Surrender (16 page)

Aimee’s heart froze. “You think he’ll sue me for custody?”

“Who knows what lengths a man will go to when he is fighting for what he believes he cannot live without?”

Confused, Aimee didn’t know what to say, and before she could even think of a response, Jacques was prowling about her studio. He tilted his head to one side and studied a small abstract of splintered hearts that she had done that morning. The piece was an intense study of vibrant red, bright yellow and deep blue. “Nice. Although it’s obvious to me what you were thinking of when you painted this. I think I’ll take it to Kay.”

“Kay already has a ton of my stuff.”

“Not anymore. She sold the last of your paintings this morning.”

“That’s impossible. I gave her five new pieces just two days ago.”

“Gone. Someone came in and took everything she had. I’m on my way over to her place now. I’ll bring this one with me.”

Aimee was still reeling from the news that all of her paintings had been sold, and it took her a moment to recover. When she did, Jacques was holding
Shattered Hearts
and zeroing in on a half-finished canvas.

“When do you think this one will be finished?” he asked, eyeing the piece, which she had titled
Dreams.

“I don’t have any idea. And you can put down the one you’re carrying—the paint is barely dry. Tell Kay I don’t have anything to give her.”

“You tell her. You’re the one who suggested she act as your agent.”

“I know,” Aimee told him. Following the success of the show and her weekend with Peter, she had opted not to sign on with any gallery, and had approached Kay about representing her work instead. To her surprise, the other woman had accepted. Initially, the sales had been slower, and while the money had been good, the sums had been modest.

Until about a week ago. Then, suddenly,
everything
had begun to sell and at much higher prices. Aimee frowned, growing suspicious. It had also been approximately a week since she had last refused to see or speak to Peter. He hadn’t called or contacted her again.

“How long do you think it will take you to finish that one?” Jacques asked, indicating the painting on which she was working.

“Forget it,” Aimee told him. “I want you to tell me who this collector is that’s suddenly buying all my paintings.”

“Haven’t got a clue,” Jacques said innocently.

“Well, I do,” Aimee said, throwing down her brush. All she had ever wanted from Peter was his love and trust-the only things he had refused to give her. “The last time he pulled this stunt, he said he only did it to help me. Well, I didn’t want or need his help then, and I don’t want or need it now. And I intend to tell him so.”

Storming out of her apartment, Aimee headed for Gallagher’s. She marched into the gallery, not caring how out of place she looked in her threadbare jeans and paint-stained work shirt.

“Aimee,” Doris exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you again. I—”

“Where is he?”

“Peter?”

“Yes,” Aimee replied, growing more irritated by the minute. What had Peter hoped to accomplish by buying her paintings? Did he really believe he could buy his way back into her life, and that of their child? Didn’t he know that his money meant nothing to her?

“He’s in the vault.”

“Thanks. I know the way.” Aimee sped down the corridor to the private chamber where Peter housed his most precious works. She couldn’t help remembering the last time she had entered the room, when she had spied the painting of the ballet slippers. She swallowed, recalling the story Peter had told her about his parents. That day, for the first time, she had understood the demons that drove him. She shoved the memory aside, refusing to allow herself to soften.

The door to the vault opened just as she reached it. “Come in, Aimee,” Peter said, as though he were expecting her.

“You knew I would come, didn’t you?” It galled her that she had responded to his bait.

“I hoped you would.” He pulled the door shut and punched some numbers. Something bleeped, and a red light flickered on.

“What are you doing?” She struggled a moment to see as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

“Activating the alarm. My most valuable possessions are in here. I don’t want to risk losing them.” He flipped a switch and lights flooded the wall, illuminating the painting of his mother’s ballet slippers.

Jacques was right, Aimee thought. Peter didn’t look the same. He had lost weight, and even in the unnatural light of the vault she could see the shadows under his eyes.

He flipped another switch, revealing the two Rubenses. His fingers worked another row of switches and the entire wall lit up, a burst of bright light illuminating her paintings.

Aimee spun around. Her paintings covered the walls, rested side by side with the Rubens, a Matisse, a Monet. Masterpieces, priceless works of art. His most valuable possessions, Peter had said, and he had placed her paintings among them.

“Why, Peter? Why did you buy my paintings? And don’t tell me you did it to help me, I’m doing fine on my own.”

“I know you are. And I didn’t buy them to help you. I bought them as an investment.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“But it is true. I intend to have quite an extensive collection of works by the brilliant new artist from New Orleans, Aimee Lawrence. In fact, I intend to hold an exhibit showcasing my collection of her works.”

“It’s not going to work, Peter.”

“No? I think you’re wrong, Aimee. Because I intend to make a small fortune on these paintings.”

She scoffed.

“It’s true. Trust me. I have an eye for what sells, and I will make a fortune with your work. My only regret is that I didn’t start buying your paintings before now. My only excuse is that I was too blinded by my feelings to use good business sense. But then, I guess it’s not every day that I fall in love with an artist.” He paused. “And I
do
love you, Aimee.”

Though she tried not to respond, Aimee could feel the hope beginning to stir inside her again. She looked away from his mesmerizing eyes and at the wall of paintings. “Why are my paintings in here?”

“Because they’re invaluable to me. Just like the woman who painted them.”

Aimee couldn’t help but feel pleasure at his words. “What about my baby?”

“Our baby,” Peter said. “I want you both.”

“Wanting’s not enough, Peter.”

“What about loving you? Because I do love you, Aimee.”

Aimee shook her head. “You can’t love without trust, Peter. If you loved me, you would never have doubted me.”

“It wasn’t you I doubted. It was myself. I didn’t believe I was deserving of your love. And when I came to your apartment that day so anxious to see you, I thought I would die right then and there when I saw you in Jacques’s arms. I was so eaten up with jealousy, so sick at losing you to him, that I lashed out at you. By the time I got my temper under control, it was too late. I’d said some horrible things, cruel
things. Things I couldn’t take back. And then you refused to speak to me.”

“So you started buying all of my paintings, just so I would speak to you?”

“That was part of it.”

She waited for him to continue.

“I told you—it made good business sense. Trust me, Aimee. Despite my stupidity where your work is concerned, I do know what sells. Launching you makes good sense from a business standpoint. And I do intend to launch you. Someday the rest of the world is going to recognize your talent.”

Still unconvinced, Aimee asked, “What happens if I become a star? Aren’t you afraid that I’ll run off, the way Leslie did?”

“I’ll admit, the thought had crossed my mind. But I’m hoping you won’t.” He smiled at her then, with all the warmth and hope in his heart. “If you still love me half as much as I love you, it shouldn’t be a problem. Because you and our baby are all that matter to me. Do you still love me, Aimee? Or have I managed to kill everything you felt for me?”

His doubt and uncertainty touched her deep in her soul. “I love you, Peter,” she whispered. “I’ve never stopped.”

Peter crushed her to him then, and kissed her with all the love in his heart. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, kissing him back.

“I don’t want to wait. I know a judge who will give us a special license. We can get married again in a church and have a reception for your family and friends later, if you’d like. But I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Aimee hesitated. “What about the prenuptial agreement?”

“We don’t need one.”

“What happens if things don’t work out? Suppose we got divorced? Aren’t you afraid of losing the gallery? I know how much Gallagher’s means to you.”

“Not half as much as you do. The gallery, and a dozen Rubenses and Monets, would be worthless to me without you and our child. You and our baby are all that matter to me. Besides,” he said, holding her close, “I have every intention of this marriage being a very long and happy one.”

“Me too,” she told him.

Peter flipped off the light switches illuminating the art, sending the room into darkness, save for the lamp on his desk. And as the darkness enveloped them, this time Peter had no fear-not with Aimee, his light, by his side.

* * * * *

eISBN 978-14592-7856-1

SURRENDER

Copyright © 1996 by Metsy Hingle

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