by Anna Cleary
Before she’d even managed to winch her eyes open her ears picked up the sound of a piano. Was she still in the dream? Vaguely she understood she was hearing a piece of Frederick Chopin’s. Played very softly. One of the nocturnes.
Oh. Her insides smiled and curled over in bliss. Her favourite. Her most beautiful, all-time most romantic …
At some point she realised it was no dream.
As the poignant tones thrilled through her, playing havoc with her susceptible heartstrings, manipulating her, she lay unwillingly mesmerised, careful not to move, angrily straining for every last note.
With her ravished bones melting, she fought against herself.
Oh, come on. What was he up to?
Guy’s steps slowed when the shop loomed into view. He needed to get it straight in his head what he wanted to say. Obviously last night had been a mistake. She’d probably assumed he’d rung her bell at that time intending to angle for more sex.
He felt the prickle of heat under his collar. A little from shame. Admit it. Although there was pride involved as well. He’d sincerely wanted to make amends. If that had involved kissing her …
For God’s sake, he was a man. He couldn’t deny that the desire to feel her in his arms again was torturing him. But he was a civilised person. He could admit when he was in the wrong.
Was this where he was at now? So inept at dealing with women they wouldn’t give him the time of day? Anger and indecision pinched his gut. Surely that was a reason to cut his losses? Move on. Forget about her.
Despite his warring impulses, the nearer he approached the stronger his anticipation grew. Dammit it, he was curious to see her at work in her shop.
Like the others in the arcade, her window was framed in leadlight, though the pattern here was of flowers, with ‘Fleur Elise’ romantically inscribed at the top in flowing gold. No doubt the gold had gleamed brightly at one time. Now it looked faded, with curls of paint peeling from a couple edges.
A small array of blooms raised their heads in a brave little front display.
He had to look hard before he spotted Amber. She was inside among the flowerpots, standing with her back to him. Her blue floral dress was perfectly moulded to her pert little behind, and as she reached up for something on a shelf the movement pulled the hem high on her thighs.
High enough to reveal the long flowing muscles and slim shapely legs he remembered so well.
His blood quickened, but he controlled the response. He hadn’t come here to be engulfed in another maelstrom of lust. Merely to apologise, if that was what it took. To recover some of his—whatever.
He could hardly believe he had to stop and consider his approach. A guy like him. With all his experience of women. In the past he’d have eased his way in with an irresistible line guaranteed to melt a glacier, if there’d been any of those left. These days he seemed to have lost the poetic touch.
Inside, Amber was just considering a redistribution of the shelves, with a view to somehow masking the tired paintwork, when a movement from the window caught the periphery of her eye.
Aha. A suit.
The man straightened up, and Amber’s heart fishtailed like a trailer on an oil slick. Surely not. Not him. Not here.
She went hot and cold all over. With her heart racing like a fool’s, she patted the coil of her hair and pinned the hydrangea more firmly behind her ear. After that Chopin this morning she couldn’t say she was all that surprised he hadn’t given up yet—but here of all places? Surely her workplace should be sacrosanct?
Why on earth had she told him where she worked?
She darted an anxious glance about. Oh, man. Chaos was threatening from every direction. For one thing Georgio, their supplier, hadn’t turned up yet with the fresh blooms, so the display was even thinner than usual. For another Ivy could arrive at any minute. If she was here at the same time as Georgio her sharp, forensic eye would spot the extras Amber had sneaked into the stock order.
To make matters worse, Serena was coming in late. Which wouldn’t be very comfortable, what with Ivy’s antipathy towards her.
Taking his time to select a bouquet, Guy could feel his adrenaline pumping. He could tell she’d already spotted him by the way she was avoiding looking his way. Unless she slammed the shop doors in his face, this time she’d have to talk to him.
He checked. The doors were still open.
Positioning herself behind her counter, Amber composed her face. Cool. Not hostile. Indifferent. Unaffected. Though as he strolled in her muscles tensed. He was holding a bunch of pale pink and cream roses extended to avoid the drips. As he halted before her counter, his big masculine form somehow managed to control the entire space and soak up all the air.
She prayed her body didn’t exhibit her awareness. Even after everything, seeing him looking so lean and sexy evoked that breathless, reckless feeling.
Today he was the straight, clean-shaven Guy from his other dimension. Her treacherous senses, apparently still steeped in the memory of passion, drooled at his crisp, freshly-washed scent. Sharply garbed in a charcoal suit, with pale blue shirt and darker blue silk tie, it was hard to reconcile him with the lazy, casual musician she’d thought he was. He looked sophisticated. Handsome.
His gaze captured hers. Their mutual intimacy blazed again in the air between them, as if his chiselled lips had only just that moment left hers tingling. Wanting.
He lowered his briefcase to the floor and handed over the flowers. He didn’t smile, though his deep voice caressed her ear. ‘Hi.’
With an effort of will she steeled herself to resist the force field. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘Come here. Buy flowers.’
‘Why?’ His sensuous lips made a wry curl. ‘Were you intending to invite me for coffee?’
She felt the flame in her cheeks. ‘There’s no chance of that.’
‘You’re angry.’
Her heart thudded, but somehow she held her nerve. ‘Not angry. Just—realistic.’
He hesitated. ‘Look, Amber, I’m sorry if I—did anything to make you feel upset.’
She couldn’t speak for a second. Then all the emotions she’d thought she had under control came bubbling to the surface like geysers.
‘You need to know I am a human being, Guy.’ Though her voice wobbled and her heart was whirring fit to burst, adrenaline lent her the necessary nerve to keep going. ‘Not a—a thing a man can just use.’ Her voice scraped at the last, but she fought back the ready tears with all her might.
Shock registered in his eyes, then a flush darkened his tan. ‘Amber? What? I had no intention—That wasn’t my …’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Believe me, I’m not that sort of guy. I—I really like you. I respect you. I’d never dream of treating you or—or any woman like …’
The glittering intensity in his storm cloud eyes might have been convincing if she hadn’t been down here before. Seen a beautiful man’s ability to lie like an angel.
She supplied his missing word for him. ‘Trash.’
He flinched. Held very still. His lashes screened his gaze. She noticed his lean hands clench to fists, then saw him make the deliberate effort to relax them.
Though his shoulders retained their rigidity, he fired back, his gaze cool and level. ‘That’s quite a misinterpretation. I think you’re reading too much into a small thing. Hell, it was never meant to be …’ Shaking his head, he swung about, reefed his hand through his hair as if gathering more words. Then he turned back to her again. ‘Look, as far as I’m concerned it was just a pleasant, casual evening between two consenting—people.’ He added with a small sardonic laugh, ‘We’re not exactly engaged.’
Curiously, her flush was outflanked by his. Before her eyes he turned a dark, distressed red.
Clearly a champion at recovering his poise, though, after he’d blinked once or twice his voice was as steady as a rock. ‘We need to sort this out rationally. Without all this emotive language. Somewhere
more …’ He glanced about as if his location was uncomfortable. ‘Anyway, if you could just listen.’ He spread his hands. Hesitated. ‘You’re a gorgeous woman. But I’m not looking for any sort of—ties. I guess the other night I may have thought …’
His flush was back in evidence. As no doubt was hers, though indignation was her excuse.
‘What? That I was a slut? Easily disposable?’
He waved his hands in shocked denial and was protesting in some non-emotive, rational language when Georgio poked his head in the door.
‘Helloo—helloo.’
Amber started, dragged from the conversation. There was Georgio, grinning and as bright and breezy as if his delivery was right on time.
‘Oh.’ Torn between conflicting urgencies, she gave Guy a cold look, then turned away. Why did even framing those words herself have to hurt her so much? Grabbing her apron, she slipped it over her head and dashed outside to the street, where Georgio had parked his van.
Guy hung there in limbo, his brain still reeling from the damning things she’d said. Oh, he got it all right. In shock and utter shame he understood that as far as Amber O’Neill was concerned he was a barbarian. The lowest of the low. While full and total comprehension seeped through his brain and into his gut like a toxin, he tried to stem the flow with some upbeat self-protective guy talk.
Since when did sex have to be so complicated? He hadn’t signed any contract. He didn’t do all this stuff any more.
His heart, if that was what people wanted to call that particular bunch of chemicals, had been cauterised for all time. And rightly so. The sucker had caused him enough grief. For goodness’ sake, near enough despair.
From outside, Amber’s light and lovely voice floated back to him. ‘Georgio, I’ve been trying to call you for ages. What …?’
A minute later she reappeared, assisting an old guy to manoeuvre a trolley-load of boxes into a room at the rear. The old guy was puffing and rattling on about a hold-up in the tunnel.
While Guy continued to grapple with his devastated ego a short woman with an uncompromising brown fringe walked in and, without any greeting, straight past him through to the back room where the stock was being unloaded.
Her sharp voice penetrated to the front of the shop. ‘What’s this, Amber? Are they just getting here now? What the hell do you think this is, Georgio? Do you know what time it is? And, here. We don’t want these. Or these. Take them back.’
Guy pricked up his ears. For a second he ignored his blistered pride and eavesdropped on the conversation in the back room.
‘Wait, Georgio. No, don’t take them back.’ It was Amber’s voice. ‘I ordered them, Ivy. I want them.’
There was a rapid murmured exchange, finishing with, ‘I thought I’d explained this yesterday, Amber. Here—give me that invoice. Where’s Serena, anyway? She should have sorted this lot.’
‘Serena’s had a problem with her …’
Guy saw a harassed-looking Amber pass by the open doorway. She halted when she caught sight of him still standing there.
‘Oh.’ She came flying across the room, flushed, hair dishevelled, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Look,’ she said urgently, ‘I can’t talk now. Our delivery’s arrived late and everything’s in a bit of a shemozzle.’ Catching sight of the roses, she said impatiently, ‘Do you really want these?’
Unwilling to be ejected so summarily after he’d been downgraded to the level of brute, with no right of appeal, he insisted. ‘Sure I do. Of course.’
Flustered, perhaps distracted by the voices issuing from the back room, she wrapped them in silver paper, tied a ribbon around them, then sped through the transaction. It was clear to Guy by the way her fingers flew over the keys that she was eager to be rid of him ASAP.
She thrust his card and the receipt towards him. He accepted them, then snaked his hand out to grab hers. ‘Meet me in the city after work.’
Her hand quivered in his, cool and burning hot at the same time, but she yanked it away fast. There was a momentary spark in her violet eyes that he could almost have sworn teetered on capitulation, then they chilled pretty convincingly.
‘No. There’s no point.’
Hope died hard. He might have deserved punishment, but the rejection hit the old nerve. A man should have at least half a right to defend himself before execution.
He was about to intensify his attempt to retrieve some of his honour when the small woman reappeared from the back room, muttering, ‘That Serena’s useless.’
Amber turned her gaze to the woman. ‘She really couldn’t help it, Ivy,’ she said quietly. ‘Her babysitter was sick. She rang in to warn me.’
‘You’re too soft, Amber,’ the woman snapped. ‘You’d swallow anything. Yes?’ This to Guy. ‘You still here? Can we help you?’
Guy saw the quick flush flare in Amber’s cheeks.
‘It’s all right, Ivy. I’m helping the customer.’
‘He’s had time to help himself to the whole shop by now.’
‘Ivy.’
The small woman threw up her hands and stomped into the back room, where her sharp voice could be heard harrying the old man.
Conscious of more tension in the room than just his own, Guy picked up his briefcase and the roses. Refusing to accept defeat, he gazed down at Amber. ‘We’ll finish this later. Do you know the Shangri-la Hotel?’
Her eyes darkened, her lashes fluttering down to hide them. She shook her head. ‘No. Look, I have to attend a meeting tonight at six. Anyway, I told you. There’s no point.’ She hardened her expression. ‘No point.’
He felt his gut tighten. There was a point for him. He couldn’t leave it like this. Not like this.
Luckily, when the chips were down, inspiration could strike him. Right at that moment he had an image of his aunt’s face, and along with it the calendar she kept pinned to her fridge with all her social commitments.
Something about a meeting of the Kirribilli Mansions Residents’ Committee. At six p.m. on the thirtieth. Wasn’t this the thirtieth?
CHAPTER FIVE
AT THE end of a difficult day, Amber wished, rather than pressing for the lift to take her to the residents’ meeting, she could be far away. On a Pacific cruise, like Jean, or better still the planet Saturn.
Somewhere free from the threat of hungry wolves with sexy mouths. The sooner the honeymooners were home, the happier she would be. The safer. The sheer energy cost of having met Guy Wilder was exhausting. Twice while he’d been in the shop this morning she’d been tempted to soften. Twice. She’d actually, for a fleeting instant, considered his demand to meet him. Visions of exotic temptations at the Shangri-la had floated in her imagination for a teensy, tantalising second. Before her brain had cut in.
Give in to that and where would her self respect be?
After he’d gone, though, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking of his expression when he’d turned to leave. The lines of his face had tautened to make him look so—grim.
Oh, Amber. Please. What was wrong with her? Had she forgotten everything she’d learned? She stiffened her spine and shoulders in resistance for a second or so, then let them slump.
Who was she kidding? She knew what was amiss, all right. Having once tasted the wine, the Eustacia Vye in her was craving another sip. A stroll under the gum trees. Perhaps even a swipe of her head from the palm fronds at the Shangri-la.
She had to fight it—had to. Hadn’t she learned only too well how powerfully that addiction could take hold? It was so insidious. The effects of even that single sexual encounter had sunk so deep. Everything about him seemed to have crept into her senses. His hands, his eyebrows. That way he had of considering her every light word as if it had been carved in concrete.
And it was becoming blindingly clear that, regardless of the things she said to him, every moment she spent in his dangerous company only fuelled the flames.
To add to her quandary, this afternoon she’d received an e-card in her junk mail from Jean.
Having a sensational time!!! Everything fantastic. The food, the wine, the ports, the people. Look out for Guy, won’t you? Mind you give him some TLC. Lots of love x
Amber had puzzled over it for minutes. TLC for Guy? Was Jean kidding? Did she realise what TLC meant? Maybe she had her acronyms mixed up.
The residents’ meetings were usually lacklustre affairs, though the oldies got a kick from the gossip. Amber had been to a few of the smaller ones, but tonight’s was the big annual affair, where the residents and arcade tenants combined.
Though everyone she’d talked to in the mall seemed to be planning to attend, Amber felt tempted to bypass the entire event. Go straight home and soak in a long, soothing, chamomile-scented bath. Wash her hair and paint her toenails. Chill and stop thinking of wine and—that man.
If only tonight’s gathering hadn’t been slated as especially important. Roger had told her that once the tower residents’ issues were dealt with the business owners would be discussing future directions in the arcade.
A worrying thought occurred to her. What if they discussed her shop and she wasn’t there to defend herself? Though surely they wouldn’t do anything so unprofessional? The shopkeepers were all friends, in a low-key sort of way. Regardless of Roger’s quiet hints to her, everyone was always treated with consideration at the meetings.
With a sigh, she braced herself to be bored, pasted on a smile, and walked into the assembly room.
What? She nearly choked. Shock speared through her from head to toe.
Guy was there.
Not only was he there, he was occupying Jean’s place at the official desk. But why? As secretary of the committee, it was Jean’s usual role to take the minutes. In her absence anyone else could do it. But there he was, laptop open before him, conversing with people, as relaxed and confident as if he belonged there.
On the other side of the room, some instinct or vibration on the air made Guy glance up. Despite what had happened between them this morning, his heart-rate bumped up a notch. Spring had walked into the room. She was hesitating just inside the rear entrance, as slender and fragile in her flowery dress as an iris.