“They shore do. I’m a Flow-da Gatah.”
“A Flow-da Gatah?” She flashed Cam a wicked smile.
“Real y? And your parents? I suppose they were Flow-da Gatahs, too?”
He signed in one quick motion. “You bet. Big ones.”
“Of course, I’m from Alabama, so I’m a Crimson Tide fan myself, but I’ve heard practical y everyone in Gainesvil e is a shameless public—”
“Thank you, Jeanne.” Cam extracted the clipboard from Bal ’s hand and returned it to her assistant with a gentle shove. “I know you have to go. Mr. Bal , I’d be happy to show you the plans for the addition. There’s a gal ery entrance hal that wil quite literal y blow your socks off. And if you’ve got time, I’d love to talk with you more after lunch.”
Bal nodded. “I’l take you up on the plans, but I’m going to have to pass on lunch. Anastasia’s invited my wife and me to a gal ery opening tonight, and the three of us are meeting at Lucca for an early dinner. Peggy’s al excited because Anastasia promised to show her some fancy knitting stitch. So many talents. I don’t know how you ladies do it.”
It must be an afternoon for epiphanies. Cam had a blistering vision of Serena taking a tennis racquet and knocking Venus right out of her Nikes.
5
With Bal ’s thoughts on the new wing fresh in her head, Cam wheeled into the workspace she shared with Jeanne, closed the door and fel into a Melanie Wilkes swoon against the medieval coat of armor. “‘Oh God, the orange blossoms. I used to live and die for orange blossom time.’”
She growled. “Her backstory is so bogus. You know how long she was in Florida? Three weeks. Three weeks! She was there for a summer course in environmental studies until she’d added that to the long list of majors she couldn’t hack. After that it was either art history or clown col ege.”
“I’l refrain from the obvious comment,” Jeanne said.
“Thank you. Did I happen to mention her real name is Stacy?”
“Thirty or forty times.”
“Eeeeerrrrgggg! And now she’s stepping on my donor territory. What sort of a person does that?”
“I dunno. The same sort of person who would force someone to claim a guy drew on a Rembrandt when he didn’t?”
“Beside the point.” Cam started to finger her eyelashes, a reaction to stress she’d been unable to shake since childhood. She knew it made her about as attractive as a junkie six hours past hit time. “Do you think that Van Dyck painting is going to be enough? I mean, the donation’s practical y in the bag. Do you think that wil be enough to convince the board I’m the right person for the directorship?”
“I know they’l be bowled over by your granitelike self-confidence.”
“Oh God, I’ve got to get that book sold.”
“Thatta girl. Where do we stand on that rewrite?”
“‘There once was a man named Van Dyck.’”
“Oh boy. I’d say too many late nights IM-ing Britain’s favorite bad-boy artist, Mr. Lucite and Blueberries. I’m assuming that kiss was a thank-you for the help on a painting you gave him.”
Cam tucked the chain that held the ring farther inside her blouse. The last thing she needed was Jeanne thinking that she was stupid enough to consider Jacket’s offer to reconcile. Especial y now that she was considering it.
“It was nothing. And as far as the book is concerned, it’s done from a fact standpoint, but I don’t know. This editor wants me to sex things up a bit.”
“Sex and artists?” Jeanne shrugged theatrical y. “Wel , if you think you can find a connection …”
And it did not in any way mean she was fal ing for the guy again, despite that gravel y Brixton baritone that stil made her toes curl, and that kiss …
“Cam?”
“Huh? Oh, right. I mean, no. Not too many late nights.”
Jeanne was shooting a “Don’t tel me you were a fool and fel for his load of crap again” look in her direction.
Most important, however, kissing Jacket did not mean she was going to sleep with him. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Hence the “I’m not as easy as
