Surrender

by Metsy Hingle

  “But look at the eyes,” she told him, frustrated that her fingers failed to create the image in her mind’s eye.

  “What is it I am supposed to see? They are the same eyes that are in the photograph.”

  “I know. But they’re wrong—even in the picture,” Aimee said, dismissing the framed photograph with the wave of her hand. She hadn’t needed the photo of Peter to paint him. She knew his face. She knew each and every line etching the corners of his eyes from those rare moments when he laughed. She knew the slash of dark brows that made him look so fierce when he scowled. She knew the curve of his mouth that could move over her so hungrily and bring her indescribable pleasures when they made love. She knew his face, and while she might have captured the image, she had failed to capture the man.

  It was the eyes. They were wrong. They held none of the compassion that was so much a part of Peter and that he tried so hard to conceal. The eyes that she had painted held none of the caring that made a man like him spend hundreds of dollars to frame a child’s painting and then hang it next to a priceless work of art.

  “What is wrong with the eyes? Even I, master that I am, could not have done a better job of matching the color and the shape.”

  “But they’re not Peter’s eyes. They look too…too cold. Too distant. Peter’s eyes are warmer, more gentle.”

  Jacques chuckled. “Ah, mon amie, I do not think most people would describe Peter Gallagher as a warm, gentle man.”

  “But he is.”

  Jacques shrugged. “Perhaps. But I am afraid you see him in a way others do not. Of course, it is because you are in love with the man. And that is the problem.”

  “Why is it a problem?”

  “Because it is never easy for an artist to capture the object of their passion on canvas.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If anything, I should be inspired.” And she had been. That was the reason she had decided to paint him in the first place.

  “Inspired, yes. And often the results are magnificent. But the process itself can be quite frustrating.” Jacques laughed again, and the sound was hearty, rich. “Just look at the portrait yourself, if you do not believe me. You see your Peter as a warm, gentle man, and you feel you have failed to capture that onto the canvas. No?”

  Aimee looked at the painting. While she conceded that it was technically correct, it failed to satisfy her. “Yes.”

  “And while I, your teacher, tell you the work is excellent, you do not believe me. You feel you have failed.”

  “Yes,” Aimee admitted.

  “It is because you feel you cannot do justice to the original. You feel you cannot capture with the paint this wonderful person that you love.”

  It was exactly how she felt. “So, you’re saying I should just forget about doing a portrait of Peter?”

  “No. I am saying you must not paint him as you see him with your eyes, but paint him as you see him here.” He brought his hand to his chest, patting the area over his heart.

  Aimee looked from Jacques to the portrait. The color she had used to achieve the blue of his eyes, while correct, was too cool. She needed a touch of yellow to give the color more warmth. She turned back to Jacques. “Thank you,” she whispered. Already her fingers were itching to pick up her brush, anxious to return to work.

  Jacques smiled at her then. The gesture was filled with warmth, with friendship, with understanding. As though sensing her eagerness, he picked up her brush and handed it to her. “I see the muse has struck once again. Paint your Peter, Aimee. Not the one in the photograph, but the one you see in your heart.”

  Aimee took the brush from him. After mixing the colors, she dipped the tip of her brush into the oil and began to paint again. But this time, when she moved her brush along the canvas, she didn’t hold back. Each stroke was a caress, guided by the image of the man that she saw with her heart. She painted the Peter she saw, the man with so much love locked inside him, the love that somehow, in some way, she would find a way to set free.

  Her fingers moved carefully, deftly, across the canvas, and it wasn’t until she sensed Jacques standing behind her once more that Aimee looked up from the portrait.

  “Ah, your Peter is a lucky man. This is excellent work, Aimee. Excellent,” Jacques murmured.

  Aimee tilted her head to one side and surveyed her work. Her heart swelled with pride at what she had created. “It is good, isn’t it?”

  “It is more than good.”

  Aimee warmed at the praise. She arched her back, realizing her shoulders were stiff, her fingers tired. She had been working far longer than she had imagined. But time was irrelevant in light of what she had accomplished. The eyes that looked back at her now were Peter’s eyes, warm and gentle, not those of a cool stranger.

  Jacques was right. The painting was more than good, she admitted, surveying her work. It was the best thing she had ever done.

  “There is only one thing you have missed,” Jacques told her.

  “What?”

  He picked up one of her brushes, dabbed it into black paint and offered it to her.

  Puzzled, Aimee took the proffered brush.

  “The artist’s signature.”

  Smiling, she formed the large A of her name, then spelled the remainder in small letters. When she would have signed her last name, Jacques stopped her.

  “No,” he said, stilling her movements. “You Americans. You have no sense of drama…no feel for capturing the moment. You are going to be a great artist someday, mon amie. Your work will require only the one name. Aimee. That should be your signature.”

  Holding her hand, Jacques guided the brush with a flourish in a zigzagging motion beneath her name. “There,” he proclaimed. “Someday that signature will be a very famous one.”

  Tipping back her head to look at Jacques, Aimee laughed.

  It was the sound of Aimee’s laughter, so light and carefree, that made the tune he had been whistling fall silent on Peter’s lips. He pushed the open door wider and stepped into her apartment. He smiled, pleased but not entirely sure why the mere sound of Aimee laughing could fill him with such a sense of warmth and contentment.

  Probably because a few weeks ago he had been afraid he had robbed all laughter from her with a few words spoken in anger and jealousy. Thank heaven, she had forgiven him. He knew without hesitation that he would have willingly parted with his prized Matisse just to hear the sound of her laughter again.

  After pushing the door closed, Peter headed for the kitchen with the bottle of champagne he had brought to celebrate. And they would be celebrating, he told himself, even as he noted the bare stove top and the cluttered table. He sniffed, then touched the oven and found it cold to the touch.

  So, she had forgotten to make the herb bread she had promised him. Who could blame her? He certainly didn’t. It was too hot for baking, anyway. And food was hardly what he had in mind for them.

  Pulling open the cabinets, he spied the ice bucket and retrieved it from its hiding spot behind some serving bowls. After placing the bottle of Moët in the container, he filled it with ice. He settled on the wineglasses for their champagne.

  Champagne. Ice. Glasses. Peter went through the mental checklist. Now all he needed was Aimee, and once she said yes, he would slip the ring on her finger—and this time it would stay there.

  A surge of adrenaline shot through him. Suddenly nervous, Peter patted the pocket of his slacks, feeling for the ring. He relaxed a little when he felt the prongs of the emerald-shaped stone.

  Lunch or no lunch, they would picnic here on the floor, feast on champagne and each other. He would bask in her excitement and appreciation over the contract he had sent. He would tell her of his plans for her exhibit and watch her expressive face glow with anticipation.

  He smiled, already anticipating the love that would shimmer in her ghost-blue eyes when he asked her to marry him. She still wouldn’t want to sign the prenuptial agreement, but somehow he would convince her.

  And then Aime
e would be his, and he would see Gallagher’s reestablished here, in this building on Royal Street, in the place where it was meant to be.

  Aimee laughed again, and Peter warmed even more to the thought of making her his wife. To hell with icing the champagne. It had been in his refrigerator before he walked over. It was cold enough. Besides, he didn’t want to wait any longer. Picking up the glasses in one hand, he scooped the bottle of champagne from the bucket and started toward Aimee’s studio.

  “Oh, Jacques, you certainly are good for my ego,” Aimee said.

  “Ego has nothing to do with it.”

  At the sound of the other man’s voice, Peter stopped, his body going cold and still as he realized who was with Aimee. With the glasses and champagne clutched tightly in his fists, he moved to the doorway of her studio.

  Peter allowed his gaze to sweep over the room, barely registering the myriad of paintings lining the space—the splashes of bright colors adorning the stark white walls and filling each corner with their vibrancy. He dismissed it all. His collector’s eye, an eye that had been unable to resist the quick assessment of most paintings within his peripheral vision, was unable to see anything now save the woman at the center of the collage.

  Aimee. His Aimee. With her ghost-blue eyes bright and shining, with her soft, sweet lips smiling, with her lushly curved body encircled by the big Frenchman’s arms as he held her hand and guided her brush across the canvas.

  Tipping back her head, Aimee laughed again. Her face glowed as the other man murmured something to her in French.

  Jealousy, fierce and ugly, churned in Peter’s gut.

  Damn the woman for making him feel this way. Damn her for making him want to hurl the Frenchman out the window…for making him want to haul her into his arms and claim her as his.

  And it was because she made him feel those things that he forced himself to stay where he was.

  A piece of ice still clinging to the champagne bottle slid down the bottle’s side and fell to the wooden floor, then shattered.

  Aimee started at the sound. “Peter,” she said, her voice echoing her surprise.

  “You did ask me to come by to have lunch. Didn’t you?” Peter asked, pleased that he managed to sound so detached while the blood pumped through his veins so fiercely.

  A look of dread filled her face. “Oh, my God. Please tell me you’re early.”

  “Actually, I’m a few minutes late. I stopped to pick up some champagne,” he said, lifting the bottle.

  Aimee groaned. “What time is it?”

  Peter tilted the empty glasses to look at his wrist. “Twelve-thirty.”

  She groaned again.

  “It seems I’m interrupting again.”

  “Don’t be silly.” A tiny frown line creased her brow as she looked at him. “As usual, I’ve lost track of time.” Disengaging herself from Jacques, she removed the painting she had been working on from the easel and propped it, face in, against a nearby wall.

  Peter felt a swift kick to the gut at the gesture. Though he had held no interest in her work until recently and had re fused her offer to view her studio in the past, suddenly he felt cheated, cut off from that which was the very essence of Aimee. He wanted to flip the painting around, to insist she share that part of herself with him.

  Instead, he walked over to the worktable in the corner. Pushing aside tubes of paint and paper, he set down the bottle of champagne. “Gaston,” he said, acknowledging the other man with a nod of his head.

  “Hello, Gallagher. You are having a celebration?” he asked, eyeing the champagne.

  Peter thought of the engagement ring in his pocket, of his plans to propose to Aimee and how he had imagined them making love in her big, soft bed once she accepted. He realized the chances of his fantasy playing out today were now slim. “As you’ve pointed out before, being with Aimee is reason enough to celebrate.”

  “Yes, it is,” Jacques said, smiling.

  “I take it you’re still giving Aimee art lessons in lieu of paying rent.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Jacques’s smile didn’t waver, and from the mocking gleam in his eyes, Peter knew the other man had recognized the gibe, if not the warning behind it. “It’s a lucrative arrangement for both of us, I think. And certainly a pleasure for me,” he said. “Aimee’s an excellent pupil.”

  “That’s not what you said a few weeks ago,” Aimee quipped, smiling. She stood and began to hurriedly cap the tubes of paint.

  With any other woman, Peter would have suspected the scenario he had walked in on was a ploy to make him jealous. But Aimee’s smile was easy, carefree, a direct opposite of the tension and envy gnawing inside him.

  “You are a gifted artist, mon amie. I want you to be the best you can be.” Jacques lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist.

  Aimee pushed him away and laughed. “Behave yourself, Jacques. And quit trying to live up to your reputation as a Frenchman.”

  Peter set down the glasses, afraid that if he didn’t he would break the stems—along with the Frenchman.

  “Ah, but I am French,” Jacques reminded her.

  “Yes, I know. And so does every other woman in the city of New Orleans—including Ms. Sloane.” After wiping her hands on a towel, Aimee walked over to Peter and brushed her lips quickly against his. “Come on, let’s see what I can do about lunch.”

  “Kay Sloane?” Peter asked as both he and Jacques allowed Aimee to usher them out of the studio into the apartment.

  “Yes. She’s hosting a special exhibit for some of Jacques’s artwork. Do you know her?” Aimee asked.

  “We’ve met at a few of the auctions in Europe.” The woman was not only beautiful but loaded, and reported to have quite an appetite for men.

  “Well, she’s certainly pulling out all the stops with this reception she’s planning for Jacques. She’s hosting a little preview party for him next week. She’s quite taken with his work.”

  And evidently quite taken with Jacques, himself, Peter surmised.

  “Speaking of Kay, I must go. I am to meet her to go over a few details for the party. Kay promises the food and wine will be magnifique and there will be many wealthy patrons of the arts there. The two of you will come. No?”

  “Of course we’ll come,” Aimee replied.

  “Good. Then I will have at least two friendly faces there. Now, I will leave you two lovebirds to your lunch. Au revoir, Gallagher,” he said as Aimee saw him to the door. After a nod to Peter, he turned to Aimee and kissed her on both cheeks. “Au revoir, mon amie. I will see you tomorrow morning, yes?”

  “Yes,” Aimee replied.

  I will see you tomorrow morning. I will see you tomorrow morning.

  The words continued to echo in Peter’s head, feeding the red haze of jealousy that had him in its grip. With his hands balled into fists, Peter squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the image of Aimee with Jacques. Jacques smiling at Aimee…kissing her cheeks…his hand guiding hers as her brush stroked the canvas…covering her fingers intimately as he would a lover’s body.

  “Peter?”

  Peter’s eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice. He stared at Aimee’s face, saw the concern etched in her expression.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied, reining in his emotions.

  “I’m sorry I forgot about lunch.”

  “It’s no big deal.” Peter walked to the door of her studio and stared into the room, breathing in the scents of linseed oil, of paint.

  “My work was going well,” Aimee continued. “I got caught up in the painting I was working on, and the time just sort of slipped away.”

  And she had forgotten about him. The realization caused an ache in his chest that Peter didn’t understand. Trying to assuage his sense of uneasiness, Peter asked, “Why don’t you let me take a look at what you’re working on? Maybe I’ll be able to use it in the exhibit.”

  “No,” Aimee said quickly. “I don’t t
hink so.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? After all, I’m the art expert, remember?”

  “I know. But this piece is private. I’m not going to sell it or put it in any exhibit. It’s just for me.”

  Peter felt as though another door, another piece of Aimee, had been closed to him. The ache in his chest deepened, fueling his anger with himself for feeling this way, and with Aimee for making him feel.

  “Quit scowling, Peter. I said I was sorry.”

  “I’m not scowling.”

  “Yes, you are.” She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I really am sorry about lunch.”

  He was angry. He was jealous. He was hurt. And he had no intention of making love to her now…not when so many emotions were surging inside him…not when his need for her went so deep.

  For the briefest of moments, he resisted her. But then she nipped his lower lip with her teeth and whispered, “Kiss me.” And his control slipped. Peter pulled Aimee to him. He tangled his fingers in her hair and claimed her with his mouth.

  When Aimee drew back, a few moments later, it was long before he was ready to let her go. “I think I’d better see about lunch,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper.

  “I’m not hungry for lunch,” he told her, tasting the sweet, soft skin of her throat. His hunger for her burned like the first swallow of fine whiskey sliding down his throat. And he craved another taste. He wanted to strip away her clothes, to lay her on the floor in the pool of sunlight spilling through the windows and join his body with hers.

  Aimee returned his kiss, inflicting her own sweet torture as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt, flicked her nails over his nipples.

  Peter groaned. The ache in his body was painful, but the ache to hear her say she loved him was even greater. Always, in the past, his needs where a woman was concerned had been rooted in physical desire. Even his relationship with Leslie had been based on little more than lust. Oh, she had wounded his pride with her affair, and nearly cleaned him out financially in the divorce settlement, but she had never touched him emotionally. Not the way Aimee did.