Surrender

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Copyright

“Sign The Agreement And We Can Be Married Before The Week’s Out.”

Aimee pushed him away. “No. I’m not signing any prenuptial agreement.” She shoved the document toward him and tugged off the diamond he’d placed on her left hand earlier that evening.

“What are you doing?

” “Giving you back your engagement ring. I’m not going to marry you.”

“What do you mean, you’re not going to marry me? You’ve already said yes!”

She tipped her chin defiantly. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. But,” she said as calmly as she could, “I think I’ll take you up on your original offer.”

“My original offer?”

“Yes. I’ll have an affair with you instead.”

Dear Reader,

Go no further! I want you to read all about what’s in store for you this month at Silhouette Desire. First, there’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the triumphant return of Joan Hohl’s BIG BAD WOLFE series! MAN OF THE MONTH Cameron Wolfe “stars” in the absolutely wonderful Wolfe Wedding. This book, Joan’s twenty-fifth Silhouette title, is a keeper. So if you plan on giving it to someone to read I suggest you get one for yourself and one for a friend—it’s that good!

In addition, it’s always exciting for me to present a unique new miniseries, and SONS AND LOVERS is just such a series. Lucas, Ridge and Reese are all brothers with a secret past…and a romantic future. The series begins with Lucas: The Loner by Cindy Gerard, and continues in February with Reese: The Untamed by Susan Connell and in March with Ridge: The Avenger by Leanne Banks. Don’t miss them!

If you like humor, don’t miss Peachy’s Proposal, the next book in Carole Buck’s charming, fun-filled WEDDING BELLES series, or My House or Yours? the latest from Lass Small.

If ranches are a place you’d like to visit, you must check out Barbara McMahon’s Cowboy’s Bride. And this month is completed with a dramatic, sensuous love story from Metsy Hingle. The story is called Surrender, and I think you’ll surrender to the talents of this wonderful new writer.

Sincerely,

Lucia Macro

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Surrender

Metsy Hingle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

METSY HINGLE

is a native of New Orleans who loves the city in which she grew up. She credits the charm, antiquity and decadence of her birthplace, along with the passionate nature of her own French heritage, with instilling in her the desire to write. Married and the mother of four children, she believes in romance and happy endings. Becoming a Silhouette author is a long-cherished dream come true for Metsy and one happy ending that she continues to celebrate with each new story she writes.

To Lucia Macro

The Best Of The Best, Editor And Friend Thanks For Taking That First Chance.

Prologue

“You expect me to sign this?” Aimee gripped the prenuptial agreement in her hand, praying the indignation in her voice masked the pain in her heart.

“I do, if we’re going to be married.” Peter moved toward her, and she took a step back. His lips thinned in a disapproving scowl. “At least look at the damn thing, Aimee. You’ll see that I’m being more than generous.”

The vise that seemed to be squeezing her heart tightened. Aimee swallowed hard, determined not to cry. “I’m sure you are.” In the three months since they’d become lovers, he had been extremely generous to her, with everything—except with his love.

And it was his love that she wanted most of all.

His expression softened somewhat, and this time when he moved to put his arm around her, Aimee didn’t resist. “Be reasonable, sweetheart. Just sign the thing, and then we can—”

“I’m not signing it, Peter.”

His body grew rigid beside her. “Do you want to have an attorney look it over first? Is that it?”

Chilled by the distrust in his voice, Aimee moved out of his arms. She cut a glance to his face. His blue eyes had darkened to the color of steel—cold steel. “No. I don’t need to have anyone look it over, because I have no intention of ever signing it.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t believe in prenuptial agreements. Signing one would be tantamount to saying I don’t believe the marriage is going to last.”

“It probably won’t. You know as well as I do that fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce.”

“And fifty percent of them don’t,” Aimee shot back. She paused. “Why did you even bother asking me to marry you if you feel this way?”

“Because I want you.”

Because he wanted her. Aimee closed her eyes and repeated the words silently. Not because he loved her.

Peter reached out and caught her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Aimee.”

Opening her eyes, she lifted her gaze to his. Her pulse skittered like a colt at the raw desire she saw in his eyes.

“I want you in my bed. Tonight. Tomorrow night. Every night.” Pulling her to him, he crushed the prenuptial agreement she was holding between them and captured her mouth with his.

Instinctively Aimee parted her lips, welcoming him, giving in to the dizzying sensation that only Peter could make her feel.

When he finally lifted his head, Aimee blinked. Slowly, her senses cleared, and she was able to focus on Peter’s face. Her stomach clenched at the triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“You want me just as much as I want you. You said you wouldn’t live with me unless we were married, so I’m offering to marry you. Don’t be stubborn, Aimee. Sign the agreement, and we can be married before the week’s out.”

Feeling as though she had just been doused in cold water, Aimee pushed him away. “No. I’m not signing any prenuptial agreement.” She shoved the crumpled document toward him and began tugging off the emerald-cut diamond he’d placed on her finger earlier that evening.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Giving you back your engagement ring.”

“What in the hell for?”

“Because I’m not going to marry you.” Scanning the room, she spotted her purse and started toward it.

Scowling, Peter threw the prenuptial agreement and ring to the floor. The stone struck the marble floor and bounced, landing on the Oriental rug. He marched after Aimee. “What do you mean, you’re not going to marry me? You’ve already said yes!”

She tipped up her chin defiantly. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. Given your lack of faith in the institution of marriage, you’d probably make a lousy husband anyway. But,” she said, as calmly as she could, “I think I’ll take you up on your original offer.”

“My original offer?”

“Yes. I’ll have an affair with you instead.”

One

The blanket of darkness surrounded him. Naked and alone, Peter Gallagher shivered in the empty vault. He could feel the cold penetrating his skin, stealing the last of his warmth, sapping the last of his strength. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been trapped in the gallery’s vault, unable to escape. But time was running out. It wouldn’t be long now, he realized. The demons had finally won. Within hours, he would be dead.

Suddenly a sliver of light pierced the blackness that engulfed him. Marshaling what little energy he had left, Peter surged toward it, breaking free of the chains and stumbling into the light.

Peter came awake instantly. Opening his eyes, relief flooded him as he took in the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. His heart thundered like a racehorse’s, and he forced himself to breathe slowly.

It had been that stupid dream again. He hadn’t been trapped in the gallery’s vault. He was home. Safe. And Aimee still lay asleep beside him. Drawing her body close to him, he drifted back to sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the first fingers of dawn streamed through the bedroom window. The alarm clock beside the bed started to beep. Peter reached out and hit the off button. Stealing a glance at the clock, he frowned at the illuminated numerals that declared the time to be 6:30. The internal clock that had served to rouse him shortly before six o’clock each morning for most of his thirty-six years had failed him once again.

Either his body’s instinct to awaken had dissipated with age and the recurring nightmare, or sharing his bed with Aimee for the past three months had altered his lifestyle.

Who was he kidding? It had nothing to do with age or the nightmare, and everything to do with Aimee. The woman had turned his once orderly life completely upside down from the first moment he set eyes on her, at that art-gallery opening six months ago.

He still wasn’t quite sure why she had captured his interest that night. With her short crop of black hair and wide ghost-blue eyes, she was not at all his usual type. Even her slender curves, nicely distributed over her five-foot-fourinch frame, were a far cry from the tall, voluptuous women who generally drew his attention. She was attractive, but by no means beautiful—except when she smiled. When that Cupid’s-bow mouth of hers spread into a grin, she lit up a room and drew everyone within her radius to her.

Including him.

Of course, discovering that she was the new owner of the building he had been trying to purchase for the past several years had seemed a stroke of luck. It was also part of the reason he had pursued her.

He wanted that building. It had belonged to him once, before his divorce. He had been forced to sell it and watch his dream gallery site be turned into apartments and a gift shop, deteriorating under the hands of its new owners. But now it was within his grasp. It had taken him nearly ten years and a lot of hard work, but he had reclaimed everything he had lost, and rebuilt Gallagher’s into one of the best art galleries in New Orleans. The only thing still missing was that building.

He had promised his father he would get the place back someday. The fact that his father had been dead more than nine years and would not be here to witness Peter’s victory didn’t matter. Maybe it was a foolish obsession. But he had made the old man a promise, and he intended to keep it. He wanted Aimee’s building, and he intended to have it—even if it meant marrying again to get it.

Only he hadn’t counted on wanting Aimee herself.

The object of his thoughts shifted in bed beside him, snuggling her bottom against him. Peter fought back a groan at the contact. He could feel himself growing hard at the intimacy. As always, the merest touch, the smell, even just the thought of Aimee, sent his hormones into overdrive.

When she turned down his offer of marriage, he had been sure he had somehow managed to dodge a bullet—especially when she had proclaimed they should have an affair instead. He had been confident at the time that an affair with her would not only get her to sell him the building, but would assuage his insatiable desire for her, as well.

He’d been dead wrong on both counts. Aimee wouldn’t even consider selling the place. And his need, his hunger, for her had intensified, not lessened. Even now, after a night of lovemaking, he wanted her again.

Unable to resist, Peter kissed the pale skin of her shoulder, bare except for the ribbon-thin strap of her nightgown. She made that sweet little noise, something between a moan and a purr, that drove him crazy. Shifting his body closer, he tasted the skin at the nape of her neck.

“Hmmm…” Aimee murmured softly. Slowly she turned into his arms, giving him access to more silken skin. Although her eyes remained closed, a smile started at the corners of her mouth and spread. “Good morning,” she whispered.

Forcing himself to move slowly, Peter slipped the strap of her nightgown down her other arm and bared her breasts. The pink, rosy nipples pebbled under his gaze, making the ache to possess her even more painful. He circled one tip with his tongue.

“Peter…” Aimee gasped.

“Morning,” 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 stream.”

Aimee bit back a groan. “All right. Whose apartment is it this time?”

“Yours.”

“Mine?” Aimee swallowed. “But how would you know my pipe was leaking? Unless…”

“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.