He’d hated her in that moment—for being an artist and hoping to be discovered—and he’d hated himself because he didn’t want her to be either. What he had hated most was the fear and panic that tore through him at the realization that her discovery would probably mean the end of their relationship.
He hadn’t wanted things to be over between them. Not yet. He had told himself it was because of the building. He was no closer to getting Aimee to sell it to him now than he had been six months ago. For one insane moment, he had been tempted to offer to launch Aimee, to make her into the star she longed to be. To do for her what he had done for Leslie.
It was the memory of his ex-wife that had sobered him. Realizing how close he had come to making such a mistake only fueled his anger. He had learned all too well just how cold and manipulative a woman could be—especially when the woman was an artist, an artist desperate to see her work mounted on a gallery’s walls.
Aimee would be no different.
“I thought you’d be gone by now.”
Peter glanced up at the doorway where she now stood. She’d washed her face, leaving the creamy skin free of makeup, her lips bare and still slightly swollen from his kisses. Her cutoffs and T-shirt had been exchanged for a sarong-style skirt and matching top in several shades of rose. The sneakers had been replaced by a pair of metallic sandals that revealed toenails painted a soft shade of red.
His gazed traveled slowly upward, taking in the shapely legs, the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Desire, hot and primitive, began to stir inside him again. Clenching his jaw, Peter fought back the urge to go to her, to take her in his arms, to strip away her clothes and bury himself inside her…to reaffirm that she was still his.
“I have to go. Liza and Jacques are waiting for me.” She started to walk past him.
“Aimee, wait.” Peter caught her arm.
She looked at his hand encircling her wrist and then up at him. “What? And miss my big break?”
Peter flinched inwardly. He deserved that.
Aimee drew in a deep breath and then released it. Her spine was as stiff and straight as a rod of steel. He searched her face. Her pale eyes looked huge and sad. For the first time since he had known her, Aimee’s eyes were devoid of laughter.
And it was his fault.
The realization made something twist painfully inside him, and he released her.
“You were right, Peter. I have been a fool. And I’d be an even bigger one if I passed up this chance. Do me a favor?”
“Anything,” he said, and meant it. He would have done anything for Aimee in that moment—marry her, put every one of her paintings on display in his gallery, launch a fullscale campaign to make her a star. It would have all been worth it if he could put the laughter back in her eyes, the smile back on her lips.
“Close the door on your way out. But don’t lock it. I don’t have any idea what I did with my key.”
And then she was gone.
And he was alone.
He listened to the sound of her sandals tapping softly on the narrow steps as she made her way down the stairway to meet the other art dealer…leaving him alone. Without her. Without the building.
He wanted to race after her.
He remained riveted to the floor instead.
It would be selfish of him to go after her. Aimee wanted love and marriage. He could offer only the latter, and then he would be doing so only because he wanted something else she possessed…something she did not consider an asset. The building.
Of course, he would compensate her fairly for the property when the time to divorce came. His sense of justice would demand it, even if Aimee wouldn’t.
Aimee deserved someone who would really love her, not a man incapable of the most basic of emotions. He remembered seeing her with Jacques, watching the way the big Frenchman looked at her.
The memory had him gritting his teeth. Peter clenched his fists, despising the thought of Aimee—his Aimee—with any man but him.
Yes, it
would
be selfish of him to go after her.
But then, he reminded himself as he started toward the stairs, he had always been a selfish bastard.
“H
ere she is now,” Liza announced as Aimee entered the shop. “It’s about time you got here,” her friend said in a whisper when she reached her side. From the tone of Liza’s voice, Aimee knew the other woman was none too happy that she had not responded to her summons sooner. “I thought we should open the shop and he wandered in….”
Still smiling, Liza hooked her arm through Aimee’s and ushered her toward the center of the room, where another man stood with Jacques before a series of her paintings.
The art dealer, Aimee surmised, trying to muster some enthusiasm for the man studying several of her pieces that had been displayed in the shop. Six months ago she could have done so without effort. She would have been thrilled at the prospect of a dealer showing interest in her work. Now, still stinging from Peter’s words, she had to struggle for a modicum of excitement at the prospect. While she would have liked to place the blame for her lack of interest at Peter’s feet, she knew the fault lay with her—for falling in love with Peter in the first place.
“For heaven’s sakes, Aimee, smile,” Liza commanded in a hushed whisper, nudging her gently just before they came to a stop in front of Jacques and the other gentleman.
“Miss Lawrence, I’m Stephen Edmond of Edmond’s Gallery,” the man said, extending his hand. “Your friend Miss O’Malley—”
“Now, Stephen. I thought we agreed on Liza.”
Aimee arched her brow, surprised by her friend’s behavior. In the eight months she had known Liza, never once had the other woman given the least bit of encouragement to any of the men who had come her way. Not even the most ardent or handsome of her admirers had received so much as a grin of reciprocal interest. And yet here she was, dazzling this man with her toothpaste-perfect smile.
And dazzled he was, Aimee decided. Stephen Edmond positively preened. He smoothed back a nonexistent errant strand of golden hair along his temple, with a hand that Aimee would have bet was manicured weekly. Although she wasn’t a subscriber to
GQ
and wouldn’t know a Versace from a K-Mart special, she would have bet her favorite paintbrush that Stephen Edmond’s suit had cost him a mint.
“Liza,” he continued, “has been kind enough to show me some of your work, Miss Lawrence.”
“And he thinks it’s wonderful. Don’t you, Stephen?”
“Of course it is wonderful,” Jacques proclaimed, his deep voice and accent ringing with authority. Jacques marched over to the painting she had titled
Starburst,
an explosion of gold, silver and red streaks and splatters across a canvas of black. “Any fool with eyes in his head can see Aimee’s work has much passion,” the Frenchman declared. “One day she will be a great artist.”
Aimee’s already flushed cheeks burned even hotter. What she wouldn’t give for Liza’s long, thick hair right now, instead of her own self-styled pixie cut, Aimee thought, embarrassed by her friends’ tactics. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at Stephen Edmond’s face.
“How perceptive of you, Jacques,” Liza quipped, her voice laced with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Given your ego
regarding your own work, I didn’t think you’d be able to admit Aimee’s work was better than yours.”
“Ah, but I did not say it was better,
ma chére.
And now that I am to give Aimee art lessons, I will teach her how to transfer the passion inside of her to the canvas. No doubt one day she will surpass her master.”
He shrugged, and the smile he gave Liza made him look like a rogue, Aimee thought, not sure whether she wanted to hug him or slug him, but grateful that he had at least stopped singing her praises to Stephen Edmond.
“But then, my true genius is not with the canvas and brush,” Jacques continued. “It is with the clay. I prefer to
mold
my creations with my hands,” Jacques said, gesturing with his fingers as he spoke. “Perhaps one day you will sit for me, Liza, and I will immortalize
your
beauty and fire in clay.”
Liza glared at him. Tipping up her chin, she turned to Stephen Edmond. “Of course, these are only a few of Aimee’s paintings. Some of her best work is still in her studio. Would you like to see them?”
“Liza…” Aimee chided her friend, embarrassed all over again. God, was her stuff that bad? That her friends had to practically force-feed this stranger with their praise? She cut a glance to Stephen Edmond, who was eyeing her paintings once again. If the man’s somber expression was anything to go by, it was worse than she had feared.
What she wouldn’t give for a rock to crawl under, Aimee thought. Maybe there had been more behind Peter’s re. fusal to consider her work than his stubborn stance about not wanting to mix business with pleasure. Could it be that her work simply didn’t measure up?
Recalling several pieces by Peter’s former wife that she had seen at an exhibit in New York years ago, Aimee had to admit that it probably didn’t.
The realization made her feel ill. Had she been fooling herself all these years, telling herself she had talent, dreaming that she could make it as an artist?
Another look at Stephen Edmond’s grim expression as he continued to study each painting, and she couldn’t help but think that perhaps she had.
So how could she have even hoped that Peter would take on the work of an untalented nobody, when he had once represented a star like his ex-wife?
He not only hadn’t, he probably never would, Aimee admitted. Her chest ached at the admission.
And it was just as unlikely that Peter was going to fall in love with her, a voice inside her whispered. Because not only didn’t she measure up as an artist in Peter’s eyes, she probably didn’t measure up as a woman, either.
Had she been fooling herself about Peter and his feelings for her, the same way she had been fooling herself about her art? She had told herself that it was scars from his failed marriage that had made him so wary of love. She had told herself it was his cynicism about marriage in general that had made him so insistent she sign a prenuptial agreement. Was the real reason he was so sure their marriage wouldn’t last simply that he didn’t love her and never would?
The ache in her chest grew even more painful. Perhaps that was why he had been able to equate their lovemaking with sex, Aimee decided. For him, that was all it had been. While for her…
Aimee swallowed past the lump that had lodged in her throat. She blinked hard, refusing to give in to the tears that threatened. She wasn’t sure which was more painful—the realization that Peter didn’t love her and probably never would, or letting go of her dreams of making it as an artist.
“Personally, I like Aimee’s portraits best,” Liza said.
The other woman’s voice pulled Aimee from the bruising fog of self-discovery.
“I think one of the best things she’s ever done is a piece that she gave to me,” Liza continued, smiling. “It’s a portrait of a young boy. If you’d like, I’d be happy to show it to you,” Liza offered.
She deserved a good cry, Aimee told herself. And she intended to have one, just as soon as she ended this farce. Offering
the man a smile that she was far from feeling and in no way matched the one her friend was wearing, Aimee decided to let the guy off the hook. “I’m sure Mr. Edmond’s not interested in seeing any more of my work, Liza.”
Stephen Edmond looked at her then out of shrewd brown eyes. “Actually, Miss Lawrence, I
would
be interested in seeing more of your work.” He gazed over at the paintings again, stroking his jaw as he did so. “There’s something about your style that I find quite…intriguing. I especially like the portrait you’ve done of the young woman. You’ve managed to capture her strength of spirit, while still showing her vulnerability.”
“Thank you,” Aimee murmured. His praise was a balm to her wounded confidence in her ability.
“I’d be interested in seeing whatever else you might like to show me, particularly more of your portrait work.”
Surprised, pleased, Aimee tingled from head to toe. “You would?”
“Yes. I would,” Stephen Edmond assured her, smiling. “Why don’t you come by my office with your portfolio? If your other work is as good as Liza says, perhaps we can discuss placing a few pieces with my gallery. Just give my secretary a call, and she’ll schedule an appointment.” He handed her his business card.
“I see you’re still doing your brother’s legwork.”
Aimee’s stomach tensed at the sound of Peter’s voice. She hadn’t heard him enter the shop. In fact, considering her parting comments, she would have sworn he had left right after she walked out of the apartment. So why was he still here, standing in the doorway?
The smile on Stephen Edmond’s face disappeared. His eyes narrowed to thin slits as Peter came into the shop and stood next to her. “William and I are equal partners, Gal lagher. My brother does his own legwork.”
“Sure he does.”
An angry flush reddened Stephen Edmond’s cheeks.
“I didn’t realize Edmond’s had changed their policy of requiring exclusivity rights on the works of the artists they represent,” Peter said.
“You know we haven’t,” Edmond returned, his voice hard. He leveled his gaze on Aimee. “I didn’t realize that Miss Lawrence was represented by anyone. You should have told me Gallagher’s was handling your work.”
“But it doesn’t,” Aimee advised him, confused by the undercurrents she sensed and wondering why Peter was implying otherwise. “None of my work is carried by Peter’s gallery.”
“Not at the moment,” Peter added smoothly. “But I’m considering featuring a few of Aimee’s pieces in a special exhibit.”
Surprised, Aimee swung her gaze back to Peter. What was he talking about? This was twice in one day he had led someone to believe their relationship was something more than it was. First on a personal basis, by proclaiming to Jacques that they were engaged, and now on a business level, by telling Stephen Edmond that Gallagher’s was considering an exhibit of her work. For reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom, Peter had deliberately misled both men. But why? she wondered, shooting Peter a questioning look. If he noted the questions in her eyes, he ignored them. His gaze remained fixed on Stephen Edmond.
Aimee studied the other man. A speculative gleam lit Edmond’s eyes. He glanced at Aimee’s paintings, then back to Peter. “Hoping to get lucky and discover another Leslie?”
Aimee’s breath caught at the mention of Peter’s ex-wife.
“Hardly,” Peter said.
The coldness in his voice was like a vise around Aimee’s heart, crushing her with his rejection, bringing back her earlier musings.
“As I told you, Mr. Edmond…” Aimee said, unable to look at Peter and see the rejection of her work in his eyes that she heard in his voice. She couldn’t help wondering
again if the rejection was of her as a woman, as well. “…Gallagher’s does not represent me or my work.”
Noting the other man’s doubtful expression, Aimee explained, “My relationship with Peter has nothing to do with business. It’s…it’s personal.”
“Ah,” he said, his eyes sharpening as he looked from her to Peter. “I seem to remember your relationship with Leslie started out that way, too. Didn’t it, Gallagher?”
“Aimee’s not Leslie.”
Edmond looked at Aimee again, then at her paintings. He shrugged. “No. Perhaps not.”
Aimee winced, unexpectedly stung by the words. She couldn’t help feeling that as far as Stephen Edmond was concerned, she hadn’t measured up as an artist or as a woman, compared to the talented Leslie.
Did Peter feel the same way? she wondered yet again. Had he found her lacking, as Stephen Edmond obviously had? She cut a glance to Peter’s face, dreading what she would see. The coldness that she had heard in his voice was there in his eyes, along with a simmering anger.
As though sensing her scrutiny, Peter shifted his gaze to hers. His expression softened, his eyes warmed with a tenderness and vulnerability that confused her.
“Still,” Stephen Edmond continued, scanning her paintings once more. He tapped the edge of his chin with one finger. “There is something about her work…”
“Stephen.” Liza moved beside the art dealer. “Why don’t you let me show you that painting of Aimee’s I was telling you about?”
“Maybe another time. I have to get back to the gallery.”
“Of course,” Liza murmured.
“Gallagher.” He tipped his head toward Peter. Smiling, he turned his attention to Aimee. “I’d still be interested in seeing your portfolio. If you decide not to go with Gallagher’s, give me a call.”
Aimee blinked, more than a little shocked by the unexpected offer. “Thank you,” she finally managed. “I will.”
“Of course she’ll call you,” Liza added. Moving to Edmond’s side, Liza walked him to the front of the shop, with a frowning Jacques behind them.
“Forget about him, Aimee. You don’t need Stephen Edmond, or his brother,” Peter told her. He scowled at the other man’s retreating back. “I meant what I said. I’ll put some of your paintings in Gallagher’s.”
Frustrated, confused, Aimee didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss Peter or to strangle him. His offer was genuine, and he would honor it. Of that much, she was sure. But an hour ago she couldn’t have gotten him to even look at her work. And now he was offering to place it in his gallery.
It was a moment she had dreamed of often, had wanted desperately. But now that he had offered it to her, she knew she had no choice but to refuse it. Even if she was sure Peter’s offer stemmed from his belief in the quality of her work—and it was something she wasn’t at all sure about—accepting it would cost her any hopes of ever winning his trust.
“I’ll send someone over to pick up some of your paintings this evening and have them brought to the gallery.”
Studying Peter’s closed expression, Aimee silently cursed the absent Leslie for the number she had done on him. It wasn’t fair, but Aimee was the one who was having to pay for the other woman’s sins. But she really didn’t have any other option. Because just as she knew the week wouldn’t end without the city getting at least one heavy downpour to take the edge off the summer’s heat, she knew Peter still didn’t trust her or her love for him. Accepting his offer would only reaffirm his belief that her love was linked to what he could do for her career.