Forty-seven
She smoothed her skirt and gazed at her reflection.
Peter had insisted she wear the sweater without the bra, saying no woman would be tortured by whalebone on his account, but she suspected more than general bonhomie at work as she’d twice caught him stealing sidelong glances at her since she’d re-dressed.
With hair streaming in uncombed waves down her shoulders, spots of pink on her cheeks, a button missing from her sweater, and a skirt that looked like she’d just crawled through the climbing tower at McDonald’s, the lack of bra was pretty much in keeping with the theme.
She supposed she should just be glad there were no teeth marks on the wool. Ah, well, self-confidence, right?
“I won’t be too long,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Three hours of forced smiles, air kisses, and wine spritzers is about all I can take. I don’t want to miss a minute with you I don’t have to.”
Peter’s pencil stopped on the words air kisses—he had retreated to his desk and was sketching her—but he continued on with a shrug. “You won’t miss a minute with me. I am invited. Ball’s guest.”
“Oh.” This threw a slight wrench in the evening because Cam knew she had to talk to Jacket, and Peter’s presence would make things more awkward. “I, um—”
“Fear not, fair lady. I shall make myself scarce. You need to focus on filling the room with the confidence of a sultan, er, sultaness, and in any case, I shall not be the cause of any further embarrassment for you and Jacket.”
“Thank you, Peter. But after, can we—”
“Aye.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “After. And for as long as we have.”
She looked at the clock. Time was her enemy. “Are you ready? My car’s around the corner.”
He took a glance out the window. “Ball was sending a carriage—I mean, car—for me—Oh, I think it’s here. Long and black, aye? I’ll tell the driver I don’t need him. ’Twould be a pleasure to see you drive.”
For an instant she had a vision of Scarlett O’Hara seated high on her carriage, driving her horses around Atlanta, but then the recollection that her eight-year-old Honda hadn’t been washed since June cleared her head. “Um, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high, if I were you.”
The corner of his mouth rose. “I shall temper my anticipation.”
A particularly loud snippet of “Walking on Sunshine” began to trumpet through the room. It was her ringtone and Cam scurried toward the couch. Her phone was in her purse, but she didn’t have the faintest idea where her purse might be.
The noise seemed to be coming from the floor. She dove to her knees and looked under the coffee table. Nothing. She checked under the couch. No joy.
Peter was looking now too. He crouched by the desk. “Are we looking for the music?”
“Yes. It’s coming out of my purse.”
“Ah.” He unfolded himself, strode to the credenza, and found her clutch on the floor. It must have fallen out of her coat.
She grabbed it and answered just as the music stopped.
“Crap.” She looked at the display. “It’s my boss.” Jabbing the button to call him back, she gave Peter a “no worries” look and said, “I’ll just be a minute.”
Packard answered on the first ring. “Oh, thank God,” he said.
“What is it?” She could hear the concern in his voice.
“Cam, there’s a problem with Ball’s Van Dyck.”
“What do you mean, a problem?” The painting had passed every insurance and curatorial review and was now sitting on an easel behind a velvet curtain, ready to be revealed at the gala.
“I mean it’s not by Van Dyck.”