by Metsy Hingle
He stood firm, drawing Aimee’s progression toward the door to a halt. “I have appointments scheduled all afternoon.”
“Doris is rescheduling them as we speak.”
He started to object, but Aimee pressed her fingers to his lips. “You deserve some time off. We both do. Forget about the gallery and business today. Let’s play hooky together.”
He was probably crazy. Canceling appointments and taking off for the beach was no way to run a business. But the temptation of spending the day with Aimee was too much to resist. “All right.”
Ushering her out of the vault, Peter shoved the door closed and reset the alarm code. He reached for the jacket hanging on the valet in his office.
Aimee grabbed his hand before he could retrieve it. “You won’t need a jacket at the beach,” she told him. “Or that blasted tie.” Grinning, she reached up, unknotted his tie and pulled it from his neck. She tossed it toward the valet stand, where it struck his jacket before sliding to the floor.
Peter cocked his brow. “And just what do I need for the beach?”
“A swimsuit.” She gave him another impish smile. “That is, unless you’re brave enough to risk skinny-dipping with me.”
As it turned out, neither of them was brave enough to risk skinny-dipping. While the idea of making love to Aimee with the sea swirling around them was a tantalizing thought, making the fantasy a reality was impossible.
The beach was everything Aimee had promised—white sand, cool, clear water and warm summer breezes. It was also packed with sun worshipers, an inordinate number of small children and parents among them, obviously trying to make the most of the final weeks of summer before the new school year began.
Lying on the beach blanket, Peter propped himself up on one elbow, with the cellular flip phone pressed to his ear, while Doris gave him a list of messages. Half listening, he watched as Aimee frolicked along the shoreline. The simple white swimsuit she wore skimmed her body, cupping the soft curves of her bottom, the lean lines of her hips and waist. The sun had painted her skin a soft creamy shade that reminded him of café au lait, the coffee-and-warm-milk favorite indigenous to the French Quarter of New Orleans. Peter could feel himself growing hard as he contemplated peeling away the straps of her suit and discovering those portions of her body that remained untouched by the sun.
“Peter.” Aimee waved to him from the water’s edge, beckoning him to join her.
Peter pointed to the phone in his hand. After making a face at him, she raced out into the surf and dived into the water.
“I’ve got a list of the flights out on Saturday,” Doris said.
Several seconds passed, and Peter sat up, his heart beating anxiously as he waited for Aimee to resurface. When her dark head broke the water, he released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
“Peter? Peter, are you there?”
“Sorry, Doris. What was that you said?”
“I asked if you wanted me to go over the flight schedules to Chicago with you.”
“When does Hendrickson want to meet?”
“On Saturday. There’s a flight that leaves at nine-thirty in the morning and puts you into Chicago at…”
The rest of Doris’s words were lost as he watched Aimee emerge from the water and start toward the shore. Her white swimsuit was plastered against her body, and her skin glistened as water streamed in tiny rivulets down her throat, between her breasts. She looked like a sea nymph, Peter thought as she raced from the shore toward him.
Laughing, she dropped to her knees onto the blanket in front of him and grabbed the cellular phone from his fingers. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Gallagher’s been called away on an urgent matter. He’ll have to call you back.” She pressed the off button and tossed the phone into the sand.
“An urgent matter?” Peter repeated.
“A most urgent matter,” she informed him before launching herself into his arms and knocking him back onto the blanket. “Me,” she whispered just before she fastened her mouth to his.
Peter closed his arms around her. He could feel the heat from her body penetrating her wet swimsuit. She shifted slightly, easing her thigh between his legs. He sucked in his breath at the movement, then groaned as she rubbed against his hardening length.
He felt the smile spread across her lips at his reaction. When she traced his mouth with her tongue, Peter’s control broke. He flipped Aimee onto her back. The surprised look in her ghost-blue eyes quickly turned to one of hunger, a deep sensual hunger that resembled his own.
When he lowered his mouth to kiss her this time, there was no more teasing, no more playing, only need-a deep, powerful, all-consuming need.
Aimee opened her mouth to him. And when Peter thrust his tongue inside to mate with hers, she welcomed him as only Aimee could.
“Peter…” she murmured his name. She curled her fingers into his bare shoulders, marking his skin as she had already managed to mark his very existence, filling his thoughts with her scent, with her touch, with her laughter and image.
His heart pounded so loudly, Peter thought surely the thing would burst and he would die here on the beach-hot and heavy with his need for Aimee.
She arched her body toward him, and he shuddered. At least he would die a happy man, he mused. Surrendering to the torment of his need for her, Peter kissed Aimee again, giving into the madness that only she could make him feel.
He tore his mouth free from her lips and was about to taste the skin at her neck when he heard the first giggle.
“Mommy, come see! They’re kissing!” a little boy called out.
Peter froze at the sound of the child’s voice. Struggling to regain control of himself, he drew a deep breath and strained to quell the painful ache in his lower body. After a few seconds, he reluctantly lifted his head.
Opening his eyes, he looked into the face of the intruder. A young boy of about four or five sat scant inches away. The tyke was crouched on his hands and knees, his head was turned at an odd angle. He stared at Peter out of curious dark brown eyes. “Do you like kissing girls?” he asked.
“I like kissing this one,” Peter said. To demonstrate, he gave Aimee a quick peck on the lips.
The boy’s eyes grew even wider.
“Hi, there,” Aimee said, sitting up.
“Hi,” the boy said. He looked from Aimee to Peter and back again. “Are you playing mommy and daddy? Is that why you were kissing? My mommy and daddy were kissing, and now I’m going to get a baby brother. Are you going to get a baby, too?”
“So, that’s how it’s done,” Aimee said, her lips twitching as she shot a look at Peter and then turned back to the boy.
“Yeah. My daddy said that when a mommy and daddy kiss, they—”
“Timmy? Timmy, where are you?” a young pregnant woman called from the beach.
The boy scrambled to his feet and started waving his hands. “Here I am! I’m over here, Mommy! I gotta go,” he told them, and he was off, racing toward his mother, kicking up a flurry of sand that managed to scatter all over the two of them.
As Peter brushed the sand away from his face and arms, the child’s words played over and over in his head. Are you playing mommy and daddy?
Peter stared out at the beach in the direction Timmy had gone, and for the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about what it would be like to be a father. He had given little thought to fatherhood—at least since Leslie had confessed that the child she had been carrying wasn’t his. Perhaps she had been right when she told him he was too cold to make anyone a good husband or father, that he had a calculator for a heart. He had never been a man of strong emotions. He still wasn’t.
Looking at Aimee, he tried to imagine her pregnant with his child. He found the idea strangely appealing, and frightening at the same time. Peter shook his head at the notion. Even if he and Aimee were ever to marry, he had no intention of bringing a child into the world. His conscience would never sanction such a thing—not when the marriag
e had little chance of lasting. He had been the child of divorced parents, and he knew firsthand just how ugly and painful divorce could be for a child. He refused to put a child through the same bitter experience he had been through with his own parents.
“You okay?” Aimee asked.
“Fine,” he said, but Peter was no longer sure that was true. He didn’t understand the strange empty feeling inside his gut when he thought of Aimee and her never carrying his child. “We should be heading back.”
“Do we have to? Couldn’t we stay a little longer? At least until the sun sets?” Aimee asked.
“Sure. We’ll stay until sunset.”
An hour later, as they sat on the beach and watched the sun begin its descent, Aimee said, “I wish today didn’t have to end.”
“Me too,” he told her. “But nothing lasts forever. Not even a day like this one.” He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “We have to get back.”
“I know,” Aimee said, wishing they could stay here forever. The day had been a magical one for her. For Peter, too, judging from his response. She thought of how contented and relaxed he had looked when he helped her build a sand castle. When he had joined her in the surf and allowed himself to be swept to the shore on the waves. When he had kissed her so hungrily and passionately as they lay together on the beach. She had felt closer to Peter today than ever before, and because of that closeness, she had allowed herself to believe that perhaps he did love her.
She studied the distant expression on Peter’s face as he instructed Doris to set up business meetings for the next morning. Peter didn’t even remotely resemble a man who was in love—not when he could shut off his emotions so quickly. Aimee sighed, her heart heavy with disappointment. She had been so sure that the sale of her paintings that morning was a sign. Could she have been so wrong? Was it possible that she could fuel such passion in him and still not touch his heart?
Shaking out the blanket, Aimee watched the grains of sand scatter in the wind, taking with it the special magic that had been hers and Peter’s for a short time.
“Ready?” he asked, taking the blanket and bag from her.
Aimee turned to look one last time at the beach. The sun was a glorious ball of orange and gold that filled the sky. Its rim sat poised on the edge of the water, like a gymnast on the tip of a balance beam. Then it tilted and began to slide into the darkening waters.
And as it disappeared, Aimee shuddered, unable to shake the feeling that the magical moments she had shared with Peter and her dreams of a future with him were sinking along with it.
Nine
“Did anyone ever tell you that these stairs are murder?” Peter asked as he followed Aimee up the steep stairway leading to her apartment.
“All the time,” Aimee told him. Pushing open the door to her apartment, she dumped her bag on the floor and then flopped down on the couch. “But you have to admit, it’s great exercise.”
“Right.” Peter put down the ice chest and beach ball he had been carrying and sat down beside her. “We made pretty good time getting back. What do you say to a quick shower and going out for a bite to eat?”
“The shower sounds good,” Aimee said, noting the traces of sand that clung to her legs and feet. “But I’d rather stay here. How about if we order pizza?”
“You’re the only woman I know who would turn down filet mignon for pizza.” Peter walked over to the phone. “I suppose you want anchovies?”
“Definitely,” she said, attempting to recapture some of her earlier optimism.
Peter made a face, then grinned. Lifting the receiver, he punched out several numbers and asked for information.
Aimee breathed easier at his shift in mood. She hadn’t understood what caused Peter’s earlier transformation from lighthearted to somber on the drive back. She was simply glad that whatever had been troubling him seemed to have been forgotten as they neared home.
“Aimee.” The urgent calling of her name was followed by a quick rap at the door before it was pushed open. “Mon amie, where have you been?” Jacques asked as he came into the room. “I have been trying to reach you all afternoon.”
Peter’s expression hardened. He hung up the phone. “In America, it’s customary for a gentleman to wait until he’s been invited to enter a woman’s apartment.”
Jacques swung his gaze from Aimee to Peter and back again. His eyes shimmered with amusement before he turned back to Peter. “Ah, but I am no gentleman, Gallagher. And most of the ladies of my acquaintance are only too happy to issue me an invitation to enter their apartments.”
Peter started toward Jacques, but Aimee stepped between the two men. “Behave yourself. Both of you.” She had spent enough time with Jacques to know the Frenchman found Peter’s jealousy amusing. Besides, she was fairly convinced that, whatever his relationship might be with Kay Sloane, Jacques’s real interest lay with Liza. “Why were you trying to reach me?”
“Because Kay has decided to use two of your paintings in the exhibit.”
Aimee’s heart stopped, then started again. “Really?”
“Really.” Jacques grinned. He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. “It’s true, mon amie. You’re going to be part of the exhibit. Not only that, but Kay is going to use one of your paintings as part of the press kit announcing the exhibit.”
“I can hardly believe it.” Aimee returned to the couch and sank down on the cushions, afraid her shaky legs would give out on her.
“Believe it,” Jacques said. “You’re on your way, mon amie.”
It was a dream come true. In the past, those artists whose work was a part of similar exhibits had gone on to sign with reputable galleries in New Orleans and abroad. The exhibit would open up a whole new world of possibilities for her professionally—and, with luck, financially, too.
“Congratulations, Aimee,” Peter said, but his voice and expression held none of the joy she had hoped he would feel for her.
“You must call Kay right away. She is anxious to speak to you,” Jacques advised her. Before she could move, he was retrieving the portable phone from the table and punching out Kay Sloane’s number. “Kay, it is Jacques. Aimee wishes to speak with you.”
“Hello, Ms. Sloane…”
Peter stood stiff and silent throughout her short conversation with Kay Sloane. With his arms folded over his chest, his expression grim, he looked cold and forbidding. “Yes, I understand. And thank you again.”
As soon as she hit the off button on the telephone, Jacques pulled her to her feet. “This calls for a celebration,” he declared as he lifted her and swung her around.
“Jacques, put me down,” Aimee said, laughing at his enthusiasm.
“I have a bottle of champagne in my apartment,” he said, releasing her. “I was saving it for my opening, but we will drink it tonight instead. I will retrieve it, and the hardhearted Liza, and the four of us will celebrate your success.”
Aimee clutched her hand to her breast, her head swimming at the sudden turn of events. Still laughing, she cut a glance to Peter. His face was a study in sadness. He reminded her of a little boy who had just discovered that there was no Santa Claus. She had suspected for some time that her potential success as an artist made Peter feel threatened, somehow. Seeing the utter loneliness in his eyes confirmed her suspicions.
“Gallagher, you get the glasses. I will be back in a moment with the champagne and Liza.”
“Jacques, wait,” Aimee said, stopping him at the door. “Would you mind terribly if we held off and celebrated another time?”
“But, Aimee—”
“Please, Jacques,” she said, touching his arm. “Peter and I had made plans for a quiet evening alone. We’ve got a pizza on the way.”
Jacques rolled his eyes heavenward and muttered some thing in French. “As you wish, mon amie. But if I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I will ever understand you Americans.”
“You didn’t have to do that for my sake,” Peter said, once the door had clo
sed behind Jacques. “You have every reason to celebrate. I’m sure you’ll be a big success.”
“I certainly hope so, but I’m not counting on anything.” Silence hung in the room between them for long moments. Aimee willed Peter to come to her, to take her in his arms and hold her, to tell her that he was proud of her, that he loved her, to tell her that he wanted her to be a success.
But he walked over to the doors leading to the balcony and looked out at the dark street instead. When he turned back to face her, he seemed more distant than ever. Aimee’s hopes plummeted. It was as though the magical afternoon at the beach had never happened.
The arrival of the pizza ten minutes later broke the brooding silence, but not the invisible wall that Peter had managed to throw up between them.
Shifting from her seat on the floor, Aimee looked across the coffee table at Peter’s unsmiling face. So much for signs, she thought glumly.
Peter picked another anchovy off his slice of pizza and pushed it aside. He started to take a bite, then put it down on the paper plate. “This isn’t right, Aimee. I feel like a jerk making you eat pizza tonight. Gaston at least had the right idea. You should be celebrating, and pizza just doesn’t cut it, as far as I’m concerned. I know it’s late, but I can probtroduce troduce still get us a reservation at the Grill Room. How about it?”
Aimee set down her own slice of pizza, frustrated because she had been unable to reach him. “Thanks, but I’m really not very hungry. The truth is, I’m kind of tired. Would you mind if we just called it a night? I’ll give you a call in the morning.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, along with what appeared to be disappointment. That Peter would spend the night at her apartment had been an unspoken but foregone conclusion. “All right, if that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
Pushing away from the table, Peter stood, and Aimee followed him to the door. And when he took her in his arms to kiss her good-night, Aimee could taste all of his hunger, all of his passion.
Yet this time she was unable to respond, because she knew in her heart that she could no longer share her body with him without having his love in return.
