“Jacques, this is Peter—”
“Gallagher.” Peter finished the introduction for her. With a feral smile, he extended his hand. “Aimee’s fiancé.”
Stunned, Aimee opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. She could feel the flush climb her cheeks at Jacques’s questioning gaze.
“I had not realized Aimee was engaged,” Jacques said, breaking the awkward silence. “Congratulations, Monsieur Gallagher. You are indeed a lucky man. And you, mon amie,” he continued, “you should have told me you were affianced.”
“I’m not,” Aimee said. As she recovered from the initial shock of Peter’s declaration, her temper started to rise. Did he think by proclaiming them to be engaged he could make her sign that stupid prenuptial agreement and marry him? If he did, he had another thought coming.
“But, I do not understand,” Jacques replied, his bewilderment evident.
He wasn’t the only one, Aimee fumed silently. She tried to pry herself free from Peter’s side, but his fingers were like talons of steel, keeping her pinned to him.
“What Aimee means is that it’s not official yet,” Peter explained.
Aimee shot a fiery glance toward Peter at the out-and-out lie. “What I mean is that we are not engaged—” She hesitated at his pained expression. Her chest tightened as she glimpsed the sadness hidden beneath his hard facade. As always, Peter’s vulnerability was her undoing. The anger drained from her as quickly as it had come. “Yet,” she found herself adding.
Peter’s fingers eased their death grip on her waist, but he didn’t release her. “You see, Aimee hasn’t actually agreed to marry me yet.” He cupped her jaw with his free hand, gently turning her so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “But I have every intention of changing her mind.”
He stroked her bare arm. It was an innocent gesture, but one that set off tiny currents of sensation in her body. It had always been like this with Peter—the electricity, the heat—right from the beginning. As she looked into his eyes, she could feel it happening again, the flush of warmth, the excitement. From the first time she looked into his blue eyes, all hungry and hot as he watched her, she had responded with an answering need. Tendrils of heat unfurled in her stomach, flowed between her thighs.
She had felt like Cinderella that first night, and Peter had been her prince. She had been powerless against her feelings for him, and had fallen in love with him almost from the start. His swift and relentless pursuit of her, followed by the proposal of marriage, had only added to the fairy-tale feeling.
Except Peter hadn’t offered her a glass slipper or a place in his art kingdom where they would live happily ever after. She would easily have forgone both those things, if he had only offered her his love.
He hadn’t. Instead, he had offered her a contract, one without promise or even hope for the future—a piece of paper that said he didn’t believe in love. That he didn’t love her.
It had hurt. It still hurt. Yet she continued to love him. And there were moments, like when he awakened from one of the bad dreams that plagued him, or like now, when she sensed the yearning in him…It was at these times that she was sure that Peter not only wanted her love, but needed it, too.
It was these moments that made her decide to continue her relationship with Peter…that gave her hope that he might fall in love with her one day…that made her bite her tongue now and give credence to the false impression he had just given Jacques.
“Shame on you, Aimee.”
Aimee pulled her thoughts back to the present at the sound of Jacques’s voice. “I beg your pardon?”
“You allowed me to boast to you about my exhibition and never told me about your own.”
“Jacques, what are you talking about?” Aimee asked, genuinely confused by the direction of the conversation.
“I mean, Peter here is the owner of Gallagher’s, no?”
“Yes.”
“Then, surely, as your almost-fiance, his gallery will be hosting an exhibit of your works.”
Peter’s fingers stilled on her arm. Pain lanced through Aimee as she felt his body stiffen beside her. Quickly she stepped away from him, feeling as though she had just taken an arrow in the heart.
“Gallagher’s doesn’t carry my work,” Aimee said evenly.
“But I don’t understand,” Jacques began. “I thought that since you and Peter were…that is, if you are soon to be married…”
“It’s all right, Jacques.” Aimee knew exactly what Jacques had thought. The same thing everyone else had thought. That if she and Peter were sleeping together, then surely he would be displaying her work.
Only Peter had made it plain from the start that he had no interest in her as an artist—only as a woman. While that in itself was exciting, it did have its drawbacks—especially when she wanted so desperately to earn her living with her art. Still, from what little she had learned of his past, that he had been married to an artist and had been badly burned by the experience, she did understand somewhat. He had sworn never to mix business with pleasure again.
Though she was disappointed, she had agreed to his terms. It had been the only way to prove to Peter that it was him she loved and that her feelings had nothing to do with what he could do for her career. Still, his rejection of her as an artist had hurt. It had made her question whether it was the idea of representing an artist with whom he was involved that he found objectionable, or whether it was the work itself. While she knew she would never be another Ida Kohlmeyer, she had hoped to find a home for her work-if for no other reason than to feel worthy of the name artist. The fact that her art had yet to capture any significant dealer’s eye only added to her sense of insecurity.
“It’s not a reflection on Aimee as an artist,” Peter explained, as though he had sensed her thoughts. “I simply make it a policy not to represent the work of any artist with whom I’m personally involved.”
“But surely, after seeing Aimee’s work, her talent-”
“Oh, my, I certainly could use something cool to drink,” Aimee proclaimed, feigning thirst in an attempt to change the subject. “What about you, Jacques? The least I can do is offer you something to drink for helping me with that pipe.” Slipping her arm through his, Aimee led him through the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen.
“Forgive me, Aimee,” Jacques whispered as they made their way to the front of the apartment. “I did not mean to open old wounds.”
Aimee looked up at the handsome Frenchman, moved by his sensitivity. She gave his arm a light squeeze. “I know.”
Why, she asked herself for the dozenth time, couldn’t she have given her heart to someone like Jacques? He was certainly more handsome than Peter. With dark blond hair that fell past his collar, and laughing brown eyes, he turned female heads wherever he went. He was kind, caring. And, as a fellow artist, he understood and shared her own passion
