Surrender (7 page)

“Yes.”

She started to move away, but Peter caught her arm and gently, he turned her around to face him. “You’re right. You’re a fine artist, Aimee, and a very talented one. And while you may not need me, I need you.”

She took a deep breath and released it. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it impossible for me to stay angry with you.”

The droop of her shoulders reminded him of a fierce storm whose winds had died out. He took advantage of the moment. “I’m sorry, Aimee.”

“I don’t want your apologies.” She swiped at her eyes.

“But I need to give them.” She didn’t respond, simply stood stiff and unyielding before him. “I’m sorry for hurting you earlier. I never meant to, and I never meant to cheapen our lovemaking,” he said softly. “My only excuse is that where you’re concerned, logic and common sense seem to elude me.

“Heaven knows, I’m not an emotional man-far from it. Anyone who knows me will attest to that. But for some reason, you can make me happier and angrier, make me feel more emotions, than I ever thought possible. I don’t like it. I don’t like strong feelings. I never have. I’ve never been prone to them before. And I don’t like the fact that you can make me lose control. But like it or not, you can and I do. That’s what happened earlier. I felt like I was losing you, and I struck out with words.words directed at my own stupidity. Only you got caught by them instead. I’m sorry, Aimee. So very sorry.”

“Peter…” she whispered. She touched the cheek that she had slapped earlier.

Peter caught her hand. He kissed her palm and drew her closer. “You could have taken a hammer to my head, and I would have deserved it. I’m sorry for hurting you, for making you doubt yourself. You’re a fine artist, Aimee Lawrence. Never doubt that.”

He saw the questions lingering in her eyes, the insecurity that plagued so many artists.

“It’s true. You’re very talented.”

“Am I good enough to…to be somebody?”

“Good enough to be a star,” he told her. “I can make you a star, Aimee. If you’ll let me.” He gathered her close,
pressed her soft body against his, and some of the tightness in his chest loosened. He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, tasted the sweet skin along her neck that tempted him from beneath the wisps of short hair.

Her fingers flexed, her nails digging into his shoulders. Desire whipped through him with the force of a tidal wave. It was always like this with her, so quick, so unexpected. He drew a deep breath, taking in her scent—that mixture of roses, of paint, of passion, of woman. “Marry me, Aimee,” he whispered.

She pulled back a fraction and looked at his face. There was a burning intensity, a pleading, in her eyes. “Why, Peter? Why do you want to marry me?”

“Because we’re good together—in bed and out.”

“Sex isn’t a reason to get married. We both know that.”

“Then what about business? Is that reason enough? I’m offering to launch your art career and make you a star.”

“And what would you get out of the marriage, Peter? What’s in it for you?”

“I get you in my bed every night—not just a few times a week. And my gallery gets a talented new artist.”

“Who’ll make you a lot of money,” she added.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And so will you. We’ll both benefit. In the meantime, I can help you fix up the building. Maybe we’ll even open another Gallagher’s here.” He stroked her hair, warming to the idea as the plans took shape in his mind. “It makes sense, Aimee. For both of us.”

Peter could feel the deep sigh that shuddered through her, and he had to force himself not to hold her when she drew back. “What about the prenuptial agreement?”

He remained silent.

“I haven’t changed my mind, Peter. I won’t sign one. I can’t.”

“And I won’t marry without one.” He wouldn’t argue with her again about it, he promised himself. He knew all her reasons for refusing to sign one, just as he knew his own reasons for insisting she sign it.

“So, where does that leave us?”

“I guess I’ll just have to see what I can do to make you change your mind,” he told her. And, somehow, he would change her mind, Peter vowed, pulling her back into his arms.

Slipping her arms around his neck, Aimee’s eyes sparkled as she drew his mouth to hers. “And I yours,” she whispered before touching her lips to his.

Aimee closed the door to the shop and leaned against it, sighing with relief as the air, only marginally cool, due to the air-conditioning unit’s age, provided a welcome respite from the heat.

“You look beat,” Liza said.

“I am. It’s hot enough out there to fry eggs on the sidewalks.”

“You should have taken a taxi.” Flipping the shop’s sign to Closed, Liza took the portfolio from Aimee’s fingers and led her to the kitchenette in the back of the shop.

“Only tourists use taxis. Besides, I can’t afford one.” Aimee dropped into the seat and drank greedily from the glass of cold water Liza handed her. “Thanks. I’m beginning to feel human again.” She leaned her head back against the cushioned chair.

“So, how’d it go?” her friend asked.

“It didn’t.”

“But, I thought…I mean, you were gone so long, I assumed that Stephen and you…”

“He changed his mind. It seems Edmond’s Gallery is no longer interested in my work.” Try as she might, Aimee knew she had failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice. It galled her to think that Peter had been right, that Edmond’s interest in her art had been linked to her association with him. Learning that William Edmond was the man that Peter’s former wife had left him for only reinforced the fact.

And it made the ugly doubts she had been harboring deep in her heart about her work gnaw at her again, like an angry dog nipping at her heels. It also made Peter’s offer of
representation even more difficult to ignore-especially when she knew she would have to replace the building’s heating system before the cold weather set in.

“What happened?” Liza asked.

“Not much. Edmond gave my portfolio a cursory onceover, said the work was ‘nice,’ but it wasn’t exactly what their discerning patrons were looking for.”

“The pompous ass!” Liza’s hands curled into fists. She paced from one end of the small kitchen to the other. “His discerning patrons wouldn’t know real art if it bit them on their rear ends.”

Aimee laughed. “My feelings exactly. You should have seen some of the stuff in that place he was passing off as art…and the prices.”

“Your stuff’s too good for them.”

“Probably,” Aimee agreed.

Liza stopped pacing and turned back to Aimee. Concern etched her picture-perfect features, and Aimee wondered, not for the first time, what dark secrets made Liza hide herself away in the shop.

“Listen, if your heart’s set on showing at Edmond’s, let me see if there’s anything I can do. Stephen’s asked me to dinner.”

“You agreed to go to dinner with him?”

“No, I turned him down. But I could tell him I’ve changed my mind. Maybe if I talked to him—”

“Thanks, pal. But I won’t have you barter that gorgeous body of yours just so he’ll take my work.”

Liza’s face went chalk-white, and Aimee realized at once that she had made a mistake. “Good Lord, Liza, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Aimee went over to her friend. “It was a joke, Liza. Obviously a stupid one. But I was only kidding.”

“I know,” Liza said, but the smile she attempted was forced, strained. She went over to the cabinet, retrieved a glass and filled it with water. After she had drained the glass,
she turned back to Aimee. “So where have you been all afternoon, if you weren’t at Edmond’s?”

Aimee was pleased to see some color return to Liza’s cheeks. “Knocking on doors, mostly.” Aimee grimaced. “Sterling’s has offered to take two of my paintings on consignment.”

“Sterling’s?” Liza repeated, obviously surprised, and, no doubt, unimpressed.

She had been unimpressed, too, Aimee admitted. Sterling’s could be considered a gallery only in the most generous of terms, and it certainly wasn’t of the same stature as Gallagher’s or Edmond’s. Not to mention that the money wasn’t going to be even close to what she had hoped her paintings would bring.

“Surely you’re not seriously considering their offer?”

“Actually, I am.”

“But, Aimee, your work doesn’t belong in a place like that. It doesn’t even belong here. You’re an artist. A good one. You deserve to have your paintings in a real gallery.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Then why—”

“Because it’s a step up from the T-shirt shops, and they’re willing to buy my work. Besides, if they sell, Abner Sterling is willing to take more.”

“Of course they’ll sell. That’s not the point.”

“That
is
the point,” Aimee told her. “Liza, I need the money.” Aimee sighed. “Aunt Tessie may have left me this place free and clear, but the upkeep is never-ending. It’s eaten into most of my savings. I’ve put off a number of big items, hoping that my art would take off and help pay for some of the expenses.”

“It will.”

“Maybe someday. But I can’t count on that.”

Liza’s expression grew troubled. “What about the shop? I could run some specials…even take a cut in pay.”

Aimee’s heart swelled at the other woman’s generosity. “The specials are a good idea, but you don’t have to take a cut in salary. You can’t afford it, if you want to eat. I’m not
paying you hardly anything now, remember? That’s why I tossed in the free rent.”

“I know, but—”

“I appreciate the offer. Honestly, I do. But I’m afraid it wouldn’t be enough to make a difference.” Aimee stood. “I’m going to have to sell the paintings through Sterling’s and take whatever they can get for them. I don’t have any choice.”

“Yes, you do. You could take Peter up on his offer. Let him sign you for Gallagher’s.”

“No. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Liza demanded.

“You know why. Because he’ll think I’m using him—just like his ex-wife did.”

Liza shrugged. “So what? You can’t help what the man thinks, Aimee.”

“Maybe not. But I can at least try to make sure he knows I’m with him because I love him, and not because it’s good for my art career.”

“That’s the same reason you turned down his marriage proposal and his offers to help you financially with the building,” Liza reminded her. “Seems to me Peter’s no closer to trusting in you or declaring his love for you now than he was three months ago.”

Aimee sighed. “I know.”

“Face it, Aimee. Men are users. Even the ones who play the game and say they love you usually don’t mean it. They all want something. Your body, your money, your soul.”

Aimee stared at her friend, and was taken aback by the anguish in the other woman’s eyes. Then her expression sobered, and the cool distance returned.

“Peter’s not like that. He may not have told me that he loves me, but I know he’s not using me.”

“What do you call the affair you’re having?”

“If you’re referring to our…our physical relationship,” Aimee began. Her face heated, but she met Liza’s knowing gaze. “I can assure you it’s not one-sided. When we make love, Peter gives as good as he gets. He’s a generous lover.”

“Perhaps. But the difference is, he gives you his body and you give him your heart.”

The fingers squeezing Aimee’s heart seemed to tighten.

“I’m sorry, Aimee. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know,” she said.

“I guess it’s a little too late to tell you not to fall in love with the guy.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then be smart about it. Take him up on his offer. Let him represent your work. That way, when the relationship’s over, you’ll at least have something to show for it besides a broken heart.”

“You’re as bad as Peter,” Aimee declared, shaking her head. “Love isn’t like that. Not all relationships have to end. Not all marriages have to end in a divorce court. How can you be so cynical?”

“I don’t see it as cynicism.”

“Realism, then,” Aimee quipped. “That’s what Peter calls it.”

“In a woman’s case, I think it has more to do with survival. And if you want to survive, you’d better get the stars out of your eyes, kiddo, and find out why Peter asked you to marry him in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Stephen Edmond hinted that Peter’s been looking for property on Royal Street to convert to a gallery for years.”

“So? Peter’s offered to buy the building from me any number of times.”

“And you’ve always turned him down.”

“So, you’re saying that he’s asked me to marry him so he can get the building?” Aimee laughed. “Liza, look at this place. While I love it, it’s certainly not worth a man entering a loveless marriage for.”

“Ah, but the marriage wouldn’t be loveless, would it? Not where you’re concerned.”

“You’ve been watching too many bad mysteries,” Aimee told her. The idea was preposterous.

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know I am. Peter’s feelings for me, whatever they are, have nothing to do with this building.”

Liza didn’t argue the point, even though Aimee felt sure that she wanted to. “I don’t guess there’s any point in trying to convince you not to sell your paintings through Sterling’s?”

Aimee pushed aside Liza’s conclusions about Peter’s interest in the building. “I really don’t have any choice.”

“Have you told Peter yet?” Liza asked.

“No.”

Liza grinned. Whatever had troubled her earlier was evidently forgotten, as a glimmer of mischief danced in her green eyes. “He’s not going to like it;”

“No. But then, he doesn’t have to like it.”

“True. But he wasn’t at all happy that you were keeping that appointment with Stephen.”

Aimee shot her friend a stern look. “Listening at keyholes, Liza?”

“Don’t have to.” Liza refilled her own glass and Aimee’s, then sat down. “You forget how paper-thin these walls are.”

Aimee flushed, wondering what else Liza had heard. She added another slice of lemon to the water. “When I become famous and make my first million, remind me to insulate the place.”

“I’ll do that,” Liza said, lifting her glass in a salute. “In the meantime, good luck with the beast.”