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

He went to the row of windows in the dining room, the ones that faced down onto Washington Road. He saw the man exit the building, cross the street and head into Aldo’s coffee shop.

Then Jacket crossed to the elevator and turned the painting. Jesus, it was Cam, and worse, it was good. He wondered if she’d keep it. He wondered if she wanted him even to know about it. He looked to see if Cam’s door was open. It wasn’t. He pul ed his cel phone out and took a snap. There. Clear as day.

35

“Did you ever hear from that weird guy again?” Anastasia asked, tucking the sheet around her. Jacket had been stil so long she wondered if his heart had given out. Was it her fault orgasms required somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-eight minutes of hammering friction? She’d done it once in nineteen minutes, but that had been with a vibrator and the sex scene from Wild Things, and she could hardly ask Jacket to incorporate anything more into his already overloaded routine.

“Wh-what weird guy?”

Christ, he sounded like her eighty-three-year-old grandpa waking from a nap. “Rusty the repairman-slash-mil ionaire.”

“Ahhhhhh, no. Not real y.”

“Not real y?” Anastasia had wondered about the guy.

Despite the lowbrow togs, there had been something incredibly sexy about him, that capable, workingman sexy, the kind of guy that could pound you over the breakfast counter while he’s digging out the nail file that accidental y chewed up your garbage disposal—not that that had happened to Anastasia, of course, except that once, and then the guy had stil insisted on being paid, the Neanderthal. She had wondered what Rusty was doing with Cam. Cam was not exactly known for sexy boyfriends, a generalization that firmly included Jacket, whom Anastasia found to be too short to be good for anything except proving she could get whatever her sister had.

“Wel , his ‘associate’ was over the other day talking to Cam.”

“An associate? Plumbers have associates now?”

“He’s not a plumber. Apparently he’s a painter.”

“Real y?” Not that painters had associates, either, as far as she knew. Nonetheless, this was getting interesting.

“Yeah, come over here and look at this for a minute.”

Jacket dragged himself up to sitting with a groan and pul ed himself out of bed. She padded over beside him.

He picked his cel phone off the easel and opened the photo album icon.

Jesus, it looked like a Peter Lely!

“It’s supposed to be a Peter Lely,” Jacket said.

“No shit.” But what was infinitely more amazing was that it was a Peter Lely–style portrait of Cam. Or so it seemed to be. Anastasia grabbed the phone and expanded the image with her fingers as much as she could. The artist had captured his sitter in a timeless, ethereal glow and, typical of Lely, who had nothing of the realist about him, her face was idealized, as if the veil of imperfection had been lifted.

She could have been Cam, an Irish noble-woman or even Venus.

The woman wore an olive-gold dressing gown that hung off one shoulder, the folds of the fabric fal ing graceful y down her arms and across her lap. Her hair was loose, hanging in tousled waves over flawless, pale shoulders and a hint of bosom that disappeared into the gentle curve of the gown’s neckline. But it was the expression on her face that set it apart from the usual Lely. The woman’s eyes were crinkled in pleasure, as if he’d captured the moment after shared laughter. With its mix of formal and intimate, it was exactly like Lely.

“It looks like him, but I don’t know.”

“I saw it. Trust me. The overpainting, the glazing could have come straight out of Vermeer. The draping and use of light was remarkable. Hasn’t been anything like it in the last century except maybe Hopper.”

“Where did she get it?” Anastasia asked, but Jacket did not answer. He was staring at the painting, obviously distressed. “What is it?” she said.

“Look at it. He loves her.”

Anastasia looked again. Jacket was right. Taken as a whole, the painting was an ode, a paean, and if the woman did not love the painter in return, then she was on the verge of it. Her eyes glittered, her carriage was loose and open, like that of a woman who is letting herself go for the very