Ten
And this, Cam thought, is why we need men like Jake Ryan.
She felt like she’d been slapped. She’d been sized up and dismissed.
She’d known men like this before—hell, she’d had men like this before.
They were generally self-involved windbags who felt the size of their wallet, talent, Mercedes, or dick made up for a lack of courtesy.
She watched Lely stride down the hall, shoulders back, head high, emperor of all he surveyed.
Grrrr. She’d had enough of that in her life.
Had had it up to here. First her father, then her sister, then Jacket.
Someday, someone would get a piece of her mind.
But at least her dismissal meant that longed-for opportunity had arrived.
“Privy,” she barked to a startled Stephen and slipped away.
She turned the corner, heading straight for the models’ room. Take my custom elsewhere, is it? She’d like to tell him what he could do with his freakin’ custom. She flew past Mercury, past the stairway, past the studio—
She screeched to a halt. Peter was in there, rifling a drawer in the bench, his back imperiously straight. She looked at the models’ door, closed but surely penetrable, then back at the studio.
The hell with it. This guy needed his ass kicked.
* * *
Mrs. Post burst into his studio like a savage, shoving the door aside with a bang, but Peter, who heard her in the hall, ignored the theatrics. He gave her a cool glance, damning his heart for its inexplicable rise, and returned to the mixing of cobalt and oil.
“I’ve come for a commission,” she said.
“My diary is full.”
“Is this how you treat your patrons? I’d heard you were rude. I didn’t realize you were also a fool.”
Peter stiffened. Only one other person in his adult life had ever dared speak to him in such a manner.
Ursula had had a viper’s tongue when she chose, and an angel’s mouth.
How she’d liked to put that mouth to use when their arguments had ended.
He looked at his visitor’s full, wide lips and found himself unexpectedly wondering if she’d resemble Ursula in that way as well.
“I apologize if I’ve offended you.” He bowed briskly and reached for the bowl.
She didn’t move.
“Is there something more, Mrs. Post?”
“Aye. You’re a total shit.”
Peter jerked upright, unable to believe his ears, and Stephen, who had just reached the doorway, stopped dead in his tracks.
“Madam—” Stephen began.
“Leave us.” Peter held up a hand and turned the full power of his gaze on the woman. He was a large man, and his glare made the blue fire in her eyes rise, just as it had in Ursula. Stephen wheeled in a half circle and disappeared.
Peter clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed her.
However despicable Peter found the effort, Stephen had executed his job well.
She had Ursula’s shapely hips and earthy, round breasts as well as the damn-you-to-hell face Ursula wore when she was crossed.
His only question now was, was this interloper a woman freely interested in him or had Stephen purchased her interest in the back lanes of Covent Garden?
He was surprised and a bit ashamed to find himself pruriently eager to know the answer.
“What’s your name?”
“Mrs. Eugenie Post.”
“Your real name.”
She seemed to falter. Had she thought him blind to the game?
“None of your business.”
He exhaled. There was something irritatingly entrancing about a woman who refused to bend.
“But you are a widow?”
“I am.”
Then not a whore? He narrowed his eyes. The dress was beautiful—especially with her coloring—but dresses could be bought. There was a regality to her posture, however, that could not be pretense. She was an intelligent, well-bred woman.
“Did you speak in such a manner to your husband?”
She picked a speck of lint from her sleeve. “When he deserved it.”
He had circled behind her, and the woman turned to hold his gaze.
“I should speak to any man or gentleman so,” she added with a significant look, “should he deserve it.”
He dropped his gaze, abashed. He had been inexcusably rude in the waiting room.
“I beg your pardon. I was abrupt.”
She pursed her lips. His defenses were crumbling.
“You understand I am in no mood to be played upon,” he said.
“I have no intention of playing, I assure you.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Whence are your people?”
She blinked. “My people? I’m German and Welsh, if that’s what you mean.”
He’d been right. The accent, the eyes, the skin. “German, is it? Where?”
“North. Bremen, I believe.”
He nodded. He knew Bremen.
“It is not,” he said after a long pause, “that you do not tempt me. If I am honest, you do. But I am simply not capable of such a thing now.”
“Of a commission?” She looked at him, confused.
“I treated you like a scrub, and for that I apologize, but I cannot…” Oh, why had Stephen chosen such a moment to push this?
“‘Cannot’? Cannot what?”
He searched for words and discovered he was not as certain about what he could and couldn’t do as he’d thought. “I-I—”
His answer was cut short by the sound of a large group of people trooping up the stairs. “The royal entourage!” someone wailed.
Stephen reappeared in the doorway. “The Duchess of Portsmouth is with him.”
“Bloody Christ!” Peter paled. If the king were to be embarrassed in front of his lover, he’d be furious, and the last thing Peter needed now was a furious king. “What about Nell?”
“Locked away.”
“And the painting?”
“I’ll send someone to remove it.”
“Hurry!”
“Peter…?” Stephen tossed a worried expression in Mrs. Post’s direction.
“Aye, I know.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Put Charles and the duchess in the Gold Room,” he said to Stephen. “I’ll attend to them shortly.”
Stephen disappeared, and Peter shut the door and leaned against it. “I must insist you stay here. Do not exit this room.”
“What? No. I should like to meet the king—I mean, if it’s possible. I should like to very much, in fact.”
“I can’t allow it.”
“You have redeemed yourself, Mr. Lely, but you are not my keeper. I refuse to be held against my will.”
She started for the door, and he angled his bulk in front of her. The blue flames returned to her eyes, and while Peter wished for time to find out what else might fan them, time was a luxury he didn’t have.
“The king has more power than you can imagine,” he said flatly, “and a disturbing predilection for redheads. I see you smile, milady, but I assure you, ’tis not a matter for lightheartedness.
I have seen women seized who have been foolish enough to catch his eye and then reject his invitation.
Your liberty would be restored in a matter of hours, but I do not think you’d care for your state when he is done.
He is a king, and I make no apologies, but if you wish my protection, you must stay here. ”