Flirting With Forever Gwyn Cready (best book series to read txt) 📖

The king regarded him closely, an uncomfortable mixture of regard and titil ation on his face.

Peter swal owed his disgust at having to reveal so personal a feeling. “Aye.”

“Excel ent. A fine catch. I have only one request, then.”

“What?” Peter had had his fil of the king today.

“I should like a painting of her.”

A dark tide swept over Peter. “Your Majesty?”

“Venus, perhaps. Or Athena.”

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 col ection—my private col ection. Once you have bedded her, ’twil be no hard rub to get her to pose. Tel her it is how you should like to remember her. Tel her she wil 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 wil 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 Camil a. 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 approach.

When they were alone, 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 wal .

“No service?” This had been her only potential lifeline. Her 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 d o wn 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 would flicker and disappear. She pressed. One of the windows moved. It wasn’t just built right into the wal . Up, down, up, down, she looked, then spotted it. A lever to open the last window.

She pul ed it and the window cracked open. 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. Stil nothing. Then suddenly one bar, then two.

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

“Sir?”

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

He had no intention, of course, of providing Camil a in any form to the king.