by Metsy Hingle
Strange, but it was on these very same things that he and Aimee had never agreed.
As the water pummeled his skin and washed away the weariness of the transatlantic flight, he reminded himself of all the reasons he should stay away from Aimee.
But even as he told himself that he shouldn’t go to the exhibit, that he would be an unwelcome guest, he knew he was going to go. If for no other reason than to simply see her again and discover for himself just how much she now hated him.
Twenty minutes later, when he entered the hotel and was directed to the ballroom where the exhibit was being held, Peter told himself he was a fool for coming. If he hadn’t already garnered Aimee’s hatred with his attempt to help her by purchasing her paintings, he would surely earn it now by showing up tonight. This was the night of her first professional triumph. He was the last person with whom she would want to share it. Besides, she would never believe that he truly wished her well, or that he did believe she was a talented artist.
“Can I see your invitation, sir?” the usher at the door asked.
Peter retrieved the card from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and handed it to the young man. As he entered the room, he scanned the crowd. He was impressed by the number of collectors and dealers, not to mention moneyed patrons, that Kay Sloane had managed to deliver. Several of his own clients were in attendance. Moving along the edge of the room, he searched for a glimpse of Aimee.
“Peter, I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Mrs. Armstrong, one of his wealthiest clients, said upon spotting him. “When I stopped in at Gallagher’s last week, I was told you were out of town.”
“I was. I just returned this morning.”
The older woman smiled at him, deepening the laugh lines around her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. I could use your opinion on a painting I’m thinking of purchasing. It’s a most interesting abstract by one of these new artists. Would you mind taking a look at it and telling me what you think of it as an investment?”
Peter hesitated, wondering if the painting in question was one of Aimee’s. Until now, he hadn’t given it much thought, but he suddenly realized that a word from him could make or break the career of the artist in question. For the first time, Peter experienced a measure of irritation at having such power. “Do you like it, Phoebe?” he finally asked.
Diamonds winked from the lobes of her ears as she tilted her head and looked up at him questioningly. “Why, yes, I do.”
“Then you don’t need me to look at it for you. You have an excellent eye for art. If you like it, buy it.”
“Really?” the woman asked.
“Really,” he said, before excusing himself to go in search of Aimee.
Surprised by what he had just done, Peter smiled at the radical change in his own behavior. Eight months ago, the businessman in him would never have done such a thing. He would have worked the room, checked out the exhibits and determined the buyers’ levels of interest. After doing so, he would have signed the most promising artists before the party was over. And then he would have encouraged the Phoebe Armstrongs to purchase the paintings through him.
But that had been before Aimee came into his life. Before she taught him to look at a painting and appreciate it with his heart and not with a calculator in his hand.
It had been before she shared her laughter and her love of life with him. It had been before she walked out of his life and took all the laughter in it, and the only real love he had ever known, along with her.
“Champagne?” a waitress asked, holding a tray of crystal flutes filled with the golden liquid.
“No thanks.” Peter moved toward the center of the room, searching for a glimpse of familiar dark hair framing a pair of haunting blue eyes. He was beginning to wonder if he had arrived too late when he spotted her standing next to an abstract—an explosion of bright red and silver and blue on canvas.
She wore a dress of some sheer white lacy fabric that gently skimmed her body and fell loosely about her thighs. Jagged strips of silver that resembled small lightning bolts dangled from her ears and flashed through the strands of short hair scattered about her ears. In this sea of designer cocktail dresses and tuxedos, Aimee’s simple attire stood out like a precious stone among fakes. She smiled and her ghost-blue eyes gleamed like rare gems as Liza hugged her, then kissed her cheek, evidently offering congratulations. Peter frowned as Jacques came forward and kissed both of Aimee’s cheeks. And when he lifted her up and hugged her, Peter caught sight of the Sold tag on the painting.
She’d done it, Peter thought, just as she had always wanted to do…just as he had wanted and at the same time feared she would do. Realization struck him with the force of a body blow. All these months, he had kidded himself. He had told himself it was Aimee’s building that he wanted, when all he really wanted was Aimee herself.
As he watched Aimee bask in the praise of her friends, Peter realized that what he had feared was not her success, but her leaving him once she had become successful.
She was on her way to becoming a star—a star with no room in her life for him. He had lost her, Peter admitted, feeling as though something inside him had died. Deep down, he had always known she could be a part of his life only temporarily. Perhaps that was why he had refused to admit even to himself the extent of her talent. Perhaps that was why he had been unable to tell her that he hadn’t bought her paintings from Sterling’s to help her, but because the businessman in him knew they would be worth a great deal more someday. But primarily he had bought them because he wanted to hold on to her. In the end, he had lost her anyway.
Coming tonight had been a mistake, Peter decided, unable to banish the inexplicable ache in his chest. He had to get out of here. Now. Before he made a fool of himself and begged her to give him another chance.
He had never begged anyone for anything in his life. Not his parents. Not Leslie. He wasn’t about to start now. He watched as Aimee shook hands with Kay Sloane and a man and woman. She positively glowed.
He had to forget about her, Peter told himself. Confused, the ache in his chest growing more painful by the second, he started to turn away.
He isn’t going to come, Aimee told herself as she forced her gaze away from the doorway and shook hands with the couple who had purchased one of her paintings. Her jaws ached from all the smiling she had had to do this evening. This should be the happiest night of her life, and yet all she wanted to do was go home, crawl into her bed and cry.
And it was all Peter Gallagher’s fault.
“Donald and I simply fell in love with the colors,” the new owner of her painting said.
“Thank you,” Aimee murmured politely as she shifted her gaze back to the doorway. Something, perhaps the sense that she was being watched from afar, made her cut a glance toward her left.
“And the composition…”
Her heart seemed to lurch in her chest. It was Peter. “I’m sorry. Would you please excuse me?” Not waiting for an answer, Aimee hurried toward him. “Peter! Peter, wait!”
Peter spun around at the sound of her voice. His deep blue eyes lit up momentarily. Was it joy she had glimpsed in their depths? If only she was better at reading him, Aimee told herself. If only he wasn’t so good at hiding what he was feeling.
When she finally reached him, it took everything in her not to throw herself into his arms. She searched his face for some inkling of what he was feeling. “Did you just get here?”
“A few minutes ago. I was just about to leave.”
The words were like a slap. “You were going to leave without even speaking to me? Without at least wishing me good luck?”
“Doesn’t look like you need any luck.” He took her hands in his and brought them to his lips. He kissed her fingers. Still holding her hands, he whispered, “Congratulations, Aimee.”
“Thanks,” she said, her heart beating wildly. “I hoped you would come tonight, Peter. I told myself if you did, it would be a sign.”
“You sent
me the invitation?” Peter asked, his surprise evident.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad that you did. But why? I wasn’t sure you would ever want to see me again.”
“Because this is the most important night of my career. Success or failure, I wanted to share it with you.” In truth, she had been searching for sight of him all evening, and until she saw him, the success she had prayed for for so long had held little joy for her—without Peter to share it.
Something deep and powerful flickered in his eyes. He squeezed her fingers. “Aimee, I—”
“There you are,” Jacques said, coming to her side with Liza in tow. “Gallagher.” He acknowledged and dismissed Peter with a nod of his head.
“Gaston.”
“There is a gentleman with a gallery in New York who wishes to speak to you,” Jacques told her.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he offers Aimee a contract,” Liza added.
Aimee flushed at her friends’ blatant attempts to rub Peter’s nose in her success.
But if it bothered him, he didn’t show it. He merely smiled and looking at her, he said, “If I had been a good businessman, I would have signed Aimee up for Gallagher’s myself a long time ago.”
Liza gave him a saccharine smile. “Judging by the way things have gone tonight, I’d say you were certainly a fool to let her get away.”
Aimee sucked in her breath.
“And I’d have to agree with you. Losing Aimee was one of the worst mistakes of my life,” Peter said quietly.
“Come on, Aimee. You really do need to get back.” Liza tugged gently on her arm. When she didn’t respond, Liza gave her another tug. “Aimee?”
“I think our Aimee is where she wishes to be,” Jacques said. He took hold of Liza’s fingers, forcing her to release her hold on Aimee.
“But what about the gallery owner from New York?” Liza protested.
“I’ll suggest he meet with Aimee another time. Come along, Liza, you can bat your pretty green eyes at him on Aimee’s behalf.”
Liza scowled at Jacques. “I do not bat my eyes at men.”
“Of course you do. You’re a shameful flirt when it suits your purposes. It’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Ah, but there is much I wish to say to you, ma chére,” Jacques replied as he led Liza away.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into the two of them,” Aimee said. “They’ve been acting strange lately. I’m sorry for the way they treated you, Peter. I guess they’re sort of protective of me. It’s been a rough few weeks.”
“For me, too.”
Aimee swallowed, pleased by his admission. “Thanks for coming tonight.”
“I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t. I’ve had Doris book me out of town to meet new artists, go to auctions, other exhibits. Anything to keep me out of New Orleans…to keep me away from you. But as soon as I came back…as soon as I saw the invitation, I knew I had to come. I had to see you. I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
He squeezed her fingers and pulled her closer. “I know I’m being selfish. You’ve probably made plans to go out with your friends to celebrate. But I have to ask anyway. Will you—” He hesitated, as though searching for the right words. “Will you at least let me see you home?”
Aimee looked up at Peter, and her heart seemed to stop. She had never seen him look quite so sad, so unsure of himself. His vulnerability and unhappiness tore at her. She had never been very good at telling Peter no. She wasn’t any better now. “It wasn’t anything carved in stone. I’m sure Jacques and Liza will understand.” At least she hoped they would. She scanned the room for her friends, and when she didn’t see either of them, Aimee took it as another sign and, just as she had done all of her life, she listened to her heart. “The exhibit will be wrapping up in another ten minutes. Maybe they decided to go on without me.”
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
And then they were racing for the exit, ignoring the surprised expressions on people’s faces as they hurried down the escalator steps, too impatient to wait for it to descend. Laughing, their hands clasped together, they rushed out of the hotel and into the night.
Thunder boomed in the distance as they turned down the street and started toward the French Quarter. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating a street sign. Rain fell in huge drops from the sky, splattering on pavement still warm from the sun’s heat, sending up tiny swirls of steam like wisps of smoke.
Aimee threw back her head and laughed. And Peter laughed along with her. It didn’t matter that her hair was plastered to her head, that the new white dress that she had thought so pretty and had bought especially for tonight’s exhibit would probably be ruined. It didn’t even matter that the antique silver shoes with delicate ribbon straps that she had discovered in the trunk of things left to her by Aunt Tessie would be hopelessly stained from the rain splashing on her feet and ankles. She continued to run down the street, clinging to Peter’s hand and he clinging just as tightly to hers.
By the time they reached her building, Aimee was completely out of breath and wet from head to toe.
“Where’s your key?” Peter asked, his own breathing a bit ragged.
“It’s open.”
Shoving open the door, Peter ushered her inside the hallway of the building and closed the door behind them. The small, dark alcove, filled with the sound of their breathing, added to the air of intimacy that had begun with their race from the hotel. “You’re soaked to the skin,” he whispered as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
“So are you,” Aimee informed him. She laughed, the sound a haunting melody that he had heard countless times in his dreams this past month. Peter shut his eyes, realizing once more how very much he had missed her.
She pulled at his tie, and he opened his eyes in time to see it fall at his feet, a lump of wet black fabric. “I think you’re going to need a new tie and cummerbund. Maybe even a new tux.”
“I don’t care.”
Laughing, she leaned against the banister. A trace of a smile still curved her lips as she glanced up the steep, winding staircase. “You know, when I make that first million, I really am going to install an elevator in this place.”
The smile on his own lips faded as Aimee started up the steps. The wispy dress she wore clung to her bare legs, silhouetting each line, each curve, of her body. She turned to him. In the faint light of the stairwell, and with the flimsy material plastered to her skin, he could see the lean curve of her hips, the edge of her panties. His breath caught in his throat as his gaze traveled upward, to where the dark nipples of her breasts pebbled against the sheer fabric.
“Peter?”
He heard her call his name, heard the rain beating against the wooden door, the wind whistling through the cracks and crevices as the storm played out its frenzied tune.
But the storm outside was no match for the storm of emotions raging through him. At that moment, all the hunger, all the loneliness, of the past few weeks without Aimee came to him in a rush.
“Peter, is something wrong?”
He held out his hand, and when Aimee took it, he pulled her into his arms. He held her tightly, breathing in the clean scent of rain on her skin, the faint trace of roses that always seemed to be a part of her.
When she eased back and eyed him curiously, Peter captured a raindrop that was clinging to her cheek with his fingertip. He brought it to his lips. Then, unable to resist, he lowered his head and kissed her. In defiance of the storm raging outside and the one raging inside him, he kissed her gently, tenderly.
When Aimee slid her arms up to circle his neck and pressed her body next to him, Peter felt as if he had come home at last. “Ah, Aimee,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I’ve missed you so much. So very much.”
Her ghost-blue eyes filled with emotion. “I’ve miss
ed you, too,” she whispered. Taking his face in her hands, she deepened the kiss.
After weeks of being without her, he felt like a man who had been lost in a storm and had stumbled upon a safe haven. He cupped one of her breasts. The nipple seemed to spring to life at his touch, fueling his thirst for more.
Peter could feel himself growing harder by the second, his shaft straining against his slacks as his need for her became even more painful.
Aimee pulled him to her and opened her mouth to him. Peter bit back a groan. When she pressed her femininity against his hardness, Peter realized her need was as great as his own. And he realized that what he desired more than anything this moment was to satisfy her need, to give her pleasure. He slipped his hand between them.
Aimee moaned in protest as Peter withdrew slightly and eased his hand along the curve of her hip, down her stomach, to the warm, pulsating juncture between her thighs. His mouth left hers and moved to the rain-drenched skin of her throat before closing over the wet fabric that covered her nipple. She sucked in her breath. She was still reeling from the shock of feeling the warmth and moistness of Peter’s mouth through the sheer clothing when he lifted the skirt of her dress and peeled it away from her skin. His fingers continued their quest along her leg to the inside of her thigh.
The sensations rushing through her body were delicious, but they weren’t enough. She couldn’t continue to love him, to make love with him and not have his love in return. “No, Peter,” she said, pulling herself free. She couldn’t return to the vicious cycle she had been in before. “I can’t. I don’t want this.”
Peter froze. Panic seized him at her words. She had to want him. He needed Aimee to want him. He looked at her mouth, swollen from his kisses, at her eyes, still warm with desire. “You’re lying, Aimee. You want me. Just as much as I want you. It’s the one thing we’ve always agreed on.” He pulled her back into his arms. “I want you,” he said, his voice hoarse with desire. Taking her hand, he pressed it to him. “Feel, Aimee. Feel how much I want you…how much I need you…only you.”
“It’s not enough, Peter. Wanting’s not enough for me.”