Surrender by Metsy Hingle Page A

and there—even despite his cocksure attitude. But learning just how thoroughly Leslie had used him and humiliated him, and knowing that Peter believed she could do the same, had stopped her.
    So she would sell her paintings to Sterling’s, a fourth-rate gallery at best, which would pay her less than a fifth of what her work would bring at Gallagher’s. And, with a little luck, perhaps she could prove to Peter that it was truly him she loved and to herself that she was a competent artist.
    Maybe then, when he finally believed in her love for him, he would recognize that what he felt for her was much deeper than simple lust.
    He loved her. It was there in his kiss, in his touch, in the dozens of flowers he had sent to her in apology over the past two weeks. She had seen it in his eyes when he looked at her, heard it in his voice when he told her he wanted her and asked her again to marry him.
    But he hadn’t said the words. And he hadn’t budged on the issue of the prenuptial agreement. Not that the agreement itself meant anything to her. It never had. It was the lack of trust and love that it represented that she objected to.
    “So, when do you plan to tell him?” Liza asked.
    “Tomorrow,” Aimee replied, pulling her thoughts back to the present.
    “Listen, if you want to cancel the dinner and movie tonight, I’ll understand. We can always make it another time.”
    Aimee reached over and touched her friend’s hand, nervously tugging on the place mat. “I said I’d have dinner and go to the movies with you tonight.”
    “You don’t have to. I mean, if you’d rather skip it so you can be with Peter—”
    “Quit worrying about Peter. I’ll see him tomorrow. I’ve promised to bake him some of my herb bread.”
    “Decided the way to the beast’s heart is through his stomach, hmm?”
    “Don’t call him a beast,” Aimee said reprovingly, hoping that her instincts were right and that she had already found her way into Peter’s heart.

Six
    A imee dipped her brush into the paint, then carefully stroked the deep blue shade that matched Peter’s eyes across the canvas. She repeated the process, applying another thin layer of color to the eyes that stared back at her from the portrait. Unhappy with the results, Aimee tossed down the brush.
    “What is this? The temperamental artist is finally showing herself?” Jacques asked, his deep, booming voice and accent filling the silence in her studio.
    “I guess so,” Aimee replied, sighing. She wished her mood matched his jovial spirit.
    Wiping his hands with a cloth, Jacques draped the figure he had been sculpting with a towel and moved the short distance from his own work to stand behind her. “What is it, mon amie?”
    “It’s no use, Jacques. I just don’t think I’m cut out to be an artist. Look at this.” She pointed to the portrait of Peter she had been working on for the past month.
    Crossing his arms, Jacques rubbed one palm along the line of his jaw as he looked from the photograph of Peter she had propped up beside her easel to the canvas. “Your brush strokes are good, much better than your earlier attempts. The oil does not look as though you are putting it on with a mop anymore.”
    Aimee’s lips twitched at she recalled his earlier assessment of her attempts at the glazing technique. The process was a time-consuming method by which an artist carefully and slowly created the portrait by placing layer upon layer of paint on the canvas. It was a technique used by the masters, and the end result was supposed to be a magnificent piece of art that, when properly executed, virtually made it possible to lift the completed painting from the canvas to stand on its own. Looking at the portrait of Peter, she knew that, while her technique might be perfect, she had failed to make the portrait come to life.
    “It’s a good likeness of your Peter. Very good, in fact. You’ve even caught the stubborn jaw of the man.”
    “But look at the eyes,” she