the headdress, shot across the doorway and bent. Just as her fingers grasped the cloth, the closet fil ed with light. Only it wasn’t a closet, it was a hal way, and two men now had a bird’s-eye view of her ass.
“—better if we tried a more private entry— Oh! ” Cam jerked the headdress over her face and unbent. She could see the looks of surprise on the faces of the tal , handsome man in centuries-old clothing and a companion behind him.
It took one of her hands to hold the headdress upright, which left only one to serve as a whol y inadequate bikini bottom. Unlike those of his companion, the eyes of the tal man stayed on her face. He was exceedingly handsome. If this were the Peter they were waiting for, she could see why this were the Peter they were waiting for, she could see why they were excited.
“I beg your pardon, er …” He attempted to see into the eyeholes. “Er, wel , I beg your pardon. We were just heading for the salon. Would you let the other models know not to disturb us?”
“Yes,” she squeaked.
With an abbreviated bow, the man passed by, clearing his throat sharply to snap his col eague out of his openmouthed reverie. He opened a door at the other end of the narrow stretch and the two disappeared.
Cam blinked. Where in the name of God was she?
Naked women and costumed men—Cam could only imagine an adult version of a Shakespeare or Christopher Marlowe play. But how had she gotten here? And where were her clothes?
She peered around the door back into the room. The women, having given up on Peter’s arrival, had begun to disperse. They spoke with English accents, and so did the tal man—Peter, she had to conclude—though his accent had an odd, guttural tone to it.
She needed to find out where she was, and in order to do that she needed clothes. She grabbed the drop cloth and was just wrapping it around herself when Kate wandered up.
“Is this reticule yours?”
The object dangling from her hand was Cam’s smal fringed clutch.
“Er, yes. Where did you find it?”
“In the doorway. It, er, seems to be growling.”
Kate held the clutch to her ear. Cam could hear the sound of her phone vibrating.
“It’s my phone.”
The woman stared at her blankly.
“My phone.” Cam held an imaginary phone to her ear.
Kate shook her head.
Cam had a sinking feeling. “Are you an actress?” The tremble in her voice surprised her.
“Oh my, no.” Kate smiled. “Just a model.”
“Is this a backstage?”
Kate shook her head. She was beginning to look as spooked as Cam felt. The phone stopped vibrating.
Kate said, “Do you have a puppy in there?”
Cam nodded slowly. “Yes.” The sinking feeling was sinking lower.
“Named ‘Fone’?”
“Y-Yes.”
“He must be very smal .”
“Yes.” A vague dizziness was overtaking her. “Can you tel me where we are?”
“Do you mean where in London?”
London! Cam clutched the wal for support. “Sure.”
“Covent Garden, specifical y, Peter Lely’s house in Covent Garden.”
Oh my God! Peter . The man was Peter Lely! How could she have missed it. He looked exactly like his self-portrait
—dark, wavy hair, warm brown eyes and rugged profile.
“Either is fine.” Cam needed to sit. Lely’s house. In Covent Garden. A moment ago she’d been at her desk with mustard on her shoe in Pittsburgh. She looked at her foot.
No mustard. Not even a shoe. Holy crap. She was in another time with a Restoration-era painter! It was almost too much to integrate. “I-I … Can I have a seat?”
Kate ushered her to a chair. “Quick, ladies. She’s il .”
The women circled her. One offered a glass of water. Cam gulped it.
Kate removed Cam’s headdress and petted her forehead. “You’re not warm. Did you get a bad eel? The cook here is wonderful, but you never know with eel.”
Bad eel? Maybe a bad hot dog. Cam shook her head, which was already shaking.
“Are you with child?”
Cam choked. “No—heavens, no.”
Kate
“—better if we tried a more private entry— Oh! ” Cam jerked the headdress over her face and unbent. She could see the looks of surprise on the faces of the tal , handsome man in centuries-old clothing and a companion behind him.
It took one of her hands to hold the headdress upright, which left only one to serve as a whol y inadequate bikini bottom. Unlike those of his companion, the eyes of the tal man stayed on her face. He was exceedingly handsome. If this were the Peter they were waiting for, she could see why this were the Peter they were waiting for, she could see why they were excited.
“I beg your pardon, er …” He attempted to see into the eyeholes. “Er, wel , I beg your pardon. We were just heading for the salon. Would you let the other models know not to disturb us?”
“Yes,” she squeaked.
With an abbreviated bow, the man passed by, clearing his throat sharply to snap his col eague out of his openmouthed reverie. He opened a door at the other end of the narrow stretch and the two disappeared.
Cam blinked. Where in the name of God was she?
Naked women and costumed men—Cam could only imagine an adult version of a Shakespeare or Christopher Marlowe play. But how had she gotten here? And where were her clothes?
She peered around the door back into the room. The women, having given up on Peter’s arrival, had begun to disperse. They spoke with English accents, and so did the tal man—Peter, she had to conclude—though his accent had an odd, guttural tone to it.
She needed to find out where she was, and in order to do that she needed clothes. She grabbed the drop cloth and was just wrapping it around herself when Kate wandered up.
“Is this reticule yours?”
The object dangling from her hand was Cam’s smal fringed clutch.
“Er, yes. Where did you find it?”
“In the doorway. It, er, seems to be growling.”
Kate held the clutch to her ear. Cam could hear the sound of her phone vibrating.
“It’s my phone.”
The woman stared at her blankly.
“My phone.” Cam held an imaginary phone to her ear.
Kate shook her head.
Cam had a sinking feeling. “Are you an actress?” The tremble in her voice surprised her.
“Oh my, no.” Kate smiled. “Just a model.”
“Is this a backstage?”
Kate shook her head. She was beginning to look as spooked as Cam felt. The phone stopped vibrating.
Kate said, “Do you have a puppy in there?”
Cam nodded slowly. “Yes.” The sinking feeling was sinking lower.
“Named ‘Fone’?”
“Y-Yes.”
“He must be very smal .”
“Yes.” A vague dizziness was overtaking her. “Can you tel me where we are?”
“Do you mean where in London?”
London! Cam clutched the wal for support. “Sure.”
“Covent Garden, specifical y, Peter Lely’s house in Covent Garden.”
Oh my God! Peter . The man was Peter Lely! How could she have missed it. He looked exactly like his self-portrait
—dark, wavy hair, warm brown eyes and rugged profile.
“Either is fine.” Cam needed to sit. Lely’s house. In Covent Garden. A moment ago she’d been at her desk with mustard on her shoe in Pittsburgh. She looked at her foot.
No mustard. Not even a shoe. Holy crap. She was in another time with a Restoration-era painter! It was almost too much to integrate. “I-I … Can I have a seat?”
Kate ushered her to a chair. “Quick, ladies. She’s il .”
The women circled her. One offered a glass of water. Cam gulped it.
Kate removed Cam’s headdress and petted her forehead. “You’re not warm. Did you get a bad eel? The cook here is wonderful, but you never know with eel.”
Bad eel? Maybe a bad hot dog. Cam shook her head, which was already shaking.
“Are you with child?”
Cam choked. “No—heavens, no.”
Kate
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