Surrender. Metsy Hingle

      Although he had met her and Liza at the same party, Peter had never once shown any interest in her gorgeous friend. She had been the sole object of his attention.

      As Liza and Jacques continued to spar, Aimee looked across the room at Peter. Leaning against the countertop, his arms folded over his chest, he appeared bored and even irritated by Liza’s appearance—not the least bit affected by her friend’s beauty. For some reason, the thought filled Aimee with pleasure, made her feel special. Surely, if Peter’s interest in her was merely physical, he would have found Liza equally appealing.

      As though sensing her scrutiny, Peter shifted his gaze to Aimee. His eyes darkened to a smoky blue, reminding her of storm clouds gathering before a squall. He stared at her mouth, her throat, then dropped his gaze to her breasts. Braless, her nipples hardened against her T-shirt.

      Aimee swallowed as his gaze dropped lower still. Her stomach quivered in response, and she could feel the warm tenderness gathering between her thighs.

      “No thanks, Mr. Gaston,” Liza was saying. “I gave up being interested in seeing a man’s etchings…er, paintings, when I was still in high school,” she added coolly.

      The ice in her friend’s voice enabled Aimee to turn away, breaking the sensuous spell Peter cast over her with one of his steamy looks.

      “I promise you, mine are worth seeing,” Jacques said, seemingly unperturbed by Liza’s barb.

      “Like I said, I’m not interested in seeing your paintings. But I’m sure Aimee would love to see them.”

      Aimee narrowed her eyes at the triumphant note in Liza’s voice. She caught the smug smile her friend tossed Peter’s way. For the life of her, Aimee didn’t understand why Liza insisted Peter was using her, or why her friend remained furious with Peter for his refusal to marry without the prenuptial agreement. Whatever the reason, Aimee was certain that Liza’s attempts to make Peter jealous were not the answer to her dilemma. Jealousy didn’t necessarily equal love. Although she had told her friend as much on numerous occasions, it hadn’t stopped the blond beauty from trying to elicit that reaction from Peter.

      “After all, Aimee’s an artist,” Liza said sweetly. “It’s something the two of you have in common.”

      Aimee cut a glance to Peter. From his thunderous expression, she knew Peter had risen to Liza’s bait once again.

      “Ah, but Aimee has already seen my paintings,” Jacques said smoothly.

      “Has she now?” Peter asked, his mouth tightening into an angry line.

      “Yes,” Jacques replied offhandedly.

      Aimee nearly groaned, wishing Jacques had explained that she had seen the paintings when he moved into the building, two days before. Obviously, from the looks on both Liza’s and Peter’s faces, they had jumped to a far less innocent conclusion—one that Aimee refused to dignify with an explanation.

      “But you, Liza, have not seen my work.” Evidently not the least concerned by the scowl on Peter’s face, Jacques refilled Liza’s wineglass. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

      “Quite sure.” Liza set her glass down firmly on the countertop. The crystal clinked against the ceramic, the sound loud in the tension-filled silence. Tipping up her chin at a haughty angle, Liza turned to Aimee. “Simone asked me to let you know she’s having a problem with the door to her apartment. It’s sticking again, and she swears if she closes the thing she won’t be able to open it. She’s afraid to leave her apartment, because she’s convinced she won’t be able to get back inside.”

      Aimee sighed. As much as she loved Aunt Tessie’s old building, the place really was a landlord’s nightmare and a repairman’s dream. If one had the money to pay for the repairs, that is. Unfortunately, she didn’t. Still, she knew she could never part with the place. It meant too much to her. It represented too many dreams.

      “It’s probably the heat and humidity making the wood swell,” Jacques informed her.

      “You think so?” Aimee asked hopefully. Surely one of her father’s manuals would have instructions on what to do to fix swollen wood, she thought. Already her thoughts were racing ahead to how to handle the repair.

      “I think it is quite possible. It is not uncommon for an older structure like this one to have such a problem. It is a simple matter to fix. You remove the door, sand down its edges, and then, voila! The door fits once again.”

      “Oh, Jacques, you’re a genius,” Aimee declared. Relief flooded through her.

      “I thought you were an artist,” Liza said accusingly.

      Jacques smiled slowly. “I am a man of many talents, Liza. Art is just one of them.”

      The look he gave her friend could have melted ice, but Liza’s spine only seemed to grow stiffer.

      “If you do not believe me, ask Aimee.”

      Peter surged forward and grabbed the front of Jacques’s shirt. “And just what in the hell do you mean by that?”

      “Peter!” Aimee raced over to him and tugged at his arm.

      Peter ignored her. He curled his fist in the other man’s shirt. “Answer me, dammit.”

      Jacques threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, mon amie, I think your almost-fiancé will not settle for a long engagement. He has the fever in his blood where you are concerned. And when a man gets the fever in his blood for a woman—” his gaze swept from Aimee to Liza, then back again “—he will stop at nothing until he has claimed her as his.”

      Peter could feel his face flush. Shaking Aimee off his arm, he drew back his fist. “Why, you son of a—”

      Aimee and Liza both screamed.

      Jacques blocked the blow. “Mon Dieu! Get hold of yourself, Gallagher. I was talking about my talent for fixing broken pipes-not as Aimee’s lover.”

      The pipe? Peter pulled back on the second punch, almost losing his balance in the process. He released his hold on Jacques’s shirt. The man had been talking about fixing a pipe?

      Jacques rolled his eyes heavenward. “You are hottempered for an American. You must have the fiery blood of the French mixed in your veins.” He smoothed the rumpled lines of his shirt. “Do you not remember? I had just finished helping Aimee change the leaking pipe in her bathroom when you arrived.”

      Peter thrust his hands through his hair. What in the hell is the matter with me? He had come here intent on convincing Aimee to marry him. Instead, he’d almost decked a guy for fixing her leaking pipe and managed to earn himself another dark scowl from Aimee.

      “I’m so sorry, Jacques,” Aimee said. “I can’t imagine what got into Peter.”

      Peter frowned. To make matters worse, Aimee was falling all over the man with apologies, and he still wanted to take a shot at the Frenchman’s arrogant chin. Fighting the urge to wipe the smile from the other man’s face, Peter jammed his fists into his pockets.

      “Honestly. Peter’s not usually so…so…”

      “Jealous,” Liza supplied.

      “Quick-tempered,” Aimee said.

      “I am not quick-tempered, and I am not jealous!” Peter glared at Aimee. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize to this egotistical Frenchman or let you apologize for me. For two cents, I’d still like to knock the guy’s lights out, and I will if he doesn’t stop leering at you.”

      “For once, Peter, I agree with you. He is an egotistical Frenchman,” Liza quipped.

      Peter ignored her. Enraged, he balled his hands into fists. He moved within inches of Jacques and leaned closer, making sure the Frenchman saw the anger and violence in his eyes. “In fact, if you and that little blond she-devil don’t get out