Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Copyright

“Sign The Agreement And We Can Be Married Before The Week’s Out.”

Aimee pushed him away. “No. I’m not signing any prenuptial agreement.” She shoved the document toward him and tugged off the diamond he’d placed on her left hand earlier that evening.

“What are you doing?

” “Giving you back your engagement ring. I’m not going to marry you.”

“What do you mean, you’re not going to marry me? You’ve already said yes!”

She tipped her chin defiantly. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. But,” she said as calmly as she could, “I think I’ll take you up on your original offer.”

“My original offer?”

“Yes. I’ll have an affair with you instead.”

Dear Reader,

Go no further! I want you to read all about what’s in store for you this month at Silhouette Desire. First, there’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the triumphant return of Joan Hohl’s BIG BAD WOLFE series! MAN OF THE MONTH Cameron Wolfe “stars” in the absolutely wonderful Wolfe Wedding. This book, Joan’s twenty-fifth Silhouette title, is a keeper. So if you plan on giving it to someone to read I suggest you get one for yourself and one for a friend—it’s that good!

In addition, it’s always exciting for me to present a unique new miniseries, and SONS AND LOVERS is just such a series. Lucas, Ridge and Reese are all brothers with a secret past…and a romantic future. The series begins with Lucas: The Loner by Cindy Gerard, and continues in February with Reese: The Untamed by Susan Connell and in March with Ridge: The Avenger by Leanne Banks. Don’t miss them!

If you like humor, don’t miss Peachy’s Proposal, the next book in Carole Buck’s charming, fun-filled WEDDING BELLES series, or My House or Yours? the latest from Lass Small.

If ranches are a place you’d like to visit, you must check out Barbara McMahon’s Cowboy’s Bride. And this month is completed with a dramatic, sensuous love story from Metsy Hingle. The story is called Surrender, and I think you’ll surrender to the talents of this wonderful new writer.

Sincerely,

Lucia Macro

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Surrender
Metsy Hingle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

METSY HINGLE

is a native of New Orleans who loves the city in which she grew up. She credits the charm, antiquity and decadence of her birthplace, along with the passionate nature of her own French heritage, with instilling in her the desire to write. Married and the mother of four children, she believes in romance and happy endings. Becoming a Silhouette author is a long-cherished dream come true for Metsy and one happy ending that she continues to celebrate with each new story she writes.

To Lucia Macro

The Best Of The Best, Editor And Friend Thanks For Taking That First Chance.

Prologue

“You expect me to sign this?” Aimee gripped the prenuptial agreement in her hand, praying the indignation in her voice masked the pain in her heart.

“I do, if we’re going to be married.” Peter moved toward her, and she took a step back. His lips thinned in a disapproving scowl. “At least look at the damn thing, Aimee. You’ll see that I’m being more than generous.”

The vise that seemed to be squeezing her heart tightened. Aimee swallowed hard, determined not to cry. “I’m sure you are.” In the three months since they’d become lovers, he had been extremely generous to her, with everything—except with his love.

And it was his love that she wanted most of all.

His expression softened somewhat, and this time when he moved to put his arm around her, Aimee didn’t resist. “Be reasonable, sweetheart. Just sign the thing, and then we can—”

“I’m not signing it, Peter.”

His body grew rigid beside her. “Do you want to have an attorney look it over first? Is that it?”

Chilled by the distrust in his voice, Aimee moved out of his arms. She cut a glance to his face. His blue eyes had darkened to the color of steel—cold steel. “No. I don’t need to have anyone look it over, because I have no intention of ever signing it.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t believe in prenuptial agreements. Signing one would be tantamount to saying I don’t believe the marriage is going to last.”

“It probably won’t. You know as well as I do that fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce.”

“And fifty percent of them don’t,” Aimee shot back. She paused. “Why did you even bother asking me to marry you if you feel this way?”

“Because I want you.”

Because he wanted her. Aimee closed her eyes and repeated the words silently. Not because he loved her.

Peter reached out and caught her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Aimee.”

Opening her eyes, she lifted her gaze to his. Her pulse skittered like a colt at the raw desire she saw in his eyes.

“I want you in my bed. Tonight. Tomorrow night. Every night.” Pulling her to him, he crushed the prenuptial agreement she was holding between them and captured her mouth with his.

Instinctively Aimee parted her lips, welcoming him, giving in to the dizzying sensation that only Peter could make her feel.

When he finally lifted his head, Aimee blinked. Slowly, her senses cleared, and she was able to focus on Peter’s face. Her stomach clenched at the triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“You want me just as much as I want you. You said you wouldn’t live with me unless we were married, so I’m offering to marry you. Don’t be stubborn, Aimee. Sign the agreement, and we can be married before the week’s out.”

Feeling as though she had just been doused in cold water, Aimee pushed him away. “No. I’m not signing any prenuptial agreement.” She shoved the crumpled document toward him and began tugging off the emerald-cut diamond he’d placed on her finger earlier that evening.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Giving you back your engagement ring.”

“What in the hell for?”

“Because I’m not going to marry you.” Scanning the room, she spotted her purse and started toward it.

Scowling, Peter threw the prenuptial agreement and ring to the floor. The stone struck the marble floor and bounced, landing on the Oriental rug. He marched after Aimee. “What do you mean, you’re not going to marry me? You’ve already said yes!”

She tipped up her chin defiantly. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. Given your lack of faith in the institution of marriage, you’d probably make a lousy husband anyway. But,” she said, as calmly as she could, “I think I’ll take you up on your original offer.”

“My original offer?”

“Yes. I’ll have an affair with you instead.”

One

The blanket of darkness surrounded him. Naked and alone, Peter Gallagher shivered in the empty vault. He could feel the cold penetrating his skin, stealing the last of his warmth, sapping the last of his strength. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been trapped in the gallery’s vault, unable to escape. But time was running out. It wouldn’t be long now, he realized. The demons had finally won. Within hours, he would be dead.

Suddenly a sliver of light pierced the blackness that engulfed him. Marshaling what little energy he had left, Peter surged toward it, breaking free of the chains and stumbling into the light.

Peter came awake instantly. Opening his eyes, relief flooded him as he took in the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. His heart thundered like a racehorse’s, and he forced himself to breathe slowly.

It had been that stupid dream again. He hadn’t been trapped in the gallery’s vault. He was home. Safe. And Aimee still lay asleep beside him. Drawing her body close to him, he drifted back to sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the first fingers of dawn streamed through the bedroom window. The alarm clock beside the bed started to beep. Peter reached out and hit the off button. Stealing a glance at the clock, he frowned at the illuminated numerals that declared the time to be 6:30. The internal clock that had served to rouse him shortly before six o’clock each morning for most of his thirty-six years had failed him once again.

Either his body’s instinct to awaken had dissipated with age and the recurring nightmare, or sharing his bed with Aimee for the past three months had altered his lifestyle.

Who was he kidding? It had nothing to do with age or the nightmare, and everything to do with Aimee. The woman had turned his once orderly life completely upside down from the first moment he set eyes on her, at that art-gallery opening six months ago.

He still wasn’t quite sure why she had captured his interest that night. With her short crop of black hair and wide ghost-blue eyes, she was not at all his usual type. Even her slender curves, nicely distributed over her five-foot-fourinch frame, were a far cry from the tall, voluptuous women who generally drew his attention. She was attractive, but by no means beautiful—except when she smiled. When that Cupid’s-bow mouth of hers spread into a grin, she lit up a room and drew everyone within her radius to her.

Including him.

Of course, discovering that she was the new owner of the building he had been trying to purchase for the past several years had seemed a stroke of luck. It was also part of the reason he had pursued her.

He wanted that building. It had belonged to him once, before his divorce. He had been forced to sell it and watch his dream gallery site be turned into apartments and a gift shop, deteriorating under the hands of its new owners. But now it was within his grasp. It had taken him nearly ten years and a lot of hard work, but he had reclaimed everything he had lost, and rebuilt Gallagher’s into one of the best art galleries in New Orleans. The only thing still missing was that building.

He had promised his father he would get the place back someday. The fact that his father had been dead more than nine years and would not be here to witness Peter’s victory didn’t matter. Maybe it was a foolish obsession. But he had made the old man a promise, and he intended to keep it. He wanted Aimee’s building, and he intended to have it—even if it meant marrying again to get it.

Only he hadn’t counted on wanting Aimee herself.

The object of his thoughts shifted in bed beside him, snuggling her bottom against him. Peter fought back a groan at the contact. He could feel himself growing hard at the intimacy. As always, the merest touch, the smell, even just the thought of Aimee, sent his hormones into overdrive.

When she turned down his offer of marriage, he had been sure he had somehow managed to dodge a bullet—especially when she had proclaimed they should have an affair instead. He had been confident at the time that an affair with her would not only get her to sell him the building, but would assuage his insatiable desire for her, as well.

He’d been dead wrong on both counts. Aimee wouldn’t even consider selling the place. And his need, his hunger, for her had intensified, not lessened. Even now, after a night of lovemaking, he wanted her again.

Unable to resist, Peter kissed the pale skin of her shoulder, bare except for the ribbon-thin strap of her nightgown. She made that sweet little noise, something between a moan and a purr, that drove him crazy. Shifting his body closer, he tasted the skin at the nape of her neck.

“Hmmm…” Aimee murmured softly. Slowly she turned into his arms, giving him access to more silken skin. Although her eyes remained closed, a smile started at the corners of her mouth and spread. “Good morning,” she whispered.

Forcing himself to move slowly, Peter slipped the strap of her nightgown down her other arm and bared her breasts. The pink, rosy nipples pebbled under his gaze, making the ache to possess her even more painful. He circled one tip with his tongue.

“Peter…” Aimee gasped.

“Morning,” he said, before moving to the other breast.

Her body arched toward him, and Peter greedily accepted the invitation. His teeth grazed her nipple, eliciting another cry of pleasure from Aimee and firing his own need to bury himself inside her.

She curled her fingers in his hair, pulling his head up toward her face. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

Peter obeyed, taking possession of her mouth.

Aimee parted her lips, and he drank from her sweet warmth, shutting out all traces of coldness that lingered from his dream, making him forget about the building and his need to possess it.

Making him forget everything but his need for her.

He cupped her face, shaped her breasts with his fingers. He stripped the nightgown from her body, wanting, needing to feel more of her warmth. “Ah, Aimee,” he whispered. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“I know,” she responded, her voice husky with desire. She tugged at the waistband of his pajamas, and Peter reveled, yet again, in the knowledge that her desire was always equal to his own. Only with Aimee had it ever been like this. There was so much heat between them…so much passion.

Tossing his bottoms next to her nightgown, which lay puddled on the floor, Peter moved between her legs. As he reached for the scrap of silk that guarded the treasure of her warmth, the telephone rang.

Aimee started.

Peter cursed silently. “Let it ring,” he muttered as he slipped his fingers beneath her panties.

She pushed his hands away. “Peter, you have to answer it.”

“No, I don’t.” He reached for her again.

Aimee scooted across the bed and out of his reach as the phone rang once more. “Maybe it’s someone calling about the gallery.”

“It isn’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

Peter gritted his teeth. “Because no one I know would call me at home about the gallery, and certainly not at this hour of the morning.” As the phone continued to shatter the morning’s silence, and his mood, Peter cursed himself for not resetting the answering machine before going to bed last night.

“What if there was a break-in?” Aimee countered.

“Then the alarm would have signaled me here-not the telephone.”

“Then it’s probably Liza.” Aimee dived across the bed toward the nightstand where the phone continued to shrill. “I gave her your number in case she needed to reach me for anything.” She retrieved the cordless phone from its cradle.

Peter promptly plucked it from her fingers. He had no intention of relinquishing Aimee to anyone this morningand especially not to that she-devil friend of hers. “Gallagher,” Peter said, knowing the word came out sounding more like a bark than a friendly greeting.

“Hello,” a booming male voice with a strong foreign accent responded from the other end. “Can I speak to Aimee, s’il vous plait?”

Peter’s body went still. “Who in the hell is this?”

There was a pause. “This is Jacques Gaston,” the other man replied, as though proud of the fact. “I am a friend of Aimee’s. Is she there?”

Peter swiveled his gaze toward Aimee. She had retrieved her nightgown from the floor and was already slipping it over her head. The silky green fabric whispered along her curves as she looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Well, Jacques,” Peter said coolly, “I’m afraid Aimee’s busy at the moment.”

Aimee frowned. She cocked her head to the side, her brow wrinkling. “Jacques? That’s Jacques?” she asked, as though surprised by the call. She held out her hand for the telephone. “It’s okay, Peter. I’ll take it.”

Peter ignored her outstretched hand and moved out of reach. “And I can’t help but wonder, Jacques, what kind of ‘friend’ would call Aimee at another man’s home at this hour of the morning.”

Peter saw the anger spark, lightning-quick, in Aimee’s pale blue eyes before she charged over to him. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Give me the phone.”

When he didn’t relinquish it, Aimee snatched the phone from his fingers. She turned her back to him, furious with him for his intimidation tactics. “Hello,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm.

“Mon amie, it is Jacques.”

“So I’ve gathered,” she said, recognizing the voice of her new tenant. “Is something wrong, Jacques?”

“No. Nothing is wrong.”

Puzzled, Aimee asked, “Was there something in particular you wanted then? I assume Liza’s the one who gave you this number.”

“Oui. Your friend Liza, she gave the number to me and asked me to call you.”

“She did, did she?” Aimee wasn’t sure who she was angrier with—Peter for speaking so harshly to Jacques, or her friend for having the man call Peter’s house and ask for her in the first place.

“I did wish to speak with you, but you were not home. I was going to call you later, but Liza said she needed to speak with you, too. But she said your gentleman friend would not give you the message if she telephoned. So I offered to call you for her.”

“I’m sure she appreciated that.”

“Of course,” Jacques agreed.

“Uh, Jacques…Would you do me a favor and put Liza on the phone, please?”

“Hello,” Liza said moments later. “From the sound of things on this end, I take it my call wasn’t exactly welcome. Tell me, did I wake the beast?”

Aimee cut a glance to Peter as he yanked his pajamas from the floor, where she’d tossed them. She hated it when Liza referred to Peter as a beast. But standing at the end of the bed in only pajama bottoms, with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his handsome face, he did look like a beast—an angry beast. “No, you didn’t. We weren’t sleeping, we.” Aimee caught herself. She could feel the flush climb her cheeks as she realized she’d almost said they had been making love. She looked down at the rumpled sheets on the bed and felt a moment of regret. Were it not for Liza’s call, they would be making love at this moment.

“Yes? You were what?”

Irritation rippled over Aimee at the amusement in her friend’s voice. “Never mind.” Turning away from the bed and Peter, Aimee walked across the room and looked out the window of the plush penthouse condo. The sun was already high in the sky, gleaming hotly on the waters of the Mississippi River. Summer in New Orleans was always a scorcher. This one was no different. But it was nothing compared to the heat and passion of her relationship with Peter—a relationship that her friend feared would cause Aimee heartbreak. Still, Liza’s concern for her didn’t excuse the other woman’s attempts to make Peter jealous. Besides, even if Liza succeeded and Peter did display occasional signs of possessiveness, it didn’t mean he loved her. And his love was what she wanted.

“This better be good, Liza. I gave you this number in case there was an emergency.”

“Would you classify a leaking pipe in one of the apartments as an emergency?”

“Considering the fact that there’ve been at least half a dozen leaking pipes in that building since I inherited it, I guess it would depend on just how bad the leak is.” Aimee sighed, some of her initial irritation giving way to concern. “So tell me. Is it really bad?” she asked, dreading playing plumber again, and hoping it was something as simple as changing a gasket. She’d really gotten that one down pat. And she certainly didn’t want to dip into her meager funds to pay a plumber’s fee.

“A small but steady stream.”

Aimee bit back a groan. “All right. Whose apartment is it this time?”

“Yours.”

“Mine?” Aimee swallowed. “But how would you know my pipe was leaking? Unless…”

“Unless it was leaking into the shop,” Liza continued, confirming Aimee’s worst fears. “It is.”

“Oh, my God! Then that means the shop’s—”

“A bit wet at the moment,” Liza finished for her.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. I shut off the water, but I’m afraid some of Simone’s feathered masks are ruined. A couple of ceiling tiles fell and cracked one of the glass cases. I thought you might want to get down here and survey the damage before you call the insurance company.”

“I don’t have insurance anymore,” Aimee advised her friend. “I canceled the policy last month.” To save money, she added silently.

“I’m sorry, Aimee.” There was no mistaking the genuine remorse in her friend’s voice. “But it really isn’t all that bad. I was just coming downstairs to get the morning paper when I heard the ceiling tile fall. And this Jacques fellow showed up, looking for you, and offered to help.” Judging from her friend’s tone, Aimee guessed her new tenant hadn’t exactly won Liza over. “Except for a little water, most of the stuff is okay. I’ll start mopping up. With any luck, we’ll probably still be able to open the shop this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Liza. I owe you one.”

“Forget it. Just kiss the beast goodbye and get your rear over here before I end up chipping my nails.”

Aimee smiled, some of her initial panic easing. “All right. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” She hit the off button and tossed the phone on the bed. “I have to go home.”

“Why?” Peter asked, following her across the room. “What did Liza want? And who in the hell is Jacques?”

“Liza called because there’s a pipe leaking in my apartment.” Unable to locate her clothes, Aimee dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. “Jacques is a new tenant. He moved in two days ago, into Hank’s old apartment.”

“You never mentioned anything about a new tenant. And what’s with the phony accent?”

“It’s not phony. Jacques is from France.” She retrieved a silver earring.

Peter walked over to the edge of the bed and stood next to her crouched figure. “Would you slow down a second and tell me what it is you’re looking for?”

“My clothes.” She headed for the living room. There she spied her jeans and blouse, on the Aubusson rug, next to Peter’s shirt. Aimee looked up, seeing once again the two paintings—a Picasso and a child’s watercolor. Her heart swelled, as it had the previous evening, at the sight of the priceless work of art mounted alongside a child’s rendering of a flower. The picture had been a gift from a fatherless boy participating in the summer art program Peter had sponsored.

She had been stunned to see the painting in Peter’s elegantly furnished home. “I bought it because I liked it,” Peter had said when she questioned him. “I’m a businessman, not a sentimentalist. It’s an investment,” he had added defensively, obviously embarrassed that she considered his actions kind. “I’ve got a good eye for art, and I think Tommy might give Picasso a run for his money some day.”

Despite his protests, the gesture had warmed her heart. It was this gentle side of Peter, that part of him that accorded a young boy’s drawing the same reverence he did a Picasso, that had made falling in love with him inevitable.

Reaching for her jeans, Aimee winced as her bare foot came down on one of the buttons she’d torn from Peter’s shirt in her haste the previous evening. She bit her lip, remembering how aggressive she’d been.

“I don’t understand what the big rush is. You’ve had leaking pipes before. Get Liza to put a pan under it for now.”

Lost in her thoughts, Aimee hadn’t heard Peter come up behind her. She looked up at him, and her heart tripped faster at the warmth in his eyes.

“Let me fix you some breakfast first, then I’ll take you home.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t have time. The pipe leaked through at least one ceiling tile that I know of, and it fell into the shop and cracked one of the display cases. That means I’ve got at least some ceiling damage, not to mention a shop full of water, and Liza said some of Simone’s feathered masks were ruined.” The panic came back to her in a rush, and Aimee immediately went into motion. She scooped up her jeans from the floor. “Heaven knows how much of the other merchandise has been damaged, and I don’t have any idea what kind of shape my apartment’s going to be in. I’ve got to get over there.”

Peter caught her by the shoulders as she reached for her blouse. “Hey, slow down a minute.”

“But I—”

Peter placed a silencing finger over her mouth. “I want you to take a deep breath.”

She did as he instructed, and her nerves settled somewhat.

“All right. Now, did Liza turn off the water?”

Aimee nodded.

“Good.” He tugged her into his arms and held her head to his chest. He stroked her hair. “I know this guy who’s a plumber. Why don’t I give him a call and have him take care of it for you? He’ll have it fixed in no time.”

Aimee pulled away from him. “Peter, I can’t afford a plumber.”

“You don’t have to.” He massaged the back of her neck with his fingers. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“No,” Aimee said firmly. She stepped out of his arms and away from his touch. “I can’t let you do that.”

Peter frowned. “Why not?”

“You know why. Because it’s my building and my responsibility. Not yours.” Ignoring his sullen expression, Aimee started for the bedroom.

Peter followed. “Then make it my responsibility. Sell me the building. I’ve offered to buy the place from you before. The offer’s still good. Just say the word and I’ll take it off your hands.”

“I don’t want it taken off my hands. It’s my home,” she said, kicking her nightgown aside. Conscious of Peter’s gaze on her naked back, Aimee pulled her shirt over her head and then reached for her jeans.

“All right. Forget about the building, then. But don’t go rushing home. Not yet.” He brushed his lips against her nape and moved his body behind hers. “Stay, Aimee,” he whispered.

Aimee could feel his arousal pressed against her. Her breath quickened. She curled her fingers into the jeans she was holding. Oh, how she wanted to stay, how tempting he made it for her to forget her responsibilities and be with him. “I can’t,” she said finally, breaking free of the sensual spell of his nearness.

Peter’s mouth stilled on her neck, and Aimee was keenly aware of the loss of his warmth as he released her. “Can’t or won’t, Aimee?”

She knew he didn’t understand her not allowing him to pay for the plumber, any more than he had understood her reasons for not marrying him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure she understood them herself. All she knew was that she loved him and it was his love she wanted in return-not his money or his help fixing her building or even in launching her art career.

But Peter didn’t believe that, because he was convinced everyone wanted something, everyone had an angle. She slipped into her jeans, then turned to face him. “Can’t. I’ve got a leaking pipe to fix.”

Peter remained silent, his face a stone mask, as she located her sandals and slid them onto her feet.

He yanked open his closet door and came out with a sport shirt and slacks. Tossing the clothes on the bed, he stripped off his pajama bottoms. Except for low-rise teal briefs, he was naked. Lean and solid, muscles rippling across his chest and shoulders as he moved, he reminded her of an ancient warrior. “Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll take you home.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, averting her gaze. “It’s just a couple of blocks.”

He ignored her and pulled on his slacks. “I said I would see you home.”

“Peter, please. I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t have time. I have to go. Besides, you and I both know I can be home before the valet can even bring your car around.” Grabbing her purse from the dresser, she rushed over to him and gave him a quick kiss. “See you later?”

“Sure,” he said.

But from the look of frustration on his face, Aimee wasn’t so sure that she would.

The woman was driving him crazy, Peter admitted silently. He shut the door to Gallagher’s and headed out into the summer heat. Despite the smoldering temperature and choking humidity, he strode at a clipped pace along the battered sidewalks of the French Quarter. A trickle of perspiration dotted his brow, and he loosened the tie at his neck.

How had his life gotten so out of hand? What had started out as a simple plan had turned into something a great deal more complicated. Any way he looked at it, Aimee Lawrence was tying him up in knots.

He didn’t like it. He liked even less the fact that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her.

The sun gleamed down, hot and punishing, and Peter slowed his steps. He glanced about the nearly empty streets and grimaced. Even the tourists who had been foolish enough to visit the city in the middle of June had enough sense to avoid the oppressive afternoon heat. Only idiots like himself were out roaming the streets in the sweltering sun.

And he did feel like an idiot, Peter acknowledged. He should be at Gallagher’s, uncrating the Matisse he had battled for so fiercely at the last auction. Instead, he was wandering through the streets of the French Quarter and thinking about Aimee.

Pausing, Peter wiped at his brow with his handkerchief and then glanced up. He frowned when he discovered he was standing in front of Aimee’s building. That in itself demonstrated just how completely she had been occupying his thoughts. He hadn’t planned to come here today. He had promised himself he was going to stay away from her until she came to her senses…until she came to him.

Only Aimee hadn’t come. She hadn’t bothered to call him either.

The frustration he had experienced that morning came back to him in a rush, along with the anger. He was still angry with her, he realized—not for leaving him when he’d asked her to stay, but for refusing his help.

It was one thing for Aimee to refuse to sell him the building. After all, he had been less than honest with her. She didn’t know that he was the unnamed buyer who had tried to purchase the place from her when she first inherited it.

She certainly hadn’t known then, and didn’t know even now, that the building had once belonged to him and he had sworn it would be his once again. Besides, he was sure she would be less than pleased to learn that the reason he had sought her out in the first place was to convince her to sell him the place. And he had no doubt that, if she ever learned that part of the reason he had asked her to marry him was to regain control of the building, she would be furious.

Still, his offers to help her with the repairs had been genuine and had had nothing to do with his interest in the building. He’d made the offers because he cared about her. He didn’t like seeing her work so hard to keep the place up. And he was getting damned tired of her throwing his offers to help back in his teeth.

Seeing his scowling reflection in the shop’s window, Peter tried to school his expression. He didn’t want to attempt to reason with Aimee while he was still angry.

But he was angry…and confused. Nothing about Aimee or his feelings for her fit in his orderly life or in his plans. And for an artist with a bohemian spirit, Aimee Lawrence was proving to be one of the most stubborn people he’d ever come up against. He didn’t understand her…and he certainly didn’t understand her refusing his offer of marriage and opting for an affair instead. It just didn’t make any sense.

Not for one minute did he believe she’d turned him down because he’d presented her with the prenuptial agreement. Everyone used the things these days. It was the smart way to do business. If he had had any sense, he would have insisted on one in his first marriage. If he had, the building would still be his and he never would have asked Aimee to marry him in the first place.

And if he had had a prenuptial agreement the first time around, he certainly wouldn’t be standing here in ninetyplus-degree heat, contemplating asking Aimee to marry him for the second time.

Because he was going to ask her again. He already knew that. In truth, he’d known it for some time. He was simply tired of waiting. He wanted to get on with his plans to expand Gallagher’s, and he needed her building to do it. There simply was no other piece of property that would do. He wanted that building, and he intended to have it.

Only somewhere along the way in the past few months, he’d discovered that he wanted Aimee, too.

The problem was, he wasn’t quite sure whether this need to bind her to him stemmed from his obsession with reclaiming the building or from his obsession with the woman herself.

Obsession.

He didn’t particularly like the word, but it aptly described the way she made him feel, the burning hunger to be with her that seemed to have become a part of him, the way she filled his thoughts and haunted his days when he wasn’t with her.

Yes, Aimee Lawrence had become an obsession for him…an obsession he didn’t understand…an obsession that rivaled his driving need to reclaim the building that had once belonged to him. That, in itself, made her dangerous. What was even more alarming was that he had yet to get a handle on Aimee or figure out what her angle was.

Because he was sure she had an angle. Everyone did. His ex-wife, Leslie, certainly had. She’d used him as her springboard to fame in the art world, then dumped him and taken most of his assets with her when she found someone who could take her to the next stage of stardom.

So what was Aimee’s angle? It certainly hadn’t made any sense for her to turn down the sure thing marriage to him had offered by refusing to sign the prenuptial agreement.

And it made even less sense for her to turn down his offers to help with the building’s repairs. Unless she thought that, when she refused his financial assistance and his offer of marriage, he would relent and agree to launch her career as an artist.

Peter steeled himself. The face that looked back at him from the window was cold, controlled once again. He might have broken one of his rules by considering marriage again, but launching Aimee as an artist and making her into a star was something he had no intention of ever doing. Never again would he put his livelihood at risk that way. And never again would he allow any woman to use him. No, if Aimee had any plans for him to be her starmaker, she was sadly mistaken.

If Aimee made it as an artist, she was going to have to do it without his help. In the meantime, he would marry her. As his wife, she would accept his help in refurbishing the building. With a little persuasion she would agree to his opening another branch of Gallagher’s here. He would compensate her fairly for the place. And when the chemistry between them had burned itself out, as he knew it would, he would settle with her fairly. Only this time, he intended to be the one who got the building.

Peter looked at the closed sign displayed in the shop’s window and frowned. It wouldn’t be the first time that Aimee had closed up the place on a whim. Whenever the urge to spend the day at the beach or play tourist struck her, she would shut down the shop and be off in a flash.

She was a lousy businesswoman, and everyone knew it…including her tenants. That was one of the reasons she was always short on cash. It was also the reason she had agreed to allow Liza to live in one of the building’s apartments rent-free in exchange for running the shop.

Arcing his hands around his eyes, Peter peered through the window. Although the lights were on, there was no sign of Aimee or Liza. He could see a ladder parked in the center of the room next to a display case. Water stains splattered the wall directly behind it.

Peter grimaced. Guilt pricked at him. Evidently the damage was worse than he had suspected. And, no doubt, Aimee would be trying to make the repairs herself, probably had been most of the day.

It was just one more reason for him to insist that Aimee marry him. Surely, as his wife, she would accept his help. He started to ring the bell, so that Aimee could release the locks on the building’s main door and allow him to enter, but decided to try the doorknob instead. It turned on the first try, giving him complete access to the building.

Swearing again at Aimee’s continued lack of caution, Peter started up the steep stairway leading to her apartment. The woman needed a keeper, he told himself. Yet another reason to insist she marry him. At least he would make sure she was safe-even if that only meant locking the doors.

He turned the corner and started down the hall to Aimee’s apartment. As usual, not only was the door to her apartment unlocked, it was open.

He stepped inside the living room, too occupied with his thoughts of Aimee to think about the memories and plans that this particular apartment held for him. He followed the haphazard trail of how-to manuals that led from the living room to the kitchen. Stooping down, he retrieved a worn red-covered volume entitled Save A Fortune—Do Your Own Plumbing Repairs. He shook his head, marveling at the strength of Aimee’s determination.

“Oh, Jacques, you’re a lifesaver.”

Peter paused at the sound of Aimee’s voice coming from the direction of her bedroom.

“Nonsense, mon amie. It was nothing.”

Peter went still at the distinctly male and decidedly French voice that responded.

“But it’s true. I really don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Anger began to simmer inside him. Anger, and some inexplicable fear of what he was about to discover. Still holding the book, Peter moved purposefully toward the bedroom. The door was open, and the bed was piled high with an assortment of towels, soaps and toiletry items.

But there was no Aimee. And no Jacques.

“Ah, mon amie, something tells me you would have managed just fine without me. But if you wish to think of me as your hero, then who am I to argue?”

Aimee laughed, and Jacques joined in.

Peter gritted his teeth. He liked the man’s laughter even less than he liked his foreign accent, he decided. Crossing the room, he came to a stop at the doorway of Aimee’s bathroom, just in time to see her raise herself up on her toes and kiss the other man on the cheek.

“Am I interrupting?” Peter asked, in a voice that was a great deal more civil than he was feeling.

Aimee jumped. “Peter! What a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.” She rushed over and brushed her mouth against his.

“Obviously.” He slipped his arm around Aimee’s waist and anchored her to his side. Given the way the other man was looking at her, it would have provided him with a great deal of pleasure to wipe the smile off the Frenchman’s face.

“Peter, this is Jacques Gaston. He’s the new tenant I told you about.” Still smiling, Aimee continued, “Jacques, this is Peter—”

“Gallagher.” Peter finished the introduction for her. With a feral smile, he extended his hand. “Aimee’s fiancé.”

Two

Stunned, Aimee opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. She could feel the flush climb her cheeks at Jacques’s questioning gaze.

“I had not realized Aimee was engaged,” Jacques said, breaking the awkward silence. “Congratulations, Monsieur Gallagher. You are indeed a lucky man. And you, mon amie,” he continued, “you should have told me you were affianced.”

“I’m not,” Aimee said. As she recovered from the initial shock of Peter’s declaration, her temper started to rise. Did he think by proclaiming them to be engaged he could make her sign that stupid prenuptial agreement and marry him? If he did, he had another thought coming.

“But, I do not understand,” Jacques replied, his bewilderment evident.

He wasn’t the only one, Aimee fumed silently. She tried to pry herself free from Peter’s side, but his fingers were like talons of steel, keeping her pinned to him.

“What Aimee means is that it’s not official yet,” Peter explained.

Aimee shot a fiery glance toward Peter at the out-and-out lie. “What I mean is that we are not engaged—” She hesitated at his pained expression. Her chest tightened as she glimpsed the sadness hidden beneath his hard facade. As always, Peter’s vulnerability was her undoing. The anger drained from her as quickly as it had come. “Yet,” she found herself adding.

Peter’s fingers eased their death grip on her waist, but he didn’t release her. “You see, Aimee hasn’t actually agreed to marry me yet.” He cupped her jaw with his free hand, gently turning her so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “But I have every intention of changing her mind.”

He stroked her bare arm. It was an innocent gesture, but one that set off tiny currents of sensation in her body. It had always been like this with Peter—the electricity, the heat—right from the beginning. As she looked into his eyes, she could feel it happening again, the flush of warmth, the excitement. From the first time she looked into his blue eyes, all hungry and hot as he watched her, she had responded with an answering need. Tendrils of heat unfurled in her stomach, flowed between her thighs.

She had felt like Cinderella that first night, and Peter had been her prince. She had been powerless against her feelings for him, and had fallen in love with him almost from the start. His swift and relentless pursuit of her, followed by the proposal of marriage, had only added to the fairy-tale feeling.

Except Peter hadn’t offered her a glass slipper or a place in his art kingdom where they would live happily ever after. She would easily have forgone both those things, if he had only offered her his love.

He hadn’t. Instead, he had offered her a contract, one without promise or even hope for the future—a piece of paper that said he didn’t believe in love. That he didn’t love her.

It had hurt. It still hurt. Yet she continued to love him. And there were moments, like when he awakened from one of the bad dreams that plagued him, or like now, when she sensed the yearning in him…It was at these times that she was sure that Peter not only wanted her love, but needed it, too.

It was these moments that made her decide to continue her relationship with Peter…that gave her hope that he might fall in love with her one day…that made her bite her tongue now and give credence to the false impression he had just given Jacques.

“Shame on you, Aimee.”

Aimee pulled her thoughts back to the present at the sound of Jacques’s voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“You allowed me to boast to you about my exhibition and never told me about your own.”

“Jacques, what are you talking about?” Aimee asked, genuinely confused by the direction of the conversation.

“I mean, Peter here is the owner of Gallagher’s, no?”

“Yes.”

“Then, surely, as your almost-fiance, his gallery will be hosting an exhibit of your works.”

Peter’s fingers stilled on her arm. Pain lanced through Aimee as she felt his body stiffen beside her. Quickly she stepped away from him, feeling as though she had just taken an arrow in the heart.

“Gallagher’s doesn’t carry my work,” Aimee said evenly.

“But I don’t understand,” Jacques began. “I thought that since you and Peter were…that is, if you are soon to be married…”

“It’s all right, Jacques.” Aimee knew exactly what Jacques had thought. The same thing everyone else had thought. That if she and Peter were sleeping together, then surely he would be displaying her work.

Only Peter had made it plain from the start that he had no interest in her as an artist—only as a woman. While that in itself was exciting, it did have its drawbacks—especially when she wanted so desperately to earn her living with her art. Still, from what little she had learned of his past, that he had been married to an artist and had been badly burned by the experience, she did understand somewhat. He had sworn never to mix business with pleasure again.

Though she was disappointed, she had agreed to his terms. It had been the only way to prove to Peter that it was him she loved and that her feelings had nothing to do with what he could do for her career. Still, his rejection of her as an artist had hurt. It had made her question whether it was the idea of representing an artist with whom he was involved that he found objectionable, or whether it was the work itself. While she knew she would never be another Ida Kohlmeyer, she had hoped to find a home for her work-if for no other reason than to feel worthy of the name artist. The fact that her art had yet to capture any significant dealer’s eye only added to her sense of insecurity.

“It’s not a reflection on Aimee as an artist,” Peter explained, as though he had sensed her thoughts. “I simply make it a policy not to represent the work of any artist with whom I’m personally involved.”

“But surely, after seeing Aimee’s work, her talent-”

“Oh, my, I certainly could use something cool to drink,” Aimee proclaimed, feigning thirst in an attempt to change the subject. “What about you, Jacques? The least I can do is offer you something to drink for helping me with that pipe.” Slipping her arm through his, Aimee led him through the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen.

“Forgive me, Aimee,” Jacques whispered as they made their way to the front of the apartment. “I did not mean to open old wounds.”

Aimee looked up at the handsome Frenchman, moved by his sensitivity. She gave his arm a light squeeze. “I know.”

Why, she asked herself for the dozenth time, couldn’t she have given her heart to someone like Jacques? He was certainly more handsome than Peter. With dark blond hair that fell past his collar, and laughing brown eyes, he turned female heads wherever he went. He was kind, caring. And, as a fellow artist, he understood and shared her own passion for making art. To top it off, he had been interested in her.

But it wasn’t Jacques who made her heart race. It wasn’t Jacques who could look at her across a crowded room and make her breath catch, her body tremble with longing. It wasn’t Jacques she loved.

It was Peter.

“Chin up, little one,” Jacques murmured, breaking into her thoughts. “I’m the one who should be wearing the long face.”

“You? Why?”

The smile in his eyes spread across his lips. “Because here I finally find the woman of my dreams, only to have her turn me down because she prefers to give her heart to a beast.”

“You’ve been listening to Liza,” she said accusingly, then ruined the reprimand by chuckling.

“Laugh if you will. But perhaps I am the lucky one, after all, to escape in one piece.”

“What do you mean?”

“Judging by your Peter’s expression when he came in, I think he would have liked very much to rip my heart from my chest. He’s a hard man, your Peter.” His grin eased the impact of what he was saying. “But then, I suspect you already know that. He needs your gentleness. Whereas I, I am a man renowned for his gentle nature. Ask anyone who knows me.”

“You mean any female who knows you,” Aimee told him, her mood lightening at his teasing.

“Especially any female.”

Still laughing, Aimee entered the kitchen. Her gaze swept over the room, and she was glad once again that she had painted the old wooden cabinets white. The room looked brighter, more spacious, than before, and the colorful spice print that she’d painstakingly applied to the walls lifted her spirits. A smile still on her lips, she turned to Jacques. “Now what can I get you to drink?” Opening the refrigerator, she inventoried its contents. “I have ice tea, apple juice, lemonade…”

“Any wine?”

“Sure.” How European, Aimee mused. She retrieved the bottle that the clerk at the wine store had insisted should be stored lengthwise on the shelf. She cut a glance to Peter, who was standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed, his face unsmiling. “What about you, Peter? Would you like some wine?”

“No.”

She handed the bottle to Jacques and directed him to the drawer that held the corkscrew. She turned her attention to Peter again. “Something else, then? The lemonade’s fresh. I made it myself this morning.”

“No, thanks.”

He followed her across the room to the cabinet, and Aimee was all too aware of him standing behind her. Reaching over her head, he removed two wineglasses from the top shelf that were just out of her reach and handed them to her. When she would have taken them and turned away, he held on to the stems, forcing her to look up at him. “What I would like is to talk to you—alone.”

Aimee looked from his mouth to his eyes. She saw the demand there…and the heat. Her pulse quickened in response. She leaned toward him.

“This is an excellent wine, Aimee. Are you sure you don’t want to save it for a special occasion?”

Aimee jerked back, chastising herself for reacting as she did to Peter’s nearness. He released the glasses, and she hurried across the room with them. “This is a special occasion,” she said, forcing a smile into her voice that she was far from feeling. “Thanks to you, my pipe’s fixed and I saved a small fortune in plumber’s fees.” A small fortune she didn’t have, and was unlikely to have at any time in the future, Aimee added silently. She could only hope that she would be as lucky at repairing the ceiling tiles.

“Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” Liza asked from the doorway. She sauntered into the room, her long, sleek legs exposed to full advantage by cuffed khaki shorts. With her crisp white blouse and her long blond hair pulled back in a neat French braid, Liza looked as cool and fresh as a summer breeze.

Aimee glanced down at her own denim cutoffs and her nicely shaped, but noticeably shorter, legs. She noted the smudge of grease on her faded art T-shirt. She grimaced, all too aware of the contrast between herself and her elegant friend…and wondered, not for the first time, how Peter could possibly have chosen her over Liza the night they met.

“A beautiful woman is always welcome,” Jacques said. Taking Liza’s hand, he brought it to his lips.

“My, my, you are a smooth one,” Liza said.

“I will take that as a compliment, mademoiselle. It is mademoiselle, isn’t it? I assumed you asked for my assistance this morning because there was no Monsieur O’Malley.”

Liza shot him a look that Aimee had seen her friend use in the past to freeze men in their tracks. It didn’t work on Jacques.

“You shut the door on me so quickly this morning, I did not have an opportunity to officially introduce myself to you. Jacques Gaston. Artist extraordinaire.”

“Not only smooth, but modest, too,” Liza quipped, withdrawing her hand.

“I see no reason for false modesty,” Jacques returned. A megawatt smile spread across his handsome face. “Do you?”

Aimee bit back a laugh at the wary arch of her friend’s brow. Like most men, Jacques was obviously drawn to the other woman’s beauty. That was something Liza herself considered a flaw, since most people failed to see past the physical loveliness to the woman inside.

She cut a glance to Jacques, and grinned at his captivated expression. Whether Liza wanted it or not, she had herself another conquest. The truth was, Aimee had yet to meet a member of the male species who hadn’t succumbed to Liza’s beauty and charm.

Except Peter.

Although he had met her and Liza at the same party, Peter had never once shown any interest in her gorgeous friend. She had been the sole object of his attention.

As Liza and Jacques continued to spar, Aimee looked across the room at Peter. Leaning against the countertop, his arms folded over his chest, he appeared bored and even irritated by Liza’s appearance—not the least bit affected by her friend’s beauty. For some reason, the thought filled Aimee with pleasure, made her feel special. Surely, if Peter’s interest in her was merely physical, he would have found Liza equally appealing.

As though sensing her scrutiny, Peter shifted his gaze to Aimee. His eyes darkened to a smoky blue, reminding her of storm clouds gathering before a squall. He stared at her mouth, her throat, then dropped his gaze to her breasts. Braless, her nipples hardened against her T-shirt.

Aimee swallowed as his gaze dropped lower still. Her stomach quivered in response, and she could feel the warm tenderness gathering between her thighs.

“No thanks, Mr. Gaston,” Liza was saying. “I gave up being interested in seeing a man’s etchings…er, paintings, when I was still in high school,” she added coolly.

The ice in her friend’s voice enabled Aimee to turn away, breaking the sensuous spell Peter cast over her with one of his steamy looks.

“I promise you, mine are worth seeing,” Jacques said, seemingly unperturbed by Liza’s barb.

“Like I said, I’m not interested in seeing your paintings. But I’m sure Aimee would love to see them.”

Aimee narrowed her eyes at the triumphant note in Liza’s voice. She caught the smug smile her friend tossed Peter’s way. For the life of her, Aimee didn’t understand why Liza insisted Peter was using her, or why her friend remained furious with Peter for his refusal to marry without the prenuptial agreement. Whatever the reason, Aimee was certain that Liza’s attempts to make Peter jealous were not the answer to her dilemma. Jealousy didn’t necessarily equal love. Although she had told her friend as much on numerous occasions, it hadn’t stopped the blond beauty from trying to elicit that reaction from Peter.

“After all, Aimee’s an artist,” Liza said sweetly. “It’s something the two of you have in common.”

Aimee cut a glance to Peter. From his thunderous expression, she knew Peter had risen to Liza’s bait once again.

“Ah, but Aimee has already seen my paintings,” Jacques said smoothly.

“Has she now?” Peter asked, his mouth tightening into an angry line.

“Yes,” Jacques replied offhandedly.

Aimee nearly groaned, wishing Jacques had explained that she had seen the paintings when he moved into the building, two days before. Obviously, from the looks on both Liza’s and Peter’s faces, they had jumped to a far less innocent conclusion—one that Aimee refused to dignify with an explanation.

“But you, Liza, have not seen my work.” Evidently not the least concerned by the scowl on Peter’s face, Jacques refilled Liza’s wineglass. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

“Quite sure.” Liza set her glass down firmly on the countertop. The crystal clinked against the ceramic, the sound loud in the tension-filled silence. Tipping up her chin at a haughty angle, Liza turned to Aimee. “Simone asked me to let you know she’s having a problem with the door to her apartment. It’s sticking again, and she swears if she closes the thing she won’t be able to open it. She’s afraid to leave her apartment, because she’s convinced she won’t be able to get back inside.”

Aimee sighed. As much as she loved Aunt Tessie’s old building, the place really was a landlord’s nightmare and a repairman’s dream. If one had the money to pay for the repairs, that is. Unfortunately, she didn’t. Still, she knew she could never part with the place. It meant too much to her. It represented too many dreams.

“It’s probably the heat and humidity making the wood swell,” Jacques informed her.

“You think so?” Aimee asked hopefully. Surely one of her father’s manuals would have instructions on what to do to fix swollen wood, she thought. Already her thoughts were racing ahead to how to handle the repair.

“I think it is quite possible. It is not uncommon for an older structure like this one to have such a problem. It is a simple matter to fix. You remove the door, sand down its edges, and then, voila! The door fits once again.”

“Oh, Jacques, you’re a genius,” Aimee declared. Relief flooded through her.

“I thought you were an artist,” Liza said accusingly.

Jacques smiled slowly. “I am a man of many talents, Liza. Art is just one of them.”

The look he gave her friend could have melted ice, but Liza’s spine only seemed to grow stiffer.

“If you do not believe me, ask Aimee.”

Peter surged forward and grabbed the front of Jacques’s shirt. “And just what in the hell do you mean by that?”

“Peter!” Aimee raced over to him and tugged at his arm.

Peter ignored her. He curled his fist in the other man’s shirt. “Answer me, dammit.”

Jacques threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, mon amie, I think your almost-fiancé will not settle for a long engagement. He has the fever in his blood where you are concerned. And when a man gets the fever in his blood for a woman—” his gaze swept from Aimee to Liza, then back again “—he will stop at nothing until he has claimed her as his.”

Peter could feel his face flush. Shaking Aimee off his arm, he drew back his fist. “Why, you son of a—”

Aimee and Liza both screamed.

Jacques blocked the blow. “Mon Dieu! Get hold of yourself, Gallagher. I was talking about my talent for fixing broken pipes-not as Aimee’s lover.”

The pipe? Peter pulled back on the second punch, almost losing his balance in the process. He released his hold on Jacques’s shirt. The man had been talking about fixing a pipe?

Jacques rolled his eyes heavenward. “You are hottempered for an American. You must have the fiery blood of the French mixed in your veins.” He smoothed the rumpled lines of his shirt. “Do you not remember? I had just finished helping Aimee change the leaking pipe in her bathroom when you arrived.”

Peter thrust his hands through his hair. What in the hell is the matter with me? He had come here intent on convincing Aimee to marry him. Instead, he’d almost decked a guy for fixing her leaking pipe and managed to earn himself another dark scowl from Aimee.

“I’m so sorry, Jacques,” Aimee said. “I can’t imagine what got into Peter.”

Peter frowned. To make matters worse, Aimee was falling all over the man with apologies, and he still wanted to take a shot at the Frenchman’s arrogant chin. Fighting the urge to wipe the smile from the other man’s face, Peter jammed his fists into his pockets.

“Honestly. Peter’s not usually so…so…”

“Jealous,” Liza supplied.

“Quick-tempered,” Aimee said.

“I am not quick-tempered, and I am not jealous!” Peter glared at Aimee. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize to this egotistical Frenchman or let you apologize for me. For two cents, I’d still like to knock the guy’s lights out, and I will if he doesn’t stop leering at you.”

“For once, Peter, I agree with you. He is an egotistical Frenchman,” Liza quipped.

Peter ignored her. Enraged, he balled his hands into fists. He moved within inches of Jacques and leaned closer, making sure the Frenchman saw the anger and violence in his eyes. “In fact, if you and that little blond she-devil don’t get out of here within the next two minutes and let me talk to Aimee alone, I may do just that.”

Without waiting for a reply, Peter grabbed Aimee by the arm and marched her into the living room, where he pulled open the door to the apartment and waited.

“Come along, Liza.” Jacques took the she-devil by the arm and propelled her toward the door. “Why don’t you show me where Mademoiselle Simone’s apartment is, and I’ll take a look at that door for her?”

“Thank you, Jacques,” Aimee said softly. “Tell Simone I’ll be up to check on it later.”

Aimee closed the door behind them. Peter reached over her and turned the lock. Aimee spun around, but before she could walk away, Peter planted both of his hands firmly against the door, trapping her within the circle of his arms.

Her hands came up defensively; she splayed them against his chest. He could feel Aimee’s entire body, stiff and unyielding, against his. No doubt she was furious with him. He didn’t blame her. He deserved her anger. He had acted like a caveman, and he knew it. But he had been unable to help himself. Bracing himself, Peter waited for her to push him away.

When she didn’t, he slanted a look at her face. He had seldom seen Aimee speechless, but apparently she was now. Either that, or she decided he wasn’t even worth a tonguelashing.

She was right. He probably wasn’t. There was no excuse for his outrageous behavior. For an astute businessman known for his coolness and levelheadedness even at the most tense and competitive auctions, he had acted like the greenest of art dealers, overreacting and overbidding.

Only Aimee wasn’t some coveted piece of art. She was a flesh-and-blood woman. His woman. And he had been blind with jealousy when he saw her with another man.

Peter studied her face. Her cheeks had colored to a bright shade of pink. Her ghost-blue eyes were wide and filled with some unreadable emotion. The cap of dark hair on her head was tousled, as though she had just crawled from bed after a night of lovemaking—his lovemaking, Peter thought possessively.

He could feel his groin stir at the erotic images of Aimee in his bed, and he closed his eyes for a moment, battling with the need to take her here…now. Heaven help him. He had lusted after a woman before, but no woman had ever affected him like this. This constant need, this constant want. She was like an addictive drug…one he couldn’t get enough of.

“Peter.”

He opened his eyes at the sound of his name and stared at her Cupid’s-bow mouth, bare except for a slight sheen, as though she had just licked it with her tongue. Drawing in a breath, Peter clamped down the urge to run his own tongue over those lips.

“Peter.” She whispered his name a second time, and touched his jaw, her eyes questioning.

Her gentle touch was his undoing. He covered her mouth with his own. Reining in the fierce hunger inside him, slowly Peter traced the shape of her lips, savored the feel of their softness. When she parted them and eased her arms around his neck, Peter moaned and deepened the kiss.

With her back still pressed against the door, he dropped one of the hands that had imprisoned her and cupped her breast. He filled his palm with her fullness, then circled the nipple with his thumb.

Aimee moaned and thrust her body closer. Peter shifted, the ache inside him growing painful. Cupping her buttocks with both hands, Peter lifted her, pressing his hardness into the soft warmth of her thighs.

Aimee gasped, and he took possession of her mouth again. He knew he should stop. He was dangerously close to taking her, here and now, standing up pressed against the door of her apartment. The French doors that Aimee had left unfettered by curtains also left them in full view of anyone who happened to walk out onto the balcony of the building across the street.

Sweat broke out across his brow. But this time it had nothing to do with the summer heat and everything to do with Aimee.

He should at least carry her into the bedroom, Peter told himself. Pressing himself against her, he trembled with the intensity of his desire for her. Intent on taking her to the bedroom, he released her buttocks and allowed her to slide down him, to feel his pulsing need.

But Aimee chose that moment to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. She pressed her mouth to his chest.

Any thoughts of waiting until they got to the bedroom were abandoned. He knew he would never make it that far. His throat felt dry, parched, as though he had been wandering in the desert.

Aimee was a glass of cool, welcome water, and he drank from her, soothing his unquenchable thirst. He dropped to his knees in front of her and gently he kissed the inch of pale skin exposed by the cropped T-shirt.

She curled her fingers into his shoulders, digging into the skin covered by his shirt. The bite of her nails in his flesh only fed the hunger raging inside him.

Unbuttoning the snap of her shorts, Peter stroked her skin with his tongue. He dipped lower and thrust inside the sensitive indentation of her navel.

“Peter—” she gasped his name.

Holding her hips, he continued to feast on her with his tongue. He felt the tremor go through her, and groaned. His own body trembled as Aimee, her fingers locked in his hair, urged him to his feet.

She looked at him out of pale eyes that were hot and soft and filled with passion. She pulled his shirt free, spread her fingers against his skin, then moved lower and stroked his hard length.

Peter groaned as her touch brought both pleasure and pain. Capturing her mouth again, he kissed her. Fiercely. Savagely. His heart pounded in his chest, the beat echoing the fire blazing wildly inside him.

As Aimee reached for his belt, he heard a sharp rapping against the door, followed by a pounding.

“Aimee?” The doorknob rattled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Aimee! Why is the door locked?” The knob twisted impatiently, and then the pounding started again. “Come on, Aimee. Open up! You’ve got to get downstairs right away. There’s a guy in the shop that Jacques says is an art dealer, and he’s asking about one of your paintings!”

Three

“Aimee, did you hear me?” Liza gave the doorknob another twist. “There’s an art dealer downstairs asking about your work. You need to get down there before that Neanderthal Jacques scares him off.” Liza pounded on the door once more. “Aimee!”

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” Peter whispered, his mouth mere inches from her ear.

Aimee shook her head. With her senses still clouded, her body throbbing, Aimee didn’t think she could speak if her life depended on it. Though Peter’s body remained pressed against hers and she could still feel his arousal, Aimee could already feel his withdrawal.

“I know you’re in there, Aimee Lawrence, and I am not going to allow you to throw away this opportunity.”

Peter took a deep breath. The action expanded his chest, pushing the hard expanse of muscles against her breasts. Aimee bit back a moan as she felt herself respond to him.

“You’ve got five minutes. If you’re not downstairs by then, I’m coming back with my key. And so help me, beast or no beast, I’ll drag you out of there. I mean it, Aimee,” Liza threatened. She gave the doorknob another shake. “I refuse to let you blow what could be your big break for some scheming opportunist who can’t see past the bulge in his pants.”

Cursing, Peter jerked away from Aimee as though he’d been slapped.

Her pulse still pounding furiously, Aimee barely registered Liza’s retreating footsteps or her threat to return with a key. But there was no mistaking the insult-or Peter’s reaction to it.

Following Peter’s lead, Aimee took a deep, measured breath of her own. She leaned against the door, her senses still reeling, her body weak with desire brought to a fever pitch, only to be left hanging. Silently she damned her friend’s timing and her acid tongue.

She eyed Peter as he straightened his shirt and rebuckled his belt, both envying and resenting him for his ability to reassert control over his senses so easily.

She, unfortunately, didn’t possess such recuperative abilities—especially not where Peter was concerned. Nor was she as adept as he was at shutting off her feelings.

And that was the problem, Aimee admitted, frowning. Her emotions were involved. Her affair with Peter wasn’t based on simple lust. She was in love with him. That was why her response to him was always so powerful, so all-consuming. It wasn’t simply her body that responded to his touch, but her heart, as well.

Surely Peter felt something for her, something that went beyond the physical chemistry they shared. She refused to believe that he could hold her, touch her, make love to her, as he did without some part of his heart being involved.

At least that was what she had told herself. She had also told the same thing to Liza when the other woman questioned her wisdom in engaging in an affair with Peter.

True, he was a bit jaded when it came to love. But it was the failure of his first marriage that caused him to be so skeptical. The scars evidently ran very deep. He was scared, even cynical, where marriage was concerned, and perhaps even a bit paranoid about divorce and its aftermath. That was why he had insisted on the prenuptial agreement. He truly believed divorce was inevitable.

She believed no such thing. That was why she had refused to sign the dumb thing—not because she gave a lick about his money, property settlements or alimony.

She didn’t. Those were things. They meant nothing to her. But Peter meant everything. It was him she cared about. It was him she loved. Not his gallery or his stock portfolio.

Aimee sighed. All he needed was time, and her love, to heal him. That was why she had suggested they have an affair. But, Lord, when was the man going to realize she really did love him? And when was he going to open his eyes and realize that his feelings for her ran deeper than lust?

And what if he never does? What if lust is all he does feel for you?

The questions sprang from somewhere buried deep inside her. From the same place that made her wonder sometimes whether she possessed any real talent, whether she deserved to call herself an artist.

Aimee gave herself a mental shake, dismissing the negative thoughts. Think positive, she told herself. She had to envision Peter falling in love with her the same way she envisioned her discovery as an artist. Both would happen, as long as she believed they would. That was the key. She had to believe Peter would fall in love with her, just as she had fallen in love with him.

She studied Peter as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. His handsome face was inscrutable, and his deep blue eyes were hooded. He seemed so cool, so remote. He certainly bore no resemblance to a man in love. A man with secrets, Liza had called him. Looking at him now, Aimee could easily believe he did have secrets-secrets he would be unwilling to share.

A flicker of doubt shimmied down her spine, making Aimee’s stomach knot. Could Liza be right? In addition to bedding her, was Peter also after something else?

No! Aimee shoved the thought aside. But as she refastened the snap of her shorts and straightened her clothes, Liza’s words came back to haunt her…

The beast definitely has the hots for you, kiddo. No question about that. The only time the guy ever comes close to losing some of that cool control of his is when he’s around you.”

“You mean when you provoke him,” Aimee had countered. “And stop calling him a beast.”

Liza had shrugged one elegant shoulder. “Just remember, lust isn’t love. I should know. And if I were you, I’d ask myself why he’s so anxious to get married, if he doesn’t believe it’s going to work. Men like Gallagher don’t marry a woman just to bed her. Hell, they don’t even allow themselves to fall in lust with a woman without a motive.”

Although she had argued with Liza that Peter’s marriage proposal stemmed from some deeper, nobler feelings, Aimee was beginning to wonder. While she had never questioned his passion—he had always given himself generously and skillfully as a lover, making sure of her pleasure before taking his own—she had sensed for some time that he held a piece of himself back. That even while he was buried deep inside her, following her over the edge as they both shuddered in climax, he somehow still managed to maintain a measure of control over his emotions.

A dismaying thought, she decided, especially when she considered how completely she seemed to lose her own control while in his arms.

Aimee watched as Peter smoothed back his hair. Judging from his shuttered expression, she would be hard-pressed to say that Peter even felt lust for her at the moment, let alone love. He certainly didn’t look like a man who had been so overcome by his passion for her a few moments ago that he was on the verge of making love to her standing up and pressed against the door of her apartment.

Heat, sweet and warm, wrapped itself around her as Aimee recalled the fierce need she’d tasted in his kiss, the savage hunger she had seen in his blue eyes.

She swallowed hard, trying to banish the sensual images from her thoughts. Her body felt taut, achy. Even the thought of Peter’s lovemaking had her body responding effortlessly, like a priceless Stradivarius in the hands of a master musician. Of course, her physical response was all tangled up with her love for him.

The problem was, she really wasn’t sure whether Peter loved her. Even more disconcerting was wondering if he ever would. For the first time since she had embarked on her madcap plan to restore Peter’s faith in love, Aimee wondered if she had made a mistake. Had she been deluding herself by thinking Peter’s feelings for her ran deeper than mere lust?

She cut another glance to Peter’s face. The mouth that had given and taken so greedily only moments before was drawn into a frown. The line of his jaw was rigid, and his eyes were cool.

Recalling the fire in his eyes when he had attempted to punch Jacques over the other man’s innocent, though misconstrued, comment, Aimee could have sworn some deeper emotion had been at work. Maybe not love—at least not yet—but surely something close to it.

What else would explain that so un-Peter-like response? A smile tugged at her lips. Even Liza had been taken aback by Peter’s reaction to Jacques. The knot in Aimee’s stomach unfurled. Some of the tension eased from her body as her spirits and hopes lifted.

Peter looked at her then, his eyes narrowing. “Something funny?” he asked, his gravelly voice breaking the silence. His brow furrowed. It was a gesture Aimee had come to recognize as something he did when he was annoyed.

She smiled more widely, foolishly pleased that she had not been the only one disappointed by the interruption. “Oh, I was just wondering what Liza would have done if she had showed up five minutes later and the door had been unlocked, the way it usually is.”

“She’d probably have grabbed the first sharp object she could lay her hands on, preferably a sword, and run me through with it.”

Aimee laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Liza would never do such a thing.”

“Don’t bet on it. The woman’s never made a secret of the fact that she doesn’t like me. I guess I should take some consolation in the fact that she doesn’t seem to like your friend Jacques, either.”

Aimee couldn’t argue with that. It was true. Liza didn’t like Peter and, evidently, she didn’t care for Jacques. In truth, Liza didn’t like most men, nor did she trust any of them. And with reason. “She just doesn’t want to see me get hurt,” Aimee said defensively.

“What makes her think I’d hurt you?”

Aimee shrugged. “She knows how I feel about you. She also knows those feelings aren’t reciprocated.”

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