away when he added, “And you wil ?”

“No,” she said. “I want you.”

“I am not to be had,” he said sadly. “I must return. I have pleased myself here far too long.”

“Stay.”

“Oh, Campbel .”

She leaned forward and brought her mouth to his. She could feel the sense of his body change from sorrow to desire.

“Campbel ,” he warned when they parted.

She drew her fingers along his jaw and the sleek groove of his ear.

He made a whimpering noise, which Cam heightened with a flick of her tongue. She wanted to chase the sadness from his heart like a wildfire clearing fields, and she would use every tool at her command.

She brought herself against him, feeling the long bones of his legs and girded steel of his hips and letting him feel the press of her breasts.

He stood to free himself. She fol owed, and he ensnared her in his arms.

“Stop,” he begged.

She leaned back, spreading her shoulders across his arms, and he buried himself in the expanse of her col arbone. With the barest twist, she brought the ful ness of her bosom to his lips.

He shifted his arm, unbalancing her, and took the jutting peak of cashmere between his teeth.

The plume of fire reached her hips. She tried to shift but only one foot held the floor.

He pul ed the nub of flesh slowly, to the furthest reach of pleasure, then let go.

“I want you,” she whispered.

“I want you in ways I should not.”

Two more tugs, and she made a long, soft cry.

He jerked her to her feet, caught the flap of her sweater and pul ed. The pearl buttons opened, except the last, which snapped its thread and skittered across the floor. His eyes glittered. The bra she had put on for Jacket’s sake had his ful attention. See-through and made of lace the color of flushed skin, its cups were embroidered with seed pearls and the spark of crystal in a scant, twining vine that curved invitingly around her aureoles. The boning held her breasts as high as they had ever reached, and the narrow straps of matching silk that ran from her shoulders around the bottom of her breasts met in a tiny bow over the perilously fastened front clasp. Panties of a similar design stretched hip to hip. It was the sort of lingerie a woman wore for one purpose and one purpose only. For Cam, who faced the prospect of giving Jacket a long-overdue answer to his question, choosing such immodest garments had been a matter of hoping the form of enthusiasm would inspire the substance.

But now, with Peter, they were the most fitting complement to her feelings.

He gazed at her, awestruck. Cam could see his heart beat in the hol ow of his throat. He opened his hand as if to ask her permission. She nodded, and his fingertips came to rest on her stomach. Shel -shocked, he stepped around her to take in the view.

“What is this?” he asked in a choked whisper.

“A bra.”

“Such fearlessness,” he marveled as he paced. “Such damn-it-al harlotry.”

Inebriated by the words, she lifted the fabric of her skirt, pooling it over her arm at her waist.

“Holy Mother of God.”

“Panties,” she said.

Ruffles hung over her ass like a skirt, flutters of translucent fabric weighted by tiny swaying crystals at the hem.

“I think,” he said, “I must sit down.”

He sunk onto the arm of the couch, elbows on his knees, cupping his hands at his chin. He lifted his gaze to hers.

The admiration shone strong, but the desire had been replaced by something more somber.

“Al of this,” he said, “for Jacket.”

She couldn’t lie. She let the skirt drop. “It’s al I have to give him.”

Peter took her hand and pressed it to his mouth. “I do not wish to let you go.”

“You won’t.” She combed a hand through the dark waves of his hair. “We’l hold each other forever.”

“Campbel ”—his voice lost its certainty—“I-I
must
go.”

“No.”

“Aye. I can stay for a bit, but not forever.”

“How long is ‘a bit’?”

“Weeks. A month. No more. Every day is riskier.”

“No. Forever. Please.”

“I do not choose it, Campbel . My time here is over.”

She felt her new happiness slipping away. “Then I’l come with you.” She slipped her hand under his jacket, looking for reassurance in the broad, muscular warmth of his chest.

His face turned gray. “You cannot come with me, either.”

“Why, Peter? Why?”

“The Guild wil not al ow it. And in any case, the me you know wil be placed in a new life, never to return to these old bones.”

She struggled for air. “I-I’l never see you again.”

He shook his head sadly.

“No. No! I’l go to them. I’l —”

“No, Campbel , no. You wil do exactly this. You wil go home to Jacket. It would be best for al of us. You wil wear his ring. You wil take him to your bed, and you wil help him learn to make you happy. That is the gift you can give me.”

“Is that what you think?” The blood began to ring in her ears.

“Campbel , you know it to be true. His art is good, that much I can tel you truly, and you saw the goodness in him once. You wil see it again. I am the only obstacle.”

“You have a damned high opinion of yourself.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“My heart is the obstacle. I cannot love him. Not now.”

“Campbel …”

“I choose you, Peter. Now.”

Before she could think, his arms were around her, clutching her tightly. The heady scent of his skin—soap and paint—fil ed her head.

“It is selfish,” he said into her hair. “God, help me.”

“And me as wel .”

His grip grew so tight Cam felt her breath gather in her chest. It was as if he were trying to hold the seconds time was tearing from them.

“We cannot stop them,” she whispered. “The moments wil go. But we can master them. We can hold each in our arms until it surrenders itself to us.”

“Surrender to me.” He pul ed 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.”

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.”

Rocking her gently, he removed the second, third and fourth. Cam felt goose bumps pop as the silky weight tickled her skin.