Peter was stunned. He hadn’t even considered that she might refuse. “What about Jacques or Liza? Can’t you get them to finish for you?”
“I couldn’t ask them to do that.”
“Why not?” he asked, growing irritated as his plans began to slip away. “They don’t seem to have any problem asking you for favors.”
Temper flared in her ghost-blue eyes. “I would never take advantage of their friendship that way. The building’s my responsibility. Not theirs, and not yours.”
He was losing Aimee. He could feel it in his bones, feel it in his gut. The realization only made him more frustrated. And angry. “Obviously your friends and your building are a lot more important to you than I am.”
“That’s not true.”
“No? Then explain to me why you refuse to get rid of this monstrosity.”
“Because it’s
my
monstrosity,” Aimee shot back.
“It’s a damn albatross. One that I’ve offered to take off your hands more than once. At least if you sold or leased the thing to me, I could afford to keep the place in decent shape, which is a lot more than you’re able to do.”
Her hands positioned on her hips, Aimee came closer to him, standing toe-to-toe with him in a fighter’s stance. “This may not be a showplace, but it is my home and I love it.” She lifted her chin a notch. “For your information, I’m doing just fine, and I’m going to do even better. I’ve sold a few of my paintings recently, and I’ll be in Kay Sloane’s exhibit next month. It’s just a matter of time before my art starts paying off, and then I can afford to hire someone to keep the place in good shape.”
“I’ve already offered to hire repairmen for you. Hell, I’ve asked you to marry me,” Peter reminded her. “If you would use a little common sense, you’d take me up on both offers. At least as my wife you wouldn’t have to kill yourself trying to keep up this place. I’d hire someone to do it for you. And you certainly wouldn’t have to sweat participating in some amateur exhibit.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. My building and my art are doing just fine without your help.”
“Really?” Peter continued, too caught up in his own emotional struggle over his feelings for Aimee to recognize the extent of her anger and pride. He ran an appraising glance over the partially painted room, the cracked windowpanes and chipped molding, before turning his probing gaze back to her. “From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look to me like you’re doing too good of a job at either.”
Peter’s words struck her like a blow, making her exceedingly conscious of her threadbare shorts and paint-splattered shirt. Still, she refused to be intimidated. “Like I said, I’m doing just fine.”
“You call selling your paintings in a dump like Sterling’s for peanuts, just to get enough money to pay the repair bills on this place, doing fine?”
Shock raced through Aimee. “How did you know I sold my paintings through Sterling’s?”
“How do you think I know? I know because I’m the one who bought them!”
Fury, white and hot, ripped through Aimee. What a fool she had been! Aimee told herself. How had she kidded herself into believing some collector had actually stumbled upon her work and liked it? “Why?” she demanded, as all the old insecurities about her talent returned to plague her.
“Because it’s the only way I could help you.”
“Are you sure, Peter? You’re sure it’s not because you didn’t believe anyone else would think my work was good enough?” Her voice broke. “Or maybe it was because you don’t believe I’m good enough.”
“Aimee, that’s not true.” He started to touch her, but she backed away from him. Peter’s hand fell to his side. “I was only trying to help. I knew you needed the money.”
“What I needed was for you to love me, to trust me. I can see now that that was too much to ask.”
“Aimee, don’t.” He reached out to her, speared his fingers through her cropped hair. “I’ve never wanted another
woman more than I want you. I still want you,” he said before covering her mouth with his own.
Her heart feeling as though it were breaking, Aimee remained lifeless in his arms. When he finally lifted his head and looked at her with tortured eyes, pleading eyes, Aimee hardened her heart. For her own sake, she had to end it now. “I know you want me, Peter. But wanting is not enough anymore. At least not for me.” How did she explain to him that she needed to fuel more than his desire for her? She needed his love. “I need more, Peter. More than you can give.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the affair’s over. We always said it would last as long as it was what we both wanted. Well, it’s not what I want any more.”
Peter searched her face for long moments, then released her. “So much for your being in love with me, huh? I guess I was right after all. A marriage between us wouldn’t have lasted. Hell, we couldn’t even make it through an affair.”
Aimee dismissed the bitterness in his voice. “No, we didn’t, did we? Maybe if I hadn’t fallen in love with you, we could have at least made it through the affair. But we can’t change who we are or what we feel. And the truth is that while you may lust for me, you don’t love me. I want…I deserve…someone who can give me both.” She needed the emotional bonds that went with their lovemaking—the emotional commitment that Peter was unable to make.
His expression softened. “You’re right. You deserve the very best, Aimee. I only wish that I had been the one to give it to you.”
“So do I,” Aimee whispered as he walked out the door and out of her life.
P
eter came awake with a start. Sitting up, he kicked away the tangled sheets and thrust his hands through his hair. His fingers came away damp with perspiration.
His breathing still ragged, he took slow, measured breaths and waited for the last remnants of the nightmare to leave him. The confounded dream was becoming more frequent, too frequent, he thought. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that the ending of his affair with Aimee was the reason he had had the nightmare again. Hell, he had had the stupid dream any number of times since she had kicked him out of her life, nearly a month ago.
And he had managed to survive the worst of those first few weeks without her. Of course, he admitted, the extensive travel schedule he had set for himself was the major reason. It seemed only fitting, since he had put off traveling in order to remain in New Orleans with Aimee, that it was because of her that he felt the need to get away.
Spending so much of his time with Aimee had caused him to neglect the part of his business that he had always found
most interesting—acquiring and discovering new art. Unfortunately, resuming the quest had not proved nearly as fulfilling as it had once been. In fact, it had made him wonder how he had ever managed to spend so many of his waking hours in such relentless pursuit—especially since beating out other collectors at auctions or trying to scoop a valuable piece before it was put on the market held only minimal satisfaction now. Even signing the maddening Hendrickson, an artist whose work he was sure would one day command a fortune, had proven anticlimactic.
Face it, Gallagher,
he told himself as he yawned.
There is no longer any thrill in the chase.
But the back-to-back trips had served their purpose, he conceded. At least not being in the same city with Aimee had kept him from attempting to see her. Unfortunately, it had not kept him from thinking of her.
And he had been thinking of Aimee. In truth, she had seldom been out of his thoughts. He had thought of her when he wandered through the museum in Chicago, and when he dined alone at the hotel. He had thought of her when he jetted to Paris and visited the Louvre without her. He had missed her. Not just making love with her, but talking to her and hearing the sound of her laughter, as well He had missed being with her, sharing bits and pieces of his day, bits and pieces of his life, with her. He had even missed listening to her talk about the disasters at the building and her wacky tenants. He had missed her far more than he had ever thought possible.
But it was returning to New Orleans that morning and discovering the invitation to Aimee’s exhibit that had brought on the latest bout of sleeplessness.and with it the infernal nightmare.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Peter planted his feet on the floor. He shoved his fingers through his hair. He had taken enough psychology courses in college to recognize that his being locked in the vault and abandoned was synonymous with his being locked out of Aimee’s life.
Not that he blamed her. He didn’t. He didn’t even resent the fact that the end of their affair had also ended any chance he might have of reclaiming the building. Strange how getting the place back didn’t seem to matter as much to him as it once had. At best, it had been a foolish quest on his part, Peter realized. He was no longer even sure what he had expected to gain by getting Aimee to sell him the place—except perhaps redemption from his father, for finally fulfilling his promise to the old man. How he had expected to gain that redemption from his father’s grave, he didn’t know.
No. What he resented was the fact that he had managed to hurt Aimee in the process. He had never meant to hurt her. She certainly hadn’t deserved to be hurt. But he had hurt her all the same. And it was because he didn’t want to hurt her further that he had accepted her decision to end things between them and forced himself to stay away.
Peter looked at the clock on his nightstand, which read 8:30. After picking up his mail and messages from the gallery, he had evidently collapsed on the bed and slept for nearly ten hours.
He stretched his arms over his head and attempted to work out the kinks in his shoulders and neck before glanc ing out the window of his condo. Except for the sprinkling of a few stars that had managed to break through the shroud of clouds, darkness filled the skyline. Even the sliver of moon had been swallowed in the heavy cloud cover.
Passing his hand over his face, he wiped away the last remnants of sleep. Looking at the clock again, he caught sight of the invitation to Aimee’s exhibit. He picked up the bright-colored parchment from the nightstand, where he had propped it up earlier. He ran his fingertip across the letters of her name and reread the announcement inviting him to the exhibit that evening.
Did Aimee know he had been sent an invitation? He was a major dealer, and it would have been foolish to leave his name off the guest list. Chances were she didn’t even know he had been invited.
Or maybe, just maybe, she had invited him herself. Was it possible that she had missed him just as much as he had missed her? His pulse picked up speed at the notion. At the same time, he told himself it was far more likely that she didn’t care one way or another whether he came. In fact, she probably wouldn’t want him to come.
The idea that she might not want him there rankled him, even as he admitted she had every right to feel that way. Aimee had been right to kick him out of her life, Peter told himself as he headed for the bathroom. He turned on the water and stepped under the punishing-hot spray.
Aimee deserved better than him. She deserved a man who loved her—not a man who wasn’t even capable of the emotion. That he was incapable of the sentiment, he had no doubt. It was probably one of the few things that he and Leslie had agreed upon. That, and his ex-wife’s desire for him to make her a star.
Strange, but it was on these very same things that he and Aimee had never agreed.
As the water pummeled his skin and washed away the weariness of the transatlantic flight, he reminded himself of all the reasons he should stay away from Aimee.
But even as he told himself that he shouldn’t go to the exhibit, that he would be an unwelcome guest, he knew he was going to go. If for no other reason than to simply see her again and discover for himself just how much she now hated him.
Twenty minutes later, when he entered the hotel and was directed to the ballroom where the exhibit was being held, Peter told himself he was a fool for coming. If he hadn’t already garnered Aimee’s hatred with his attempt to help her by purchasing her paintings, he would surely earn it now by showing up tonight. This was the night of her first professional triumph. He was the last person with whom she would want to share it. Besides, she would never believe that he truly wished her well, or that he did believe she was a talented artist.
“Can I see your invitation, sir?” the usher at the door asked.
Peter retrieved the card from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and handed it to the young man. As he entered the room, he scanned the crowd. He was impressed by the number of collectors and dealers, not to mention moneyed patrons, that Kay Sloane had managed to deliver. Several of his own clients were in attendance. Moving along the edge of the room, he searched for a glimpse of Aimee.
“Peter, I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Mrs. Armstrong, one of his wealthiest clients, said upon spotting him. “When I stopped in at Gallagher’s last week, I was told you were out of town.”
“I was. I just returned this morning.”
The older woman smiled at him, deepening the laugh lines around her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. I could use your opinion on a painting I’m thinking of purchasing. It’s a most interesting abstract by one of these new artists. Would you mind taking a look at it and telling me what you think of it as an investment?”
Peter hesitated, wondering if the painting in question was one of Aimee’s. Until now, he hadn’t given it much thought, but he suddenly realized that a word from him could make or break the career of the artist in question. For the first time, Peter experienced a measure of irritation at having such power. “Do you like it, Phoebe?” he finally asked.
Diamonds winked from the lobes of her ears as she tilted her head and looked up at him questioningly. “Why, yes, I do.”
“Then you don’t need me to look at it for you. You have an excellent eye for art. If you like it, buy it.”
“Really?” the woman asked.
“Really,” he said, before excusing himself to go in search of Aimee.
Surprised by what he had just done, Peter smiled at the radical change in his own behavior. Eight months ago, the businessman in him would never have done such a thing. He would have worked the room, checked out the exhibits and
determined the buyers’ levels of interest. After doing so, he would have signed the most promising artists before the party was over. And then he would have encouraged the Phoebe Armstrongs to purchase the paintings through him.
But that had been before Aimee came into his life. Before she taught him to look at a painting and appreciate it with his heart and not with a calculator in his hand.
It had been before she shared her laughter and her love of life with him. It had been before she walked out of his life and took all the laughter in it, and the only real love he had ever known, along with her.
“Champagne?” a waitress asked, holding a tray of crystal flutes filled with the golden liquid.
“No thanks.” Peter moved toward the center of the room, searching for a glimpse of familiar dark hair framing a pair of haunting blue eyes. He was beginning to wonder if he had arrived too late when he spotted her standing next to an abstract—an explosion of bright red and silver and blue on canvas.
She wore a dress of some sheer white lacy fabric that gently skimmed her body and fell loosely about her thighs. Jagged strips of silver that resembled small lightning bolts dangled from her ears and flashed through the strands of short hair scattered about her ears. In this sea of designer cocktail dresses and tuxedos, Aimee’s simple attire stood out like a precious stone among fakes. She smiled and her ghost-blue eyes gleamed like rare gems as Liza hugged her, then kissed her cheek, evidently offering congratulations. Peter frowned as Jacques came forward and kissed both of Aimee’s cheeks. And when he lifted her up and hugged her, Peter caught sight of the Sold tag on the painting.
She’d done it, Peter thought, just as she had always wanted to do…just as he had wanted and at the same time feared she would do. Realization struck him with the force of a body blow. All these months, he had kidded himself. He had told himself it was Aimee’s building that he wanted, when all he really wanted was Aimee herself.
As he watched Aimee bask in the praise of her friends, Peter realized that what he had feared was not her success, but her leaving him once she had become successful.
She was on her way to becoming a star—a star with no room in her life for him. He had lost her, Peter admitted, feeling as though something inside him had died. Deep down, he had always known she could be a part of his life only temporarily. Perhaps that was why he had refused to admit even to himself the extent of her talent. Perhaps that was why he had been unable to tell her that he hadn’t bought her paintings from Sterling’s to help her, but because the businessman in him knew they would be worth a great deal more someday. But primarily he had bought them because he wanted to hold on to her. In the end, he had lost her anyway.
Coming tonight had been a mistake, Peter decided, unable to banish the inexplicable ache in his chest. He had to get out of here. Now. Before he made a fool of himself and begged her to give him another chance.
He had never begged anyone for anything in his life. Not his parents. Not Leslie. He wasn’t about to start now. He watched as Aimee shook hands with Kay Sloane and a man and woman. She positively glowed.
He had to forget about her, Peter told himself. Confused, the ache in his chest growing more painful by the second, he started to turn away.
He isn’t going to come,
Aimee told herself as she forced her gaze away from the doorway and shook hands with the couple who had purchased one of her paintings. Her jaws ached from all the smiling she had had to do this evening. This should be the happiest night of her life, and yet all she wanted to do was go home, crawl into her bed and cry.
And it was all Peter Gallagher’s fault.
“Donald and I simply fell in love with the colors,” the new owner of her painting said.
“Thank you,” Aimee murmured politely as she shifted her gaze back to the doorway. Something, perhaps the sense
that she was being watched from afar, made her cut a glance toward her left.
“And the composition…”
Her heart seemed to lurch in her chest. It was Peter. “I’m sorry. Would you please excuse me?” Not waiting for an answer, Aimee hurried toward him. “Peter! Peter, wait!”
Peter spun around at the sound of her voice. His deep blue eyes lit up momentarily. Was it joy she had glimpsed in their depths? If only she was better at reading him, Aimee told herself. If only he wasn’t so good at hiding what he was feeling.
When she finally reached him, it took everything in her not to throw herself into his arms. She searched his face for some inkling of what he was feeling. “Did you just get here?”
“A few minutes ago. I was just about to leave.”
The words were like a slap. “You were going to leave without even speaking to me? Without at least wishing me good luck?”
“Doesn’t look like you need any luck.” He took her hands in his and brought them to his lips. He kissed her fingers. Still holding her hands, he whispered, “Congratulations, Aimee.”
“Thanks,” she said, her heart beating wildly. “I hoped you would come tonight, Peter. I told myself if you did, it would be a sign.”
“You
sent me the invitation?” Peter asked, his surprise evident.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad that you did. But why? I wasn’t sure you would ever want to see me again.”
“Because this is the most important night of my career. Success or failure, I wanted to share it with you.” In truth, she had been searching for sight of him all evening, and until she saw him, the success she had prayed for for so long had held little joy for her—without Peter to share it.