by Miranda Lee
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BY THE time Warwick let himself into his Point Piper apartment, he’d totally come to terms with his decision to look after Amber himself. There were no longer any doubts and definitely no recriminations. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do, if he was going to live with himself after they parted.
Okay, so there were going to be some difficult moments. He hadn’t gone six weeks without sex since he’d left boarding school at eighteen and entered Oxford University, not even when he’d broken his own ankle a few years back. There was nothing like physical inactivity and boredom to raise a man’s testosterone levels. Within a couple of weeks of entering the rehabilitation clinic he’d been climbing the walls. Figuratively speaking, that was. He hadn’t been climbing anything with that damned boot on. Fortunately, there’d been one very pretty nurse who hadn’t minded going that extra mile for her patient, especially when that patient was presentable and single and very, very rich.
So, yes, Warwick wasn’t in the habit of doing without.
But he was sure he could manage. How hard could it be?
Very hard, he accepted when he started packing Amber’s things. Damn, but her nightwear was sexy: no flannelette nighties for her. Everything was made of satin, silk and lace, something he should have realised since he’d bought most of the garments for her. Of course, he always kept the temperature in this apartment at a very pleasant level. Even in the winter, Amber had been able to swan around in flimsy lingerie without fear of catching a chill.
And he’d liked her swanning around in flimsy lingerie.
Bad train of thought, Warwick. Very bad train of thought!
Grimacing, he pushed the lingerie drawer firmly shut before emptying her underwear drawer into a bag without further inspection, knowing it would be just as sexy. After that he proceeded into the bathroom where he scooped all of her skin and hair care products into a large toilet bag, grabbed her bathrobe off the back of the door, then went back out into the bedroom where he stood, glaring at the bottles of perfumes sitting on her dressing table. They were all extremely expensive, exotic scents that he’d personally chosen for her and which turned him on.
‘She never said anything about bringing her perfume,’ he muttered. So he left them there, the same way he’d left the sexy lingerie behind. Tomorrow he’d go buy her some more modest nighties, which wouldn’t make him wish he’d never suggested this crazy idea in the first place.
Her casual clothes didn’t present any visual stimulation problems. But Warwick quickly realised that all Amber’s skinny jeans were unlikely to fit over the rather bulky boot she’d have to wear to support her broken ankle. He recalled how he’d lived in roomy tracksuits during his recovery, ones where the pants had elastic around the ankles or zippers up the sides.
Amber didn’t have any tracksuits. She didn’t like them. She wore shorts or leggings to the gym.
He still threw all her jeans in with her other casual clothes, but he put a couple of pairs of jogging bottoms on his mental shopping list. Warwick recalled passing a large shopping centre between Gosford and Wamberal, which should have anything he needed to buy.
When he’d finally finished packing Amber’s things, he filled a suitcase with some clothes for himself, after which he took a long hot shower and tried not to worry about how he would cope, living the life of a monk. By the time he climbed into bed, he was so darned tired that his mind shut down immediately.
His dreams, however, were not quite so kind. Like most dreams they were rather jumbled, but still vivid and unfortunately very erotic, and about Amber. In the dream just before he woke, she was lying naked in her aunt Kate’s bed. He was standing by the bed, staring down at her, dying to climb in with her, but he couldn’t seem to move. Then another man came into the room: it was Hansen. Warwick recognised the smarmy smile on his face. When Amber lifted the bedspread to invite him in with her, Warwick went to cry out. But no sound came out of his mouth, even though he was screaming in his head. When Hansen started kissing Amber, he shot awake and upright, his hands balled into tight fists by his side.
The realisation that it was only a dream brought some relief. But only to his mind, not his body. Warwick sighed, then climbed out of bed and headed for a decidedly cold shower, after which he returned to bed and just lay there, thinking about Amber and all that she’d said to him the previous day.
Despite being a man of considerable intelligence, Warwick wasn’t used to deep and meaningful thinking. He’d given it up soon after he’d found out what the future held for him, making a conscious decision to live his life in the here and now, seeking pleasure and satisfaction in whatever took his fancy for as long as it lasted. He didn’t let himself worry about what other people thought or felt. He didn’t worry about outcomes, even with his many and varied investments.
Knowing what awaited him had been strangely liberating in that regard. What did it matter if he lost all his money, when compared with the inevitability of losing his mind?
Perversely, his disregard of risk had made him an even wealthier man than he’d been when his father died. He’d plunged into deals that a more careful man would not have considered, most of which had returned a profit. On the other hand, he’d never been greedy, taking his money out of the stock market when it had still been on the rise, just before the disastrous crash in 2001. Not because he’d foreseen the future. Warwick didn’t think about the future. He just knew he’d already made good money and enough was enough.
People often said he was lucky. That always made him laugh. Lucky, he wasn’t. But as the saying went, fortune did seem to favour the brave. Not that he would call himself brave, either. He was impulsive and reckless and, at times, downright foolish. On the other hand, however, he did have a good brain—a brilliant brain, one of his teachers had once said.
One day, however, that so-called brilliant brain would begin to stop functioning. When this would happen, Warwick could not be absolutely sure. But given his family history, it seemed likely that the age of fifty would be his deadline.
So what are you planning to do for the next ten years, Warwick, my man? he asked himself as he lay there in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. More of the same? Or something different. Something a little more … worthy.
‘An odd word, that,’ Warwick muttered to himself. ‘Worthy.’
What did it mean?
Suspecting that sleep was not likely to claim him now, Warwick climbed out of bed and padded, naked, out to the kitchen, where he set about making himself some coffee. The clock on the wall said it was ten past six. Soon the dark of night would lift and the sun would slide up over the horizon, heralding another day.
‘What does it mean to live a worthy life?’ he asked himself aloud as he waited for the electric jug to boil.
Warwick frowned. A year ago, he would never have been having this conversation with himself. He certainly wouldn’t have been questioning his lifestyle or searching his soul for enlightenment over how to live what was left of his life.
But then, a year ago, he hadn’t met Amber.
A year ago, he hadn’t been loved.
Warwick didn’t want Amber to ever look at him the way she’d looked at him yesterday. He wanted to see, if not love in her eyes, then at least admiration. He wanted her to be proud of him.
Which she might be, if he looked after her the way he’d vowed to last night. With his own two hands—those same two hands that had to be kept firmly off her delectable and highly desirable body.
Warwick’s mouth twisted to one side as he envisaged all the intimate things he might have to do for her: help her dress and undress; help her in the bathroom; help her into bed. The list contained nothing but endless torment.
He had to be the worst masochist in the world to suggest it. Or a saint.
Unfortunately, he was neither. The next six weeks, he realised, were going to be sheer, unadulterated hell!
Shaking his head, Warwick took his coffee into the living roo
m, where he settled down on the sofa that faced the water. There he sat, slowly sipping the steaming liquid whilst watching the dawn, at the same time making a mental list of all the things he had to do that day.
Inform the cleaning service that he was going away for six weeks. Visit the club and tell the construction manager that he would be liaising with him by phone and email for a while. Ring the hospital to see how the op went. Drive up to Gosford. Buy flowers. Visit Amber. Then go to that shopping centre.
There were several items in the B & B that would have to be replaced. That crocheted bedspread for one. No way was that staying! He’d buy a new quilt for the upstairs bedroom as well, the one he’d liked the most and in which he’d be sleeping. Because of course he wouldn’t be sleeping in the same room as Amber.
Then there was the question of some air conditioning in the old lady’s bedroom. And a new TV for Amber to watch. The ancient one in the corner didn’t shout digital to him.
It was a lot to do in one day, but Warwick had no doubt he’d manage. It was amazing just how cooperative sales people could be when you threw in a cash bonus. He was determined that by the time Amber arrived home tomorrow everything would be ready for her!
CHAPTER TWELVE
An excerpt from Amber’s new diary, written two weeks after her discharge from hospital:
Another long, wretchedly frustrating day! I can’t stand not being able to get around without wearing that damned boot and pushing that hideous walking frame. Although it’s the Rolls Royce of walking frames. Trust Warwick to only hire the very best. It even has a tray top and a basket underneath that I can carry things in, like books and stuff. But I can’t seem to read. I used to like reading but not during the past two weeks. Warwick bought me a fancy iPod and downloaded lots of games on it, which was thoughtful of him, I suppose. But not what I wanted when I complained I was bored. The truth is I wanted Warwick to play games with me, not leave me alone to amuse myself. I’m sick of watching television, even if it is the latest flat-screen model which must have cost Warwick a tidy sum. When I first came home and saw all the things he’d bought—including an air conditioner for my bedroom—I told him that he shouldn’t have. But he took no notice and hasn’t stopped buying me things. I’ve given up objecting. One thing I did do for myself was ring an agency and hire a woman to come in and help me shower and dress every morning. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand Warwick doing that for me. And he probably would have. He’s been quite amazing, really. He’s taught himself how to cook by following Aunt Kate’s handwritten recipe books. Not that he doesn’t occasionally order takeaway. We’ve had the odd Chinese and a pizza or two. Washing clothes hasn’t presented any problem for him, either. Still, Aunt Kate installed a well-equipped laundry, including a tumble-dryer, with a list of simple instructions for guests taped to the wall near them. I know I shouldn’t complain. He’s doing everything he said he would. But I hate it. I hate his treating me like a flatmate he’s mildly fond of. I hate it that he talks to Max more than he talks to me. But most of all I hate sleeping alone. Not that it bothers Warwick. It didn’t even bother him when he came into my room last week and caught me sitting up in bed with nothing on. I was changing nighties at the time. But he didn’t turn a hair. Didn’t even really look. Which irritated me to death. He used to say I had the most beautiful breasts in the world. Suddenly, they don’t even rate a second glance. So yes, maybe my frustration is sexual. Who knows? Have to go now, Diary. Warwick’s at the door. You’ll hear from me later.
WARWICK ALWAYS tapped on the door nowadays before entering Amber’s bedroom, ever since he’d walked in one day last week and caught her in the act of changing her nightie. Seeing her sitting up in bed, naked from the waist up, was not helpful with his resolve to keep his hands off. He’d spent the rest of the day feeling frustration, which had only eased after he’d gone swimming in the sea, in a freezing cold surf.
When he came into the room this time, she was sitting in the armchair that faced the television, fully dressed in a velour maroon tracksuit, her long blonde hair twisted into a knot on top of her head. Despite not wearing make-up, she looked utterly beautiful but decidedly unhappy. Warwick wondered what she’d been writing in the diary that she’d asked him to buy for her the day after she’d left hospital and which was presently resting on her lap. A pen was still in her right hand.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ he announced. ‘Do you need any help getting out of that chair? ‘
Amber sighed as she put both the diary and pen down on the small side table. ‘No, thanks. I’ll be along shortly.’
Warwick’s teeth clenched down hard in his jaw. He could understand her wanting to be independent. But he hated seeing her struggle to do things. Hated not being able to do what he thought was natural for a man to do for his woman.
‘Damn it all,’ he suddenly muttered and strode over to the chair, where he swept her up into his arms. ‘Yes, yes, I know I’m supposed to keep my wicked hands off,’ he growled as he carried her from the room. ‘But there’s a limit to any man’s patience.’
She hooked her arms around his neck and stared up at him with her big lustrous blue eyes.
‘I … I thought you didn’t want me any more,’ she choked out.
He ground to a halt in the hallway. ‘I’m not carrying you off to my bed, Amber,’ he informed her brusquely. ‘Just to the kitchen table for dinner.’
‘Oh.’ She flushed a dark red and dropped her eyes from his.
‘Do you want me to take you up to my bed?’
Her eyes lifted back to his, their expression confused and uncertain. ‘I don’t know.’
She didn’t know. Hell on earth, but she’d try the patience of a saint!
‘Then let me do my best to make up your mind for you. If you say yes, then I’ll quite happily make love to you. All night long if you wish. It hasn’t been easy for me being here with you like this. Celibacy does not come naturally to me. But let me warn you, Amber, I will still leave when you’re better. It won’t change anything. Do not think that sleeping with me will make me stay, because it won’t!’
Amber wished he hadn’t added that last bit. Wished he’d stopped at how glad he would be to make love to her all night. Then she could have surrendered to the wild, rapturous heat that was racing through her veins and not worried about the future. She could have tried living the way he’d always lived: for the pleasure of the moment.
But, no, he had to tell the cold, hard facts, didn’t he? Had to make her face the reality of his offer. Had to put the ball squarely back in her court.
Dear God, but he was cruel!
‘In that case, take me to the kitchen,’ she said with stiff pride.
‘Fine,’ Warwick bit out and did just that, depositing her in one of the kitchen chairs before swinging away to see to the food, grateful for the opportunity to collect himself.
For a split second there, he’d almost ignored her not very convincing ‘no’ and carried her upstairs to bed. Because he’d seen the truth in her eyes. Seen the yearning. She wanted him to make love to her, no doubt about that.
And damn it all, he wanted to make love to her!
But he hadn’t come this far to fall at the first hurdle. He had to stay strong. Because it was obvious that Amber couldn’t. The accident had made her vulnerable and weak. He would have no trouble seducing her, no trouble at all.
But seduction was not on the menu for tonight. Or any other night.
‘I’ve cooked your aunt’s recipe for Hungarian goulash,’ he said as he returned to the table with their meals. ‘Right down to the dash of Worcestershire sauce. But I didn’t cook potatoes with it, just rice.’
‘It looks very nice,’ Amber said rather dully as she picked up her fork.
‘Do you want a glass of red with it?’ he asked as he picked up the bottle he’d bought earlier and placed on the table along with two of her aunt’s very elegant wine glasses. ‘I know you’re not mad about red but you can’t really drink white with
this. And the Merlot is particularly good. Very soft on the palate.’
‘Whatever,’ she said with an indifferent shrug.
Warwick quickly saw that dinner was going to be a sombre affair. And he was right: Amber didn’t speak, just forked the goulash into her mouth like an automaton. She ate it all, though, which was some consolation for the effort it had taken to make the darned food. He’d been in the kitchen for hours. Not that he really minded. Strangely enough, Warwick had found that he quite enjoyed cooking, even if he did take ages to do everything. But he hated the cleaning up afterwards. Actually, he hated cleaning in general. To put it bluntly, cleaning sucked. He would have hired a housekeeper if he hadn’t needed as many activities as possible to distract and tire him, firmly believing the adage about the devil and idle hands. So, along with the housework and the shopping, he ran along the beach twice a day, in the morning by himself and every afternoon with Max, who seemed to have warmed to him at last. Max had actually come to the house last evening after dinner with a bottle of port and they’d drunk it together whilst they chatted away about business, mostly the hotel industry.
They didn’t touch upon personal affairs, for which Warwick was grateful. It would have been awkward to explain about his situation where Amber was concerned without coming out looking the baddie. Which he was, of course. But he liked Max and didn’t want the man to begin thinking badly of him again. So when Max invited them both to a barbecue at his house this coming weekend, as one would any normal couple, he’d said yes.
But he hadn’t told Amber yet, something he would have to remedy since Tara occasionally dropped in to see Amber and would probably mention the invitation herself.
‘By the way,’ he said as soon as Amber put her fork down. ‘Max and Tara have invited us to a barbecue at their place this Saturday. Not in the evening. At lunchtime.’