“Everything?” Cam repeated, confused.
“Everything.” Peter’s eyes trailed down the gown, and a smal , shameless curve appeared on his mouth.
“Ah. I see.” She felt her heart start to thrum. “I should think at this point you could do it from memory.”
“One might think that, that is, if one didn’t recal that you were clothed from the waist down the first two times we made love and bathed in darkness the third. I beg you not to consider this a complaint,” he added quickly. “But there is a certain question,” he said, looking at his palette, “with women of your coloring as to what, er, shade would be appropriate.”
“Is there?” she said drol y.
“Oh, indeed there is. There is cinnabar, red ochre, raw umber and even ivory black—any or al could be required.
That is the question men—I mean artists—grapple with. Al of this you shal learn when we begin your lessons.”
“My lessons? I wasn’t aware I needed any lessons.”
“In certain areas, no. In fact, in certain areas I would almost defer to your expertise.”
“Almost?” She smiled.
“But in painting, aye. Your work shows good promise, and I wil teach you to be great. Peaches, plums and oranges to the end of your day, milady. We shal be overrun with stil lifes.”
She grinned. The Bal Col ection with Jeanne as her assistant and painting lessons with Peter. Could life be more perfect?
“But for now …” He tilted his head toward the gown.
Cam flushed to her toes. She took a deep breath, stood and turned away. She fumbled with the belt. She could feel his gaze on her and the fire that always comes from sporting at the edge of danger. The belt fel loose, and she brushed the flaps open. Screwing up her courage, she lowered her shoulders and let the gown slip.
“Ah.”
She caught the silk on her wrists before it fel completely, and looked over her shoulder at him. “What?”
His eyes danced over the view this movement had bestowed upon him. “The blackness of the gown wil turn you gray. Toss it over there, please.”
The basket where he pointed seemed a long way away.
Nonetheless, she tossed the gown and turned.
And with a deeply contented smile that made her smile as wel , Peter reached for the cinnabar.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On May 2, 2007, the London Times reported that research undertaken by wel -known fine art auction house, Christie’s, suggests that the sitter in a Peter Lely masterpiece may not be Nel Gwyn, perhaps the most famous mistress of Charles I , as long believed. An in-depth analysis of the painting, a reclining nude, led Christie’s to conclude that the sitter is actual y another of Charles’s mistresses.
Experts, however, continue to disagree. The painting was original y discovered behind a secret sliding panel in Charles’s bedroom, three years after his death.
—G.C.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at
Gwyn Cready’s
next romantic time-travel romp,
Aching for Always
Coming soon from Pocket Books
1
BOARDROOM, BRAND O’MALLEY MAP COMPANY, PITTSBURGH
“What do men see in maps?” Joss O’Mal ey asked fondly as she watched her friend’s four-year-old son, Peter, staring intently at a framed antique map from his not-quite-steady perch on top of a lateral file cabinet.
“Key to the past?” suggested Peter’s mom, Diane Daltrey, the former chief financial officer of Brand O’Mal ey Maps, lifting her eyes for a moment from the quarterly cash flow statement over which she was poring.
“Hints of the unknown?” Joss offered, thinking of her own fascination.
“Does this have a Skul Island?” Peter said enthusiastical y, waving his beloved light saber. “I’l kil Hook if he finds the treasure first.”
“Or perhaps it’s something slightly less poetic. Speaking of which”—Diane let her fingers come to rest on the calculator—“things aren’t looking so good here.”
“I know we’re a little strapped for cash,” Joss said, biting a fingernail, “but that’s not so bad, right?”
“Right,” Di said drily. “I mean, how important is money?”
“I’m heading up to see Rogan. I need a number,” Joss said.
“Another loan?”
“It’s not a loan exactly.”
“Honey,” Di said, “when a man’s already agreed to the price for a company and you’re going back to ask for more, that’s either a loan or insanity. Peter, please take the highlighter out of your mouth.”
Peter, who had jumped off the lateral file, sighed and, with a Day-Glo green pout, handed the marker to Joss.
Joss frowned. “Should we—”
“Not poisonous,” Diane said without looking up. “Wel , not too poisonous.”
Peter tugged the arm of Joss’s blouse. “Did you know that if you suck enough highlighter, your pee turns green?”
“Actual y, I didn’t know that.”
“It’s
