Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (books for 20 year olds TXT) 📗

hurrying toward them: Old School Packard with his investment banker suit; Bal in his linen trousers and orange-and-blue–

striped golf shirt; and, of course, Anastasia, towering over everyone as usual with her wil owy, 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 gave the appearance of being Frodo’s long-lost country cousin when standing next to the dreaded Anastasia.

“There you are,” Packard said.

Lamont Packard always wore the fund-raiser’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 Bal , who should have looked like 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?”

“No.” She ground her teeth. “So glad to see you, Mr.

Bal .” Then, in a move she’d learned from Thomas the Tank Engine, Cam did a one eighty just as the walking threesome reached her, neatly uncoupling Anastasia from Bal ’s arm. “How was Florida? Did you and Mrs. Bal have a good trip back?”

Bal finished the story of the flight delays just as Jeanne arrived.

“You may remember my assistant, Jeanne Turner.

Jeanne, this is Mr. Bal .”

“Ha’d’yadew.” Bal bowed.

As Cam looked down to avoid Jeanne’s eyes, she caught sight of her pumps. In her effort to manage the hose situation, she must have inadvertently mashed her shoe into the hot dog because most of the zebra stripes on the left toe were covered in mustard.

“Jeanne has a few papers for you to sign,” Cam said, tucking one foot behind the other. “Nothing major. Just permission to examine the painting, et cetera.” She felt Anastasia’s critical gaze drop even farther and she began to flush.

Anastasia coughed. “Good Lord, Cam, is that—”

“Mustard is very hot this year.”

“Only in Vogue, dear.”

Cam wished the soaring George Segal sculpture of a tightrope walker, which had once balanced high above the heads of Carnegie patrons, would choose this moment to return to its former haunt and drop on Anastasia’s head.

“That’s fine,” Bal said. “Whatever you need me t’do. Just take good care of my countess.” He winked.

The vaunted painting was a gorgeous three-quarter-length portrait of Theresa, Countess of Morefield, that had once been owned by Catherine the Great.

“You know, we already have a fantastic spot picked out for the painting,” Packard said. Cam could almost see the saliva running down his chin.

saliva running down his chin.

“It ain’t yours yet, Lamont.” Bal laughed, and Packard looked like someone had just peed on his Gucci loafers.

“Not until I hand it over at the gala.”

Bal had taken his grandfather’s struggling headache powders business and turned it into the bestsel ing col ege study tool simply by adding enough caffeine to make a hippo run a marathon, then sold it to a Big Pharma company for six times its annual earnings. He divided his time between a vil a in Tuscany, an antebel um estate on a river outside Gainesvil e and a century-old former industrial’s mansion not far from the Carnegie. Bal had converted the mansion’s sixty-foot-long carriage house into a wel -fortified, temperature-control ed warehouse for his beloved art col ection.

Cam and Bal had known each other for years. She’d put him on the trail of a number of fine paintings and other works for sale in the art world, including Jacket’s. Bal ’s tastes were wide-ranging and constantly changing, and his pockets as deep as the steam tunnels under the museum.

He was returning the favor by letting her get credit for the donation of the Van Dyck, a piece in which he had lost interest.

“Sure was good to get back up north,” Bal