by Metsy Hingle
A shudder ran through his body—or perhaps it was hers. Aimee was no longer sure. She could feel the struggle he was waging with himself, and she pressed herself more tightly to him.
“No,” he finally managed. He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Not yet. I promised myself the next time we made love, I was going to take my time, make sure we enjoyed every moment. No phone calls. No irritating tenants. No interruptions.”
“Is that why you were such a bear at the party tonight?”
“Yes. All I could think about was having you all to myself.”
“You should have said something.”
“You were having a good time. I didn’t want to spoil things for you by leaving early.” Peter trailed kisses along the line of her jaw, to the corner of her mouth, tempting, teasing. Just when Aimee thought she would go mad from the wanting, he pulled back.
Confused, Aimee opened her eyes and stared at his face. Her heart stopped, then started again, when she saw the raw hunger burning in his eyes.
“I want to make tonight special for you…for both of us.”
Aimee pulled his teasing mouth to hers. She kissed him hungrily, urgently. Her heart swelled with her love for him as her body ached for his possession.
Peter returned her kiss, mastering her mouth and her senses with each stroke of his tongue. Slowly his mouth gentled, and he lifted his head. He looked into her eyes. “Stay with me tonight.”
“I promise you I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him. How could she, with her body and her heart a mass of so many longings that only he could fill? “I’m all yours for the next few hours.”
“No. Not for just a few hours. I want you to spend the night. Stay with me tonight, Aimee. Please.”
Something twisted inside her chest at his request. “Oh, Peter. I’d like to stay, truly I would.”
“Then stay.”
“I can’t. I have an appointment early in the morning.”
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t.”
“Another art lesson with Jacques?” Peter asked, an edge in his voice.
She knew Peter disliked Jacques, and just the mention of the Frenchman’s name seemed to irritate him, yet she refused to lie to him. There was no reason to do so. “I am meeting Jacques, but not for an art lesson. He’s…he’s helping me with something.” Aimee touched his arm. “But that still gives us the rest of this evening.” If she was home by five, she could still be ready when Jacques arrived.
“Dammit, Aimee. We’re lovers. And I want…I expect more than a couple of hours squeezed in between your art lessons and your tenants,” Peter told her, the anger in his voice unmistakable. The passion that had flared so quickly between them seemed to fizzle and die an even swifter death.
Aimee bit back her disappointment and felt her own temper begin to rise. “You make it sound like I have time for everyone and everything but you.”
“Maybe that’s because it’s how I’m beginning to feel.”
“But it’s not true. It’s just that I—” Aimee stopped. She didn’t want to tell him just how tight the money had become, how much the building’s upkeep and repairs were draining her. Nor did she want to tell him what meager sums her own art had generated. If she did, Peter’s solution would still be the same. Marry him and let him take care of herthat is, after she signed the prenuptial agreement. And it was the prenuptial agreement that galled her. Not because of what it was, but because of what its mere existence represented.
“It’s just that you what, Aimee? That maybe you’re growing fond of your pal Jacques?”
“What?”
“You heard me.” His voice was cold, and his eyes were even colder. “Is that why he followed you to the fund-raiser tonight?”
Aimee blinked, taken aback by his response. “Jacques didn’t follow me to the fund-raiser.”
“No? Then what was he doing there?”
Refusing to be intimidated, Aimee lifted her chin up a notch. “I imagine the same thing you were-making a contribution to the arts program for children and making business contacts. You know, connecting with potential buyers.” Aimee sighed. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised that Jacques was there. You said yourself that Kay Sloane is a big patron of the arts. It stands to reason she would want to introduce Jacques around and generate some interest in him before his exhibit. Maybe she was hoping to get their pictures in Nell Nolan’s column,” Aimee finished, borrowing from Peter’s own cynical assessment.
“And what about his interest in you? And don’t tell me he’s not interested, Aimee. I’m not a fool, and I’m not blind. The man may be wrestling beneath the sheets with Kay Sloane, but he’s got his eyes on you.”
“Jacques and Kay Sloane? You mean you think that Jacques…that he and Kay Sloane…that the two of them…”
“Are sleeping together,” Peter finished for her. “If they’re not, they soon will be. Kay Sloane is known to take a ‘personal’ interest in her male art discoveries.”
“What a dreadful thing to say.”
“Why? It’s true.”
If it was true, then…“Oh, my.” Aimee frowned, wondering if she had been mistaken in thinking something might be developing between Jacques and Liza.
“Then I was right,” Peter said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You are interested in the guy.”
“Don’t be absurd. How could you even think such a thing?”
“Quite easily, I’m afraid.”
She touched his jaw. “You’re wrong. How could I be interested in Jacques, when I’m in love with you?”
He eyed her warily. His uncertainty and his longing to believe her were palpable. It touched another well of emotion deep inside Aimee, making her wish she could break down the barriers that Peter had erected around his heart.
“It’s true,” she told him, smoothing her fingers along his cheek. “I love you, Peter. Only you. When are you going to believe that? When are you going to start trusting me?”
“It’s not you that I don’t trust.” He held her in the circle of his arms and searched her eyes. “Cancel the meeting with Jacques. You’re a fine artist. You don’t need him to give you any more lessons or pointers or whatever it is he does.”
“If I were meeting him for an art lesson, I would cancel. But that’s not why I’m meeting him.” She paused, trying to find the right way to tell him. “He’s…he’s helping me select some slides of my paintings that we took this afternoon. They’re for a presentation that I’m making to Kay Sloane. Jacques asked her to use some of my work in her annual exhibit for new artists next month.”
“That show is for unknown artists looking for representation. I assumed when you turned down my contract you had decided to sign with Edmond.”
Aimee knew very well what he had thought, and that she had never told him otherwise. The mere thought of the other dealer’s rejection still stung—even after nearly two days. “I did. Or at least I had planned to. But as it turned out, Edmond’s decided they didn’t want me,” Aimee admitted.
His expression grew even more fierce. “The man’s an even bigger fool than I thought he was. Stephen and his brother never did have a lick of business sense. Obviously, they still don’t.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You should have come to me, told me what had happened. You don’t need them, Aimee. And you don’t need Jacques or Kay Sloane, either. You don’t need any of them. My offer still stands. The contracts are still on my desk. Just say the word, and Gallagher’s will rep you. In fact, I’ll even sweeten the pot. Not only will Gallagher’s agree to represent your work, but I’m still willing to take the building off of your hands. You and I both know the place is a money pit. And I’m tired of watching you beat your head against the wall, wearing yourself out to keep it up. Let me help you. Let me help both of us. Sell me the place.”
“Peter, I’ve told you before, I don’t want to sell my building.”
“Fine. Don’t sell it, then. Lease it to me i
nstead.”
“Lease it?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice growing excited. “Lease it to me for Gallagher’s. I’ll be responsible for any refurbishing that needs to be done. We’ll reopen the entire bottom floor as another branch of Gallagher’s. A new Gallagher’s, right in the heart of the Quarter, showcasing only new talent, spotlighting the stars of tomorrow. Spotlighting you, Aimee.
“Close your eyes and picture it. Your paintings, Aimee, staged against the finest backdrops money can buy. Can’t you see it? All those bright colors leaping to life on the canvas, bouncing off walls of glass and chrome.” He waved his hand in front of them, drawing her into the spell.
Aimee’s throat went dry. How easily she could envision the room as he described it.
“Gallagher’s presents the works of Aimee Lawrence, New Orleans’s newest and brightest star of the art world.”
Aimee could feel her breath catch in her throat as he continued to spin the dream. She wanted the dream, Aimee admitted. She wanted to jump at the chance he was offering her, to grab it with both hands and run with it.
Was it a sin to want like this? To want something so much you could taste it? And what would the price be? What would it cost her to reach for the dream he offered and grab it?
She looked into Peter’s eyes, then bit down on her bottom lip until the taste of blood filled her mouth. It must be a sin, Aimee decided. It had to be. Why else would the price be so great? Why else would it cost her Peter?
Because that was what her dream would cost her. She knew it in her heart. She could feel it in her soul. Any chance she might have of him loving her would be lost to her forever if she accepted his offer now.
Peter watched the expressions flicker across her face. While the thought of Edmond’s rejection and the pain it had caused Aimee angered him, this was indeed a stroke of luck for him. And he would see that it proved to be a stroke of good fortune for Aimee, as well.
He had told her the truth. She didn’t need the Edmonds, and she didn’t need Kay Sloane or Jacques-not when she had him. That she would sign with him was a given, Peter decided. Moving closer, he whispered, “All you have to do is say yes, Aimee.”
Caught up as he was in his excitement about launching Aimee, it was several moments before he realized that Aimee had remained silent. Peter searched her face. He frowned at the troubled line forming between her brows, and wondered what had caused the pleasure he had witnessed moments ago to fade so quickly. “Aimee?”
“Oh, Peter.”
At the dismay in her voice, he felt that sharp, piercing sensation in the region of his chest. It was that same feeling he had experienced when Aimee gave him back the engagement ring a few months ago. Only this time, the experience was more intense, almost painful.
Peter gave himself a mental shake and attempted to shrug off the odd mood that had beset him. He didn’t like feeling this way. Nor did he understand it. Had he believed himself a man capable of love, he would have sworn he was feeling heartache. Only he didn’t believe in love. In fact, he already knew he wasn’t even capable of the emotion.
“Don’t you see? Nothing’s changed. I can’t accept your offer now any more than I could a few weeks ago.” Aimee eased herself from his arms.
“Why not?”
“Because if I accepted, you’d be faced with the same problem that’s always stood between us. You would wonder if I was with you because I loved you or because it was good for my career.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“No, I’m not. All the questions would be there, even if you never asked them. You would always wonder why I was with you. You would always be questioning my love for you.”
Gripping her by the arms, Peter pulled her closer and forced her to look at him. “You want to prove you love me? Cancel the meeting with Gaston and the appointment with Kay Sloane. Sign the damned contract I offered you. It’s what you wanted in the beginning, and it’s still what you want. And you and I both know it.”
Aimee pulled herself free. “You don’t have a clue as to what I want, Peter. Jacques went out on a limb for me, setting up this meeting with Kay Sloane. I’m not going to let him down, and I’m not going to let myself down. Kay Sloane’s my chance. And I want that chance.”
Her rejection left a bitter taste in his mouth. Hardening his heart, Peter asked, “What about the chance I’ve offered you? Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
“More than you’ll ever know. But I need to find out if my work’s good enough, if I’ve got what it takes to make it as an artist. If Kay Sloane agrees to put me in her show, I’ll know that I am. That I’m not just spinning myself some pipe dream about being an artist.”
“And having your work carried by Gallagher’s, one of the most respected art galleries in New Orleans, isn’t proof enough?”
“Not when the offer’s made because I’m sleeping with the owner.”
Peter gritted his teeth. The line of his mouth grew even tighter. “Nothing’s more important to me than Gallagher’s, Aimee. I thought you knew that. I’d never trade on Gallagher’s reputation just for sexual favors. Not even for you.”
He watched the color rise in her cheeks, saw the spark of anger light her pale eyes. “And I’d never trade my body just to sell my work. My art means just as much to me as your gallery means to you. I’m going to make it, Peter. And without selling myself to you or anyone else to do it.”
Peter saw the determination in her expression, heard the stubborn pride and ambition in her voice. “So, you do want to be a star, after all. At least I was right about that much.”
“Yes. I guess you were.”
He wasn’t surprised, but he couldn’t help being disappointed. There was a part of him that had wanted to believe that Aimee was different. That maybe, just maybe, she was as open and giving as she had seemed, that she hadn’t been bitten by that thirst for fame. That perhaps she did love him and wasn’t working an angle, like most people.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Aimee said defensively.
“No, it’s not,” Peter agreed. “I’ve never met an artist yet who wasn’t ambitious. And, believe me, I understand better than most just how all-consuming ambition can be.”
“Quit playing word games with me, Peter. I’m not your ex-wife, and I’m not some cunning female who’s using people to further my career. I just want…I need to know if I’m good enough.”
“I’ve told you, you are.”
“But I’ve got to find that out for myself. Can you understand that?”
“Better than you think.” Without offering any further explanation, Peter drew her into his arms and held her close. “Just be careful, Aimee. There are a lot of sharks in this business, and not all of them are willing to admit it, like I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, ask yourself what’s in this for your pal Jacques. Why’s he going to so much trouble for you?”
“Because he’s my friend.”
“Yeah. And it snows in New Orleans in July. Grow up, Aimee. How many artists do you know that would go out of their way to help another artist sell her work? My guess is, not many. Face it, Jacques Gaston’s out for something. My guess is, he’s a con artist, and not just another stray you’ve picked up off the street and moved into your home.”
“He is not living in my home. He’s renting an apartment from me,” Aimee countered.
“And what do you know about him?”
“What’s there to know? He’s a fellow artist and he’s my friend.”
“That’s not much.”
“It’s enough.” Aimee pulled away from him. “If you’ll recall, six months ago I didn’t know much about you either. Sometimes I’m still not sure I know you.”
“That’s not what you were saying a little while ago. Besides, considering we’re lovers, I’d say you know me pretty well. Better than most people, in fact.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“What do you want, Aimee? You want me to run to you with all my problems, like those so-called friends of yours? All right, there’s this artist in Chicago that’s fantastic, that I know could really be somebody, but I’m having a hell of a time getting in touch with the guy, because he doesn’t have a phone and he won’t respond to my letters. So I have to fly to Chicago tomorrow and convince this guy to let me make him a fortune.
“And then there’s the Monet that was supposed to arrive last week, the one I spent a fortune on and was convinced had been stolen, only it turns out the shipping clerk delivered it to the wrong Gallagher’s and it’s been sitting inside some restaurant’s storeroom for the past week.”
“Stop it!”
“I’m telling you my troubles, just like your pal Jacques and Liza and all the rest of them do. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Aimee protested.
“No, I don’t. What is it you want, Aimee? Tell me. What is it you want?”
“The only thing I’ve ever wanted from you, Peter. Your love and trust.”
He felt as though she had kicked him in the gut. “Aimee, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do this to us.”
“Do what?”
“Ask me for more than I can give. I’ve never pretended to believe in love. I don’t think I’m even capable of the emotion. But you mean more to me than anyone else ever has.” And if he wasn’t such a selfish bastard, he would let her go.
She turned away from him. “So, where do we go from here? Do we continue with our ‘affair,’ and with me hoping that you’ll fall in love with me someday? Or do we walk away now? While I still can, and before you begin to hate me for wanting more than you’re willing to give?”
Despite the fact that it was July and even the nighttime temperatures didn’t drop below eighty, Peter felt a chill run through his body that touched his soul. He turned her around to face him. “I don’t want it to end.”
“Why? Because the sex is good between us?”
Peter shook her. “Stop it. It’s more than that, and you know it. I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me if it was only sex between us. I still want you to marry me.”