by Metsy Hingle
As though he had sensed a change in her, Peter held her tightly for a moment longer. After giving her another quick, hard kiss, he stepped back. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
And then he was gone.
Aimee closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Funny, she thought as the tears began to slide down her cheeks, how differently this day had turned out from the way she had hoped it would. Instead of celebrating her good fortune and hearing Peter declare his love for her, she was alone and not feeling anything close to happy.
Irritated with herself for her feelings of self-pity, Aimee swiped at the tears. Grabbing a slice of cold pizza, she bit down into a salty anchovy and headed for her studio and her paints.
When Aimee emerged from her studio the next morning, she was tired, but her spirits and sense of optimism were renewed. The early-morning call from Peter apologizing for his surly mood had helped…as had the peach roses. After a quick nap, followed by a hot shower, she slipped on her oldest cutoffs and T-shirt.
Time to trade her oil brushes for the thick, coarse ones needed for housepainting, she thought. Arming herself with the new brush her father had sent her and a gallon of canary yellow paint, she headed for the vacant apartment.
By the time two o’clock rolled around, she had finished applying the primer and was halfway through the first coat of paint of the studio apartment. Already the room was be ginning to take on a new cheeriness. Still standing atop the ladder, Aimee pulled off the paper ventilation mask that covered her nose and mouth. She wiped a combination of sweat and paint from her forehead with the end of her T-shirt, wincing as the salt from her sweat grazed the knuckles she had scraped on her right hand sanding the walls earlier that week.
“Looks like you could use a break,” Liza said. “I just made a pitcher of ice tea. Why don’t you come down to the shop and join me for a glass and cool off?”
Arching her back, Aimee looked down at her paint-splattered clothes. She didn’t need a mirror to know the rest of her was a mess. “Like this? I’d scare the customers away.”
Liza crinkled her nose. “I’m afraid there aren’t any to scare away. Sorry,” she continued, as though she were afraid that information would distress Aimee. “There hasn’t been a soul in the place all morning.”
Aimee shrugged, refusing to let the news dampen her spirits. With just a little luck, after the show next month, she would have a dealer to sell her paintings. And if worse came to worst, she could always send a few more over to Sterling’s. The money wouldn’t be much, but at least it would keep the wolf from the door. “It’s still pretty early. Don’t worry about it. Things’ll pick up.”
“You’re probably right,” Liza said, seeming to relax a bit. “But why don’t you come downstairs in the meantime and take a breather?”
“What she could use is her head examined,” Peter said from the doorway. He walked over to the window unit and kicked on the air-conditioning. The unit sputtered, and then cool air spilled out into the room. “Dammit, Aimee, this place is like an oven. Don’t you know it’s dangerous for you to be breathing in those paint fumes without ventilation?”
“Hello, Peter. It’s nice to see you, too,” Aimee responded with a smile.
“If you didn’t want to hire someone to paint this damn place, why didn’t you at least ask me to help you?”
Aimee bit back the urge to laugh. “Peter, I know you mean well, but we both know that you’re not exactly handy when it comes to repairs around the house.”
“I’ll say,” Liza replied, not bothering to repress her amusement. “Face it, Gallagher, you’d be hard-pressed to do more than change a light bulb.”
Peter glared at the blonde. “I would have hired someone to do it for her.”
The moment the words were out, Peter knew he had made a mistake.
“Of course. What else?” Liza returned sarcastically.
Ignoring the other woman, he shot a glance toward Aimee, who had gone absolutely still on the ladder. A frown marred her face. This was not turning out at all as he had planned, Peter thought. “Liza, would you please excuse us,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’d like to speak with Aimee alone for a moment.”
“Would you now? Well, I don’t—”
“Liza.” Aimee said the name softly, authoritatively.
The two women exchanged looks, and then Liza said, “Well, I need to get back to the shop anyway. Just yell if you need me for anything.” After giving Peter a look that said she thought he was the lowest form of plant life, she tipped up her head and walked regally out of the door.
“Before you say a word,” Peter said, holding up his hands in surrender, “I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking. I know the very idea of allowing me to do anything that even remotely resembles helping you causes you to have a fit.”
“I do not have fits.”
Peter sighed. This was definitely not going as he planned. After a sleepless night, he had devised what he thought the perfect scenario by which to convince Aimee to marry him. But at the rate he was going, she would throw him out be. fore he had a chance to ask her. “You’re right. I’m sorry…again. How about doing me a favor and coming down off that ladder? It would make talking to you a lot easier.”
Once she had done as he requested, Peter suddenly found himself nervous and unsure of how to begin. It had all seemed so simple that morning, when he instructed Doris to purchase an extra ticket for Aimee to accompany him to Chicago. He had had the penthouse suite at the Ritz Carlton reserved for the weekend, and dinner reservations made at the best restaurant in town. He would get his business with Hendrickson out of the way, and then he and Aimee would spend a romantic weekend together. He wanted to make up for the previous evening, and he also wanted to spend some time alone with her-just the two of them.
“Was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about?” Aimee asked.
This was ridiculous, Peter told himself, feeling foolish over his sudden bout of nerves. “I wanted to invite you to come to Chicago with me for the weekend.”
“Which weekend?”
“This weekend. Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ve got a meeting scheduled that will take about an hour, but after that we would be free. You had mentioned once that you’d like to see the Chicago Museum of Art…”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I can’t go tomorrow.”
“And I’ve made dinner reservations for us at—” Peter stopped, her words finally registering. “You can’t go?” he repeated.
“No. I can’t. I have a new tenant moving in on Monday. I’ve got to finish painting this apartment and get it ready before then.”
Peter was stunned. He hadn’t even considered that she might refuse. “What about Jacques or Liza? Can’t you get them to finish for you?”
“I couldn’t ask them to do that.”
“Why not?” he asked, growing irritated as his plans began to slip away. “They don’t seem to have any problem asking you for favors.”
Temper flared in her ghost-blue eyes. “I would never take advantage of their friendship that way. The building’s my responsibility. Not theirs, and not yours.”
He was losing Aimee. He could feel it in his bones, feel it in his gut. The realization only made him more frustrated. And angry. “Obviously your friends and your building are a lot more important to you than I am.”
“That’s not true.”
“No? Then explain to me why you refuse to get rid of this monstrosity.”
“Because it’s my monstrosity,” Aimee shot back.
“It’s a damn albatross. One that I’ve offered to take off your hands more than once. At least if you sold or leased the thing to me, I could afford to keep the place in decent shape, which is a lot more than you’re able to do.”
Her hands positioned on her hips, Aimee came closer to him, standing toe-to-toe with him in a fighter’s stance. “This may not be a showplace, but it is my home and I lov
e it.” She lifted her chin a notch. “For your information, I’m doing just fine, and I’m going to do even better. I’ve sold a few of my paintings recently, and I’ll be in Kay Sloane’s exhibit next month. It’s just a matter of time before my art starts paying off, and then I can afford to hire someone to keep the place in good shape.”
“I’ve already offered to hire repairmen for you. Hell, I’ve asked you to marry me,” Peter reminded her. “If you would use a little common sense, you’d take me up on both offers. At least as my wife you wouldn’t have to kill yourself trying to keep up this place. I’d hire someone to do it for you. And you certainly wouldn’t have to sweat participating in some amateur exhibit.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. My building and my art are doing just fine without your help.”
“Really?” Peter continued, too caught up in his own emotional struggle over his feelings for Aimee to recognize the extent of her anger and pride. He ran an appraising glance over the partially painted room, the cracked windowpanes and chipped molding, before turning his probing gaze back to her. “From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look to me like you’re doing too good of a job at either.”
Peter’s words struck her like a blow, making her exceedingly conscious of her threadbare shorts and paint-splattered shirt. Still, she refused to be intimidated. “Like I said, I’m doing just fine.”
“You call selling your paintings in a dump like Sterling’s for peanuts, just to get enough money to pay the repair bills on this place, doing fine?”
Shock raced through Aimee. “How did you know I sold my paintings through Sterling’s?”
“How do you think I know? I know because I’m the one who bought them!”
Fury, white and hot, ripped through Aimee. What a fool she had been! Aimee told herself. How had she kidded herself into believing some collector had actually stumbled upon her work and liked it? “Why?” she demanded, as all the old insecurities about her talent returned to plague her.
“Because it’s the only way I could help you.”
“Are you sure, Peter? You’re sure it’s not because you didn’t believe anyone else would think my work was good enough?” Her voice broke. “Or maybe it was because you don’t believe I’m good enough.”
“Aimee, that’s not true.” He started to touch her, but she backed away from him. Peter’s hand fell to his side. “I was only trying to help. I knew you needed the money.”
“What I needed was for you to love me, to trust me. I can see now that that was too much to ask.”
“Aimee, don’t.” He reached out to her, speared his fingers through her cropped hair. “I’ve never wanted another woman more than I want you. I still want you,” he said before covering her mouth with his own.
Her heart feeling as though it were breaking, Aimee remained lifeless in his arms. When he finally lifted his head and looked at her with tortured eyes, pleading eyes, Aimee hardened her heart. For her own sake, she had to end it now. “I know you want me, Peter. But wanting is not enough anymore. At least not for me.” How did she explain to him that she needed to fuel more than his desire for her? She needed his love. “I need more, Peter. More than you can give.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the affair’s over. We always said it would last as long as it was what we both wanted. Well, it’s not what I want any more.”
Peter searched her face for long moments, then released her. “So much for your being in love with me, huh? I guess I was right after all. A marriage between us wouldn’t have lasted. Hell, we couldn’t even make it through an affair.”
Aimee dismissed the bitterness in his voice. “No, we didn’t, did we? Maybe if I hadn’t fallen in love with you, we could have at least made it through the affair. But we can’t change who we are or what we feel. And the truth is that while you may lust for me, you don’t love me. I want…I deserve…someone who can give me both.” She needed the emotional bonds that went with their lovemaking—the emotional commitment that Peter was unable to make.
His expression softened. “You’re right. You deserve the very best, Aimee. I only wish that I had been the one to give it to you.”
“So do I,” Aimee whispered as he walked out the door and out of her life.
Ten
Peter came awake with a start. Sitting up, he kicked away the tangled sheets and thrust his hands through his hair. His fingers came away damp with perspiration.
His breathing still ragged, he took slow, measured breaths and waited for the last remnants of the nightmare to leave him. The confounded dream was becoming more frequent, too frequent, he thought. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that the ending of his affair with Aimee was the reason he had had the nightmare again. Hell, he had had the stupid dream any number of times since she had kicked him out of her life, nearly a month ago.
And he had managed to survive the worst of those first few weeks without her. Of course, he admitted, the extensive travel schedule he had set for himself was the major reason. It seemed only fitting, since he had put off traveling in order to remain in New Orleans with Aimee, that it was because of her that he felt the need to get away.
Spending so much of his time with Aimee had caused him to neglect the part of his business that he had always found most interesting—acquiring and discovering new art. Unfortunately, resuming the quest had not proved nearly as fulfilling as it had once been. In fact, it had made him wonder how he had ever managed to spend so many of his waking hours in such relentless pursuit—especially since beating out other collectors at auctions or trying to scoop a valuable piece before it was put on the market held only minimal satisfaction now. Even signing the maddening Hendrickson, an artist whose work he was sure would one day command a fortune, had proven anticlimactic.
Face it, Gallagher, he told himself as he yawned. There is no longer any thrill in the chase. But the back-to-back trips had served their purpose, he conceded. At least not being in the same city with Aimee had kept him from attempting to see her. Unfortunately, it had not kept him from thinking of her.
And he had been thinking of Aimee. In truth, she had seldom been out of his thoughts. He had thought of her when he wandered through the museum in Chicago, and when he dined alone at the hotel. He had thought of her when he jetted to Paris and visited the Louvre without her. He had missed her. Not just making love with her, but talking to her and hearing the sound of her laughter, as well He had missed being with her, sharing bits and pieces of his day, bits and pieces of his life, with her. He had even missed listening to her talk about the disasters at the building and her wacky tenants. He had missed her far more than he had ever thought possible.
But it was returning to New Orleans that morning and discovering the invitation to Aimee’s exhibit that had brought on the latest bout of sleeplessness.and with it the infernal nightmare.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Peter planted his feet on the floor. He shoved his fingers through his hair. He had taken enough psychology courses in college to recognize that his being locked in the vault and abandoned was synonymous with his being locked out of Aimee’s life.
Not that he blamed her. He didn’t. He didn’t even resent the fact that the end of their affair had also ended any chance he might have of reclaiming the building. Strange how getting the place back didn’t seem to matter as much to him as it once had. At best, it had been a foolish quest on his part, Peter realized. He was no longer even sure what he had expected to gain by getting Aimee to sell him the place—except perhaps redemption from his father, for finally fulfilling his promise to the old man. How he had expected to gain that redemption from his father’s grave, he didn’t know.
No. What he resented was the fact that he had managed to hurt Aimee in the process. He had never meant to hurt her. She certainly hadn’t deserved to be hurt. But he had hurt her all the same. And it was because he didn’t want to hurt her further that he had accepted her decision to end things between them and forced himse
lf to stay away.
Peter looked at the clock on his nightstand, which read 8:30. After picking up his mail and messages from the gallery, he had evidently collapsed on the bed and slept for nearly ten hours.
He stretched his arms over his head and attempted to work out the kinks in his shoulders and neck before glanc ing out the window of his condo. Except for the sprinkling of a few stars that had managed to break through the shroud of clouds, darkness filled the skyline. Even the sliver of moon had been swallowed in the heavy cloud cover.
Passing his hand over his face, he wiped away the last remnants of sleep. Looking at the clock again, he caught sight of the invitation to Aimee’s exhibit. He picked up the bright-colored parchment from the nightstand, where he had propped it up earlier. He ran his fingertip across the letters of her name and reread the announcement inviting him to the exhibit that evening.
Did Aimee know he had been sent an invitation? He was a major dealer, and it would have been foolish to leave his name off the guest list. Chances were she didn’t even know he had been invited.
Or maybe, just maybe, she had invited him herself. Was it possible that she had missed him just as much as he had missed her? His pulse picked up speed at the notion. At the same time, he told himself it was far more likely that she didn’t care one way or another whether he came. In fact, she probably wouldn’t want him to come.
The idea that she might not want him there rankled him, even as he admitted she had every right to feel that way. Aimee had been right to kick him out of her life, Peter told himself as he headed for the bathroom. He turned on the water and stepped under the punishing-hot spray.
Aimee deserved better than him. She deserved a man who loved her—not a man who wasn’t even capable of the emotion. That he was incapable of the sentiment, he had no doubt. It was probably one of the few things that he and Leslie had agreed upon. That, and his ex-wife’s desire for him to make her a star.
