by Metsy Hingle
And that was the problem, Peter admitted. While he wanted Aimee, with an intensity that surprised him—even worried him at times—until recently the need hadn’t been an emotional one.
But as he looked at her flushed face, her slightly swollen lips, he found himself waiting for the words that would tell him that the passion between them was more than physical. And it was that need to hear her say the words, to have her tell him that she loved him, that made him pull back.
Aimee opened her eyes. The tiny line between her brows crinkled as she stared up at him.
A sharp, almost achy feeling filled his chest at the familiar expression. Automatically he smoothed his thumb along the frown line.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong. But I need to get back to the gallery.” Dropping his hand, Peter stepped back, uncomfortable with these new feelings that Aimee inspired in him. He needed to treat his desire for Aimee like the acquisition of a priceless work of art, he reminded himself. No matter how much he coveted a piece, allowing himself to become emotionally involved would only drive up the price. Allowing himself to become emotionally ensnared by Aimee could prove just as costly. He had paid a hefty tab, both financially and emotionally, in his first marriage. He refused to do the same thing again.
“You’re leaving? Now?”
He needed time to think, time to regroup. Peter began refastening the buttons of his shirt. “Yes. I need to get back to the gallery. I’m expecting an important shipment in from New York.”
“But what about lunch? You haven’t eaten yet.”
“I really wasn’t all that hungry,” he told her. “I’ll grab something later.”
“But the champagne?”
“Save it. We’ll open it later and celebrate, after we settle all the details about your exhibit.”
“Peter, about the exhibit…We really need to talk about that, about the contract you sent over. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Of course it’s a good idea,” he said, fighting the uneasiness that had begun to stir inside him again. He felt as though he were back in the nightmare, locked in the vault, with the light growing dim. “I promised to make you a star, and the exhibit’s the first step. I’m going to make all your dreams come true.”
“Peter, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t think I want—”
He pulled her to him, kissed her long, hard, then set her away. “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about it tonight.”
“I can’t tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I promised Simone I would help her repair some of the masks that were damaged a few weeks ago. That’s why I suggested lunch today.”
Peter bit back his disappointment. “No problem. What about tomorrow?”
“You could take me to the Art For Children’s Sake fundraiser tomorrow night. A little bird told me you bought tickets.” The smile she gave him was both sensuous and innocent, and held more than a trace of mischief.
“Evidently Doris needs reminding about who she works for,” he told her, knowing his secretary had been the one to tell Aimee about what she perceived as his generosity. “I forgot—what time is it for?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. We’ll have dinner first.”
Aimee slipped her arms around him and kissed him gently, slowly, making his heart pound frenetically, making his body ache with need.
“Make it six-thirty,” she whispered. “I’ll fix dinner here instead.”
“You’ve got yourself a date, Ms. Lawrence.” He kissed her quickly and hurried out the door while he still could. And between now and tomorrow evening, he would set things in motion, work out his plan, Peter told himself.
And tomorrow night, he would make Aimee Lawrence an offer she couldn’t refuse, one that would satisfy all their needs. They would both be able to sate this unquenchable passion that flared uncontrollably between them until the fire burned itself out.
And once the fire had been doused, when it was all over and done with, they would each have what they wanted—Aimee would be a star in the art world, and he would have his building back. And at long last, Gallagher’s would be home.
Seven
Aimee stepped inside Peter’s condo, the slim heels of her strappy red sandals sinking into the plush silver carpet. Her head was still swimming with the excitement of the evening. “Wasn’t it a fabulous party?”
“Yeah. Terrific,” Peter said as he shut the door and followed Aimee into the room.
Ignoring his unenthusiastic response, Aimee spun around, sending the skirt of her strapless dress into a swirl of red chiffon about her legs. She liked the feel of the fabric, enjoyed the swishing sound it made when she moved. She felt happy, alive, and more in love with Peter than ever.
Savoring the moment, she launched herself into his arms and kissed him. At the surprised look on his face, she tipped her head back and laughed. Then she kissed him again. “Well, I had a wonderful time, even if you didn’t.”
“Who says I didn’t have a good time?”
Aimee giggled. “I do.” With his hands still anchored at her waist, his body pressed so close to hers, Aimee was keenly aware of Peter’s growing response to her nearness. That she excited him so easily, so quickly, only added to the heady feeling of the moment.
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“Liar,” Aimee countered. “You were bored stiff, and you know it.”
“With the party,” he told her. “But not with you. Never with you.”
The solemn tone of his voice touched something deep inside her, and Aimee felt as though her chest would burst from the emotions stirring within her. She caressed his cheek. “I’m glad. I’d hate it if you found me boring.”
“You? Boring? Not a chance.” Turning his face, Peter brushed his lips along the palm of her hand, and Aimee shivered at the heat of his mouth, the touch of his lips on her skin.
“You make me feel a lot of things. Happy. Angry. Excited. Frustrated. Sometimes you even make me feel a little crazy. But bored? Never. Not in this lifetime.” Drawing her more closely into his arms, Peter kissed her. His mouth was warm, gentle, coaxing, as he teased her lips apart with feather-light strokes of his tongue.
Aimee opened her mouth to him, wanting, needing, more. As though he understood her silent plea, Peter obliged, taking what she offered, demanding even more. Within moments, Aimee could feel herself slipping, spinning once more into the sensual storm of Peter’s lovemaking. When the kiss ended, Aimee sank against him and drew a steadying breath. Curling her fingers into the sleeve of his jacket, she rested her palm against his chest. She could feel the quick beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, feel the tremor that ran through his body.
“If I’d known you would respond like this, I would have made a much bigger donation to the art fund tonight. In fact,” he whispered, nuzzling the lobe of her ear, “I think I’ll send them another check tomorrow morning.”
Aimee laughed again. “You really are a sweet man, Peter Gallagher.”
“Sweet?” Peter repeated, his voice filled with mock indignation.
“Yes, sweet.” Tracing his mouth with her fingertips, she looked up into his eyes. “Go ahead and pretend to be the cold, hard businessman if you want to. But I know differently. You’re really a very kind and generous man. It’s part of the reason I love you.”
Something flickered in his eyes a moment, and then he was grinning at her. “We’ve got to do something about those rose-colored glasses of yours, sweetheart. I seriously doubt that anyone else in this city would describe me as kind and generous. In fact, I’m pretty sure most people would tell you just the opposite.”
“Then they’d be wrong.”
Peter shook his head. The grin disappeared. “No, they wouldn’t.” Gently he smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not playing the role of a cold, hard businessman, Aimee. I am a cold, hard businessman,” he insisted, his voice serious,
his expression more somber.
“Dealing in art is a risky business. There’s no room in it for sentiments or kindness—not if you want to survive. There’s always someone waiting in the wings to discover the next Andy Warhol or Peter Mann before you do. And there’s always the risk that just when some budding artist’s work starts to take off, one of your so-called friends will steal them away before you even have a chance to recoup the time and money you invested in promoting their work.”
Aimee knew without asking that he was referring to his ex-wife. She had heard the stories and rumors about Leslie’s defection to Peter’s competitors, just like everyone else.
“For all its beauty, art has its ugly side, too. Sometimes the dollars and cents make it ugly. Sometimes it makes me ugly—not generous and kind. If you don’t believe me, just ask anyone who’s ever done business with me. Ask your friend Stephen Edmond.”
Aimee looked away, discomfited by the dark picture Peter painted of himself. She also didn’t want to bring up the subject of Edmond’s Gallery, and the sting that still lingered from their rejection of her and her work. “I don’t have to ask anyone.”
“Why? Because you know me so well?”
When she didn’t answer, Peter eased her chin up with his finger, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Is that it? You really think you know me, Aimee?”
“Yes,” she said, more confidently than she felt. She might not always understand him, but surely she knew him. How could she be so deeply in love with the man and not know him?
“I’m not one of your freeloading artist friends, Aimee. If you keep looking at me through those rose-colored glasses, you’re only going to end up disappointed. And I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Dismissing his self-deprecating comment, Aimee said, “You won’t. You couldn’t. Not after what you did for that young man tonight.”
“Aimee…”
She ignored the warning in his voice. “You gave the boy his dream, Peter. You gave him a chance to go to art school.”
“It was a fund-raiser. Tax-deductible. Everyone who purchased tickets to the thing helped pay for him and the other kids to go to art school.”
Aimee let out a long, exasperated sigh that ruffled the fringe of dark bangs across her forehead. “Why can’t you just admit that you did something nice?” she demanded. “I saw you talking to that boy this evening. You know, the one whose painting got the honorable mention in the student competition, but no scholarship money to go with it. He told me you offered him an apprenticeship at the gallery.”
Peter shrugged. “I needed some help.”
“Umm-hmm…That’s why you offered him a subsidy for art school.”
“It was business.”
“If you say so.”
His fingers tightened around her waist. “Don’t make me out to be some noble do-gooder, Aimee. I’m not. I told you, I never do anything without a reason. Most people don’t. You should remember that.”
Aimee studied his hard expression and wondered, yet again, what was troubling Peter tonight. And why was he so determined that she see him in such an unflattering light?
“Besides, that kid will work twice as hard for me because I am paying for him to go to art school. That’s the reason I offered him the apprenticeship—not because I’m some great philanthropist.”
She hated to hear him talk about himself that way, especially when she knew that this wasn’t the first time Peter had made such an offer. Only recently she had learned about the scholarship fund he had established in his father’s name to benefit one of the centers for children in the arts. And hadn’t he offered on more than one occasion to buy her building and relieve her of the burden its upkeep created?
“You know what I think?” Without waiting for him to answer, she continued, “I think you’re a fraud, Peter Gallagher. I think you’re a kind, generous man, but for some reason you don’t want people to know it. Well, it’s too late. Maybe you have a lot of other people fooled, but not me. I know who and what you are. I told you, it’s part of the reason that I love you.” And it was the reason she had been unable to stop loving him, even though she had begun to despair of ever hearing him say the same words to her.
“Have it your way, then. Just remember, everyone wants something. Everyone.”
“Peter—”
“Everyone at that fund-raiser tonight wanted something. You think they were there, all decked out in their designer clothes and jewels, because they’re so noble and want to help the underprivileged?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Maybe a few of them were. But most of them weren’t. They were there because they wanted to feel good about themselves. Because they’re hoping to see their pictures splashed across the pages of Nell Nolan’s column in the newspaper next week, touting them as generous souls and art connoisseurs. And some of them were there for the same reason I was. Because it makes for good business. That’s why I bought the tickets. That’s the main reason most of those people were willing to fork over a thousand bucks a pop to sip donated champagne and eat little crab cakes.
“Even the kids there were working an angle. They wanted the rich folks to shake loose some bucks so they could go to art school. Or, better yet, come up with a deal like I offered that kid tonight—a job and money for art school.”
“You make it all sound so cynical.”
“Because life is cynical,” Peter told her. “It’s like I said—everyone wants something, Aimee. Everyone’s working an angle.”
“What about you?”
He swept his gaze along the curves of her breasts, her bare shoulders, her throat. It was like a physical caress, and Aimee’s heart raced furiously. Her breath caught in her throat when his eyes finally met hers.
“Especially me,” he whispered.
Feeling bold, she held his gaze steadily. “Well, since I’ve got designs on your body tonight, I guess I’ll just have to take my chances and hope you don’t take advantage of me.”
An odd expression flickered across Peter’s face, but Aimee dismissed it. She refused to let him dampen her spirits further. Loosening the knot of his tie, she caught the ends of the silk and used it to pull his face closer. “Besides,” she murmured. “I trust you.”
The blue of his eyes heated to black before he captured her face in his hands. “You shouldn’t. I didn’t ask for your trust. I don’t want it.”
“Too late. You’ve already got it.” Still holding the tie, Aimee pulled him closer, until his mouth hovered just above her own.
“Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been telling you?”
“Every word.”
“Then you’d be a fool to trust me, or anyone.”
“You know what your problem is, Peter?”
“What?”
“You talk too much. Now shut up and kiss me.” Giving the tie a final tug, she pulled his mouth to hers and parted her lips.
Peter needed no further coaxing. He took her mouth with the fury of a storm. His kiss was hot, openmouthed, hungry. He pulled her body closer, pressed her against him. And this time, when he kissed her, there was no mistaking that he was a man who wanted her very much.
And there was no denying that she wanted him.
When he slipped one arm beneath her knees and lifted her, instinctively Aimee slid her arms around his neck. She held on to him, unable to speak, barely able to breathe, as he carried her to the sofa. Easing onto the couch, Peter sank back against the cushions with her in his arms.
He kissed her bare shoulder, renewing his foray on her senses as his mouth inched along the line of her throat. His breath was warm and his lips were searing as he tasted the sensitized flesh above her breasts.
“Ah, Aimee…You’re like a fever in my blood. I can’t ever seem to get enough of you.”
Aimee quivered at the rough timbre of his voice.
He stroked her leg, sliding his fingers along her calf. “I want you so much. Too much. Sometimes it scares me just how much I want you.”
And she wanted him. Aimee trembled under his touch, felt the hot, sweet ache building between her thighs. She gasped as he cupped her femininity, brushed his thumb across the thin silk that separated her flesh from him.
Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes. “And it’s not just sex. I swear it’s never been just sex between us.”
“I know,” she murmured, knowing he was apologizing once more for his cruel words and the pain they had caused her a few weeks ago. No, Aimee admitted, whatever Peter’s feelings for her were, she did know that there was more, so much more, than just sex between them.
Besides, how could it be simply sex, when she was so deeply in love with him? She caressed his cheek and shivered when he kissed her palm once more.
Aimee closed her eyes as he pulled her more closely into his arms. Peter kissed her, gently, sweetly, hotly. Could any man make love to a woman as Peter was doing to her now and not have his feelings engaged?
She hoped not. She prayed not as she opened her mouth to him and felt the thrust of his tongue against her own. Because, heaven help her, she had long ago lost her heart to him, and no matter what happened, she wasn’t sure it would ever belong to her again.
He crushed her to him so tightly, Aimee moaned under the pleasure and pain his weight caused her.
Peter broke free from the kiss and buried his face against her neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so rough.”
“It’s okay,” she said soothingly.
“No, it’s not. I should have been more gentle.”
“Peter—”
“I don’t understand it,” he said, his breathing labored, his voice gravelly. “I’m like a damn schoolboy whenever I’m with you, hardly able to wait to feel myself inside you.” He took a deep breath and groaned again, crushing her more tightly to him. “Sweet heaven,” he whispered harshly. “Just the thought of you getting hot and wet for me and I’m like a clumsy teenager. All I can think about is feeling you wrapped around me…all hot and tight and sweet. Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me not to take you right now?”
Desire licked through her with the swiftness of a flame at his impassioned response. “Then don’t wait,” she whispered. “Take me now.”
