Page 22 of Flirting with Forever

“Privy,” she barked to a startled Stephen and slipped away.

She turned the corner, heading straight for the models’ room. Take my custom elsewhere, is it? She’d like to tell him what he could do with his freakin’ custom. She flew past Mercury, past the stairway, past the studio—

She screeched to a halt. Peter was in there, rifling a drawer in the bench, his back imperiously straight. She looked at the models’ door, closed but surely penetrable, then back at the studio.

The hell 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 hall, ignored the theatrics. He gave her a cool glance, damning his heart for its inexplicable rise, and returned to the mixing of cobalt and oil.

“I’ve come for a commission,” she said.

“My diary is full.”

“Is this how you treat your patrons? I’d 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. Ursula had had a viper’s tongue when she chose, and an angel’s mouth. How she’d liked to put that mouth to use when their arguments had ended. He looked at his visitor’s full, wide lips and found himself unexpectedly wondering if she’d resemble Ursula in that way as well.

“I apologize if I’ve 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 full 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. Stephen wheeled in a half circle and disappeared.

Peter clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed her. However despicable Peter found the effort, Stephen had executed his job well. She had Ursula’s shapely hips and earthy, round breasts as well as the damn-you-to-hell face Ursula wore 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’s your name?”

“Mrs. Eugenie Post.”

“Your real name.”

She seemed to falter. Had she thought him blind to the game?

“None of your 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—especially with her coloring—but dresses could be bought. There was a regality to her posture, however, that could not be pretense. She was an intelligent, well-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, and the woman turned to hold his gaze.