Thirty-nine
Cam felt the light on her lids, but she pushed herself back into the cocoon of blankets and specifically into the pair of warm arms that had led her through a slow, heated dream this last quarter hour.
Still tingling from the foggy after-fever of exertion, she braided her fingers in the fur skimming that taut belly and breathed in the musk laced with turpentine.
Deeply, deeply she sunk into those arms, that chest, her leg like an insistent vine, drawing him closer.
She could feel the press of that impervious weight against her belly and felt the fire rise again, like a wicked, unquenchable flame.
She brought her mouth to his ear. “Again,” she whispered. “I want you to—”
“Cam?”
Her eyes snapped open, and heat filled her cheeks. Jesus, why in God’s name was she dreaming of Peter?
Jacket had cracked her door and was looking in. With a groan, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, hoping what had just transpired was not obvious on her face. “What?”
“Call for you, babe. You left your phone in the dining room. It’s Ball.”
She looked at the clock. Ten thirty! Holy crap!
She’d been up until three typing. Somehow the story of Peter Lely just flew off her fingers.
And last night had been the seduction scene.
Poor Ursula, she thought. Swept off her feet by the sweet-talking artist. Little did she know his ego would eventually muscle her out of his bed.
Not that the scene had had anything to do with Cam’s own state of wantonness, she told herself firmly as she scrambled to her feet and wrapped the sheet around her. It was only what came of prolonged deprivation and spicy tuna rolls after ten o’clock.
Jacket watched her as she passed.
“I can see sleeping in agrees with you,” he said.
She grinned. Ever since he’d kissed her the day before, it was like a whole new Jacket had come to live with her.
“Are we still on for tonight?” he asked.
A late supper after the gala. Ball and Packard announcing the gift of the Van Dyck.
The debut of Jacket’s new work. The board to convene the next day to elect the new director.
Everything was heady and effervescent, and even if she hadn’t felt the bolt that would tell her this was the right decision, Cam had decided she would give Jacket the answer he wanted to hear.
Who gets a bolt in these energy-conscious days anyhow, she thought.
All you really need is that steady, consistent hybrid hum to know you’re on the right track.
She nodded, and her heart made a wavering skip. He would move from the studio into her room that night.
Cam picked up her phone. “Hey, what’s up, Mr. Ball?”
“Cam! You fox! How did you keep this hidden from me?”
“Pardon?”
“Here I thought you’d keep your old friend up-to-date on whatever you found.”
“Mr. Ball, I’m not following you.”
“Come by, my dear, and we’ll celebrate together. Hurry, though. I think my buddy at Artforum tipped the press. This is going to be huge—mostly, I suppose, because it is huge.” He gave a hearty laugh and hung up.
She looked at the phone, confused.
“What’s going on?” Jacket asked. “The old guy sounded excited.”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”