Free Surrender by Metsy Hingle Page B

Liza.”
    “And Stephen Edmond?”
    “Yes,” she said, meeting the coolness in his blue eyes. “Someone like Mr. Edmond.”
    “You’ll be making a big mistake if you sign with him, Aimee. Stephen Edmond and his brother are rich little boys whose parents left them lots of money. They like to play at being art dealers. I’ve known too many artists who’ve signed that exclusivity agreement of theirs and been burned by it.”
    “You’re demanding that I sign one.”
    “Yeah. But the difference is that art is my livelihood, not a game. No matter what happens between the two of us, with me you won’t have to worry that I’ll cut the price on your paintings and force us both to take losses just to get even with you. I’ve seen Edmond nearly destroy an artist’s career by driving the prices down for revenge.”
    Aimee could feel her fragile new confidence slip a notch at the image his words evoked. “At least he liked my work,” she said defensively. “He was interested in seeing more of my paintings.”
    “Edmond was only interested in your paintings because he knows I’m interested in you.”
    “That’s not true. He didn’t even know I was seeing you, let alone that you’d be here.”
    Peter laughed. It was a short dry laugh, that held no humor. “Don’t be naive, Aimee. You know how small this city can be when it comes to the personal lives of the people who live in it. Hell, the French Quarter alone is like a small city within the city. You can bet everyone, including the mimes and musicians performing for nickels and dimes around Jackson Square, know you and I’ve been sleeping together.”
    Aimee slapped him then, leaving the print of her hand along the side of his face.
    Her palm stinging, she could feel tears prickling at the base of her throat as she watched Peter’s eyes grow stormy.
    Refusing to be intimidated, she lifted up her chin. “Maybe everyone does know about us. I certainly haven’t tried to hide our affair from anyone,” she informed him. “But at least Stephen Edmond wanted to represent me because he liked my work…and not because I was sleeping with him.”

Five
    “A imee. Wait. I didn’t mean—”
    But it was too late. She was already flouncing off, moving toward the front of the shop in response to the chimes on the door that announced the arrival of customers.
    Damn, Peter swore, cursing his stupidity. What in the hell was wrong with him? If he had thought before he spoke, he would have realized she would react as she had.
    But that was the problem. Lately, where Aimee was concerned, he had been reacting first and thinking only when it was much too late.
    “Jeez,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. The day had started off bad—with the stupid nightmare again, followed by Aimee’s departure from his bed—and it had gone steadily downhill from there.
    If he believed in bad luck, he would have sworn someone had put a gris-gris on him. Just as quickly as the idea surfaced, Peter scoffed at the notion, refusing to give credence to the local folklore. He had heard of the talisman, of course. It was nearly impossible to live in the city and not beacquainted with the fetish that supposedly brought ill luck to its victims. The evil piece, according to local superstition, had originated during the time of Marie Laveau, a woman of Haitian descent who was renowned in New Orleans as the voodoo queen. Even though the woman and her black magic had been dead for two centuries, the stories of her powers lived on, particularly in the city’s French Quarter, where she had lived and plied her trade.
    Irritated, Peter shoved the foolishness aside. He paced back and forth while he waited for Aimee’s customers to leave, reminding himself that he didn’t believe in superstitions or in luck—good or bad. No, luck had nothing to do with the mess he found himself in.
    The problem was him. For some reason, whenever he was with Aimee, he had a difficult time remembering to be