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
