Twenty-nine
“He’s here,” Jeanne said over the phone.
“Who’s here?” Cam held up a finger to Ball and excused herself from the restaurant’s booth.
“Peter Lely.”
Her chest made a vigorous thump. “What do you mean ‘here’?”
“I mean here. In the museum. Whatever you did on your way back from Shakespeare land, you forgot to lock the barn door, and now a very large, very oddly dressed cow is walking around the admin wing.”
“Holy cripes! Stop him!” She ran out the door for the privacy of the sidewalk.
“Honey, I’m doing everything I can. He’s in the men’s room now.”
“Hiding?”
“Changing.”
Cam’s stomach felt like a dozen marathoners were running through it. “You’ve got to make him go back.”
“Tried it. The man’s got no interest in going back. He wants you.”
Oh Christ! “I can’t.”
“According to him, you’ve got two choices. Either meet with him now or he comes back to the museum tomorrow to talk with ‘your master’ and goes from there to the ‘gentleman who prints your books.’”
When worlds collide. Cam tried to speak but no words came.
“Where’s Jacket?” Jeanne demanded.
“Meeting with a potential buyer.”
“I’m stowing the guy at your place, then. Get your ass over there.”