Something deep and powerful flickered in his eyes. He squeezed her fingers. “Aimee, I—”
“There you are,” Jacques said, coming to her side with Liza in tow. “Gallagher.” He acknowledged and dismissed Peter with a nod of his head.
“Gaston.”
“There is a gentleman with a gallery in New York who wishes to speak to you,” Jacques told her.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he offers Aimee a contract,” Liza added.
Aimee flushed at her friends’ blatant attempts to rub Peter’s nose in her success.
But if it bothered him, he didn’t show it. He merely smiled and looking at her, he said, “If I had been a good businessman, I would have signed Aimee up for Gallagher’s myself a long time ago.”
Liza gave him a saccharine smile. “Judging by the way things have gone tonight, I’d say you were certainly a fool to let her get away.”
Aimee sucked in her breath.
“And I’d have to agree with you. Losing Aimee was one of the worst mistakes of my life,” Peter said quietly.
“Come on, Aimee. You really do need to get back.” Liza tugged gently on her arm. When she didn’t respond, Liza gave her another tug. “Aimee?”
“I think our Aimee is where she wishes to be,” Jacques said. He took hold of Liza’s fingers, forcing her to release her hold on Aimee.
“But what about the gallery owner from New York?” Liza protested.
“I’ll suggest he meet with Aimee another time. Come along, Liza, you can bat your pretty green eyes at him on Aimee’s behalf.”
Liza scowled at Jacques. “I do not bat my eyes at men.”
“Of course you do. You’re a shameful flirt when it suits your purposes. It’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Ah, but there is much I wish to say to you,
ma chére,”
Jacques replied as he led Liza away.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into the two of them,” Aimee said. “They’ve been acting strange lately. I’m sorry for the way they treated you, Peter. I guess they’re sort of protective of me. It’s been a rough few weeks.”
“For me, too.”
Aimee swallowed, pleased by his admission. “Thanks for coming tonight.”
“I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t. I’ve had Doris book me out of town to meet new artists, go to auctions, other exhibits. Anything to keep me out of New Orleans…to keep me away from you. But as soon as I came back…as soon as I saw the invitation, I knew I had to come. I had to see you. I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
He squeezed her fingers and pulled her closer. “I know I’m being selfish. You’ve probably made plans to go out with your friends to celebrate. But I have to ask anyway. Will you—” He hesitated, as though searching for the right words. “Will you at least let me see you home?”
Aimee looked up at Peter, and her heart seemed to stop. She had never seen him look quite so sad, so unsure of himself. His vulnerability and unhappiness tore at her. She had never been very good at telling Peter no. She wasn’t any better now. “It wasn’t anything carved in stone. I’m sure Jacques and Liza will understand.” At least she hoped they would. She scanned the room for her friends, and when she didn’t see either of them, Aimee took it as another sign and, just as she had done all of her life, she listened to her heart. “The exhibit will be wrapping up in another ten minutes. Maybe they decided to go on without me.”
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
And then they were racing for the exit, ignoring the surprised expressions on people’s faces as they hurried down the escalator steps, too impatient to wait for it to descend. Laughing, their hands clasped together, they rushed out of the hotel and into the night.
Thunder boomed in the distance as they turned down the street and started toward the French Quarter. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating a street sign. Rain fell in huge drops from the sky, splattering on pavement still warm from the sun’s heat, sending up tiny swirls of steam like wisps of smoke.
Aimee threw back her head and laughed. And Peter laughed along with her. It didn’t matter that her hair was plastered to her head, that the new white dress that she had thought so pretty and had bought especially for tonight’s exhibit would probably be ruined. It didn’t even matter that the antique silver shoes with delicate ribbon straps that she had discovered in the trunk of things left to her by Aunt Tessie would be hopelessly stained from the rain splashing on her feet and ankles. She continued to run down the street, clinging to Peter’s hand and he clinging just as tightly to hers.
By the time they reached her building, Aimee was completely out of breath and wet from head to toe.
“Where’s your key?” Peter asked, his own breathing a bit ragged.
“It’s open.”
Shoving open the door, Peter ushered her inside the hallway of the building and closed the door behind them. The small, dark alcove, filled with the sound of their breathing, added to the air of intimacy that had begun with their race from the hotel. “You’re soaked to the skin,” he whispered as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
“So are you,” Aimee informed him. She laughed, the sound a haunting melody that he had heard countless times in his dreams this past month. Peter shut his eyes, realizing once more how very much he had missed her.
She pulled at his tie, and he opened his eyes in time to see it fall at his feet, a lump of wet black fabric. “I think you’re going to need a new tie and cummerbund. Maybe even a new tux.”
“I don’t care.”
Laughing, she leaned against the banister. A trace of a smile still curved her lips as she glanced up the steep, winding staircase. “You know, when I make that first million, I really am going to install an elevator in this place.”
The smile on his own lips faded as Aimee started up the steps. The wispy dress she wore clung to her bare legs, silhouetting each line, each curve, of her body. She turned to him. In the faint light of the stairwell, and with the flimsy material plastered to her skin, he could see the lean curve of her hips, the edge of her panties. His breath caught in his throat as his gaze traveled upward, to where the dark nipples of her breasts pebbled against the sheer fabric.
“Peter?”
He heard her call his name, heard the rain beating against the wooden door, the wind whistling through the cracks and crevices as the storm played out its frenzied tune.
But the storm outside was no match for the storm of emotions raging through him. At that moment, all the hunger, all the loneliness, of the past few weeks without Aimee came to him in a rush.
“Peter, is something wrong?”
He held out his hand, and when Aimee took it, he pulled her into his arms. He held her tightly, breathing in the clean scent of rain on her skin, the faint trace of roses that always seemed to be a part of her.
When she eased back and eyed him curiously, Peter captured a raindrop that was clinging to her cheek with his fingertip. He brought it to his lips. Then, unable to resist, he lowered his head and kissed her. In defiance of the storm raging outside and the one raging inside him, he kissed her gently, tenderly.
When Aimee slid her arms up to circle his neck and pressed her body next to him, Peter felt as if he had come home at last. “Ah, Aimee,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I’ve missed you so much. So very much.”
Her ghost-blue eyes filled with emotion. “I’ve missed you, too,” she whispered. Taking his face in her hands, she deepened the kiss.
After weeks of being without her, he felt like a man who had been lost in a storm and had stumbled upon a safe haven. He cupped one of her breasts. The nipple seemed to spring to life at his touch, fueling his thirst for more.
Peter could feel himself growing harder by the second, his shaft straining against his slacks as his need for her became even more painful.
Aimee pulled him to her and opened her mouth to him. Peter bit back a groan. When she pressed her femininity against his hardness, Peter realized her need was as great as his own. And he realized that what he desired more than anything this moment was to satisfy her need, to give her pleasure. He slipped his hand between them.
Aimee moaned in protest as Peter withdrew slightly and eased his hand along the curve of her hip, down her stomach, to the warm, pulsating juncture between her thighs. His mouth left hers and moved to the rain-drenched skin of her throat before closing over the wet fabric that covered her nipple. She sucked in her breath. She was still reeling from the shock of feeling the warmth and moistness of Peter’s mouth through the sheer clothing when he lifted the skirt of her dress and peeled it away from her skin. His fingers continued their quest along her leg to the inside of her thigh.
The sensations rushing through her body were delicious, but they weren’t enough. She couldn’t continue to love him, to make love with him and not have his love in return. “No, Peter,” she said, pulling herself free. She couldn’t return to the vicious cycle she had been in before. “I can’t. I don’t want this.”
Peter froze. Panic seized him at her words. She had to want him. He needed Aimee to want him. He looked at her mouth, swollen from his kisses, at her eyes, still warm with desire. “You’re lying, Aimee. You want me. Just as much as I want you. It’s the one thing we’ve always agreed on.” He pulled her back into his arms. “I want you,” he said, his voice hoarse with desire. Taking her hand, he pressed it to him. “Feel, Aimee. Feel how much I want you…how much I need you…only you.”
“It’s not enough, Peter. Wanting’s not enough for me.”
Her words sent fear clawing down his spine. He couldn’t lose her, not now, when he had just realized how much she meant to him. “You once said you loved me. This…what I feel for you is as close as I can come to love. It’s all that I have to give,” he said, his voice cracking. “I want you, Aimee. And, heaven help me, I know I’m being unfair. But I need for you to want me.”
At her silence, Peter pinned her with his gaze. “Tell me I haven’t destroyed what you once felt for me. Say it, Aimee. I need to hear you say it. Tell me you still love me.”
Her emotions were already in turmoil, and the plea in Peter’s voice was her undoing. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
He crushed her to him. And this time when he kissed her, she could taste the hunger and the need. He loved her, Aimee realized. He didn’t know it, but Peter was in love with her. The realization sent a burst of joy surging through her, fueling her own desire.
And this time when Peter slid his hand up her bare leg and inside her panties, Aimee didn’t even think of protesting. She clung to his shoulders, her body hungering for and anticipating his touch. As he stroked the sensitive nub of her femininity, Aimee gasped. “Peter,” she cried out as the first wave of pleasure flowed over her.
“Promise me you won’t ever say no to me again, Aimee. Not about this. Never about this,” he murmured.
“I promise,” she whispered as he renewed the gentle stroking that sent her climbing toward the peak again. And just as the first shudder gripped her, Peter took her mouth and swallowed her cries of pleasure while she rode out the rest of the storm.
P
eter held Aimee in his arms for long moments as the last tremors of the climax ran through her. His own body throbbed with his need for her. He still desired Aimee desperately. Yet he had found great satisfaction in giving her this pleasure.
“Ma chére,
if you will let go of me for a moment, I will get my key.” At the sound of Jacques’s voice, followed by a feminine murmur, Peter scooped Aimee up in his arms and started up the stairway.
“Peter, you can’t carry me up these stairs. They’re too steep.”
He silenced her with a kiss. Keeping one eye open, he managed to make it to the top of the stairs. He stopped in front of the door of her apartment. “Did you bother to lock this one?”
Smiling, she shook her head.
“For once, I’m glad you didn’t.”
“So am I.”
She began unbuttoning his shirt. The onyx studs hit the floor with a thud, and Peter kicked the door closed. Struggling against the fierce urge to lay her on the floor and bury himself in her sweet warmth, he whispered, “I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything. But if it’s still not enough…if you want me to go…I will.”
She touched his face. “Peter, I—”
“Wait. Let me finish. But if I stay, Aimee, it’s for keeps. I want more than an affair this time. I want you to marry me. I know there are a lot of things we need to work out, but I’m willing to try, if you are.” He searched her face for a reaction to his ultimatum. For once, her expressive face gave no hint of what she was thinking. Bracing himself, Peter asked, “What’s it going to be? Do I stay or do I leave?”
In answer, Aimee curled her arms around his neck and drew his head down to hers.
Foolish, stubborn, sweet Peter, she thought. Parting her lips, she offered him all that she had, all that she was, and took all that he gave in return. He was in love with her and he didn’t even know it.
Oh, he hadn’t given her the words, Aimee admitted, smiling, as he carried her into the bedroom. Perhaps he never would. But he had declared his love for her, just as surely as if he had shouted it from the rooftop.
His strong, sure fingers trembled as he unfastened the silver-and-pearl buttons of her dress. The garment fell in a puddle of white around her feet. “Ah, Aimee. You’re so beautiful,” he said, circling the tips of her breasts with his fingers.
The smile on her lips faded as he repeated the motion with his tongue. He planted a row of kisses down her midriff, along her waist, on her quivering stomach. He stripped away her panties, and his fingers sought out the dark curls between her legs. And when he eased opened her thighs, parted the feminine flesh and stroked her with his tongue, Aimee gasped. Curling her fingers into his shoulders, she hung on to him, afraid that her legs would fail her.
lightning flashed outside the bedroom window, and her heart thundered in echo. And when the first wave of pleasure shook her, Aimee wasn’t sure whether the crash that followed was from the fiery storm going on outside or from the one going on in her bedroom. Peter continued to taunt, to taste, to suckle, the tiny nub of her desire, until Aimee thought she would go mad. Each time he brought her to the brink, taking her higher and higher, to that precipice between pleasure and ecstasy. And when she thought she could stand it no longer, he carried her over the edge into the heat of the storm.
Aimee clung to him, her body shivering as another wave of pleasure took her. “Please, no more,” she pleaded, feeling as though she would shatter. Cupping his head, she drew him to his feet. “Make love to me, Peter. Let me make love to you.”
Rain pelted against the windows, loud slaps demanding entry. Peter ripped off his jacket and shirt in one movement. The rest of his clothes followed.
When he joined her on the bed, Aimee closed her fingers around his shaft. “Sweet heaven,” Peter muttered, sucking in his breath. He closed his eyes.
Aimee felt the shudder run through his body and delighted in the knowledge that she could affect him so strongly. As he eased his leg between her thighs, she guided him to her.
His face was so close, his mouth so near, Aimee wasn’t sure where his breath ended and hers began. She wasn’t sure if it was his heart she heard hammering, or her own.
When he thrust into her, Aimee caught her breath. He waited, giving her body a moment to adjust. Then, slowly, he began moving inside her, filling her, then withdrawing almost completely, only to enter her again, repeating the pattern of sensual torment and pleasure he had performed with his tongue.
“I can’t give you the hearts-and-flowers fairy tale you wanted, Aimee. But I swear, I’ll give you everything that’s in me, everything I can.”
“Then give me everything,” she told him, arching her body to meet him.
His eyes flashed, a heated silver that matched the lightning illuminating the night sky outside her window. The storm outside raged on, unleashing a fury that seem to echo Peter’s quickening thrusts. The storm outside exploded, and Peter lifted her hips and drove into her a final time. And as the thunder rumbled and crashed, Peter cried out her name, and Aimee followed him into the storm.
Peter opened his eyes to the sun filtering through the window and warming his cheek. He stretched. It had been the first decent night’s sleep that he had had in months. Not that he had slept very much, he thought, smiling. He and Aimee had made love long and often into the night. And each time, she had been more wonderful, more giving, than the time before. And between their rounds of lovemaking, he had slept. Peacefully. With no cursed nightmares.
Stretching out his arm, he patted the empty space where Aimee should be. There was a sense of rightness, of completeness, in awaking in Aimee’s bed. He had felt this same way last night, each time she whispered her love to him. Perhaps he was unable to give her the love she wanted. But he would keep his promise to her. He would give her all that he had to give.
His stomach grumbled. Flipping away the sheet from his naked body, Peter abandoned the bed and went in search of Aimee and food.
The sound of the shower running and an off-key show tune coming from the bathroom led him to her. For long seconds, he contemplated joining her, but when his stomach grumbled again, he headed for the kitchen instead.
After grabbing a cup of coffee, he started back toward the bedroom, but then he spotted the door to Aimee’s studio. It was open. Peter stood in the doorway and waited for the old familiar feelings of failure to strike him. It was in this room, the room he had promised his father as a studio, that his sense of failure had always been most prevalent. Perhaps
because it was this room that most represented his father’s dreams, and his own failure to see them to fruition.
The feelings never came.
Stepping inside the studio, Peter scanned the room and realized it held the same feeling of rightness that the rest of the apartment did. It was Aimee’s apartment now, just as this studio was now hers. And any feelings of failure he had once experienced here were gone, just as was his foolish desire to reclaim the building.
More relaxed, Peter prowled about the studio, suddenly curious to discover the work that she loved so passionately. He studied the paintings. She really was good, he thought, impressed by the sheer force of life that she had managed to imbue her work with. Sipping his coffee, he moved from one painting to the next. The art connoisseur and businessman in him grew excited by what he saw.
As he turned, he caught sight of a piece she had positioned in the center of the room. A drape covered the piece, but had slipped off of one end. From what he could see, it was a portrait, which surprised him. Although he knew she had done a couple of portraits in the past, most of the works in her studio were abstracts. Growing more curious, Peter set down his cup and moved over to the painting. He pulled the drape away.
His own face stared back at him. Peter swallowed. Stunned, he continued to stare at the portrait. It wasn’t the first portrait that had been done of him. He had been painted before—his father had done one of him as a child, and Leslie had given him one shortly after their wedding. But this one was different. The eyes of the man in this portrait had a warmth, a vulnerability, that he didn’t possess. His own eyes were cold, hard. Robotlike, Leslie had called them.
“Does that frown mean you don’t like it?” Aimee asked.
Peter looked up. She stood in the doorway, a thick pink towel wrapped around her body. Beads of water clung to the ends of her short dark hair. Several drops fell and slid lazily down her neck. Her face was free of makeup, and her ghostblue
eyes were wide and uncertain. To him, no woman had ever looked more beautiful.
He loved her, Peter realized. All these months he had been telling himself it was the building, it was lust, it was sex. And all the while, he had been in love with her.
Aimee bit her bottom lip. Her face was a study of uncertainty. “For heaven’s sake, Peter, say
something.
I know portraits aren’t the norm for me. I mean, I’ve only done a few. And to tell you the truth, I like the freedom of expression in abstracts.” She pulled the towel more snugly about her. “But since my lessons with Jacques have been going so well, I thought I’d give it a try. I mean, I always thought you’d make a great subject. And I—” She let out a breath. “Well, if you don’t like it, just say so.”
“It’s wonderful, Aimee.”
Her eyes lit up, and she moved over to stand beside him. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes.” Peter slid his arm around her. “Do you really see me this way?”
“What way?”
“I have no delusions about myself, Aimee. I know what most people think of me, what they say. I’m not an easy man, and I’ve never been accused of being gentle. Yet here…” He motioned to the painting. “You make me look almost kind.”
Taking his face in her hands, Aimee whispered, “You are kind, Peter Gallagher. You’re probably one of the kindest men I know.”
“If there’s any kindness in me, it’s because of you. I love you, Aimee.”
Aimee’s heart stopped, then started again.
“It’s true. I only realized it myself a little while ago.”
Unable to speak, Aimee threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. How long had she waited, prayed, to hear him say those words? “I love you,” she whispered, but when she would have kissed him again, he pulled back.
“And I love you. But there’s something I have to tell you. A confession, really. It’s about this building…”
A short time later, when he had told her about once owning the building, and his quest to reclaim it, Aimee’s heart was beating wildly, making her afraid to ask the question that had been nagging at her since he began his story. But she had to know. “Getting the building—is it the reason you asked me to marry you?”
“At first, the building was the reason I told myself I became involved with you. I wanted it, but certainly never had any intention of asking you to marry me just to get it. I’d sworn that I’d never marry anyone again. But then I found myself asking you to marry me anyway.
“Once I proposed and you accepted, I told myself that if we married, I’d pay you fairly for the building and then convert it for Gallagher’s. But then you threw my ring and the prenuptial agreement back in my face. It wasn’t long afterward that I realized it wasn’t the building I wanted, but you. Only your being an artist kept getting in the way, confusing me.”
“Why?”
“It’s crazy, because I was, in a sense, willing to use you, but I was worried you’d end up using me, instead, to further your career. That’s why I refused to even consider your work.”
“That’s what I thought you were thinking,” she told him.
“But then Edmond showed up, and then I realized I’d really screwed up big-time. I didn’t admit it for a long time, but what I was really afraid of was that you would become a success and I would lose you.”
“The way you lost Leslie?”
“Losing Leslie hurt my pride and my bank balance, not me. What I felt for her wasn’t love. Not even close.”
“She broke your heart,” Aimee reminded him.
“She wounded my pride and forced me to break a promise I’d made to my father. You on the other hand,” he said, gathering her into his arms, “you
can
break my heart.” A shadow crossed his face, and he pulled her even closer, holding her so tight Aimee thought she would break. “Tell
me you love me,” he demanded, as though he were afraid she would disappear.
Confused, Aimee didn’t understand the source of the demons that drove Peter. She only knew she wanted desperately to drive them away. “I love you, Peter,” she whispered. “I’ll always love you.”
“Show me,” he said, his voice a husky plea.
Seconds later, when he had stripped away her towel and guided her onto his hard shaft, Aimee lifted her face to the sun streaming through the windows. And as she gave him her love and her body, she told herself that somehow, some way, she would find a way to banish Peter’s demons and teach him to trust once again.
“I hate like hell the idea of leaving you for so long,” Peter told Aimee several hours later.
“Me, too.”
He bit into the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, the only food he had deemed edible in her apartment. It had been nearly thirty-six hours since he had forced himself to eat the chicken salad Doris had left in his refrigerator with a note instructing him to eat. Food had been the last thing on his mind once he and Aimee returned from the exhibit. After sleeping most of the morning away and spending the rest of it making love with Aimee, he had given little thought to his stomach.
Until now.
Peter smiled. Now, even peanut butter and jelly on wholewheat bread tasted delicious, although he had forgone the addition of the sliced bananas that Aimee had offered. Lord, but he was going to miss her. “Are you sure you can’t come with me? I could extend the trip another week or two, and we could take a real honeymoon. You’ll love Paris, Aimee. There’s so much to see, the museums—”
“Stop! You’re not playing fair,” she complained, holding up her hand in protest.
“I know,” he admitted. But it didn’t make his wish for her to accompany him any less.