“Liza called because there’s a pipe leaking in my apartment.” Unable to locate her clothes, Aimee dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. “Jacques is a new tenant. He moved in two days ago, into Hank’s old apartment.”
“You never mentioned anything about a new tenant. And what’s with the phony accent?”
“It’s not phony. Jacques is from France.” She retrieved a silver earring.
Peter walked over to the edge of the bed and stood next to her crouched figure. “Would you slow down a second and tell me what it is you’re looking for?”
“My clothes.” She headed for the living room. There she spied her jeans and blouse, on the Aubusson rug, next to Peter’s shirt. Aimee looked up, seeing once again the two paintings—a Picasso and a child’s watercolor. Her heart swelled, as it had the previous evening, at the sight of the priceless work of art mounted alongside a child’s rendering of a flower. The picture had been a gift from a fatherless boy participating in the summer art program Peter had sponsored.
She had been stunned to see the painting in Peter’s elegantly furnished home. “I bought it because I liked it,” Peter had said when she questioned him. “I’m a businessman, not a sentimentalist. It’s an investment,” he had added defensively, obviously embarrassed that she considered his actions kind. “I’ve got a good eye for art, and I think Tommy might give Picasso a run for his money some day.”
Despite his protests, the gesture had warmed her heart. It was this gentle side of Peter, that part of him that accorded a young boy’s drawing the same reverence he did a Picasso, that had made falling in love with him inevitable.
Reaching for her jeans, Aimee winced as her bare foot came down on one of the buttons she’d torn from Peter’s shirt in her haste the previous evening. She bit her lip, remembering how aggressive she’d been.
“I don’t understand what the big rush is. You’ve had leaking pipes before. Get Liza to put a pan under it for now.”
Lost in her thoughts, Aimee hadn’t heard Peter come up behind her. She looked up at him, and her heart tripped faster at the warmth in his eyes.
“Let me fix you some breakfast first, then I’ll take you home.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t have time. The pipe leaked through at least one ceiling tile that I know of, and it fell into the shop and cracked one of the display cases. That means I’ve got at least some ceiling damage, not to mention a shop full of water, and Liza said some of Simone’s feathered masks were ruined.” The panic came back to her in a rush, and Aimee immediately went into motion. She scooped up her jeans from the floor. “Heaven knows how much of the other merchandise has been damaged, and I don’t have any idea what kind of shape my apartment’s going to be in. I’ve got to get over there.”
Peter caught her by the shoulders as she reached for her blouse. “Hey, slow down a minute.”
“But I—”
Peter placed a silencing finger over her mouth. “I want you to take a deep breath.”
She did as he instructed, and her nerves settled somewhat.
“All right. Now, did Liza turn off the water?”
Aimee nodded.
“Good.” He tugged her into his arms and held her head to his chest. He stroked her hair. “I know this guy who’s a plumber. Why don’t I give him a call and have him take care of it for you? He’ll have it fixed in no time.”
Aimee pulled away from him. “Peter, I can’t afford a plumber.”
“You don’t have to.” He massaged the back of her neck with his fingers. “I’ll take care of it for you.”
“No,” Aimee said firmly. She stepped out of his arms and away from his touch. “I can’t let you do that.”
Peter frowned. “Why not?”
“You know why. Because it’s my building and my responsibility. Not yours.” Ignoring his sullen expression, Aimee started for the bedroom.
Peter followed. “Then make it my responsibility. Sell me the building. I’ve offered to buy the place from you before. The offer’s still good. Just say the word and I’ll take it off your hands.”
“I don’t
want
it taken off my hands. It’s my home,” she said, kicking her nightgown aside. Conscious of Peter’s gaze on her naked back, Aimee pulled her shirt over her head and then reached for her jeans.
“All right. Forget about the building, then. But don’t go rushing home. Not yet.” He brushed his lips against her nape and moved his body behind hers. “Stay, Aimee,” he whispered.
Aimee could feel his arousal pressed against her. Her breath quickened. She curled her fingers into the jeans she was holding. Oh, how she wanted to stay, how tempting he made it for her to forget her responsibilities and be with him. “I can’t,” she said finally, breaking free of the sensual spell of his nearness.
Peter’s mouth stilled on her neck, and Aimee was keenly aware of the loss of his warmth as he released her. “Can’t or won’t, Aimee?”
She knew he didn’t understand her not allowing him to pay for the plumber, any more than he had understood her reasons for not marrying him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure she understood them herself. All she knew was that she loved him and it was his love she wanted in return-not his money or his help fixing her building or even in launching her art career.
But Peter didn’t believe that, because he was convinced everyone wanted something, everyone had an angle. She slipped into her jeans, then turned to face him. “Can’t. I’ve got a leaking pipe to fix.”
Peter remained silent, his face a stone mask, as she located her sandals and slid them onto her feet.
He yanked open his closet door and came out with a sport shirt and slacks. Tossing the clothes on the bed, he stripped off his pajama bottoms. Except for low-rise teal briefs, he was naked. Lean and solid, muscles rippling across his chest and shoulders as he moved, he reminded her of an ancient warrior. “Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll take you home.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, averting her gaze. “It’s just a couple of blocks.”
He ignored her and pulled on his slacks. “I said I would see you home.”
“Peter, please. I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t have time. I have to go. Besides, you and I both know I can be home before the valet can even bring your car around.” Grabbing her purse from the dresser, she rushed over to him and gave him a quick kiss. “See you later?”
“Sure,” he said.
But from the look of frustration on his face, Aimee wasn’t so sure that she would.
The woman was driving him crazy, Peter admitted silently. He shut the door to Gallagher’s and headed out into the summer heat. Despite the smoldering temperature and choking humidity, he strode at a clipped pace along the battered sidewalks of the French Quarter. A trickle of perspiration dotted his brow, and he loosened the tie at his neck.
How had his life gotten so out of hand? What had started out as a simple plan had turned into something a great deal more complicated. Any way he looked at it, Aimee Lawrence was tying him up in knots.
He didn’t like it. He liked even less the fact that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her.
The sun gleamed down, hot and punishing, and Peter slowed his steps. He glanced about the nearly empty streets and grimaced. Even the tourists who had been foolish enough to visit the city in the middle of June had enough
sense to avoid the oppressive afternoon heat. Only idiots like himself were out roaming the streets in the sweltering sun.
And he did feel like an idiot, Peter acknowledged. He should be at Gallagher’s, uncrating the Matisse he had battled for so fiercely at the last auction. Instead, he was wandering through the streets of the French Quarter and thinking about Aimee.
Pausing, Peter wiped at his brow with his handkerchief and then glanced up. He frowned when he discovered he was standing in front of Aimee’s building. That in itself demonstrated just how completely she had been occupying his thoughts. He hadn’t planned to come here today. He had promised himself he was going to stay away from her until she came to her senses…until she came to him.
Only Aimee hadn’t come. She hadn’t bothered to call him either.
The frustration he had experienced that morning came back to him in a rush, along with the anger. He was still angry with her, he realized—not for leaving him when he’d asked her to stay, but for refusing his help.
It was one thing for Aimee to refuse to sell him the building. After all, he had been less than honest with her. She didn’t know that he was the unnamed buyer who had tried to purchase the place from her when she first inherited it.
She certainly hadn’t known then, and didn’t know even now, that the building had once belonged to him and he had sworn it would be his once again. Besides, he was sure she would be less than pleased to learn that the reason he had sought her out in the first place was to convince her to sell him the place. And he had no doubt that, if she ever learned that part of the reason he had asked her to marry him was to regain control of the building, she would be furious.
Still, his offers to help her with the repairs had been genuine and had had nothing to do with his interest in the building. He’d made the offers because he cared about her. He didn’t like seeing her work so hard to keep the place up. And he was getting damned tired of her throwing his offers to help back in his teeth.
Seeing his scowling reflection in the shop’s window, Peter tried to school his expression. He didn’t want to attempt to reason with Aimee while he was still angry.
But he was angry…and confused. Nothing about Aimee or his feelings for her fit in his orderly life or in his plans. And for an artist with a bohemian spirit, Aimee Lawrence was proving to be one of the most stubborn people he’d ever come up against. He didn’t understand her…and he certainly didn’t understand her refusing his offer of marriage and opting for an affair instead. It just didn’t make any sense.
Not for one minute did he believe she’d turned him down because he’d presented her with the prenuptial agreement. Everyone used the things these days. It was the smart way to do business. If he had had any sense, he would have insisted on one in his first marriage. If he had, the building would still be his and he never would have asked Aimee to marry him in the first place.
And if he had had a prenuptial agreement the first time around, he certainly wouldn’t be standing here in ninetyplus-degree heat, contemplating asking Aimee to marry him for the second time.
Because he was going to ask her again. He already knew that. In truth, he’d known it for some time. He was simply tired of waiting. He wanted to get on with his plans to expand Gallagher’s, and he needed her building to do it. There simply was no other piece of property that would do. He wanted that building, and he intended to have it.
Only somewhere along the way in the past few months, he’d discovered that he wanted Aimee, too.
The problem was, he wasn’t quite sure whether this need to bind her to him stemmed from his obsession with reclaiming the building or from his obsession with the woman herself.
Obsession.
He didn’t particularly like the word, but it aptly described the way she made him feel, the burning hunger to be with her that seemed to have become a part of him, the way
she filled his thoughts and haunted his days when he wasn’t with her.
Yes, Aimee Lawrence had become an obsession for him…an obsession he didn’t understand…an obsession that rivaled his driving need to reclaim the building that had once belonged to him. That, in itself, made her dangerous. What was even more alarming was that he had yet to get a handle on Aimee or figure out what her angle was.
Because he was sure she had an angle. Everyone did. His ex-wife, Leslie, certainly had. She’d used him as her springboard to fame in the art world, then dumped him and taken most of his assets with her when she found someone who could take her to the next stage of stardom.
So what was Aimee’s angle? It certainly hadn’t made any sense for her to turn down the sure thing marriage to him had offered by refusing to sign the prenuptial agreement.
And it made even less sense for her to turn down his offers to help with the building’s repairs. Unless she thought that, when she refused his financial assistance and his offer of marriage, he would relent and agree to launch her career as an artist.
Peter steeled himself. The face that looked back at him from the window was cold, controlled once again. He might have broken one of his rules by considering marriage again, but launching Aimee as an artist and making her into a star was something he had no intention of ever doing. Never again would he put his livelihood at risk that way. And never again would he allow any woman to use him. No, if Aimee had any plans for him to be her starmaker, she was sadly mistaken.
If Aimee made it as an artist, she was going to have to do it without his help. In the meantime, he would marry her. As his wife, she would accept his help in refurbishing the building. With a little persuasion she would agree to his opening another branch of Gallagher’s here. He would compensate her fairly for the place. And when the chemistry between them had burned itself out, as he knew it would,
he would settle with her fairly. Only this time, he intended to be the one who got the building.
Peter looked at the closed sign displayed in the shop’s window and frowned. It wouldn’t be the first time that Aimee had closed up the place on a whim. Whenever the urge to spend the day at the beach or play tourist struck her, she would shut down the shop and be off in a flash.
She was a lousy businesswoman, and everyone knew it…including her tenants. That was one of the reasons she was always short on cash. It was also the reason she had agreed to allow Liza to live in one of the building’s apartments rent-free in exchange for running the shop.
Arcing his hands around his eyes, Peter peered through the window. Although the lights were on, there was no sign of Aimee or Liza. He could see a ladder parked in the center of the room next to a display case. Water stains splattered the wall directly behind it.
Peter grimaced. Guilt pricked at him. Evidently the damage was worse than he had suspected. And, no doubt, Aimee would be trying to make the repairs herself, probably had been most of the day.