Surrender (15 page)

“As much as I’d like to go with you, it really would be a mistake for me not to capitalize on last night’s success. Not to mention how unfair it would be to Kay. I’m supposed to be meeting with her tomorrow afternoon. She’s trying to get the state to fund more art programs, and she’s hoping to use the success of last night’s exhibit as an example. I owe it to her to follow through on the publicity she’s lined up. I hope you understand.”

“I do.” Leaning across the table, he wiped a smudge of grape jelly from the corner of her mouth with his fingertip, then brushed her lips with his own. “But I still had to ask.”

“And I’m glad you did.” Aimee smiled. Her eyes sparkled like pale blue diamonds as she took another sip of milk. “How long will you be gone?”

“Almost a month,” Peter said, dreading the idea of being away from Aimee for that length of time. Now that he had finally realized he was in love with her, he wondered how he had ever managed to get through the past few weeks without her. One thing was sure, once they were husband and wife, there would be no more long separations and no more nights when the two of them did not share the same bed. “I could kick myself for telling Doris to schedule all those appointments. If it wasn’t so late, and I wasn’t sure I’d offend some of my best contacts by not showing up, I’d cancel the entire trip and reschedule it later, when you can come with me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I probably won’t be having much free time, anyway. Kay told me last night that she had had a couple of requests from the local media for interviews, and she suggested the artists involved participate. Between that, Jacques’s second show next week, the shop, and the new painting I’m working on, I suspect I’m going to be pretty busy myself.”

“Not too busy to plan a wedding, I hope.”

“Oh, I think I can squeeze it in,” she said, grinning.

“You’d better squeeze it in,” Peter said in a mockthreatening voice. Standing, he moved to Aimee’s side and
pulled her to her feet. “But in case you forget, I plan to call and remind you.”

Laughing, Aimee wound her arms around his neck. “I love you, Peter Gallagher.”

“And I love you, Aimee Lawrence. I don’t intend to wait a minute longer than I have to before I make you my wife.” The thought of Aimee as his wife sent a thrill of anticipation down his spine. She hadn’t mentioned the prenuptial agreement again, and neither had he. Even though he knew it was only fair to tell her she would still have to agree to sign it, he couldn’t bring himself to do it now. Not when he would be too far away to make her see reason and the need for the document.

Cupping her bottom with his hands, he fit her against him. His body responded instantly. “If you didn’t have your heart set on a church wedding with your family, I’d insist we take off for the coast right now and get married by a justice of the peace. Then I’d stop at the first hotel we came to and get started on our honeymoon.”

Aimee wiggled her bottom slightly, and Peter bit back a groan as he felt his shaft grow even harder. He already felt guilty over the number of times he had made love to her during the night and this morning. He had no doubt that she was tender from all their lovemaking. As much as he wanted her, he didn’t want to hurt her.

She rubbed herself against him again, and Peter moaned.

“You know…” she said, trailing her fingers down his stomach.

Peter sucked in his breath as she curled her fingers around his hardness.

“…even if we have to wait a while for the wedding…” she continued, her voice a sultry whisper as she alternately stroked him and squeezed him. She circled his throbbing tip with her fingernail. “…there’s no reason we can’t get a head start on the honeymoon….”

When he emerged from the bedroom the next morning, the first rays of sunlight were flickering through the windows
like strands of gold, into Aimee’s apartment. Opening the French doors, he stepped outside onto the balcony. Even at such an early hour, the thickening humidity made the air feel heavy. Almost as heavy as his conscience over not telling Aimee that he still expected her to sign the prenup tial agreement.

“Morning,” Aimee said as she joined him on the balcony. Stretching her arms over her head, she yawned. The silky sage-colored gown outlined the curves of her body as she moved. When she dropped her arms, the fabric flowed over the swell of breasts, the dip at her waist, then fell just above the tips of her bare feet. Her hair was a scattering of thick, dark waves about her head. Her ghost-blue eyes looked huge and sleepy in her small face, her Cupid’s-bow mouth soft and kissable. She looked like both an angel and a siren.

And he would have given anything to be able to take her back to bed and make love to her again. Silently Peter mocked his carnal thoughts. Although he had always enjoyed the physical aspects of lovemaking, he had never allowed it to rule his life. He had prided himself on his ability to control his physical urges and not let them control him.

He had never realized how falling in love with someone could completely obliterate the strong element of control he had always employed over himself.

“Hungry?” she asked as she moved into his arms. She rested her head against his chest and slid her arms about his waist. She snuggled against him like a kitten. “I could fix us some breakfast, if you’d like,” she offered sleepily.

As his shaft pushed against the zipper of his slacks, Peter smiled to himself. He had most definitely lost any element of control over his body’s reaction to Aimee.

Face it, Gallagher, he told himself. With Aimee as his wife he was probably destined to spend the rest of his life in a perennial state of arousal. Not a bad thing at all, he decided. But one that he could do nothing about this morning. “I’ll get something at the airport.”

“What time’s your flight?”

Peter looked at his watch. “It leaves in about three hours. And I still have to go home to pack.”

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, hugging him tightly.

A strange warmth flooded through him. He couldn’t recall ever feeling quite this way before. It was a unique and not at all unpleasant experience to know that she would be thinking of him, anxious for him to return. Somehow it made leaving easier. “I’m going to miss you, too.” He brushed his lips against the top of her head. “More than you can imagine. As soon as I get back, we’ll wrap up the details on the wedding. Okay?” He hesitated. “And we need to talk about the prenuptial agreement.”

She went still in his arms. “I wondered when you were going to mention it. Peter, I—”

“Not now, Aimee. When I get back. We’ll talk about it. We’ll work it out. I promise.” He held his breath and waited for her response.

“All right,” she told him. “We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

Breathing easier, he rushed on. “There’ll be all kinds of time changes, but I’ll call you every chance I get.”

“I’d like that,” she said, smiling at him.

His heart beating easier, Peter lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her, long, deep, memorizing the taste and the texture of her, to carry him through the long days and nights ahead without her.

When he finally lifted his head and looked into her luminous eyes, he whispered, “Forget calling every chance I can. I’m calling you every day.”

“H
ave you told Peter, yet?” Jacques asked Aimee as he worked on a sketch of a woman’s face for his next sculpture.

“No,” Aimee replied, mixing the paints, in search of the precise shade of pink she wanted. She had been struck with a burst of inspiration since the discovery that she was pregnant last week. The multitude of bright new paintings scattered about her studio were a testament to her creativity and her excitement over the new life growing inside her.

“Why not?”

“Because informing a man he’s going to be a father is not the sort of thing you do by telephone.” Besides, in spite of the fact that Peter had promised to call her every day, she had not heard from him for the past four. “Doris said he’s scheduled to return day after tomorrow. I’ll tell him face-toface when he gets home.”

“Do you think he will want the child?”

Aimee put down her brush. “Of course he’ll want the child. Peter loves children.”

“A man can like children and still not want one of his own,” Jacques informed her.

At the strange note in his voice, Aimee looked over at Jacques. His eyes were shadowed, and for once there was no trace of the joie de vivre that she always associated with the Frenchman. But before she could question him, he seemed to shake off the odd mood.

“Pay me no mind,
mon amie.
I can see that you are thrilled at the prospect of becoming a mother. I am sure your Peter will be happy, too.”

“Yes,” Aimee said, trying to squelch the sense of uneasiness that Jacques’s comments had evoked. Even though she and Peter had not discussed children, surely he would be just as happy as she was upon learning they were to be parents. She smoothed her fingers over her still-flat stomach, acknowledging for the first time that this was something she and Peter should have discussed.

Jacques came to her side and put his arm around her shoulders. “Come now, little one. Don’t let this cynical Frenchman chase away your happiness. Where is that sunshine smile of yours?”

Aimee attempted a smile, but failed miserably as she began to wonder whether Peter’s not calling was a sign. Just as his mention of the prenuptial agreement had been a signal that he still did not trust her or her love for him.

“You call that a smile?” Jacques chided. He drew her to the center of the room and, catching her at the waist, he lifted her and spun around in a circle with her in his arms. “You are going to be a mother, Aimee, and I…I will be an uncle. We must celebrate,” he said enthusiastically, spinning around with her again.

Aimee tipped her head back and laughed, some of her earlier joy returning.

At the sound of Aimee’s laughter, Peter hoisted his travel bag on one shoulder and his briefcase in his other hand and hurried up the last steps to her apartment. He had driven himself to the point of exhaustion over the last few days. But it was worth it, he admitted. Not only had he acquired the
Rubens he had been after, but more importantly, he had been able to cut the trip short and return to Aimee two days sooner than expected.

For once, the sight of her apartment door left ajar didn’t bother him. It would make surprising her that much easier. Her laughter floated out to him. Smiling, Peter set down his bags and headed toward the sound of her laughter.

The smile died on his lips the moment he reached her studio. Peter’s blood ran cold at the sight that greeted him—his Aimee, in Jacques’s arms. An invisible fist seemed to squeeze around his heart and twist in his chest. A paralyzing rage swept through him at her betrayal. He had been a fool. A complete and utter fool.

“Jacques, you idiot, put me down.”

“I’d suggest you do as she says,” Peter said, his voice as icy and hard as steel.

“Peter!” Aimee disengaged herself from Jacques and raced over to him. She threw her arms around him. “I can’t believe you’re home. I wasn’t expecting you for another two days.”

“Obviously.”

Oh, she was good, Peter thought as she lifted her smiling face for his kiss. He could almost believe she was happy to see him. Almost. Except for the fact that he had just found her in another man’s arms. He had been a fool to believe her, to trust her.

When she brushed her mouth against his, Peter forced himself to remained unmoved. It took every ounce of control he possessed not to crush her to him and return the kiss.

Uneasiness skittered down her spine at Peter’s lack of response. Aimee eased back a step and looked at him. He didn’t say a word. There was no need to. Peter thought she had betrayed him. The accusation was written in the steely depths of his eyes, in the grim set of his jaw, in the rigid stance of his body.

All the happiness she had experienced when she first saw
him
standing in the doorway evaporated like a drop of water striking dry sand. And along with her happiness went her
foolish dream that Peter did indeed love her. She had deluded herself, Aimee realized. Peter didn’t love her. He couldn’t. If he did, he would have trusted her. He certainly would not have believed she would betray him.

“Don’t be a fool, Gallagher,” Jacques began, evidently realizing what Peter thought. “You’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

Fury emanated from Peter, blazed in his eyes.

“Aimee and I were just—”

“Jacques, would you excuse us, please?” Aimee said, silencing her friend.

Jacques hesitated. He looked from Aimee to Peter, then back to Aimee again. “He is like an angry lion,
mon amie.
Let me explain it is not what he thinks.”

“No,” Aimee told him. She folded her arms across her chest. “No explanations are needed.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes,” she assured him.

“All right. I will go, then. But be careful. It is not good for you to become upset in your condition.”

Peter’s gaze shot from Aimee to the door that had just closed behind Jacques. The fist that had been squeezing his heart since he had walked into the studio tightened. He swung his gaze back to Aimee.

Her face, usually so expressive, was as blank as a new canvas when she walked past him. She picked up a paintbrush and began making swift, deliberate strokes across the canvas.

His control shot, Peter stormed over to her and grabbed her wrist, midstroke, splattering drops of pink paint across the painting. “What in the hell did he mean, in your condition?” he demanded.

Aimee looked at the fingers imprisoning her wrist, the same fingers that had loved her, pleasured her. She pushed away the memory. “Let go of me,” she commanded, forcing her voice to remain as hard and unfeeling as his. When he released her, Aimee immediately began dabbing at the paint splatters.

“Answer me, Aimee. What did he mean by your condition?”

She looked up at him. “He was referring to the fact that I’m pregnant.”

The tight line of his mouth grew even tighter. “Who’s the father?”

Aimee flinched. Pain sliced through her with the sharpness of a razor’s edge. She shuddered at the utter coldness in his tone. Of all the reactions she could have expected, this had not been one of them.

“Don’t look so shocked. Do you think you’re the first woman to get herself pregnant with another man’s bastard and try to pin it on me? And to think I’d decided to forget about the prenuptial agreement. I thought I could trust you.”

“Looks like we were both mistaken,” Aimee told him.

Her response seemed to anger him. He pinned her with his steely gaze. “Is the child mine?”

Aimee could feel the color drain from her face. She squeezed her eyes shut at the gut-wrenching pain. She turned away from him, afraid she was going to be sick. What a fool she had been, Aimee told herself. The dream of her, Peter and their child being a family, of the three of them living and loving one another, was just that-a foolish dream. Tears slid silently down her cheeks. She turned around to face him. “Don’t worry, Peter. The baby’s not yours. It’s mine.”

His pained expression should have given her some measure of satisfaction. It didn’t. Her own anguish was too great.

“Then Gaston’s the father.”

It was the bitterness in his voice that pushed her over the edge. And in the wake of her anguish came fury. At Peter, for his accusations and his stupidity. At herself, for still loving him. But she no longer had just herself and Peter to think about. Now she had their child to consider. Tipping her chin up, she said, “It’s my child.” Marching out of the
studio, she pulled open the door to her apartment. “Now, I’d like you to go.”

Fighting through the haze of anger, Peter followed her, but he ignored the door she held open for him. He studied her pale face, trying to make sense of what she had said. Discovering her with Jacques had infuriated him. The added shock of learning she was pregnant had added to his confusion.

“Please go,” she told him again.

Peter looked at her back, stiff and straight. He walked over to the mantel and looked up. The portrait she had painted of him, the one in which she had seen the man he wanted to be. It hung above the mantel, mocking him with the kind, understanding eyes she had given him. He hadn’t seen it when he came in earlier. He had been too intent on seeing Aimee, and then too angry upon finding her in Jacques’s arms.

She truly did love him, Peter realized as he stared at the finished portrait. It was there for everyone to see, only he had discovered it too late. And much too late he realized it was Aimee’s love that he wanted above all things.

Her child,
she had said. As the meaning of her words sank in, Peter’s heart stuttered. Hope surged through him. This was Aimee. His Aimee. Kind and generous to a fault. And honest. If she had wanted to betray him, to use him, she would have married him first and told him of the child later. She hadn’t, because she hadn’t betrayed him. She loved him. And he loved her. He went to her. “It’s my child, isn’t it?”

When she didn’t respond, he turned her to face him. “I’m the father, aren’t I?” When she still failed to respond, Peter gave her a tiny shake. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she finally whispered. “At least technically speaking.”

“Technically speaking?”

“Technically you are the father of my child. But it’s my child, Peter. Not yours.”

“The hell it’s not,” he said savagely. He crushed her to him. “You’re both mine. You and the baby.”

Aimee struggled until he released her. “I am not yours, and neither is this baby.”

“Of course you are. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. I know—”

“It’s too late for apologies, Peter. It’s over.” She pulled off the engagement ring he had had sent to her after leaving that last morning. This time, instead of throwing it at him, she stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d go. Oh, and be sure to close the door on your way out.”

“But—”

“Please, Peter. Just go. I really would like to be alone.”

He hesitated, but the flatness of her ghost-blue eyes told him there was no point in arguing with her further. At least for the time being. “All right. I’ll go-for now.”

He would get her back, Peter vowed as he picked up his bags. Somehow, some way, he would make Aimee love him again. And when she belonged to him again, he would never let her go.

“How is my nephew feeling today?” Jacques asked as he swiped an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table in Aimee’s studio. He rubbed it on the leg of his pants, then bit into the deep red skin.

“Your niece is feeling fine.”

“And what about the little mother?”

“Great,” Aimee said, and went back to the painting she had been working on.

“I ran into Peter today.”

Aimee’s heart skittered at the mention of his name. It had been nearly three weeks since that dreadful day in her studio. Though it had been difficult, she had refused all his calls and attempts to see her. The letters he had sent had been returned unopened. She still loved him desperately, but now she had more than just herself to think about. She had her child to consider. Facing the future as a single parent would be difficult, she told herself. But marrying a man who
didn’t love and trust her would have been even more difficult.

“He was a sorry sight. A shadow of the man he once was,” Jacques said before taking another bite of apple. After swallowing, he continued, “Don’t you think you’re being a little too hard on him? At least talk to him, listen to what he has to say.”

“When did you become such a fan of Peter Gallagher’s?”

Jacques shrugged. “Blame it on my French blood. I just think when two people love each other and are miserable without one another, they might as well be miserable together.”

“Peter doesn’t love me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if he loved me, he would have trusted me.” The painful memory of the horrible scene in her studio came back to her in a rush.

“Did it ever occur to you that it is because he loves you that he went a little crazy? Doris said he crammed a week’s worth of meetings into three days so he could get back here to you.”

Aimee frowned. “Have you also taken to chatting with Peter’s secretary?”

“I met her at Gallagher’s last week, for the special showing of the Rubens. She would have told you as much, if you would have come with me and Liza, instead of hiding yourself away in here.”

“I wasn’t hiding.”

Jacques finished off the apple and pitched the core in the trash. He walked over to Aimee and placed his hand upon her shoulder. His eyes, usually filled with laughter, were somber. “You can’t keep hiding in here forever, Aimee. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face him. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of the baby.”

“The baby and I don’t need him,” Aimee replied. She had gone over it in her head and her heart a hundred times since that horrible afternoon. While facing the prospect of being a single parent was somewhat frightening, it would be
easier than facing marriage to a man who didn’t love and trust her. Financially, she and the baby would do okay. Business had picked up in the shop and even the building was cooperating.

“Maybe you don’t need him, but I suspect Peter needs you.” He paused. “You might also want to consider the legal ramifications. After all, the child is Peter’s, too.”