Surrender. Metsy Hingle

him for his ability to reassert control over his senses so easily.

      She, unfortunately, didn’t possess such recuperative abilities—especially not where Peter was concerned. Nor was she as adept as he was at shutting off her feelings.

      And that was the problem, Aimee admitted, frowning. Her emotions were involved. Her affair with Peter wasn’t based on simple lust. She was in love with him. That was why her response to him was always so powerful, so all-consuming. It wasn’t simply her body that responded to his touch, but her heart, as well.

      Surely Peter felt something for her, something that went beyond the physical chemistry they shared. She refused to believe that he could hold her, touch her, make love to her, as he did without some part of his heart being involved.

      At least that was what she had told herself. She had also told the same thing to Liza when the other woman questioned her wisdom in engaging in an affair with Peter.

      True, he was a bit jaded when it came to love. But it was the failure of his first marriage that caused him to be so skeptical. The scars evidently ran very deep. He was scared, even cynical, where marriage was concerned, and perhaps even a bit paranoid about divorce and its aftermath. That was why he had insisted on the prenuptial agreement. He truly believed divorce was inevitable.

      She believed no such thing. That was why she had refused to sign the dumb thing—not because she gave a lick about his money, property settlements or alimony.

      She didn’t. Those were things. They meant nothing to her. But Peter meant everything. It was him she cared about. It was him she loved. Not his gallery or his stock portfolio.

      Aimee sighed. All he needed was time, and her love, to heal him. That was why she had suggested they have an affair. But, Lord, when was the man going to realize she really did love him? And when was he going to open his eyes and realize that his feelings for her ran deeper than lust?

       And what if he never does? What if lust is all he does feel for you?

      The questions sprang from somewhere buried deep inside her. From the same place that made her wonder sometimes whether she possessed any real talent, whether she deserved to call herself an artist.

      Aimee gave herself a mental shake, dismissing the negative thoughts. Think positive, she told herself. She had to envision Peter falling in love with her the same way she envisioned her discovery as an artist. Both would happen, as long as she believed they would. That was the key. She had to believe Peter would fall in love with her, just as she had fallen in love with him.

      She studied Peter as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. His handsome face was inscrutable, and his deep blue eyes were hooded. He seemed so cool, so remote. He certainly bore no resemblance to a man in love. A man with secrets, Liza had called him. Looking at him now, Aimee could easily believe he did have secrets-secrets he would be unwilling to share.

      A flicker of doubt shimmied down her spine, making Aimee’s stomach knot. Could Liza be right? In addition to bedding her, was Peter also after something else?

      No! Aimee shoved the thought aside. But as she refastened the snap of her shorts and straightened her clothes, Liza’s words came back to haunt her…

       The beast definitely has the hots for you, kiddo. No question about that. The only time the guy ever comes close to losing some of that cool control of his is when he’s around you.”

      “You mean when you provoke him,” Aimee had countered. “And stop calling him a beast.”

       Liza had shrugged one elegant shoulder. “Just remember, lust isn’t love. I should know. And if I were you, I’d ask myself why he’s so anxious to get married, if he doesn’t believe it’s going to work. Men like Gallagher don’t marry a woman just to bed her. Hell, they don’t even allow themselves to fall in lust with a woman without a motive.”

      Although she had argued with Liza that Peter’s marriage proposal stemmed from some deeper, nobler feelings, Aimee was beginning to wonder. While she had never questioned his passion—he had always given himself generously and skillfully as a lover, making sure of her pleasure before taking his own—she had sensed for some time that he held a piece of himself back. That even while he was buried deep inside her, following her over the edge as they both shuddered in climax, he somehow still managed to maintain a measure of control over his emotions.

      A dismaying thought, she decided, especially when she considered how completely she seemed to lose her own control while in his arms.

      Aimee watched as Peter smoothed back his hair. Judging from his shuttered expression, she would be hard-pressed to say that Peter even felt lust for her at the moment, let alone love. He certainly didn’t look like a man who had been so overcome by his passion for her a few moments ago that he was on the verge of making love to her standing up and pressed against the door of her apartment.

      Heat, sweet and warm, wrapped itself around her as Aimee recalled the fierce need she’d tasted in his kiss, the savage hunger she had seen in his blue eyes.

      She swallowed hard, trying to banish the sensual images from her thoughts. Her body felt taut, achy. Even the thought of Peter’s lovemaking had her body responding effortlessly, like a priceless Stradivarius in the hands of a master musician. Of course, her physical response was all tangled up with her love for him.

      The problem was, she really wasn’t sure whether Peter loved her. Even more disconcerting was wondering if he ever would. For the first time since she had embarked on her madcap plan to restore Peter’s faith in love, Aimee wondered if she had made a mistake. Had she been deluding herself by thinking Peter’s feelings for her ran deeper than mere lust?

      She cut another glance to Peter’s face. The mouth that had given and taken so greedily only moments before was drawn into a frown. The line of his jaw was rigid, and his eyes were cool.

      Recalling the fire in his eyes when he had attempted to punch Jacques over the other man’s innocent, though misconstrued, comment, Aimee could have sworn some deeper emotion had been at work. Maybe not love—at least not yet—but surely something close to it.

      What else would explain that so un-Peter-like response? A smile tugged at her lips. Even Liza had been taken aback by Peter’s reaction to Jacques. The knot in Aimee’s stomach unfurled. Some of the tension eased from her body as her spirits and hopes lifted.

      Peter looked at her then, his eyes narrowing. “Something funny?” he asked, his gravelly voice breaking the silence. His brow furrowed. It was a gesture Aimee had come to recognize as something he did when he was annoyed.

      She smiled more widely, foolishly pleased that she had not been the only one disappointed by the interruption. “Oh, I was just wondering what Liza would have done if she had showed up five minutes later and the door had been unlocked, the way it usually is.”

      “She’d probably have grabbed the first sharp object she could lay her hands on, preferably a sword, and run me through with it.”

      Aimee laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Liza would never do such a thing.”

      “Don’t bet on it. The woman’s never made a secret of the fact that she doesn’t like me. I guess I should take some consolation in the fact that she doesn’t seem to like your friend Jacques, either.”

      Aimee couldn’t argue with that. It was true. Liza didn’t like Peter and, evidently, she didn’t care for Jacques. In truth, Liza didn’t like most men, nor did she trust any of them. And with reason. “She just doesn’t want to see me get hurt,” Aimee said defensively.

      “What makes her think I’d hurt you?”

      Aimee shrugged. “She knows how I feel about you. She also knows those feelings aren’t reciprocated.”