Surrender. Metsy Hingle

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 and ask for her in the first place.

      “I did wish to speak with you, but you were not home. I was going to call you later, but Liza said she needed to speak with you, too. But she said your gentleman friend would not give you the message if she telephoned. So I offered to call you for her.”

      “I’m sure she appreciated that.”

      “Of course,” Jacques agreed.

      “Uh, Jacques…Would you do me a favor and put Liza on the phone, please?”

      “Hello,” Liza said moments later. “From the sound of things on this end, I take it my call wasn’t exactly welcome. Tell me, did I wake the beast?”

      Aimee cut a glance to Peter as he yanked his pajamas from the floor, where she’d tossed them. She hated it when Liza referred to Peter as a beast. But standing at the end of the bed in only pajama bottoms, with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his handsome face, he did look like a beast—an angry beast. “No, you didn’t. We weren’t sleeping, we.” Aimee caught herself. She could feel the flush climb her cheeks as she realized she’d almost said they had been making love. She looked down at the rumpled sheets on the bed and felt a moment of regret. Were it not for Liza’s call, they would be making love at this moment.

      “Yes? You were what?”

      Irritation rippled over Aimee at the amusement in her friend’s voice. “Never mind.” Turning away from the bed and Peter, Aimee walked across the room and looked out the window of the plush penthouse condo. The sun was already high in the sky, gleaming hotly on the waters of the Mississippi River. Summer in New Orleans was always a scorcher. This one was no different. But it was nothing compared to the heat and passion of her relationship with Peter—a relationship that her friend feared would cause Aimee heartbreak. Still, Liza’s concern for her didn’t excuse the other woman’s attempts to make Peter jealous. Besides, even if Liza succeeded and Peter did display occasional signs of possessiveness, it didn’t mean he loved her. And his love was what she wanted.

      “This better be good, Liza. I gave you this number in case there was an emergency.”

      “Would you classify a leaking pipe in one of the apartments as an emergency?”

      “Considering the fact that there’ve been at least half a dozen leaking pipes in that building since I inherited it, I guess it would depend on just how bad the leak is.” Aimee sighed, some of her initial irritation giving way to concern. “So tell me. Is it really bad?” she asked, dreading playing plumber again, and hoping it was something as simple as changing a gasket. She’d really gotten that one down pat. And she certainly didn’t want to dip into her meager funds to pay a plumber’s fee.

      “A small but steady