Surrender. Metsy Hingle

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 for making art. To top it off, he had been interested in her.

      But it wasn’t Jacques who made her heart race. It wasn’t Jacques who could look at her across a crowded room and make her breath catch, her body tremble with longing. It wasn’t Jacques she loved.

      It was Peter.

      “Chin up, little one,” Jacques murmured, breaking into her thoughts. “I’m the one who should be wearing the long face.”

      “You? Why?”

      The smile in his eyes spread across his lips. “Because here I finally find the woman of my dreams, only to have her turn me down because she prefers to give her heart to a beast.”

      “You’ve been listening to Liza,” she said accusingly, then ruined the reprimand by chuckling.

      “Laugh if you will. But perhaps I am the lucky one, after all, to escape in one piece.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Judging by your Peter’s expression when he came in, I think he would have liked very much to rip my heart from my chest. He’s a hard man, your Peter.” His grin eased the impact of what he was saying. “But then, I suspect you already know that. He needs your gentleness. Whereas I, I am a man renowned for his gentle nature. Ask anyone who knows me.”

      “You mean any female who knows you,” Aimee told him, her mood lightening at his teasing.

      “Especially any female.”

      Still laughing, Aimee entered the kitchen. Her gaze swept over the room, and she was glad once again that she had painted the old wooden cabinets white. The room looked brighter, more spacious, than before, and the colorful spice print that she’d painstakingly applied to the walls lifted her spirits. A smile still on her lips, she turned to Jacques. “Now what can I get you to drink?” Opening the refrigerator, she inventoried its contents. “I have ice tea, apple juice, lemonade…”

      “Any wine?”

      “Sure.” How European, Aimee mused. She retrieved the bottle that the clerk at the wine store had insisted should be stored lengthwise on the shelf. She cut a glance to Peter, who was standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed, his face unsmiling. “What about you, Peter? Would you like some wine?”

      “No.”

      She handed the bottle to Jacques and directed him to the drawer that held the corkscrew. She turned her attention to Peter again. “Something else, then? The lemonade’s fresh. I made it myself this morning.”

      “No, thanks.”

      He followed her across the room to the cabinet, and Aimee was all too aware of him standing behind her. Reaching over her head, he removed two wineglasses from the top shelf that were just out of her reach and handed them to her. When she would have taken them and turned away, he held on to the stems, forcing her to look up at him. “What I would like is to talk to you—alone.”

      Aimee looked from his mouth to his eyes. She saw the demand there…and the heat. Her pulse quickened in response. She leaned toward him.

      “This is an excellent wine, Aimee. Are you sure you don’t want to save it for a special occasion?”

      Aimee jerked back, chastising herself for reacting as she did to Peter’s nearness. He released the glasses, and she hurried across the room with them. “This is a special occasion,” she said, forcing a smile into her voice that she was far from feeling. “Thanks to you, my pipe’s fixed and I saved a small fortune in plumber’s fees.” A small fortune she didn’t have, and was unlikely to have at any time in the future, Aimee added silently. She could only hope that she would be as lucky at repairing the ceiling tiles.

      “Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” Liza asked from the doorway. She sauntered into the room, her long, sleek legs exposed to full advantage by cuffed khaki shorts. With her crisp white blouse and her long blond hair pulled back in a neat French braid, Liza looked as cool and fresh as a summer breeze.

      Aimee glanced down at her own denim cutoffs and her nicely shaped, but noticeably shorter, legs. She noted the smudge of grease on her faded art T-shirt. She grimaced, all too aware of the contrast between herself and her elegant friend…and wondered, not for the first time, how Peter could possibly have chosen her over Liza the night they met.

      “A beautiful woman is always welcome,” Jacques said. Taking Liza’s hand, he brought it to his lips.

      “My, my, you are a smooth one,” Liza said.

      “I will take that as a compliment, mademoiselle. It is mademoiselle, isn’t it? I assumed you asked for my assistance this morning because there was no Monsieur O’Malley.”

      Liza shot him a look that Aimee had seen her friend use in the past to freeze men in their tracks. It didn’t work on Jacques.

      “You shut the door on me so quickly this morning, I did not have an opportunity to officially introduce myself to you. Jacques Gaston. Artist extraordinaire.”

      “Not only smooth, but modest, too,” Liza quipped, withdrawing her hand.

      “I see no reason for false modesty,” Jacques returned. A megawatt smile spread across his handsome face. “Do you?”

      Aimee bit back a laugh at the wary arch of her friend’s brow. Like most men, Jacques was obviously drawn to the other woman’s beauty. That was something Liza herself considered a flaw, since most people failed to see past the physical loveliness to the woman inside.

      She cut a glance to Jacques, and grinned at his