Page 46 of Flirting with Forever

Peter’s violent opposition to this suggestion must have been evident on his face.

“I am the king, aye? You acknowledge my supreme authority over you, her, and every other soul on this island, do you not?”

Peter gurgled an affirmative.

“I want a painting of her for my collection—my private collection. Once you have bedded her, ’twill be no hard rub to get her to pose. Tell her it is how you should like to remember her. Tell her she will make a sublime Athena with that hair streaming down—and she would, you know, you must admit it.”

Peter could make no reply. It took every ounce of fortitude he possessed to keep from launching his fist into the king’s nose.

“Do you not see her as Athena?”

“I believe her time in London is quite short. We would not have time.”

Charles paced to the window and gazed upon his subjects hurrying through Covent Garden. “The writ makes me uneasy,” he said after a pause. “I am not certain I will be able to overcome my objections.”

Peter felt a sickening lump in his gut. He saw that headstone in St. Paul’s yard. He knew what he owed Ursula. It was the only reason he’d agreed to return to this place. He also knew what he owed Camilla. But he had no choice. Peter forced himself to lower his chin in a poor substitute for submission.

Stephen returned with a salver overflowing with brandy, cheese, and cakes, but the king waved it off. Stephen placed it on the table and, after a word from the king, went to alert the footmen of His Majesty’s momentary return. When Peter and Charles were alone again, the king, evidently sensing the hint of insubordination in his friend, added as he passed, “Deliver her, Peter. One way or another.”

When the king’s footsteps receded into the street, Peter picked up the decanter and hurled it against the wall.

* * *

“No service?” This had been her only potential lifeline. Cam’s eyes began to sting. She was sunk. She’d only meant to buy a book, and now she was cut off from her friends and loved ones forever. Here, she had one friend and no home. When Peter put his paints away, she would have nowhere to go, nothing to eat, no way to earn money. It had begun as an adventure—and had turned into an exhilarating one—but now she wanted to go home, or at least know she could go home when she wanted.

Something flickered at the corner of her eye.

It was a bar! A bar appeared on the phone! Bless you, AT&T! She thrust the phone higher, and the bar disappeared. Didn’t matter, she thought. When there’s one bar, there’s always another. Why, one time she’d scrabbled down three rows and across seven chairs at the local cineplex to find out how Jeanne’s text stream ending with “…so embarrassed, but my partner, whom I’d never met before, said not to worry, he could come in spades” began, only to find Jeanne had been recruited into an impromptu bridge tournament at her great-aunt’s house.

Cam held the phone high. No joy, and no matter how close she got to the windows, the bar just flickered and disappeared. She tried opening the window, but it was stuck. She pressed harder, and it moved a bit. One more push, and the window opened a degree. Then it was simply a matter of pushing it a little harder…

Ta-da!

She shoved the phone as far outside as she could reach, peering at it through the odd, wavy glass. Still nothing. Then suddenly one bar appeared, then two.

* * *

Peter felt rather than saw Stephen behind him, gazing at the burgundy-stained wall, and Peter was in no mood for questions.

“Sir?”

“One more interruption tonight and ’twill be your job.” He strode out, leaving Stephen openmouthed.

He had no intention, of course, of providing Camilla in any form to the king. Even the thought of painting her head on one of his model’s bodies made him angrier than he thought possible, though if push came to shove, he’d have to do it.

She was achingly beautiful, of that there was no debate. And he had seen the fire that ran in those veins. He found himself quite lost in the picture of her, as canty as a jade, lying before him, her breasts shifting with each movement—

He took the stairs two at a time.

She might not be his, but for the next glorious hour it would be as if she were.

She was gone.

“Camilla?”

Silence.

He hurried to the other side of the fireplace. The space was empty.