LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Susan Kearney, for everything.

       And special thanks to Wanda Ottewell, editor extraordinaire—wow! I lucked out, big-time ;-)

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Epilogue

      1

      “IF I HAVE TO LOOK at one more penis tonight,” Lennon McDarby whispered while lifting the glass panel from the display case, “I’m going to scream.”

      This penis stood a good sixteen inches tall. The mammoth proportions would have made the sculpture crude had it not been crafted from marble with exquisite attention to detail.

      And the piece was just one of many, because all the artwork in the Joshua Eastman Gallery had a connection to sex. This artist’s theme for The Promise, as the work was titled, was of the oral variety. The marble penis was half of a pair. Its partner—an equally detailed sculpture of a woman’s mouth—depicted lips opened wide enough to swallow sixteen inches.

      Lennon sighed. The sound echoed in the empty gallery. She didn’t even have to glance at her watch to know midnight had come and gone. She’d become intimately acquainted with late nights these past few weeks while helping her great-aunt ready the collection for the opening. Lennon wouldn’t even think about how she’d blown off her own work, despite a looming deadline, to spend every waking hour in the National Trust Artists’ Museum.

      But the collection finally neared completion, and Lennon cast a satisfied glance around the entrance hall. Along with The Promise and Great-uncle Joshua’s portrait—which presided over the room, welcoming guests to his memorial art gallery—a compelling array of artwork and artifacts represented each category of the collection. Select paintings, prints, drawings, photographs, sculptures and decorative artwork were displayed in and on various cases and shelves, introducing visitors to the scope and quality of the Eastman Gallery’s unique objets d’art.

      Sex, sex and more sex.

      With a tired smile, Lennon surveyed Solitaire, a 1792 watercolor of a nude young man stroking himself in a beautiful wash of transparent colors. Auntie Q had displayed the painting, declaring, “We want men to feel welcome, and this piece will prove they’ve been playing with themselves since long before Playboy hit the stands….”

      On another wall hung a 1750 oil on canvas depicting a pastoral scene of a couple making love on a riverbank, a work that had been commissioned by Madame de Pompadour herself.

      One of the more unusual items in the hall was a basin and ewer set, a gorgeous example of “Saint-Porchaire” ware, one of the rarest types of Renaissance ceramics. Ingeniously mounted on a low stand, the pieces had been fashioned into a makeshift bidet long before the bidet had come into vogue as a tool for personal hygiene. Lennon thought the set made an attractive addition to the entrance hall. Tasteful. Subtly erotic.

      Since Auntie Q and Great-uncle Joshua—honorary great-uncle, as he and Auntie Q hadn’t been married—had devoted their lives to collecting these erotic pieces, the least Lennon could do was figure out how best to display them. Back to The Promise.

      Repositioning the giant penis on the black velvet display base, she leaned back on her haunches to consider the effect. Still not right. She yawned widely, wondering if she would ever be content with the result.

      “Playing with a penis shouldn’t put you to sleep, dear.” Auntie Q’s lilting voice broke the late-night quiet.

      Rocking back on her heels, Lennon swung a weary gaze toward her great-aunt. Auntie Q—Quinevere McDarby to the rest of New Orleans’s society—stood silhouetted beneath the arched entrance, surveying the exhibition hall as grandly as a fairy queen.

      And that’s exactly how Lennon thought of her. With her white hair and brilliant blue eyes, Auntie Q was petite, quintessentially feminine, and had been as exquisite in her youth as she was darling in her dotage.

      “It’s so late nothing can keep me awake, Auntie.”

      “The right man could.”

      Too tired to argue, Lennon said, “You should be resting.”

      “Why? I’ll have plenty of time to catch up on my sleep when I’m dead. Until then…” At Lennon’s stricken look, Auntie Q tutted reassuringly. “Shh, dear. I went online to check the weather report. If I didn’t, you would have, and I want you to finish your to-do list so the bachelors and I will have your undivided attention during the

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