by Metsy Hingle
“But first I’d have to sign the prenuptial agreement, right?”
But before he could answer, she was covering his mouth with her fingers and giving him a sad smile. “Forget I asked. Of course you want me to sign a prenuptial. Otherwise I might take you to the cleaners, the way Leslie did.”
“It’s a business document, Aimee. Plain and simple. You’re getting yourself all worked up over it for nothing.”
“But marriage isn’t a business,” she insisted. “My feelings for you have nothing to do with business.”
“Aimee…”
Tears filled her eyes, threatening to brim over, but when he would have reached for her, Aimee held up her hand. “Let me finish,” she murmured in a voice thick with emotion. “Even if I were to sign the prenuptial agreement, it wouldn’t solve the basic problem between us, Peter. I’m in love with you. And while you may want me, you’re not in love with me. That’s why I wouldn’t marry you. That’s why I can’t marry you.”
The blood in his veins seemed to freeze at the resignation in her voice. For the first time in a long time, Peter felt frightened. Truly frightened.
She tipped up her chin and stared at him out of ghost-blue eyes. “Maybe you were right. Maybe I have been looking at things through rose-colored glasses. I’ve obviously been fooling myself, thinking that someday you would allow yourself to love me. Because you see, until now, I’ve been telling myself that the problem is not your inability to love, but your fear of it. But maybe the problem is that it’s just me that you’re unable to love.”
Guilt welled up and lodged in his throat like a bullet, leaving a foul and bitter taste in his mouth. His selfishness and insensitivity had hurt Aimee. Of all the people in the world, she was the one person who deserved it the least. “It’s not you, Aimee,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. He touched her cheek. “It’s me. If I were ever capable of loving anyone, it would be you.”
“I guess I should take some measure of satisfaction from that.” She attempted a smile, but failed miserably.
Peter felt even more like a heel.
She picked up her purse.
“Where are you going?” Peter asked, his panic renewing. He didn’t want her to go. He wasn’t ready to have Aimee walk out of his life. Not yet. Not like this.
“Home. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and I need some time to think. I think best when I’m working.”
“You could work here. I could set up a place for your easel in one of the spare rooms. I’ve been meaning to do it for a long time, anyway.”
Aimee shook her head. She smiled at him again, but it wasn’t one of those big smiles she usually gave him, the kind that came from deep inside her. “Thanks. But I think I’d rather go on home. I need some time alone, and I’m afraid you’re a very big distraction.”
Only she wouldn’t be alone, Peter thought as he followed her to the door. Not in that madhouse, with tenants traipsing through her place. Not with Jacques there.
Peter had to force himself to bite back the feelings of jealousy racing through him. He wanted her to stay with him. He didn’t want her to walk out the door. He was very much afraid she might not come back.
But he had never begged anyone for anything in his life. He wouldn’t beg Aimee now. He paused at the door, and when she turned to look at him, he caught her fingers and squeezed them. “If I were a decent human being, I’d get out of your life. I’d let you find someone who could give you all the hearts and flowers you want. But I’m not. I’m a selfish bastard, Aimee. I always have been and I always will be.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. And because I am, I won’t let you go. You and Gallagher’s are the only two things that mean anything to me. I want…I need you in my life, Aimee. I won’t let you go.”
“Fortunately for you, I haven’t quite given up on making you fall in love with me yet.”
And he hadn’t given up on making her his wife. He also hadn’t given up the idea of reclaiming his building. Somehow, some way, he intended to have them both. Even if it meant risking Gallagher’s to get them.
Eight
“Here you go, missy.”
Aimee held out her hand as Abner Sterling counted out the bills. “I can’t believe they sold so quickly. The other one took almost three weeks to sell. Do you know who he was? The man who bought my paintings?”
“Same fella who bought the other one.”
“Yes, I know that’s what you said. But didn’t he give you his name?” Aimee asked, still stunned by her good fortune.
“Didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
“What about his check, or a credit-card receipt? His name would be on there.” Giving Abner Sterling some of her paintings to sell on consignment had been a long shot at best. She had made the decision to do so more out of desperation than anything. In fact, it was only one step above propping them up along the sidewalks around Jackson Square and trying to sell them to the tourists. And the only reason she had gone to Sterling’s instead of the square was that she couldn’t afford the permit she would need to purchase in order to pander her art.
But three sales inside of two weeks, Aimee thought, wanting to squeal with delight. She could hardly believe her luck. It had to be a sign. It simply had to be.
“Didn’t use a check or credit card. Paid cash.”
“Oh,” Aimee replied, disappointed at not discovering who the unknown angel was who had bought her paintings. She would have liked to know, if for no other reason than to send a silent prayer of thanks to him.
“My guess is, he’s some sort of collector. had the look of somebody who knows art. He certainly seemed to like your pictures. Didn’t even squabble with me over the price. Paid the full amount. And I have to tell you, missy, I thought you was asking too much for them.”
“I know.” She had asked for little more than she needed to recoup the cost of her paints and framing. Considering the hours she had spent on the paintings, she probably had priced herself below minimum wage. But it didn’t matter. She had sold two more of her paintings and had enough money to handle the heating repairs. “Thanks again, Mr. Sterling.” Giving the crusty old fellow a big smile, she slipped the bills into the pocket of her shorts and headed for the door.
“Got any more of those paintings you want me to sell for you?” he called out to her from behind the cluttered countertop. “I got enough space to take maybe one or two more of them. I’ll even put them in the window for you.”
Aimee grinned at the old codger as she maneuvered past the bins of poster prints, recalling his initial reluctance to take her work even on a consignment basis. The tiny shop was packed to the rafters, and if he was willing to make space-even in the cramped window-he must think the paintings would sell. “I’ll see what I have and get back to you,” she promised before stepping outside.
The moment she left the shop, the humidity swept over her like a blanket, despite the early hour. Smiling to herself, Aimee refused to allow even the suffocating heat to dim her spirits. Nothing could. Not now. Suddenly, the world, and everything in it, seemed brighter.
Her meeting with Kay Sloane had gone well, and while no decision had been made yet as to whether she would be allowed to participate in the exhibit, Jacques was optimistic. She’d even found a tenant for the apartment vacated by Simone last week. And now the sale of two more of her paintings…
Signs. They were all signs. Good signs. The signs that had always guided her. And they were guiding her now, telling her that everything was going to be okay. Happiness bubbled inside her as she zipped down the street. True, she and Peter had seen little of each other lately, because of their schedules. But with everything else going her way, it was difficult not to believe that Peter and she would work through their problems, somehow. She had meant it when she told him that she hadn’t given up on making him fall in love with her.
Maybe it was up to her to take the first step, Aimee decided. The stars were obviously aligned in her favor at this particu
lar time. So why not now? What better time than this morning? Hugging the newfound optimism inside her, Aimee quickened her pace toward Gallagher’s.
She would play hooky today, she decided. And she would convince Peter to do so, as well. Liza had already agreed to watch the shop so that she could paint. Instead of painting, she would coax Peter away from the gallery, and they could spend the day together at Gulf Shores.
Aimee tingled with excitement at the prospect of the two of them spending the day on the beach. She envisioned curling her toes in the white sand, feeling the cool water caressing her body like a lover’s embrace, having Peter hold her in his arms while the Gulf breezes wafted around them and they enjoyed a golden sunset.
By the time she reached the gallery, Aimee could almost taste the salty sea air. A day away from the city and spent at the beach was just what she and Peter needed. She simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Pushing open the door to Gallagher’s, Aimee stepped inside the elegant entranceway. Cool air greeted her sunwarmed skin like a kiss, and Aimee sighed. She breathed in the clean scents and allowed her eyes to adjust to the recessed lighting used to accent the expensive paintings and sculptures. As always, the serene beauty of the room, with its damask-draped walls and marble floors, had a calming effect on her.
And made her question her own decision to turn down Peter’s offer to display her work here. Not that she deserved to have her paintings displayed with such greats as Picasso, Monet and Renoir. She would never be an artist of such distinction. She knew that.
But it didn’t stop her from dreaming of seeing her work displayed in such a manner, of having people look at her work and being moved by its beauty, of feeling touched by something they saw in it.
No. Her own lack of great artistic ability didn’t stop her from dreaming of the stardom Peter had offered her. It didn’t stop her from wanting to be more than she was.
Catching a glimpse of her own reflection in a mirrored chrome pedestal, Aimee frowned. Her faded cutoffs and T-shirt, her bare legs and sandals, were as much a contrast to the elegance of her surroundings as Gallagher’s was to Sterling’s, Aimee thought. Neither she nor her work belonged in a place like Gallagher’s. To even consider it was a pipe dream at best.
For a brief moment, Aimee could feel her earlier optimism begin to slip. But before she could rethink her decision and the wisdom of coming to see Peter unannounced, Peter’s assistant entered the room.
“Good morning, Aimee.”
“Hi, Doris,” Aimee replied. “The boss around?”
“In the vault,” the other woman said, motioning with her head toward the back of the gallery. “Doesn’t want to be disturbed. But if you ask me, I don’t care how much those paintings in there are worth, the man spends way too much time in that room. It’s not right for him to be locked away in there all the time by himself. It’s not normal. He needs to be with people, not a bunch of paintings by dead peopleno matter how expensive they are.”
“Doris, is something wrong?” Aimee asked. Doris had been with Gallagher’s for more than twenty years, having worked for Peter’s father when he was alive, and Aimee knew the woman loved Peter like a son.
“Given the fact that he’s been like a bear with a sore paw all week, I thought maybe you two had a little spat.”
Aimee could feel the color rush to her cheeks, recalling how their last evening together had ended. They had argued yet again over her refusal to sign with Gallagher’s. And it hadn’t helped that she wouldn’t even consider his offer to lease her building. When he left her apartment, she had been confused and unsure, Peter frustrated and angry. “No. Not exactly. We sort of didn’t see things eye-to-eye.”
Doris sniffed. “And being the pigheaded man that he is, he’s obviously been hiding in that vault and sulking ever since.”
Aimee grinned as she considered what Peter’s reaction would be to the older woman’s assessment. “Well, I’m considering kidnapping him and taking him to the beach for the day. Think he’ll go for it?”
“If he doesn’t, I will.”
“How’s his calendar look?”
“Busy. Too busy. Why don’t you go on back and surprise him, while I see what I can do about rescheduling some of his appointments?”
“Thanks, Doris. You’re a doll.”
“No, dear. You are.” Her expression grew serious. “He’s a good man, Aimee. He deserves more laughter and love in his life. There’s been far too little of both.”
“I know,” Aimee said, squeezing the other woman’s hand. She would gladly give Peter all the love and laughter she had in her, Aimee thought as she headed down the hall toward the vault Peter had installed at the rear of the gallery. She only hoped her instincts were right and that Peter not only wanted and needed her love, but someday would grow to love her in return.
Her heart pounding, Aimee looked in the open door of the vault. The room was somber—all black and gray. Thick carpet in a muted shade of teal covered the floor. A single light shone over a painting of pink ballet slippers mounted on a steel wall that had been covered in dove-gray silk. Peter adjusted the frame slightly, then stood back.
A lump rose in Aimee’s throat at the utter yearning in his expression. “Peter?” she finally managed.
Peter’s gaze shot to the doorway. Just as she had done countless times in his dreams, Aimee stood in the doorway. The morning sunshine from the window of the outer room pooled around her, draping her in its glow. Her short dark hair framed her face. Her ghost-blue eyes gleamed like precious stones as she stared at him. She looked like an angel, Peter thought. His angel, come to rescue him from the nightmare.
“Peter?”
Peter gave himself a mental shake to clear away the image.
“You okay?” Aimee asked. Coming into the room, she stood beside him.
“Fine.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her. He felt foolish over his musings, but what disturbed him most was his utter sense of relief at seeing Aimee standing there.
She looked up at the painting he had been contemplating. “A new artist?” she asked, obviously unable to identify the painting as any valuable work that required safekeeping in the vault.
“It’s one of my father’s.”
“I didn’t know your father was an artist.”
Peter shrugged. “As you can see from this, he wasn’t a great one.”
“Hmm…Maybe not great, but then few artists are.” She cocked her head to one side as she studied the painting. “Personally, I find it quite charming.”
At best, his father had been an artist of mediocre ability. Any warmth or charm his early paintings had had was lost after his parents divorced. “This was probably one of his better attempts. Those were my mother’s toe shoes. He painted them shortly before they were married.”
“Your mother was a ballerina?”
Peter nodded. “I’m told she was quite good, and would have eventually become a prima ballerina, had she not married my father and had me.”
“You’ve never spoken of your mother before.”
“No reason to. I don’t remember much about her. She and my father divorced when I was three. She remarried some moneyed count and moved to Europe. She was killed in a skiing accident when I was ten.” But he had lost his mother long before her death. He had lost her somewhere in the heated arguments between his parents over the career she had given up for a man with no talent and a son who hadn’t been planned and didn’t fit into either of their lifestyles. He had felt her emotional desertion long before she left them physically.
“How awful,” Aimee replied, touching his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. We weren’t close. I hardly remember her.” And what few good memories he retained of his mother had eventually been replaced by his father’s bitter ones.
“I know, but still…She was your mother. No wonder you put this painting in here.” Her gaze drifted to the painting again. “It must mean a great deal to y
ou.”
He shrugged. Except for Gallagher’s, it was the only thing he had left of his parents. “I know it’s not great art, but whenever I open the new Gallagher’s, I plan to hang it in the section featuring local artists. Somehow I thought my father might like that.”
Aimee’s fingers tightened on his sleeve. “What a lovely idea. I’m sure your father would be very pleased.”
Embarrassed by his own sentimentality, and Aimee’s ability to recognize it, Peter changed the subject. “So what brings you here? I thought you had another art lesson with Jacques this morning.”
“I did. But I decided to cancel it and pay you a visit instead.”
Peter grinned, both surprised and pleased.
“Wipe that smile off your face, Peter Gallagher.”
“Why? I’ve always thought Gaston’s art lessons were a waste of your time, anyway, not to mention a convenient means to avoid paying rent.”
“I refuse to discuss Jacques with you. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Not that I’m complaining, or that you need any reason to visit, but was there a particular reason you came by?”
“Actually there is. I’m here to kidnap you.”
“Kidnap me?”
Aimee laughed. She reached up and brushed her mouth against his. “Yes. I’ve decided we both deserve a day off.”
“Did you now?”
“Yes, I did.”
Peter pulled her more closely into his arms. “And did you have a particular way in mind for us to spend the day?” he asked, catching her festive mood.
“Umm-hmm…I’m taking you to the beach.”
Peter paused. “The beach?”
“Gulf Shores, actually. There aren’t any casinos there to block our view of the sunset.” She kissed him again, then grabbed his hand and urged him toward the door.
“Aimee, as much as I’d like to, I can’t just take off with you and go to Alabama.”
“Of course you can.”