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.”
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
