Читать книгу Surrender - Metsy Hingle - Страница 9

The blanket of darkness surrounded him. Naked and alone, Peter Gallagher shivered in the empty vault. He could feel the cold penetrating his skin, stealing the last of his warmth, sapping the last of his strength. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been trapped in the gallery’s vault, unable to escape. But time was running out. It wouldn’t be long now, he realized. The demons had finally won. Within hours, he would be dead.

Suddenly a sliver of light pierced the blackness that engulfed him. Marshaling what little energy he had left, Peter surged toward it, breaking free of the chains and stumbling into the light.

Peter came awake instantly. Opening his eyes, relief flooded him as he took in the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. His heart thundered like a racehorse’s, and he forced himself to breathe slowly.

It had been that stupid dream again. He hadn’t been trapped in the gallery’s vault. He was home. Safe. And Aimee still lay asleep beside him. Drawing her body close to him, he drifted back to sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the first fingers of dawn streamed through the bedroom window. The alarm clock beside the bed started to beep. Peter reached out and hit the off button. Stealing a glance at the clock, he frowned at the illuminated numerals that declared the time to be 6:30. The internal clock that had served to rouse him shortly before six o’clock each morning for most of his thirty-six years had failed him once again.

Either his body’s instinct to awaken had dissipated with age and the recurring nightmare, or sharing his bed with Aimee for the past three months had altered his lifestyle.

Who was he kidding? It had nothing to do with age or the nightmare, and everything to do with Aimee. The woman had turned his once orderly life completely upside down from the first moment he set eyes on her, at that art-gallery opening six months ago.

He still wasn’t quite sure why she had captured his interest that night. With her short crop of black hair and wide ghost-blue eyes, she was not at all his usual type. Even her slender curves, nicely distributed over her five-foot-fourinch frame, were a far cry from the tall, voluptuous women who generally drew his attention. She was attractive, but by no means beautiful—except when she smiled. When that Cupid’s-bow mouth of hers spread into a grin, she lit up a room and drew everyone within her radius to her.

Including him.

Of course, discovering that she was the new owner of the building he had been trying to purchase for the past several years had seemed a stroke of luck. It was also part of the reason he had pursued her.

He wanted that building. It had belonged to him once, before his divorce. He had been forced to sell it and watch his dream gallery site be turned into apartments and a gift shop, deteriorating under the hands of its new owners. But now it was within his grasp. It had taken him nearly ten years and a lot of hard work, but he had reclaimed everything he had lost, and rebuilt Gallagher’s into one of the best art galleries in New Orleans. The only thing still missing was that building.

He had promised his father he would get the place back someday. The fact that his father had been dead more than nine years and would not be here to witness Peter’s victory didn’t matter. Maybe it was a foolish obsession. But he had made the old man a promise, and he intended to keep it. He wanted Aimee’s building, and he intended to have it—even if it meant marrying again to get it.

Only he hadn’t counted on wanting Aimee herself.

The object of his thoughts shifted in bed beside him, snuggling her bottom against him. Peter fought back a groan at the contact. He could feel himself growing hard at the intimacy. As always, the merest touch, the smell, even just the thought of Aimee, sent his hormones into overdrive.

When she turned down his offer of marriage, he had been sure he had somehow managed to dodge a bullet—especially when she had proclaimed they should have an affair instead. He had been confident at the time that an affair with her would not only get her to sell him the building, but would assuage his insatiable desire for her, as well.

He’d been dead wrong on both counts. Aimee wouldn’t even consider selling the place. And his need, his hunger, for her had intensified, not lessened. Even now, after a night of lovemaking, he wanted her again.

Unable to resist, Peter kissed the pale skin of her shoulder, bare except for the ribbon-thin strap of her nightgown. She made that sweet little noise, something between a moan and a purr, that drove him crazy. Shifting his body closer, he tasted the skin at the nape of her neck.

“Hmmm…” Aimee murmured softly. Slowly she turned into his arms, giving him access to more silken skin. Although her eyes remained closed, a smile started at the corners of her mouth and spread. “Good morning,” she whispered.

Forcing himself to move slowly, Peter slipped the strap of her nightgown down her other arm and bared her breasts. The pink, rosy nipples pebbled under his gaze, making the ache to possess her even more painful. He circled one tip with his tongue.

“Peter…” Aimee gasped.

“Morning,” he said, before moving to the other breast.

Her body arched toward him, and Peter greedily accepted the invitation. His teeth grazed her nipple, eliciting another cry of pleasure from Aimee and firing his own need to bury himself inside her.

She curled her fingers in his hair, pulling his head up toward her face. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

Peter obeyed, taking possession of her mouth.

Aimee parted her lips, and he drank from her sweet warmth, shutting out all traces of coldness that lingered from his dream, making him forget about the building and his need to possess it.

Making him forget everything but his need for her.

He cupped her face, shaped her breasts with his fingers. He stripped the nightgown from her body, wanting, needing to feel more of her warmth. “Ah, Aimee,” he whispered. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“I know,” she responded, her voice husky with desire. She tugged at the waistband of his pajamas, and Peter reveled, yet again, in the knowledge that her desire was always equal to his own. Only with Aimee had it ever been like this. There was so much heat between them…so much passion.

Tossing his bottoms next to her nightgown, which lay puddled on the floor, Peter moved between her legs. As he reached for the scrap of silk that guarded the treasure of her warmth, the telephone rang.

Aimee started.

Peter cursed silently. “Let it ring,” he muttered as he slipped his fingers beneath her panties.

She pushed his hands away. “Peter, you have to answer it.”

“No, I don’t.” He reached for her again.

Aimee scooted across the bed and out of his reach as the phone rang once more. “Maybe it’s someone calling about the gallery.”

“It isn’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

Peter gritted his teeth. “Because no one I know would call me at home about the gallery, and certainly not at this hour of the morning.” As the phone continued to shatter the morning’s silence, and his mood, Peter cursed himself for not resetting the answering machine before going to bed last night.

“What if there was a break-in?” Aimee countered.

“Then the alarm would have signaled me here-not the telephone.”

“Then it’s probably Liza.” Aimee dived across the bed toward the nightstand where the phone continued to shrill. “I gave her your number in case she needed to reach me for anything.” She retrieved the cordless phone from its cradle.

Peter promptly plucked it from her fingers. He had no intention of relinquishing Aimee to anyone this morningand especially not to that she-devil friend of hers. “Gallagher,” Peter said, knowing the word came out sounding more like a bark than a friendly greeting.

“Hello,” a booming male voice with a strong foreign accent responded from the other end. “Can I speak to Aimee, s’il vous plait?”

Peter’s body went still. “Who in the hell is this?”

There was a pause. “This is Jacques Gaston,” the other man replied, as though proud of the fact. “I am a friend of Aimee’s. Is she there?”

Peter swiveled his gaze toward Aimee. She had retrieved her nightgown from the floor and was already slipping it over her head. The silky green fabric whispered along her curves as she looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Well, Jacques,” Peter said coolly, “I’m afraid Aimee’s busy at the moment.”

Aimee frowned. She cocked her head to the side, her brow wrinkling. “Jacques? That’s Jacques?” she asked, as though surprised by the call. She held out her hand for the telephone. “It’s okay, Peter. I’ll take it.”

Peter ignored her outstretched hand and moved out of reach. “And I can’t help but wonder, Jacques, what kind of ‘friend’ would call Aimee at another man’s home at this hour of the morning.”

Peter saw the anger spark, lightning-quick, in Aimee’s pale blue eyes before she charged over to him. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Give me the phone.”

When he didn’t relinquish it, Aimee snatched the phone from his fingers. She turned her back to him, furious with him for his intimidation tactics. “Hello,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm.

“Mon amie, it is Jacques.”

“So I’ve gathered,” she said, recognizing the voice of her new tenant. “Is something wrong, Jacques?”

“No. Nothing is wrong.”

Puzzled, Aimee asked, “Was there something in particular you wanted then? I assume Liza’s the one who gave you this number.”

“Oui. Your friend Liza, she gave the number to me and asked me to call you.”

“She did, did she?” Aimee wasn’t sure who she was angrier with—Peter for speaking so harshly to Jacques, or her friend for having the man call Peter’s house and ask for her in the first place.

“I did wish to speak with you, but you were not home. I was going to call you later, but Liza said she needed to speak with you, too. But she said your gentleman friend would not give you the message if she telephoned. So I offered to call you for her.”

“I’m sure she appreciated that.”

“Of course,” Jacques agreed.

“Uh, Jacques…Would you do me a favor and put Liza on the phone, please?”

“Hello,” Liza said moments later. “From the sound of things on this end, I take it my call wasn’t exactly welcome. Tell me, did I wake the beast?”

Aimee cut a glance to Peter as he yanked his pajamas from the floor, where she’d tossed them. She hated it when Liza referred to Peter as a beast. But standing at the end of the bed in only pajama bottoms, with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his handsome face, he did look like a beast—an angry beast. “No, you didn’t. We weren’t sleeping, we.” Aimee caught herself. She could feel the flush climb her cheeks as she realized she’d almost said they had been making love. She looked down at the rumpled sheets on the bed and felt a moment of regret. Were it not for Liza’s call, they would be making love at this moment.

“Yes? You were what?”

Irritation rippled over Aimee at the amusement in her friend’s voice. “Never mind.” Turning away from the bed and Peter, Aimee walked across the room and looked out the window of the plush penthouse condo. The sun was already high in the sky, gleaming hotly on the waters of the Mississippi River. Summer in New Orleans was always a scorcher. This one was no different. But it was nothing compared to the heat and passion of her relationship with Peter—a relationship that her friend feared would cause Aimee heartbreak. Still, Liza’s concern for her didn’t excuse the other woman’s attempts to make Peter jealous. Besides, even if Liza succeeded and Peter did display occasional signs of possessiveness, it didn’t mean he loved her. And his love was what she wanted.

“This better be good, Liza. I gave you this number in case there was an emergency.”

“Would you classify a leaking pipe in one of the apartments as an emergency?”

“Considering the fact that there’ve been at least half a dozen leaking pipes in that building since I inherited it, I guess it would depend on just how bad the leak is.” Aimee sighed, some of her initial irritation giving way to concern. “So tell me. Is it really bad?” she asked, dreading playing plumber again, and hoping it was something as simple as changing a gasket. She’d really gotten that one down pat. And she certainly didn’t want to dip into her meager funds to pay a plumber’s fee.

“A small but steady stream.”

Aimee bit back a groan. “All right. Whose apartment is it this time?”

“Yours.”

“Mine?” Aimee swallowed. “But how would you know my pipe was leaking? Unless…”

“Unless it was leaking into the shop,” Liza continued, confirming Aimee’s worst fears. “It is.”

“Oh, my God! Then that means the shop’s—”

“A bit wet at the moment,” Liza finished for her.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. I shut off the water, but I’m afraid some of Simone’s feathered masks are ruined. A couple of ceiling tiles fell and cracked one of the glass cases. I thought you might want to get down here and survey the damage before you call the insurance company.”

“I don’t have insurance anymore,” Aimee advised her friend. “I canceled the policy last month.” To save money, she added silently.

“I’m sorry, Aimee.” There was no mistaking the genuine remorse in her friend’s voice. “But it really isn’t all that bad. I was just coming downstairs to get the morning paper when I heard the ceiling tile fall. And this Jacques fellow showed up, looking for you, and offered to help.” Judging from her friend’s tone, Aimee guessed her new tenant hadn’t exactly won Liza over. “Except for a little water, most of the stuff is okay. I’ll start mopping up. With any luck, we’ll probably still be able to open the shop this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Liza. I owe you one.”

“Forget it. Just kiss the beast goodbye and get your rear over here before I end up chipping my nails.”

Aimee smiled, some of her initial panic easing. “All right. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” She hit the off button and tossed the phone on the bed. “I have to go home.”

“Why?” Peter asked, following her across the room. “What did Liza want? And who in the hell is Jacques?”

“Liza called because there’s a pipe leaking in my apartment.” Unable to locate her clothes, Aimee dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. “Jacques is a new tenant. He moved in two days ago, into Hank’s old apartment.”

“You never mentioned anything about a new tenant. And what’s with the phony accent?”

“It’s not phony. Jacques is from France.” She retrieved a silver earring.

Peter walked over to the edge of the bed and stood next to her crouched figure. “Would you slow down a second and tell me what it is you’re looking for?”

“My clothes.” She headed for the living room. There she spied her jeans and blouse, on the Aubusson rug, next to Peter’s shirt. Aimee looked up, seeing once again the two paintings—a Picasso and a child’s watercolor. Her heart swelled, as it had the previous evening, at the sight of the priceless work of art mounted alongside a child’s rendering of a flower. The picture had been a gift from a fatherless boy participating in the summer art program Peter had sponsored.

She had been stunned to see the painting in Peter’s elegantly furnished home. “I bought it because I liked it,” Peter had said when she questioned him. “I’m a businessman, not a sentimentalist. It’s an investment,” he had added defensively, obviously embarrassed that she considered his actions kind. “I’ve got a good eye for art, and I think Tommy might give Picasso a run for his money some day.”

Despite his protests, the gesture had warmed her heart. It was this gentle side of Peter, that part of him that accorded a young boy’s drawing the same reverence he did a Picasso, that had made falling in love with him inevitable.

Reaching for her jeans, Aimee winced as her bare foot came down on one of the buttons she’d torn from Peter’s shirt in her haste the previous evening. She bit her lip, remembering how aggressive she’d been.

“I don’t understand what the big rush is. You’ve had leaking pipes before. Get Liza to put a pan under it for now.”

Lost in her thoughts, Aimee hadn’t heard Peter come up behind her. She looked up at him, and her heart tripped faster at the warmth in his eyes.

“Let me fix you some breakfast first, then I’ll take you home.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t have time. The pipe leaked through at least one ceiling tile that I know of, and it fell into the shop and cracked one of the display cases. That means I’ve got at least some ceiling damage, not to mention a shop full of water, and Liza said some of Simone’s feathered masks were ruined.” The panic came back to her in a rush, and Aimee immediately went into motion. She scooped up her jeans from the floor. “Heaven knows how much of the other merchandise has been damaged, and I don’t have any idea what kind of shape my apartment’s going to be in. I’ve got to get over there.”

Peter caught her by the shoulders as she reached for her blouse. “Hey, slow down a minute.”

“But I—”

Peter placed a silencing finger over her mouth. “I want you to take a deep breath.”

She did as he instructed, and her nerves settled somewhat.

“All right. Now, did Liza turn off the water?”

Aimee nodded.

“Good.” He tugged her into his arms and held her head to his chest. He stroked her hair. “I know this guy who’s a plumber. Why don’t I give him a call and have him take care of it for you? He’ll have it fixed in no time.”

Aimee pulled away from him. “Peter, I can’t afford a plumber.”

“You don’t have to.” He massaged the back of her neck with his fingers. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“No,” Aimee said firmly. She stepped out of his arms and away from his touch. “I can’t let you do that.”

Peter frowned. “Why not?”

“You know why. Because it’s my building and my responsibility. Not yours.” Ignoring his sullen expression, Aimee started for the bedroom.

Peter followed. “Then make it my responsibility. Sell me the building. I’ve offered to buy the place from you before. The offer’s still good. Just say the word and I’ll take it off your hands.”

“I don’t want it taken off my hands. It’s my home,” she said, kicking her nightgown aside. Conscious of Peter’s gaze on her naked back, Aimee pulled her shirt over her head and then reached for her jeans.

“All right. Forget about the building, then. But don’t go rushing home. Not yet.” He brushed his lips against her nape and moved his body behind hers. “Stay, Aimee,” he whispered.

Aimee could feel his arousal pressed against her. Her breath quickened. She curled her fingers into the jeans she was holding. Oh, how she wanted to stay, how tempting he made it for her to forget her responsibilities and be with him. “I can’t,” she said finally, breaking free of the sensual spell of his nearness.

Peter’s mouth stilled on her neck, and Aimee was keenly aware of the loss of his warmth as he released her. “Can’t or won’t, Aimee?”

She knew he didn’t understand her not allowing him to pay for the plumber, any more than he had understood her reasons for not marrying him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure she understood them herself. All she knew was that she loved him and it was his love she wanted in return-not his money or his help fixing her building or even in launching her art career.

But Peter didn’t believe that, because he was convinced everyone wanted something, everyone had an angle. She slipped into her jeans, then turned to face him. “Can’t. I’ve got a leaking pipe to fix.”

Peter remained silent, his face a stone mask, as she located her sandals and slid them onto her feet.

He yanked open his closet door and came out with a sport shirt and slacks. Tossing the clothes on the bed, he stripped off his pajama bottoms. Except for low-rise teal briefs, he was naked. Lean and solid, muscles rippling across his chest and shoulders as he moved, he reminded her of an ancient warrior. “Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll take you home.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, averting her gaze. “It’s just a couple of blocks.”

He ignored her and pulled on his slacks. “I said I would see you home.”

“Peter, please. I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t have time. I have to go. Besides, you and I both know I can be home before the valet can even bring your car around.” Grabbing her purse from the dresser, she rushed over to him and gave him a quick kiss. “See you later?”

“Sure,” he said.

But from the look of frustration on his face, Aimee wasn’t so sure that she would.

The woman was driving him crazy, Peter admitted silently. He shut the door to Gallagher’s and headed out into the summer heat. Despite the smoldering temperature and choking humidity, he strode at a clipped pace along the battered sidewalks of the French Quarter. A trickle of perspiration dotted his brow, and he loosened the tie at his neck.

How had his life gotten so out of hand? What had started out as a simple plan had turned into something a great deal more complicated. Any way he looked at it, Aimee Lawrence was tying him up in knots.

He didn’t like it. He liked even less the fact that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her.

The sun gleamed down, hot and punishing, and Peter slowed his steps. He glanced about the nearly empty streets and grimaced. Even the tourists who had been foolish enough to visit the city in the middle of June had enough sense to avoid the oppressive afternoon heat. Only idiots like himself were out roaming the streets in the sweltering sun.

And he did feel like an idiot, Peter acknowledged. He should be at Gallagher’s, uncrating the Matisse he had battled for so fiercely at the last auction. Instead, he was wandering through the streets of the French Quarter and thinking about Aimee.

Pausing, Peter wiped at his brow with his handkerchief and then glanced up. He frowned when he discovered he was standing in front of Aimee’s building. That in itself demonstrated just how completely she had been occupying his thoughts. He hadn’t planned to come here today. He had promised himself he was going to stay away from her until she came to her senses…until she came to him.

Only Aimee hadn’t come. She hadn’t bothered to call him either.

The frustration he had experienced that morning came back to him in a rush, along with the anger. He was still angry with her, he realized—not for leaving him when he’d asked her to stay, but for refusing his help.

It was one thing for Aimee to refuse to sell him the building. After all, he had been less than honest with her. She didn’t know that he was the unnamed buyer who had tried to purchase the place from her when she first inherited it.

She certainly hadn’t known then, and didn’t know even now, that the building had once belonged to him and he had sworn it would be his once again. Besides, he was sure she would be less than pleased to learn that the reason he had sought her out in the first place was to convince her to sell him the place. And he had no doubt that, if she ever learned that part of the reason he had asked her to marry him was to regain control of the building, she would be furious.

Still, his offers to help her with the repairs had been genuine and had had nothing to do with his interest in the building. He’d made the offers because he cared about her. He didn’t like seeing her work so hard to keep the place up. And he was getting damned tired of her throwing his offers to help back in his teeth.

Seeing his scowling reflection in the shop’s window, Peter tried to school his expression. He didn’t want to attempt to reason with Aimee while he was still angry.

But he was angry…and confused. Nothing about Aimee or his feelings for her fit in his orderly life or in his plans. And for an artist with a bohemian spirit, Aimee Lawrence was proving to be one of the most stubborn people he’d ever come up against. He didn’t understand her…and he certainly didn’t understand her refusing his offer of marriage and opting for an affair instead. It just didn’t make any sense.

Not for one minute did he believe she’d turned him down because he’d presented her with the prenuptial agreement. Everyone used the things these days. It was the smart way to do business. If he had had any sense, he would have insisted on one in his first marriage. If he had, the building would still be his and he never would have asked Aimee to marry him in the first place.

And if he had had a prenuptial agreement the first time around, he certainly wouldn’t be standing here in ninetyplus-degree heat, contemplating asking Aimee to marry him for the second time.

Because he was going to ask her again. He already knew that. In truth, he’d known it for some time. He was simply tired of waiting. He wanted to get on with his plans to expand Gallagher’s, and he needed her building to do it. There simply was no other piece of property that would do. He wanted that building, and he intended to have it.

Only somewhere along the way in the past few months, he’d discovered that he wanted Aimee, too.

The problem was, he wasn’t quite sure whether this need to bind her to him stemmed from his obsession with reclaiming the building or from his obsession with the woman herself.

Obsession.

He didn’t particularly like the word, but it aptly described the way she made him feel, the burning hunger to be with her that seemed to have become a part of him, the way she filled his thoughts and haunted his days when he wasn’t with her.

Yes, Aimee Lawrence had become an obsession for him…an obsession he didn’t understand…an obsession that rivaled his driving need to reclaim the building that had once belonged to him. That, in itself, made her dangerous. What was even more alarming was that he had yet to get a handle on Aimee or figure out what her angle was.

Because he was sure she had an angle. Everyone did. His ex-wife, Leslie, certainly had. She’d used him as her springboard to fame in the art world, then dumped him and taken most of his assets with her when she found someone who could take her to the next stage of stardom.

So what was Aimee’s angle? It certainly hadn’t made any sense for her to turn down the sure thing marriage to him had offered by refusing to sign the prenuptial agreement.

And it made even less sense for her to turn down his offers to help with the building’s repairs. Unless she thought that, when she refused his financial assistance and his offer of marriage, he would relent and agree to launch her career as an artist.

Peter steeled himself. The face that looked back at him from the window was cold, controlled once again. He might have broken one of his rules by considering marriage again, but launching Aimee as an artist and making her into a star was something he had no intention of ever doing. Never again would he put his livelihood at risk that way. And never again would he allow any woman to use him. No, if Aimee had any plans for him to be her starmaker, she was sadly mistaken.

If Aimee made it as an artist, she was going to have to do it without his help. In the meantime, he would marry her. As his wife, she would accept his help in refurbishing the building. With a little persuasion she would agree to his opening another branch of Gallagher’s here. He would compensate her fairly for the place. And when the chemistry between them had burned itself out, as he knew it would, he would settle with her fairly. Only this time, he intended to be the one who got the building.

Peter looked at the closed sign displayed in the shop’s window and frowned. It wouldn’t be the first time that Aimee had closed up the place on a whim. Whenever the urge to spend the day at the beach or play tourist struck her, she would shut down the shop and be off in a flash.

She was a lousy businesswoman, and everyone knew it…including her tenants. That was one of the reasons she was always short on cash. It was also the reason she had agreed to allow Liza to live in one of the building’s apartments rent-free in exchange for running the shop.

Arcing his hands around his eyes, Peter peered through the window. Although the lights were on, there was no sign of Aimee or Liza. He could see a ladder parked in the center of the room next to a display case. Water stains splattered the wall directly behind it.

Peter grimaced. Guilt pricked at him. Evidently the damage was worse than he had suspected. And, no doubt, Aimee would be trying to make the repairs herself, probably had been most of the day.

It was just one more reason for him to insist that Aimee marry him. Surely, as his wife, she would accept his help. He started to ring the bell, so that Aimee could release the locks on the building’s main door and allow him to enter, but decided to try the doorknob instead. It turned on the first try, giving him complete access to the building.

Swearing again at Aimee’s continued lack of caution, Peter started up the steep stairway leading to her apartment. The woman needed a keeper, he told himself. Yet another reason to insist she marry him. At least he would make sure she was safe-even if that only meant locking the doors.

He turned the corner and started down the hall to Aimee’s apartment. As usual, not only was the door to her apartment unlocked, it was open.

He stepped inside the living room, too occupied with his thoughts of Aimee to think about the memories and plans that this particular apartment held for him. He followed the haphazard trail of how-to manuals that led from the living room to the kitchen. Stooping down, he retrieved a worn red-covered volume entitled Save A Fortune—Do Your Own Plumbing Repairs. He shook his head, marveling at the strength of Aimee’s determination.

“Oh, Jacques, you’re a lifesaver.”

Peter paused at the sound of Aimee’s voice coming from the direction of her bedroom.

“Nonsense, mon amie. It was nothing.”

Peter went still at the distinctly male and decidedly French voice that responded.

“But it’s true. I really don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Anger began to simmer inside him. Anger, and some inexplicable fear of what he was about to discover. Still holding the book, Peter moved purposefully toward the bedroom. The door was open, and the bed was piled high with an assortment of towels, soaps and toiletry items.

But there was no Aimee. And no Jacques.

“Ah, mon amie, something tells me you would have managed just fine without me. But if you wish to think of me as your hero, then who am I to argue?”

Aimee laughed, and Jacques joined in.

Peter gritted his teeth. He liked the man’s laughter even less than he liked his foreign accent, he decided. Crossing the room, he came to a stop at the doorway of Aimee’s bathroom, just in time to see her raise herself up on her toes and kiss the other man on the cheek.

“Am I interrupting?” Peter asked, in a voice that was a great deal more civil than he was feeling.

Aimee jumped. “Peter! What a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.” She rushed over and brushed her mouth against his.

“Obviously.” He slipped his arm around Aimee’s waist and anchored her to his side. Given the way the other man was looking at her, it would have provided him with a great deal of pleasure to wipe the smile off the Frenchman’s face.

“Peter, this is Jacques Gaston. He’s the new tenant I told you about.” Still smiling, Aimee continued, “Jacques, this is Peter—”

“Gallagher.” Peter finished the introduction for her. With a feral smile, he extended his hand. “Aimee’s fiancé.”