“After all, Aimee’s an artist,” Liza said sweetly. “It’s something the two of you have in common.”
Aimee cut a glance to Peter. From his thunderous expression, she knew Peter had risen to Liza’s bait once again.
“Ah, but Aimee has already seen my paintings,” Jacques said smoothly.
“Has she now?” Peter asked, his mouth tightening into an angry line.
“Yes,” Jacques replied offhandedly.
Aimee nearly groaned, wishing Jacques had explained that she had seen the paintings when he moved into the building, two days before. Obviously, from the looks on both Liza’s and Peter’s faces, they had jumped to a far less innocent conclusion—one that Aimee refused to dignify with an explanation.
“But you, Liza, have not seen my work.” Evidently not the least concerned by the scowl on Peter’s face, Jacques refilled Liza’s wineglass. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Quite sure.” Liza set her glass down firmly on the countertop. The crystal clinked against the ceramic, the sound loud in the tension-filled silence. Tipping up her chin at a haughty angle, Liza turned to Aimee. “Simone asked me to let you know she’s having a problem with the door to her apartment. It’s sticking again, and she swears if she closes the thing she won’t be able to open it. She’s afraid to leave her apartment, because she’s convinced she won’t be able to get back inside.”
Aimee sighed. As much as she loved Aunt Tessie’s old building, the place really was a landlord’s nightmare and a repairman’s dream. If one had the money to pay for the repairs, that is. Unfortunately, she didn’t. Still, she knew she could never part with the place. It meant too much to her. It represented too many dreams.
“It’s probably the heat and humidity making the wood swell,” Jacques informed her.
“You think so?” Aimee asked hopefully. Surely one of her father’s manuals would have instructions on what to do to fix swollen wood, she thought. Already her thoughts were racing ahead to how to handle the repair.
“I think it is quite possible. It is not uncommon for an older structure like this one to have such a problem. It is a simple matter to fix. You remove the door, sand down its edges, and then,
voila!
The door fits once again.”
“Oh, Jacques, you’re a genius,” Aimee declared. Relief flooded through her.
“I thought you were an artist,” Liza said accusingly.
Jacques smiled slowly. “I am a man of many talents, Liza. Art is just one of them.”
The look he gave her friend could have melted ice, but Liza’s spine only seemed to grow stiffer.
“If you do not believe me, ask Aimee.”
Peter surged forward and grabbed the front of Jacques’s shirt. “And just what in the hell do you mean by that?”
“Peter!” Aimee raced over to him and tugged at his arm.
Peter ignored her. He curled his fist in the other man’s shirt. “Answer me, dammit.”
Jacques threw his head back and laughed. “Ah,
mon amie,
I think your almost-fiancé will not settle for a long engagement. He has the fever in his blood where you are concerned. And when a man gets the fever in his blood for a woman—” his gaze swept from Aimee to Liza, then back again “—he will stop at nothing until he has claimed her as his.”
Peter could feel his face flush. Shaking Aimee off his arm, he drew back his fist. “Why, you son of a—”
Aimee and Liza both screamed.
Jacques blocked the blow.
“Mon Dieu!
Get hold of yourself, Gallagher. I was talking about my talent for fixing broken pipes-not as Aimee’s lover.”
The pipe?
Peter pulled back on the second punch, almost losing his balance in the process. He released his hold on Jacques’s shirt.
The man had been talking about fixing a pipe?
Jacques rolled his eyes heavenward. “You are hottempered for an American. You must have the fiery blood of the French mixed in your veins.” He smoothed the rumpled lines of his shirt. “Do you not remember? I had just finished helping Aimee change the leaking pipe in her bathroom when you arrived.”
Peter thrust his hands through his hair.
What in the hell is the matter with me?
He had come here intent on convincing Aimee to marry him. Instead, he’d almost decked a guy for fixing her leaking pipe and managed to earn himself another dark scowl from Aimee.
“I’m so sorry, Jacques,” Aimee said. “I can’t imagine what got into Peter.”
Peter frowned. To make matters worse, Aimee was falling all over the man with apologies, and he still wanted to take a shot at the Frenchman’s arrogant chin. Fighting the urge to wipe the smile from the other man’s face, Peter jammed his fists into his pockets.
“Honestly. Peter’s not usually so…so…”
“Jealous,” Liza supplied.
“Quick-tempered,” Aimee said.
“I am not quick-tempered, and I am not jealous!” Peter glared at Aimee. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize to this egotistical Frenchman or let you apologize for me. For two cents, I’d still like to knock the guy’s lights out, and I will if he doesn’t stop leering at you.”
“For once, Peter, I agree with you. He is an egotistical Frenchman,” Liza quipped.
Peter ignored her. Enraged, he balled his hands into fists. He moved within inches of Jacques and leaned closer, making sure the Frenchman saw the anger and violence in his eyes. “In fact, if you and that little blond she-devil don’t get out of here within the next two minutes and let me talk to Aimee alone, I may do just that.”
Without waiting for a reply, Peter grabbed Aimee by the arm and marched her into the living room, where he pulled open the door to the apartment and waited.
“Come along, Liza.” Jacques took the she-devil by the arm and propelled her toward the door. “Why don’t you show me where Mademoiselle Simone’s apartment is, and I’ll take a look at that door for her?”
“Thank you, Jacques,” Aimee said softly. “Tell Simone I’ll be up to check on it later.”
Aimee closed the door behind them. Peter reached over her and turned the lock. Aimee spun around, but before she could walk away, Peter planted both of his hands firmly against the door, trapping her within the circle of his arms.
Her hands came up defensively; she splayed them against his chest. He could feel Aimee’s entire body, stiff and unyielding, against his. No doubt she was furious with him. He didn’t blame her. He deserved her anger. He had acted like a caveman, and he knew it. But he had been unable to help himself. Bracing himself, Peter waited for her to push him away.
When she didn’t, he slanted a look at her face. He had seldom seen Aimee speechless, but apparently she was now. Either that, or she decided he wasn’t even worth a tonguelashing.
She was right. He probably wasn’t. There was no excuse for his outrageous behavior. For an astute businessman known for his coolness and levelheadedness even at the most tense and competitive auctions, he had acted like the greenest of art dealers, overreacting and overbidding.
Only Aimee wasn’t some coveted piece of art. She was a flesh-and-blood woman.
His
woman. And he had been blind with jealousy when he saw her with another man.
Peter studied her face. Her cheeks had colored to a bright shade of pink. Her ghost-blue eyes were wide and filled with some unreadable emotion. The cap of dark hair on her head was tousled, as though she had just crawled from bed after a night of lovemaking—his lovemaking, Peter thought possessively.
He could feel his groin stir at the erotic images of Aimee in his bed, and he closed his eyes for a moment, battling
with the need to take her here…now. Heaven help him. He had lusted after a woman before, but no woman had ever affected him like this. This constant need, this constant want. She was like an addictive drug…one he couldn’t get enough of.
“Peter.”
He opened his eyes at the sound of his name and stared at her Cupid’s-bow mouth, bare except for a slight sheen, as though she had just licked it with her tongue. Drawing in a breath, Peter clamped down the urge to run his own tongue over those lips.
“Peter.” She whispered his name a second time, and touched his jaw, her eyes questioning.
Her gentle touch was his undoing. He covered her mouth with his own. Reining in the fierce hunger inside him, slowly Peter traced the shape of her lips, savored the feel of their softness. When she parted them and eased her arms around his neck, Peter moaned and deepened the kiss.
With her back still pressed against the door, he dropped one of the hands that had imprisoned her and cupped her breast. He filled his palm with her fullness, then circled the nipple with his thumb.
Aimee moaned and thrust her body closer. Peter shifted, the ache inside him growing painful. Cupping her buttocks with both hands, Peter lifted her, pressing his hardness into the soft warmth of her thighs.
Aimee gasped, and he took possession of her mouth again. He knew he should stop. He was dangerously close to taking her, here and now, standing up pressed against the door of her apartment. The French doors that Aimee had left unfettered by curtains also left them in full view of anyone who happened to walk out onto the balcony of the building across the street.
Sweat broke out across his brow. But this time it had nothing to do with the summer heat and everything to do with Aimee.
He should at least carry her into the bedroom, Peter told himself. Pressing himself against her, he trembled with the intensity of his desire for her. Intent on taking her to the bedroom, he released her buttocks and allowed her to slide down him, to feel his pulsing need.
But Aimee chose that moment to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. She pressed her mouth to his chest.
Any thoughts of waiting until they got to the bedroom were abandoned. He knew he would never make it that far. His throat felt dry, parched, as though he had been wandering in the desert.
Aimee was a glass of cool, welcome water, and he drank from her, soothing his unquenchable thirst. He dropped to his knees in front of her and gently he kissed the inch of pale skin exposed by the cropped T-shirt.
She curled her fingers into his shoulders, digging into the skin covered by his shirt. The bite of her nails in his flesh only fed the hunger raging inside him.
Unbuttoning the snap of her shorts, Peter stroked her skin with his tongue. He dipped lower and thrust inside the sensitive indentation of her navel.
“Peter—” she gasped his name.
Holding her hips, he continued to feast on her with his tongue. He felt the tremor go through her, and groaned. His own body trembled as Aimee, her fingers locked in his hair, urged him to his feet.
She looked at him out of pale eyes that were hot and soft and filled with passion. She pulled his shirt free, spread her fingers against his skin, then moved lower and stroked his hard length.
Peter groaned as her touch brought both pleasure and pain. Capturing her mouth again, he kissed her. Fiercely. Savagely. His heart pounded in his chest, the beat echoing the fire blazing wildly inside
him.
As Aimee reached for his belt, he heard a sharp rapping against the door, followed by a pounding.
“Aimee?” The doorknob rattled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Aimee! Why is the door locked?” The knob twisted impatiently, and then the pounding started again. “Come on, Aimee. Open up! You’ve got to get downstairs right away. There’s a guy in the shop that Jacques says is an art dealer, and he’s asking about one of your paintings!”
“A
imee, did you hear me?” Liza gave the doorknob another twist. “There’s an art dealer downstairs asking about your work. You need to get down there before that Neanderthal Jacques scares him off.” Liza pounded on the door once more. “Aimee!”
“Aren’t you going to answer her?” Peter whispered, his mouth mere inches from her ear.
Aimee shook her head. With her senses still clouded, her body throbbing, Aimee didn’t think she could speak if her life depended on it. Though Peter’s body remained pressed against hers and she could still feel his arousal, Aimee could already feel his withdrawal.
“I know you’re in there, Aimee Lawrence, and I am not going to allow you to throw away this opportunity.”
Peter took a deep breath. The action expanded his chest, pushing the hard expanse of muscles against her breasts. Aimee bit back a moan as she felt herself respond to him.
“You’ve got five minutes. If you’re not downstairs by then, I’m coming back with my key. And so help me, beast
or no beast, I’ll drag you out of there. I mean it, Aimee,” Liza threatened. She gave the doorknob another shake. “I refuse to let you blow what could be your big break for some scheming opportunist who can’t see past the bulge in his pants.”
Cursing, Peter jerked away from Aimee as though he’d been slapped.
Her pulse still pounding furiously, Aimee barely registered Liza’s retreating footsteps or her threat to return with a key. But there was no mistaking the insult-or Peter’s reaction to it.
Following Peter’s lead, Aimee took a deep, measured breath of her own. She leaned against the door, her senses still reeling, her body weak with desire brought to a fever pitch, only to be left hanging. Silently she damned her friend’s timing and her acid tongue.
She eyed Peter as he straightened his shirt and rebuckled his belt, both envying and resenting him for his ability to reassert control over his senses so easily.
She, unfortunately, didn’t possess such recuperative abilities—especially not where Peter was concerned. Nor was she as adept as he was at shutting off her feelings.
And that was the problem, Aimee admitted, frowning. Her emotions were involved. Her affair with Peter wasn’t based on simple lust. She was in love with him. That was why her response to him was always so powerful, so all-consuming. It wasn’t simply her body that responded to his touch, but her heart, as well.
Surely Peter felt something for her, something that went beyond the physical chemistry they shared. She refused to believe that he could hold her, touch her, make love to her, as he did without some part of his heart being involved.
At least that was what she had told herself. She had also told the same thing to Liza when the other woman questioned her wisdom in engaging in an affair with Peter.
True, he was a bit jaded when it came to love. But it was the failure of his first marriage that caused him to be so skeptical. The scars evidently ran very deep. He was scared,
even cynical, where marriage was concerned, and perhaps even a bit paranoid about divorce and its aftermath. That was why he had insisted on the prenuptial agreement. He truly believed divorce was inevitable.
She believed no such thing. That was why she had refused to sign the dumb thing—not because she gave a lick about his money, property settlements or alimony.
She didn’t. Those were
things.
They meant nothing to her. But Peter meant everything. It was him she cared about. It was him she loved. Not his gallery or his stock portfolio.
Aimee sighed. All he needed was time, and her love, to heal him. That was why she had suggested they have an affair. But, Lord, when was the man going to realize she really
did
love him? And when was he going to open his eyes and realize that his feelings for her ran deeper than lust?
And what if he never does? What if lust is all he does feel for you?
The questions sprang from somewhere buried deep inside her. From the same place that made her wonder sometimes whether she possessed any real talent, whether she deserved to call herself an artist.
Aimee gave herself a mental shake, dismissing the negative thoughts. Think positive, she told herself. She had to envision Peter falling in love with her the same way she envisioned her discovery as an artist. Both would happen, as long as she believed they would. That was the key. She had to believe Peter would fall in love with her, just as she had fallen in love with him.
She studied Peter as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. His handsome face was inscrutable, and his deep blue eyes were hooded. He seemed so cool, so remote. He certainly bore no resemblance to a man in love. A man with secrets, Liza had called him. Looking at him now, Aimee could easily believe he did have secrets-secrets he would be unwilling to share.
A flicker of doubt shimmied down her spine, making Aimee’s stomach knot. Could Liza be right? In addition to bedding her, was Peter also after something else?
No! Aimee shoved the thought aside. But as she refastened the snap of her shorts and straightened her clothes, Liza’s words came back to haunt her…
The beast definitely has the hots for you, kiddo. No question about that. The only time the guy ever comes close to losing some of that cool control of his is when he’s around you.”
“You mean when you provoke him,” Aimee had countered.
“And
stop calling him a beast.”
Liza had shrugged one elegant shoulder. “Just remember, lust isn’t love. I should know. And if I were you, I’d ask myself why he’s so anxious to get married, if he doesn’t believe it’s going to work. Men like Gallagher don’t marry a woman just to bed her. Hell, they don’t even allow themselves to fall in lust with a woman without a motive.”
Although she had argued with Liza that Peter’s marriage proposal stemmed from some deeper, nobler feelings, Aimee was beginning to wonder. While she had never questioned his passion—he had always given himself generously and skillfully as a lover, making sure of her pleasure before taking his own—she had sensed for some time that he held a piece of himself back. That even while he was buried deep inside her, following her over the edge as they both shuddered in climax, he somehow still managed to maintain a measure of control over his emotions.
A dismaying thought, she decided, especially when she considered how completely she seemed to lose her own control while in his arms.
Aimee watched as Peter smoothed back his hair. Judging from his shuttered expression, she would be hard-pressed to say that Peter even felt lust for her at the moment, let alone love. He certainly didn’t look like a man who had been so overcome by his passion for her a few moments ago that he was on the verge of making love to her standing up and pressed against the door of her apartment.
Heat, sweet and warm, wrapped itself around her as Aimee recalled the fierce need she’d tasted in his kiss, the savage hunger she had seen in his blue eyes.
She swallowed hard, trying to banish the sensual images from her thoughts. Her body felt taut, achy. Even the thought of Peter’s lovemaking had her body responding effortlessly, like a priceless Stradivarius in the hands of a master musician. Of course, her physical response was all tangled up with her love for him.
The problem was, she really wasn’t sure whether Peter loved her. Even more disconcerting was wondering if he ever would. For the first time since she had embarked on her madcap plan to restore Peter’s faith in love, Aimee wondered if she had made a mistake. Had she been deluding herself by thinking Peter’s feelings for her ran deeper than mere lust?
She cut another glance to Peter’s face. The mouth that had given and taken so greedily only moments before was drawn into a frown. The line of his jaw was rigid, and his eyes were cool.
Recalling the fire in his eyes when he had attempted to punch Jacques over the other man’s innocent, though misconstrued, comment, Aimee could have sworn some deeper emotion had been at work. Maybe not love—at least not yet—but surely something close to it.
What else would explain that so un-Peter-like response? A smile tugged at her lips. Even Liza had been taken aback by Peter’s reaction to Jacques. The knot in Aimee’s stomach unfurled. Some of the tension eased from her body as her spirits and hopes lifted.
Peter looked at her then, his eyes narrowing. “Something funny?” he asked, his gravelly voice breaking the silence. His brow furrowed. It was a gesture Aimee had come to recognize as something he did when he was annoyed.
She smiled more widely, foolishly pleased that she had not been the only one disappointed by the interruption. “Oh, I was just wondering what Liza would have done if she had showed up five minutes later and the door had been unlocked, the way it usually is.”
“She’d probably have grabbed the first sharp object she could lay her hands on, preferably a sword, and run me through with it.”
Aimee laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Liza would never do such a thing.”
“Don’t bet on it. The woman’s never made a secret of the fact that she doesn’t like me. I guess I should take some consolation in the fact that she doesn’t seem to like your friend Jacques, either.”
Aimee couldn’t argue with that. It was true. Liza didn’t like Peter and, evidently, she didn’t care for Jacques. In truth, Liza didn’t like most men, nor did she trust any of them. And with reason. “She just doesn’t want to see me get hurt,” Aimee said defensively.
“What makes her think I’d hurt you?”
Aimee shrugged. “She knows how I feel about you. She also knows those feelings aren’t reciprocated.”
A tortured expression crossed his face. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish I were capable of more, Aimee. But I’m not. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any other woman in my life, but I’m not capable of love. I’ve never pretended that I am. My ex-wife used to say it wasn’t a part of my genetic makeup. I guess she was right.” His voice grew gentle. “If it were possible, if I was capable of loving anyone, I would love you.”
His words cut through her like a beam of light piercing a midnight sky.
Don’t give up,
she whispered silently to herself. Peter had so much love inside him to give. She just had to keep trying to find a way to unlock the prison that held him an emotional captive.
“Please believe me. I’d never do anything to hurt you. At least not intentionally.”
“I know,” Aimee said, smiling. “That’s what I told Liza. But for some reason, she’s got this strange notion that you’re after something. I mean, that you want something from me. Something besides…” Aimee hesitated. She dropped her gaze, searching for the right word to describe their lovemaking.
“Something besides sex.”
Aimee wanted to cringe at the word, but instead she forced her gaze upward to meet his. “I mean something besides just a physical relationship.”
“Like what?”
“Who knows? Certainly not my paintings,” she said good-naturedly. “Other than my art, I don’t have much else.”
An odd expression crossed Peter’s face, but before she could define it, he turned away. He walked over to the French doors and stared out at the street below.
“Peter?”
“You’d better go on downstairs. I could do without another verbal thrashing from your friend.”
“But—”
“Go on, Aimee. You’ve been looking for a dealer to hook up with. Now’s your chance. You’ve got one waiting for you downstairs.” His voice was hard, almost cruel, with no trace of the gentleness of only moments before.
Aimee could almost feel the tension emanating from him. “I don’t need to go,” she offered.
“Of course you do.” He whipped around to face her. He looked tormented, haunted, as he did when he first awoke from one of his nightmares. “Liza might be right. This could be the big break you’ve been waiting for.”
“Then my big break can wait. If he’s a legitimate dealer and really interested in my work, he’ll wait for me or he’ll come back. I’d rather stay with you.”
“Not very smart, Aimee.” He ran his finger along the line of her jaw. “We both know you’ll never get that big break from me. And I certainly wouldn’t expect you to pass up the chance of being discovered just for a quick tumble on the sheets with me.”
Aimee gasped.
Peter knew at once that he had gone too far.
Her already pale skin had drained of color. Her ghostblue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, then sparked with a fury that turned them an eerie silver. Her fingers curled
into tight fists at her sides, and for a moment, Peter thought she was going to slap him.
For a moment, a part of him wished she would.
Feeling lower than the belly of a snake, he started to touch her. “Aimee, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
She slapped his hand away. “Save your apologies. I don’t need them and I don’t want them.” She glared at him, her pale eyes glittering with anger. And pain.
Peter dropped his hand.
Shoving past him, she headed for the bedroom.
He had felt rotten deceiving her. He had seen the empathy in her eyes when he told her of his inability to offer her love. He had almost confessed the truth to her then. Hell, she’d made him wish he was capable of love. And that had made him angry.
Peter could hear the sounds from the other room. The water running in a basin, drawers opening and closing, a closet door sliding shut.
Stuffing his hands into his pants pockets, he paced the room and silently called himself all the names Aimee would never call him, simply because she was a southern woman and too much of a lady.
He deserved every one of them, and a whole lot more, for hurting her.
He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He had lashed out at her because he was angry with himself—not just because he was a lying rat, but also because he was a lying rat and she trusted him. The mention of her paintings as her only asset of interest to him had been like kerosene poured on an open flame, and had brought as volatile a reaction.
The world had suddenly turned red for him. An ugly red. Reminding him of Leslie. Her ambition. Her lies. Her ultimate betrayal. The two worlds had converged for a moment, and Aimee had been the artist desperate to be discovered. It had been Aimee seducing him, persuading him to promote her career. It had been Aimee’s lips whispering lies of love while she betrayed him with another man.