Metsy Hingle - Surrender

“Unless it was leaking into the shop,” Liza continued, confirming Aimee’s worst fears. “It is.”

“Oh, my God! Then that means the shop’s—”

“A bit wet at the moment,” Liza finished for her.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. I shut off the water, but I’m afraid some of Simone’s feathered masks are ruined. A couple of ceiling tiles fell and cracked one of the glass cases. I thought you might want to get down here and survey the damage before you call the insurance company.”

“I don’t have insurance anymore,” Aimee advised her friend. “I canceled the policy last month.” To save money, she added silently.

“I’m sorry, Aimee.” There was no mistaking the genuine remorse in her friend’s voice. “But it really isn’t all that bad. I was just coming downstairs to get the morning paper when I heard the ceiling tile fall. And this Jacques fellow showed up, looking for you, and offered to help.” Judging from her friend’s tone, Aimee guessed her new tenant hadn’t exactly won Liza over. “Except for a little water, most of the stuff is okay. I’ll start mopping up. With any luck, we’ll probably still be able to open the shop this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Liza. I owe you one.”

“Forget it. Just kiss the beast goodbye and get your rear over here before I end up chipping my nails.”

Aimee smiled, some of her initial panic easing. “All right. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” She hit the off button and tossed the phone on the bed. “I have to go home.”

“Why?” Peter asked, following her across the room. “What did Liza want? And who in the hell is Jacques?”

“Liza called because there’s a pipe leaking in my apartment.” Unable to locate her clothes, Aimee dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. “Jacques is a new tenant. He moved in two days ago, into Hank’s old apartment.”

“You never mentioned anything about a new tenant. And what’s with the phony accent?”

“It’s not phony. Jacques is from France.” She retrieved a silver earring.

Peter walked over to the edge of the bed and stood next to her crouched figure. “Would you slow down a second and tell me what it is you’re looking for?”

“My clothes.” She headed for the living room. There she spied her jeans and blouse, on the Aubusson rug, next to Peter’s shirt. Aimee looked up, seeing once again the two paintings—a Picasso and a child’s watercolor. Her heart swelled, as it had the previous evening, at the sight of the priceless work of art mounted alongside a child’s rendering of a flower. The picture had been a gift from a fatherless boy participating in the summer art program Peter had sponsored.

She had been stunned to see the painting in Peter’s elegantly furnished home. “I bought it because I liked it,” Peter had said when she questioned him. “I’m a businessman, not a sentimentalist. It’s an investment,” he had added defensively, obviously embarrassed that she considered his actions kind. “I’ve got a good eye for art, and I think Tommy might give Picasso a run for his money some day.”

Despite his protests, the gesture had warmed her heart. It was this gentle side of Peter, that part of him that accorded a young boy’s drawing the same reverence he did a Picasso, that had made falling in love with him inevitable.

Reaching for her jeans, Aimee winced as her bare foot came down on one of the buttons she’d torn from Peter’s shirt in her haste the previous evening. She bit her lip, remembering how aggressive she’d been.

“I don’t understand what the big rush is. You’ve had leaking pipes before. Get Liza to put a pan under it for now.”

Lost in her thoughts, Aimee hadn’t heard Peter come up behind her. She looked up at him, and her heart tripped faster at the warmth in his eyes.

“Let me fix you some breakfast first, then I’ll take you home.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t have time. The pipe leaked through at least one ceiling tile that I know of, and it fell into the shop and cracked one of the display cases. That means I’ve got at least some ceiling damage, not to mention a shop full of water, and Liza said some of Simone’s feathered masks were ruined.” The panic came back to her in a rush, and Aimee immediately went into motion. She scooped up her jeans from the floor. “Heaven knows how much of the other merchandise has been damaged, and I don’t have any idea what kind of shape my apartment’s going to be in. I’ve got to get over there.”

Peter caught her by the shoulders as she reached for her blouse. “Hey, slow down a minute.”

“But I—”

Peter placed a silencing finger over her mouth. “I want you to take a deep breath.”

She did as he instructed, and her nerves settled somewhat.

“All right. Now, did Liza turn off the water?”

Aimee nodded.

“Good.” He tugged her into his arms and held her head to his chest. He stroked her hair. “I know this guy who’s a plumber. Why don’t I give him a call and have him take care of it for you? He’ll have it fixed in no time.”

Aimee pulled away from him. “Peter, I can’t afford a plumber.”

“You don’t have to.” He massaged the back of her neck with his fingers. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“No,” Aimee said firmly. She stepped out of his arms and away from his touch. “I can’t let you do that.”

Peter frowned. “Why not?”

“You know why. Because it’s my building and my responsibility. Not yours.” Ignoring his sullen expression, Aimee started for the bedroom.

Peter followed. “Then make it my responsibility. Sell me the building. I’ve offered to buy the place from you before. The offer’s still good. Just say the word and I’ll take it off your hands.”

“I don’t want it taken off my hands. It’s my home,” she said, kicking her nightgown aside. Conscious of Peter’s gaze on her naked back, Aimee pulled her shirt over her head and then reached for her jeans.

“All right. Forget about the building, then. But don’t go rushing home. Not yet.” He brushed his lips against her nape and moved his body behind hers. “Stay, Aimee,” he whispered.

Aimee could feel his arousal pressed against her. Her breath quickened. She curled her fingers into the jeans she was holding. Oh, how she wanted to stay, how tempting he made it for her to forget her responsibilities and be with him. “I can’t,” she said finally, breaking free of the sensual spell of his nearness.

Peter’s mouth stilled on her neck, and Aimee was keenly aware of the loss of his warmth as he released her. “Can’t or won’t, Aimee?”

She knew he didn’t understand her not allowing him to pay for the plumber, any more than he had understood her reasons for not marrying him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure she understood them herself. All she knew was that she loved him and it was his love she wanted in return-not his money or his help fixing her building or even in launching her art career.

But Peter didn’t believe that, because he was convinced everyone wanted something, everyone had an angle. She slipped into her jeans, then turned to face him. “Can’t. I’ve got a leaking pipe to fix.”

Peter remained silent, his face a stone mask, as she located her sandals and slid them onto her feet.

He yanked open his closet door and came out with a sport shirt and slacks. Tossing the clothes on the bed, he stripped off his pajama bottoms. Except for low-rise teal briefs, he was naked. Lean and solid, muscles rippling across his chest and shoulders as he moved, he reminded her of an ancient warrior. “Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll take you home.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, averting her gaze. “It’s just a couple of blocks.”