Page 7 of Flirting with Forever

“Anastasia. On the stairs. In a puff of vampire-colored smoke.”

Three

Peter knew why he’d taken the long way to Maiden Lane. Maiden Lane was where he’d find the king, but the small patch of green behind St. Paul’s—Old Pauly, as the residents of Covent Garden referred to it—was where he’d find Ursula.

He crossed the piazza tentatively, ignoring the carriages that passed on either side of him. He made his way past the sanctuary he would never enter again and down the path that ran the length of the church’s north wall. When he saw her, his throat began to tighten. He scanned the space, but it was late afternoon, and the only witnesses to his shame would be the wrens, foraging among the tree roots. He dropped to a knee.

“I failed you, my love. ’Tis the worst thing a man can do, and I shall live with the pain always.”

If he wanted absolution, there was none. Only the dim reflection of light on this headstone and the one beyond it.

Peter hung his head and let the tears fall down his cheeks.

Four

Cam flew down the improbably long treads of the Carnegie’s staircase with Jeanne on her heels.

“You don’t think she’s there already?” Cam said. “That painting’s nearly mine, and I don’t want her ruining it or, worse, somehow getting credit.”

“When you’re a successful author, will we be done with all this?”

“Oh, sure. ’Cause you know how many people buy art biographies. I could have them over for cocktails and still manage to be the worst-dressed person in the room.”

“Especially with Wite-Out on your hose. So, do you think he’s going to say it again?”

“What?”

“You know.”

Cam shot her a pointed look. “Mr. Ball is from a very old, not to mention very rich, Gainesville family. Just because some of his words are, well, a little hard to understand doesn’t mean he’s not sharp as a tack.”

“I grew up in Mobile, Alabama. You got any trouble understanding me? Do I go around telling people I’m a fornicator?”

“It’s not fornicator. It’s Florida Gator.”

“Oh, I know what it is. It still makes me laugh to hear it.”

Cam ignored this. She hit the cavernous entry hall and looked left and right. They could be anywhere. They weren’t in the little café dominated by Warhol’s fluorescent portrait of Andrew Carnegie—“Care for some worker uprising with your Chicken Basil Farfalle?”—nor lounging by the reflecting pool outside.

She turned. Lamont Packard was emerging from the interior courtyard a step or two in front of Ball, who had Anastasia hot-glued to his arm. Drat. She had to think fast. “Remember the Picasso strategy?”

Jeanne gave her a questioning look. “Yes, but I’m not sure how your favorite ‘Get me outta this blind date’ strategy is going to work here.”

“Well, this time it’s a Rembrandt strategy, and you’ll need to call Tim Lockport—anonymously.”

After a beat, Jeanne’s face lit. “You’re brilliant—and scary.”

“Family survival tactic. Lie or die.”

Jeanne angled off toward a museum phone, and Cam headed toward her quarry.

They were an odd threesome, she thought, hurrying toward them: Old School Packard with his investment banker suit; Ball in his linen trousers and orange-and-blue golf shirt; and, of course, Anastasia, towering over everyone as usual with her willowy, mock-Eurotrash body, purple Christian Louboutin booties, architectural “Oh this? I knit couture in my spare time” dress, and a stainless-steel cuff bracelet so thick it looked like it had come off the brakes of a German Wehrmacht tank. Cam, despite Rubenesque curves, tumbling masses of red curls, and a penchant for tight skirts and zebra-striped pumps, felt she looked more like Frodo’s long-lost country cousin when she stood next to the dreaded Anastasia.

“There you are,” Packard said.

Packard always wore the fundraiser’s flush of larceny, but today his palms were rubbing so hard they ought to have been throwing sparks. Of course, being six months from retirement couldn’t have hurt, either. Woodson Ball, who should have looked as though he’d just stumbled out of a gang pickpocketing on an Eastern European subway, managed to project warmth and contented largesse.

Anastasia’s gaze ran rapidly down Cam’s leg. “Afternoon, Cam. Did you have an accident?”