Page 72 of Flirting with Forever

The painter’s brows rose. “You didn’t?”

“No.” Nor had he. The techniques were not far from what he employed himself. His eyes flickered to the unmade bed, and he felt a pang of uneasiness. “Were you guild trained?”

The painter looked at him askance. “Goldsmiths,” he said carefully. “University of London.”

“Ah. I am not aware of Goldsmiths. What is the purpose of the notes?” Peter pointed to the squares of yellow paper.

“Just some ideas for the reaping.”

“Reaping?”

“I translate the part of the figure below the line into everyday objects, which I then enclose in clear acrylic. Look, nothing personal, bloke, but who the hell are you?”

Peter did not need to ask the same question of his host. The moment the man said he enclosed everyday objects, Peter realized with a start this was the same painter who had created the odd amalgam of traditional and naive in the portrait that hung in the other room. It stung him that the man had earned not only a place in Campbell Stratford’s bed, but the place of honor in her drawing room as well.

Nor did Peter need to answer, for a thunderous rush of water sounded from an adjoining room, and the painter called, “Yoi! Heads up. We have company.”

The door rattled open, and a woman knotting a towel around her chest cried, “Jesus, is it—Oh!”

It was the woman in the painting. There was no question in Peter’s mind.

“Hello,” she said disinterestedly, then added to the painter, “Jacket, where’s the wine?”

When he pointed toward the kitchen, she strode out, and Peter caught the discreet brush she gave the man’s hand as she passed. Peter’s gaze returned to the bed, and he felt a sickening wave of anger mixed illogically with sorrow, sorrow for Campbell Stratford.

“Jacket?” Peter forced the cold ire under control.

“I’m Jacket Sprague,” the man said, and he was clearly just about to add, “And you are?” when Peter beat him to the punch: “I’m Peter Lely.”

Jacket’s gaze went to the name over Peter’s pocket. “Not Rusty, then. Peter.”

“Yes.”

“That’s the name of a painter, you know.”

“I’ve heard that.” Peter tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen, where he could hear the faint pop of a cork. “You work from a model?”

Jacket blinked for a minute, then remembered the painting. “Yeah.”

“Usually?” Peter said, then added when Jacket’s eyes narrowed, “I only ask because Miss Stratford told me you work from memory.”

“Cam told you that?”

“Yes.”

“I usually do,” Jacket said after a penetrating look in Peter’s direction, “but not this time. Look, did she give you a key or something? Is that why you’re here?”

“Pardon me for saying so, but I hardly think it’s any of your concern.”

“Is that so? I’m her fiancé.”

The storm in Peter’s ears drowned out the music for a moment. Had she actually accepted him? He wasn’t sure he could believe it. “Are you indeed?”

“She wears my ring, pal.”

“I don’t wish to quibble, but I saw her most recently. She wore a ring from her mother, nothing more.”

“She wears it on a chain around her neck. Has for a while. Listen, you’re starting to annoy me.”