by Anna Cleary
‘Oh, right. Well …’
She looked searchingly at him, but he’d absented himself to somewhere remote. Shock must have fogged her brain, because she couldn’t think up a sassy comment with which to ease the moment forward with a laugh and a wiggle.
She lifted her shoulders. ‘Well, then. I’ll be seeing you.’ Stunned, confused and stinging, she walked to the door.
She opened it before he could, and was about to step outside when he murmured her name. She glanced back, her heart lifting.
But there was no farewell clinch. Just a brusque touch of her cheek. When he spoke his voice sounded gruff. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’
She tried to get some words to form. Some cool words. But even Amber’s avatar let her down this time and none would come.
She reached her front door, confusion and anger swelling in her chest.
She felt like such a fool. Such a silly, worthless fool.
CHAPTER THREE
AMBER saw him in the arcade next morning, first thing, when she was hurrying home from her early dance class at the Wharf. Not many shops had yet opened their doors.
Guy appeared at the opposite end, loping up the near-deserted mall with a fluid, easy motion. He was in running shorts and a singlet, a sheen of perspiration on his neck and arms. The instant she spotted him her pulse revved up and her lungs forgot to breathe.
The gorgeous symmetry of all that muscle, bone and sinew working in symphony washed over her and left her feeling—raw. As any woman might feel after a long, anguished night curled up into a ball of shame and misery.
Thank goodness sheer exhaustion had mercifully blacked her out in the end.
She knew the exact moment he spotted her. There was a slight check in his gait, then he slowed to a walk. As he advanced towards her she tried to steady her face. She wasn’t ready for this. She hadn’t yet decided how to play it. How best to protect herself. If she had to share the lift with him she doubted she could trust herself to stay cool and unruffled for nine whole floors.
He drew level with her, his acute gaze taking in the shortish dress and the casual cardi she wore over her leotard, her sports carry-all.
‘Er … hi.’ He looked keenly at her with veiled eyes, then dropped his lashes. Perhaps she would detect something behind his casual greeting. Constraint. ‘You’re up early. Been to the gym?’ He continued to gaze down at her, then turned with her towards the lift.
Amber pressed the button. ‘Nope.’
‘Yoga?’
‘No.’ She held her head high, not looking at him, but she could feel his quizzical gaze scrutinising her face. If he dared to make a joke about her flexibility …
The lift doors shuddered apart.
‘Morning must make you brisk. I seem to recall you were much friendlier last night.’ The mocking sensuality in his voice hit that raw spot in her vital organs, but she maintained her cool.
Stepping inside the narrow lift, she pressed for the ninth and turned deliberately to face him, arms extended to block his entrance. ‘Must have been because you’re such a warm guy, Guy.’
She smiled sweetly as the doors slid shut in his face.
With his coffee cooling, Guy clicked through his presentation to staff. Stared at it.
Hardly surprising, but he didn’t take much in. What with last night constantly intruding, and now the encounter in the mall …
His fingers stilled on the mousepad. He hadn’t been so aloof, had he? He’d tried to be gentle with her. Polite. He thought he’d expressed his sincere appreciation quite fulsomely.
He could admit to feeling a certain discomfort about the way things had gone down at the end of their sexy little interlude. Maybe she was right to some degree. He guessed he could have been smoother.
All right. Kinder. Thing was, he was out of practice.
The choking sensation rose in his chest and he squashed it down. He wasn’t geared up for all the stuff with women.
Anyway, he rejected outright any blame for succumbing to sex. She’d been seductive, and so … so utterly…. For the whole of this morning’s fifteen-kilometre run he’d been as preoccupied with recalling the highlights as a teenager after his first woman.
The feel of her. The sheer physical pleasure of holding her supple form in his arms. And at the same time her yielding softness. Her eyes, so gentle and giving and …
His heart quickened and he closed his eyelids. Even after the longest shower in history that softness had stayed on his skin the night through. Hell, what had come over him? He should have used more finesse.
But …
He couldn’t risk getting into all that.
No doubt in this world, where men were the bad guys and women saints, his reserve at the end there could have come across as seeming casual. All right, cold.
Callous was far too harsh a term. Exploitative … Where had that sprung from?
Never.
He sprang up and paced. It was in no way true. If he wasn’t the sucker he’d once been, he was still in every way a decent, caring and honourable guy. She couldn’t deny she’d been equally enthusiastic. He hadn’t promised her anything, had he?
This was just life. Amber O’Neill needed to toughen up. Sure, he’d noticed signs of emotion in her, but none of it had been down to him. He’d done nothing to bring that teary sparkle that had come and gone in her eyes. And for a woman to actually shed tears during sex …
What guy would cope?
He ignored the smart little voice piping, The guy you used to be. And he ignored the gnawing twinge that had been occupying his chest since he’d closed the door after her last night. Whatever had upset her was not his responsibility.
Men had to shield themselves or they could be swept along on a woman’s emotions and end up a wreck before the eyes of the world.
He slammed the door on his old nightmare before it could properly materialise. Breathed carefully for a while. In. Out.
The wedding debacle had no more power to gut him. It was over now, the bad time long gone. He’d learned his lesson, and there’d be no more debacles for Guy Wilder.
If Amber O’Neill was too soft for the rough and tumble of casual sex she should look elsewhere for a playmate.
Regrettable, though, in some ways.
Amber chose one of her prettiest costumes: capri pants patterned in rose coloured daisies with a rose-pink top and heels. With a little make-up she looked cheery enough, and that was good. The customers didn’t have to know she’d taken a few lacerations to the spirit.
Determined to swan through the day with a smile here and a sunbeam there, she made porridge—her favourite—then ended up washing it down the sink.
Food was impossible with her insides churning so fast. If only she hadn’t encountered him in the mall.
There were so many things she could have said, but she was glad she’d restrained herself. Last night she might have felt like trash, but it was a sensation she’d experienced before. She just hadn’t expected it. Not with him. He’d seemed so … lovely.
Anyway, no use brooding. Write him off as a mistake. Wallowing in angst and recriminations wouldn’t help. She’d found that out the hard way with Miguel, when her mother had needed her there every night. Some men were tone deaf to feelings.
Pity she could still make the same mistakes with that knowledge so deeply inscribed on her soul.
Anyway, forget Guy Wilder’s smile and his crow’s feet and his music. How charming he’d been until he’d achieved his … Oh. She flinched to think of it and her eyes were awash again.
She blotted them carefully with her fingers, but the tactic wasn’t all that successful.
Great. Now she’d have to fix her mascara. What was wrong with her anyway? She was turning into an emotional wreck. She just mustn’t think about it. It was too demoralising. It wasn’t worth another second of her time.
She reminded herself of her resolutions. She wouldn’t tolerate disrespect. Her next love, if she found one, would know how to va
lue her. Gone were the days when she gave a man her all, while he took all he could.
She pressed her lips into a firm line. The old Amber was gone. The new Amber was sparing with her gifts. The new Amber took no prisoners.
Well, those were her resolves, at least, as she steeled herself to walk past Guy’s door and into the lift.
Unlocking the shop door was a relief. At least here she had a safe haven from the perils of the ninth floor. And, since she was on her own for the day, she’d have no time to dwell on whether a man had deliberately conned her into believing he was a human being for the sake of an orgasm.
She’d barely received her daily flower delivery and commenced the task of sorting, before Roger, the smooth, bald CEO from Centre Management, strolled in.
He was doing the rounds, he said. Reminding everyone of the next evening’s residents’ meeting. She noticed his shrewd, light eyes dart about, not missing a thing.
‘Doesn’t your lease come up for renewal soon?’ he said blandly. ‘Two months from tomorrow, isn’t it?’
As if he didn’t know. And as if she needed reminding.
He cast a measured glance at the shuttered glass wall. ‘You know, Amber, some of our tenants consider this a very desirable location. That access to the street is valuable. Properly used, with a good display, the whole arcade would stand to benefit from that entrance being wide open and attractive.’
Amber was reminded of what one of her neighbours had recently said. Marc, the tenant of Homme, the menswear shop next door, had jokingly offered to swap premises with her. Homme could make a great splash at that entrance, Marc had enthused, making her and Serena laugh till they cried with his hilarious demonstrations of how he might arrange his favourite mannequins to attract attention.
Listening to Roger now, Amber wondered if Marc’s suggestion had been more serious than she’d imagined.
After Roger drifted away, she sat disconsolately at the counter and stared around the shop. To make a worthwhile display out on the street as well as in the mall would require heaps more stock. Then there’d be the necessary awning, the stands, the cost of the sign …
Added to the cost of improving its interior, the shop’s current takings weren’t anywhere near sufficient to cover it.
She held her head in her hands. Even though she’d only had the shop a couple of months, she couldn’t help feeling guilty. It was hers now, and like all the tenants there she had a responsibility in upholding the style of the arcade. With its wood panelling and leadlight framed windows, most of Kirribilli Mansions possessed an old-fashioned chic. Most.
Somehow her mother had always managed to wind the arcade management around her little finger. As far as Amber knew Fleur Elise had never been refurbished in the nine years since Lise had taken Ivy on. Amber often wondered if her mother would have had more success if she’d ignored Ivy’s advice and taken another approach. Spent money to make money.
As so often these days, her thoughts crept to the possibility of a bank loan. Wasn’t that how real business people commonly operated? Even without Roger’s prompting, this felt like the moment to strike with the changes she wanted. And how else was she to do it?
Though what if Ivy was right? What if she purchased more stock and it all just withered and died? No return for the money, and no way to repay the loan?
What was it Guy had said about the need to begin as you intended to carry on?
She pushed thoughts of him away. Anyway, what would he—a songwriter—know about it? Sure, he seemed quite musical, but that was hardly a qualification for success in business.
At lunchtime she turned the ‘Closed’ sign to face outwards and strolled down to the deli for a sandwich. As she waited at the counter Marc, her mall neighbour, came up behind her with a cheery, ‘Hi.’
He bent to look closely at her, his liquid dark eyes anxious. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky, darl. You haven’t been listening to those poisonous rumours, have you?’
She lifted her brows. ‘What rumours?’
‘Oh, nothing to worry about. Just that silly old madam again. Take no notice of anything she says.’
Amber understood he was talking about Dianna Delornay, the elegant proprietress of Madame, the shop across the mall from Fleur Elise.
‘Come on, now. What did Di say?
He didn’t take much coaxing. It seemed Di had requested a move to the other end of the mall. Apparently Di felt her glitzy little boutique was in danger of being embarrassed by the vibes from Fleur Elise.
‘Goodness. Embarrassed?’ Amber’s amused little tinkling laugh was pure fraud to cover her indignation.
For heaven’s sake. Surely Fleur Elise wasn’t all that bad? She hadn’t been aware of all this dissatisfaction with it when her mother was alive.
Despite Marc’s sympathetic cooing, Amber walked back to her counter with doubt clouding her mind. Everyone knew Marc and Di were cronies. Maybe she should take up his offer of a swap.
Turning to examine the shutters that hadn’t been opened for years, she tried to visualise the sort of display Marc would be likely to mount there. Underneath all his fooling, he seemed pretty much in love with his dreams of what he could do.
But what about her dreams? She couldn’t suppress the thought that she’d given up her first big dream. She’d rushed home from Melbourne, left it all behind her, but for very good reasons. Her mother’s need had been desperate. But would she truly give up on the shop’s potential over a little bit of needed capital?
The trouble was she was green. Greener than one of her philodendrons. She was meant to be a dancer, not a businesswoman. With all the conflicting advice being flung at her from all directions she had no idea who to believe.
During the mid-afternoon lull she checked her Facebook page for news. Serena had posted her a funny comment. Smiling, she typed a reply. Then, all by themselves, her fingers typed Guy’s name into the search bar.
There were a few Guy Wilders in the world, but none of them appeared to be him. Probably a blessing. Who would want to know him better, anyway?
Her fingers, apparently. Because they went one further and Googled him.
Bingo.
She felt a small shock. There he was, looking impossibly crisp, clean-shaven and corporate. Involuntarily her blood started the same painful pounding she’d experienced this morning in the mall.
Breathing hard through her nostrils, she compressed her lips. He wasn’t a genuine musician at all. He was in advertising. Wilder Solutions, his company was called. ‘The most vibrant, up-and-coming ad co on the scene.’ Right. She could imagine that.
She read through the whole site, stung by every glossy piece of spin. No doubt it was all true, and they were brilliant geniuses at selling things to people who didn’t mind being cheated. Guy was certainly charming when he wanted to be. Persuasive. Seductive. He had all the gifts essential to a con man. She’d seen it with her own eyes. Felt the overwhelming effects. That was what professional liars were like.
He hadn’t even bothered to tell her the truth about himself. What he was. In fact, he hadn’t told her anything real about himself at all.
Guy stood outside Amber’s door. He was in no way nervous. He was a guy, and he didn’t have a nerve in his body. If something interpersonal needed fixing he’d do it, as he always did, with a few calm, succinct words.
Words were his forte. He shouldn’t need to remind himself of that.
He braced himself, then knocked. No glow from inside illuminated the opaque glass of her fanlight, but although night had fallen he’d learned that didn’t mean a thing. She could still be in there. In the dark. Doing who knew what.
He suddenly noticed his heart muscle thudding way too fast, and started as her low, musical voice issued through the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Guy.’ His words came out like a croak. What had gone wrong with his voice?
There was a long pause. As the silence stretched and stretched, Guy felt his tension ti
ghten a couple of notches. Surely she wouldn’t actually ignore him? Then a light went on and the door was snatched open.
‘Well?’
He blinked. He couldn’t see much of what she was wearing because she was only poking her head around the door. One thing, she seemed smaller all of a sudden. More petite. Vulnerable. Though the instant that emotive notion kindled in him he stamped it out before it could take hold.
He noticed behind her some sofa chairs and rolled-up rugs piled in the hall, while his ears picked up the gentle, plangent notes of some classical piece.
He squared his shoulders. ‘Amber, could I—talk to you? I just wanted to—er … set something straight.’
Her brows arched. ‘Oh, yes? What might that be?’
He pressed his lips together and scanned her unforgiving face. Whatever he’d done—not done—had offended deeply. ‘Well, I don’t really want to talk about it out here.’
She hesitated.
He read the wariness shadowing her eyes with a sudden rise in his blood pressure. For God’s sake, did she think he was an axe murderer? ‘I think it’s a bit late to worry that I might try to steal your virtue.’
He may have sounded a bit terse, because she started to close the door. She’d have succeeded if hadn’t moved swiftly to jam it open with his knee.
He should have remembered how startling the violet flash from her eyes could be. Miss Spitfire wasn’t always all whipped cream and honey.
He held up his hands. ‘All right. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I only want to talk to you, I swear. Three minutes. Please?’
‘I’m busy,’ she said coolly. ‘Write it down and slip it under the door.’
He was too stunned to resist her closing the door a second time. With a harsh, incredulous laugh, he shrugged and turned away.
Women. What did a man have to do?
CHAPTER FOUR
AMBER woke early. At least something woke her.
She was barely out of her dream. A wicked, forbidden dream, in which her senses felt drenched in the taste, the scent, the sheer sexual heat of Guy Wilder.