Читать книгу Surrender - Metsy Hingle - Страница 10

Stunned, Aimee opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. She could feel the flush climb her cheeks at Jacques’s questioning gaze.

“I had not realized Aimee was engaged,” Jacques said, breaking the awkward silence. “Congratulations, Monsieur Gallagher. You are indeed a lucky man. And you, mon amie,” he continued, “you should have told me you were affianced.”

“I’m not,” Aimee said. As she recovered from the initial shock of Peter’s declaration, her temper started to rise. Did he think by proclaiming them to be engaged he could make her sign that stupid prenuptial agreement and marry him? If he did, he had another thought coming.

“But, I do not understand,” Jacques replied, his bewilderment evident.

He wasn’t the only one, Aimee fumed silently. She tried to pry herself free from Peter’s side, but his fingers were like talons of steel, keeping her pinned to him.

“What Aimee means is that it’s not official yet,” Peter explained.

Aimee shot a fiery glance toward Peter at the out-and-out lie. “What I mean is that we are not engaged—” She hesitated at his pained expression. Her chest tightened as she glimpsed the sadness hidden beneath his hard facade. As always, Peter’s vulnerability was her undoing. The anger drained from her as quickly as it had come. “Yet,” she found herself adding.

Peter’s fingers eased their death grip on her waist, but he didn’t release her. “You see, Aimee hasn’t actually agreed to marry me yet.” He cupped her jaw with his free hand, gently turning her so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “But I have every intention of changing her mind.”

He stroked her bare arm. It was an innocent gesture, but one that set off tiny currents of sensation in her body. It had always been like this with Peter—the electricity, the heat—right from the beginning. As she looked into his eyes, she could feel it happening again, the flush of warmth, the excitement. From the first time she looked into his blue eyes, all hungry and hot as he watched her, she had responded with an answering need. Tendrils of heat unfurled in her stomach, flowed between her thighs.

She had felt like Cinderella that first night, and Peter had been her prince. She had been powerless against her feelings for him, and had fallen in love with him almost from the start. His swift and relentless pursuit of her, followed by the proposal of marriage, had only added to the fairy-tale feeling.

Except Peter hadn’t offered her a glass slipper or a place in his art kingdom where they would live happily ever after. She would easily have forgone both those things, if he had only offered her his love.

He hadn’t. Instead, he had offered her a contract, one without promise or even hope for the future—a piece of paper that said he didn’t believe in love. That he didn’t love her.

It had hurt. It still hurt. Yet she continued to love him. And there were moments, like when he awakened from one of the bad dreams that plagued him, or like now, when she sensed the yearning in him…It was at these times that she was sure that Peter not only wanted her love, but needed it, too.

It was these moments that made her decide to continue her relationship with Peter…that gave her hope that he might fall in love with her one day…that made her bite her tongue now and give credence to the false impression he had just given Jacques.

“Shame on you, Aimee.”

Aimee pulled her thoughts back to the present at the sound of Jacques’s voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“You allowed me to boast to you about my exhibition and never told me about your own.”

“Jacques, what are you talking about?” Aimee asked, genuinely confused by the direction of the conversation.

“I mean, Peter here is the owner of Gallagher’s, no?”

“Yes.”

“Then, surely, as your almost-fiance, his gallery will be hosting an exhibit of your works.”

Peter’s fingers stilled on her arm. Pain lanced through Aimee as she felt his body stiffen beside her. Quickly she stepped away from him, feeling as though she had just taken an arrow in the heart.

“Gallagher’s doesn’t carry my work,” Aimee said evenly.

“But I don’t understand,” Jacques began. “I thought that since you and Peter were…that is, if you are soon to be married…”

“It’s all right, Jacques.” Aimee knew exactly what Jacques had thought. The same thing everyone else had thought. That if she and Peter were sleeping together, then surely he would be displaying her work.

Only Peter had made it plain from the start that he had no interest in her as an artist—only as a woman. While that in itself was exciting, it did have its drawbacks—especially when she wanted so desperately to earn her living with her art. Still, from what little she had learned of his past, that he had been married to an artist and had been badly burned by the experience, she did understand somewhat. He had sworn never to mix business with pleasure again.

Though she was disappointed, she had agreed to his terms. It had been the only way to prove to Peter that it was him she loved and that her feelings had nothing to do with what he could do for her career. Still, his rejection of her as an artist had hurt. It had made her question whether it was the idea of representing an artist with whom he was involved that he found objectionable, or whether it was the work itself. While she knew she would never be another Ida Kohlmeyer, she had hoped to find a home for her work-if for no other reason than to feel worthy of the name artist. The fact that her art had yet to capture any significant dealer’s eye only added to her sense of insecurity.

“It’s not a reflection on Aimee as an artist,” Peter explained, as though he had sensed her thoughts. “I simply make it a policy not to represent the work of any artist with whom I’m personally involved.”

“But surely, after seeing Aimee’s work, her talent-”

“Oh, my, I certainly could use something cool to drink,” Aimee proclaimed, feigning thirst in an attempt to change the subject. “What about you, Jacques? The least I can do is offer you something to drink for helping me with that pipe.” Slipping her arm through his, Aimee led him through the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen.

“Forgive me, Aimee,” Jacques whispered as they made their way to the front of the apartment. “I did not mean to open old wounds.”

Aimee looked up at the handsome Frenchman, moved by his sensitivity. She gave his arm a light squeeze. “I know.”

Why, she asked herself for the dozenth time, couldn’t she have given her heart to someone like Jacques? He was certainly more handsome than Peter. With dark blond hair that fell past his collar, and laughing brown eyes, he turned female heads wherever he went. He was kind, caring. And, as a fellow artist, he understood and shared her own passion for making art. To top it off, he had been interested in her.

But it wasn’t Jacques who made her heart race. It wasn’t Jacques who could look at her across a crowded room and make her breath catch, her body tremble with longing. It wasn’t Jacques she loved.

It was Peter.

“Chin up, little one,” Jacques murmured, breaking into her thoughts. “I’m the one who should be wearing the long face.”

“You? Why?”

The smile in his eyes spread across his lips. “Because here I finally find the woman of my dreams, only to have her turn me down because she prefers to give her heart to a beast.”

“You’ve been listening to Liza,” she said accusingly, then ruined the reprimand by chuckling.

“Laugh if you will. But perhaps I am the lucky one, after all, to escape in one piece.”

“What do you mean?”

“Judging by your Peter’s expression when he came in, I think he would have liked very much to rip my heart from my chest. He’s a hard man, your Peter.” His grin eased the impact of what he was saying. “But then, I suspect you already know that. He needs your gentleness. Whereas I, I am a man renowned for his gentle nature. Ask anyone who knows me.”

“You mean any female who knows you,” Aimee told him, her mood lightening at his teasing.

“Especially any female.”

Still laughing, Aimee entered the kitchen. Her gaze swept over the room, and she was glad once again that she had painted the old wooden cabinets white. The room looked brighter, more spacious, than before, and the colorful spice print that she’d painstakingly applied to the walls lifted her spirits. A smile still on her lips, she turned to Jacques. “Now what can I get you to drink?” Opening the refrigerator, she inventoried its contents. “I have ice tea, apple juice, lemonade…”

“Any wine?”

“Sure.” How European, Aimee mused. She retrieved the bottle that the clerk at the wine store had insisted should be stored lengthwise on the shelf. She cut a glance to Peter, who was standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed, his face unsmiling. “What about you, Peter? Would you like some wine?”

“No.”

She handed the bottle to Jacques and directed him to the drawer that held the corkscrew. She turned her attention to Peter again. “Something else, then? The lemonade’s fresh. I made it myself this morning.”

“No, thanks.”

He followed her across the room to the cabinet, and Aimee was all too aware of him standing behind her. Reaching over her head, he removed two wineglasses from the top shelf that were just out of her reach and handed them to her. When she would have taken them and turned away, he held on to the stems, forcing her to look up at him. “What I would like is to talk to you—alone.”

Aimee looked from his mouth to his eyes. She saw the demand there…and the heat. Her pulse quickened in response. She leaned toward him.

“This is an excellent wine, Aimee. Are you sure you don’t want to save it for a special occasion?”

Aimee jerked back, chastising herself for reacting as she did to Peter’s nearness. He released the glasses, and she hurried across the room with them. “This is a special occasion,” she said, forcing a smile into her voice that she was far from feeling. “Thanks to you, my pipe’s fixed and I saved a small fortune in plumber’s fees.” A small fortune she didn’t have, and was unlikely to have at any time in the future, Aimee added silently. She could only hope that she would be as lucky at repairing the ceiling tiles.

“Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” Liza asked from the doorway. She sauntered into the room, her long, sleek legs exposed to full advantage by cuffed khaki shorts. With her crisp white blouse and her long blond hair pulled back in a neat French braid, Liza looked as cool and fresh as a summer breeze.

Aimee glanced down at her own denim cutoffs and her nicely shaped, but noticeably shorter, legs. She noted the smudge of grease on her faded art T-shirt. She grimaced, all too aware of the contrast between herself and her elegant friend…and wondered, not for the first time, how Peter could possibly have chosen her over Liza the night they met.

“A beautiful woman is always welcome,” Jacques said. Taking Liza’s hand, he brought it to his lips.

“My, my, you are a smooth one,” Liza said.

“I will take that as a compliment, mademoiselle. It is mademoiselle, isn’t it? I assumed you asked for my assistance this morning because there was no Monsieur O’Malley.”

Liza shot him a look that Aimee had seen her friend use in the past to freeze men in their tracks. It didn’t work on Jacques.

“You shut the door on me so quickly this morning, I did not have an opportunity to officially introduce myself to you. Jacques Gaston. Artist extraordinaire.”

“Not only smooth, but modest, too,” Liza quipped, withdrawing her hand.

“I see no reason for false modesty,” Jacques returned. A megawatt smile spread across his handsome face. “Do you?”

Aimee bit back a laugh at the wary arch of her friend’s brow. Like most men, Jacques was obviously drawn to the other woman’s beauty. That was something Liza herself considered a flaw, since most people failed to see past the physical loveliness to the woman inside.

She cut a glance to Jacques, and grinned at his captivated expression. Whether Liza wanted it or not, she had herself another conquest. The truth was, Aimee had yet to meet a member of the male species who hadn’t succumbed to Liza’s beauty and charm.

Except Peter.

Although he had met her and Liza at the same party, Peter had never once shown any interest in her gorgeous friend. She had been the sole object of his attention.

As Liza and Jacques continued to spar, Aimee looked across the room at Peter. Leaning against the countertop, his arms folded over his chest, he appeared bored and even irritated by Liza’s appearance—not the least bit affected by her friend’s beauty. For some reason, the thought filled Aimee with pleasure, made her feel special. Surely, if Peter’s interest in her was merely physical, he would have found Liza equally appealing.

As though sensing her scrutiny, Peter shifted his gaze to Aimee. His eyes darkened to a smoky blue, reminding her of storm clouds gathering before a squall. He stared at her mouth, her throat, then dropped his gaze to her breasts. Braless, her nipples hardened against her T-shirt.

Aimee swallowed as his gaze dropped lower still. Her stomach quivered in response, and she could feel the warm tenderness gathering between her thighs.

“No thanks, Mr. Gaston,” Liza was saying. “I gave up being interested in seeing a man’s etchings…er, paintings, when I was still in high school,” she added coolly.

The ice in her friend’s voice enabled Aimee to turn away, breaking the sensuous spell Peter cast over her with one of his steamy looks.

“I promise you, mine are worth seeing,” Jacques said, seemingly unperturbed by Liza’s barb.

“Like I said, I’m not interested in seeing your paintings. But I’m sure Aimee would love to see them.”

Aimee narrowed her eyes at the triumphant note in Liza’s voice. She caught the smug smile her friend tossed Peter’s way. For the life of her, Aimee didn’t understand why Liza insisted Peter was using her, or why her friend remained furious with Peter for his refusal to marry without the prenuptial agreement. Whatever the reason, Aimee was certain that Liza’s attempts to make Peter jealous were not the answer to her dilemma. Jealousy didn’t necessarily equal love. Although she had told her friend as much on numerous occasions, it hadn’t stopped the blond beauty from trying to elicit that reaction from Peter.

“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!”