by Metsy Hingle
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.
“Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll make that appointment with Mr. Edmond.” She slipped the card into the slim pocket of her skirt.
Peter blinked. “Why?”
“To discuss his gallery selling my work, of course.”
“That’s not necessary,” he told her. His expression grew grim. “I meant what I said. Gallagher’s will rep your work.”
Aimee sighed. “I know. And like I said, I appreciate your offer. Really I do. But I’ve thought over our…our conversation upstairs. And…”
Peter winced, remembering his cruel words to her earlier, wishing he could take them back. It had been his own fears that caused him to lash out at her unfairly. He regretted what he had said. He hadn’t meant to sound so cold, so unfeeling. What he regretted most was the stricken expression that had marred her face.
“You were right,” Aimee continued. “It’s better if we don’t mix business with plea
sure.”
Panic shot through Peter with the swiftness of a laser. His heart began to race. Beads of cold sweat broke out across his brow. “Forget what I said. I was wrong. There’s no reason we can’t work together. I mean it, Aimee. We—”
“You know, Gallagher, you really are a jerk,” Liza declared as she stormed over to them. “What were you trying to do? Blow Aimee’s chances?”
“Liza, please…” Aimee began, trying to intercede.
“She’s right,” Jacques added, coming up behind Liza. “This Edmond fellow was interested in Aimee’s work—even without Liza making the eyes at him.”
“I was not making eyes at anyone,” Liza insisted.
Ignoring the bickering pair, Peter focused his attention on Aimee. Frustrated, concerned, he asked, “What’s going on, Aimee? You know I don’t like playing games.”
“I’m not the one playing games,” she whispered, and started to walk away.
Peter caught her arm and turned her back to face him. “Aimee, look at me,” he said. When she didn’t respond, he tilted her chin up with his finger.
Her ghost-blue eyes remained devoid of laughter, and were even sadder now than when she had left the apartment. There was also a distance, a coolness, that hadn’t been there earlier.
The coolness sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the temperature inside the shop. He sensed that Aimee was pushing him away, closing some part of herself to him…locking him out.
And it scared the hell out of him.
Peter’s mouth grew suddenly dry as another surge of panic shot through him, leaving him cold…shaken…trapped in darkness. He felt the way he did after one of the nightmares, but this time it was worse.
“Aimee.” Instinctively he reached for her, drawing her close, needing her nearness, her warmth, to stave off the darkness and the cold that always followed the nightmares.
Aimee resisted. She shook her head, placed both her hands against his chest, keeping him at arm’s length.
Still, he didn’t release her, afraid of what would happen if he did. “Aimee, please.”
“Don’t let him sweet-talk his way out of this one,” Liza inserted. “I am not going to let you screw this up for her, Gallagher.”
Peter glared at the blonde over Aimee’s head.
“Do you want me to throw him out, mon amie?” Jacques asked.
“I wouldn’t try it, if I were you,” Peter warned, incensed with the Frenchman.
Aimee tensed. She pulled herself free from his grasp. “Liza. Jacques,” Aimee said, her voice firm. “Please, I’d like to talk to Peter alone for a few minutes.”
Liza started to protest. “But, Aimee—”
“You are sure?” Jacques asked.
Aimee nodded.
Unbidden, jealousy fired through Peter. He watched the big Frenchman’s gaze shift from Aimee to him. And the look that the other man sent Peter was a definite warning. “Come along, Liza,” Jacques said, nudging Liza’s shoulder and urging her to leave. He paused. “You have only to call out if you need me, mon amie.”
“She won’t need you,” Peter assured him through gritted teeth. Irritated by the other man’s protective instincts toward Aimee, he watched the duo leave the shop.
“All right, Peter. It’s just the two of us now. So, why don’t you explain to me what kind of game it is you’re playing?”
Exasperated, Peter shoved his hand through his hair. “I’m not playing any games. I’m going to take your work on at my gallery.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“I mean, why now? Why the sudden change of heart? A week ago, you wouldn’t even look at my work. You still haven’t looked at any of it. And yet you’re suddenly willing to represent me?”
“Yes,” Peter said, growing impatient with Aimee’s insistence that he provide her with a reasonable explanation for his actions. He couldn’t. Hell, how could he explain it to her, when he couldn’t even explain to himself why he had made the offer?
“So, why did you change your mind?”
Peter remained silent. What could he tell her? That he hadn’t wanted to rep her work because he didn’t trust her? That even though he had decided to back off on his own rule about mixing business and pleasure and take her on as a client, his reasons for doing so had nothing to do with her work? He still didn’t trust her not to use him. He was sure she would if he gave her the chance. But he wasn’t ready to let go of her. At least not yet. Not until he got the building. And not until he sated this need for her that burned so hotly in his blood.
“I’m not buying the brooding silence, Peter. You owe me an answer.”
But any answers he gave her would hurt her. And he didn’t want to hurt her…not again. He didn’t want to see pain mirrored in her eyes. Because it would cause her pain if he told her the truth. He didn’t trust her. He would never trust her, or any woman, ever again.
“Say something,” she demanded.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me why you changed your mind. Why now?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.” Her eyes searched his for answers, answers he would not give her. “Tell me the truth, Peter. An hour ago, if I had asked you to rep my paintings at your gallery, what would your answer have been?”
“Dammit, Aimee. What difference does it—”
“What would your answer have been?”
Looking into her pale blue eyes, Peter couldn’t lie to her. “No. I would have said no.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that I’m going to give you the chance you wanted. I’m going to place your work in Gallagher’s.” Her silence made him uneasy, caused the fears rumbling around inside him to resurface. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“It’s what I wanted at one time,” she said softly, sadly. “Now I’m not so sure. After all, you said yourself, I’m hardly another Leslie.”
He heard the hurt in her voice, and it tore at him, because he realized he had caused it. He felt like a bastard, and he could gladly have wrung Stephen Edmond’s neck for his insinuations. “I would never want you to be another Leslie,” he told her, pulling her close. “Never.”
His ex-wife had been beautiful, talented, and as cunning as a fox. She had used him, drained him, and then dumped him as soon as a better opportunity came along.
“Then why are you willing to represent me now, when you wouldn’t even consider it before?”
“Because I don’t want to lose you,” he admitted honestly.
She tipped her head to one side and looked up at him, her brows creasing as though she didn’t understand him.
Releasing her, Peter shoved his hands through his hair. He paced up and down before her, feeling like a restless tiger. “I want you in my life, Aimee. If it means breaking my own rule about not mixing business with pleasure to keep you there, then I’ll do it.”
Her continued silenoe unnerved him, made him edgy. Whipping around, he strode back the few feet and stopped in front of her. “Hell, if you want me to do a private showing of your paintings, then I’ll do that, too,” he offered, calling himself an idiot, ten times a fool, for doing so. He knew he would do it again if it meant restoring the laughter in her eyes that he had stolen. “You want a break? I’m giving it to you. If you want to be a star, I’ll make you one. In exchange, you’ll sign a contract granting me exclusivity on your work, and you’ll give me your promise not to shut me out of your life on a personal basis until we both agree that the affair’s over.” He took a deep breath. “Deal?”
“Oh, Peter,” she whispered. Her eyes sparkling with unshed tears, she stroked his jaw with her fingertips.
Peter shuddered beneath her touch. He pulled her to him, his mouth hovering above hers. His heart pounded an uncountable beat as his body responded to her nearness.
Desire flickered like a flame in the dep
ths of her ghost blue eyes, and Aimee parted her lips.
It was all the encouragement he needed. God help him, Peter thought as he took her mouth hungrily. He wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t let her go.
Not yet.
Not before she had agreed to sell the building to him.
And not before he had found a way to assuage this fierce hunger that only she aroused in him.
Breathless from Peter’s kisses, her head spinning, her body throbbing, Aimee turned her head away before he could claim her mouth again. “Peter,” she gasped when his tongue flicked the shell of her ear. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk. Things only get mixed up when we talk,” he murmured, kissing the edge of her jaw.
She could feel herself growing weak under his relentless assault on her senses. “Fine. Then I’ll talk,” she managed, despite the fact that his attack had moved to the sensitive spot beneath her chin, just at the base of her neck.
“I’d rather you kissed me,” he said, his voice a husky whisper.
Fighting the urge to turn her mouth to him, Aimee bit her bottom lip as his tongue traced the path where his mouth had just been. “The answer’s no. No deal.”
His attention moved back along her jawline, drawing dangerously close to her mouth.
“I can’t accept your offer,” she told him.
Peter paused, as though her words had finally penetrated.
Aimee used the opportunity to regain some control over her senses. She chanced a look at his face, watched as he struggled to free himself of the passion.
At least she never had to doubt his passion for her, Aimee told herself, seeking some consolation in that simple fact. Peter’s proposal of marriage might not have been driven by his love for her, just as his offer to represent her art had not stemmed from any appreciation he had for her work, but his passion for her was genuine. Of that much she was sure.
“Use your head, Aimee. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime. It’s a great deal more than Stephen Edmond or anyone else will offer you. I meant what I said. I’ll make you a star.”