Disco music? If this was Amber’s place, she must be out shopping for the morning. The only music Amber DuBois liked was written by men with quill pens and dipping ink hundreds of years ago.
The girls rolled the garment rail into the apartment, waved at someone inside, then swept back past Sam out into the hallway, arm in arm in a flutter of perfume and girly giggles.
He paused for a second to admire them, then turned to face the door.
This was it. Show time. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open another few inches, stepped inside the apartment and instantly went into sensory overload.
What looked like the entire contents of a large fashion boutique was scattered over every surface in the living room. Handbags, shoes, hats and assorted female fripperies were draped across sofas, chairs and tables in a wild riot of colours and patterns, illuminated by the daylight streaming in from the floor to ceiling patio doors at the other end of the room.
His first reaction was to step back into the corridor and call the whole thing off. Right then and there. Apparently there were some men who enjoyed going clothes shopping with their wives and girlfriends. He had never understood how they could do that. There was probably medication for that kind of mental self-affliction.
He had never done that kind of crazy and he had no intention of starting now.
But he couldn’t leave. And she knew it. Which meant that Amber had to be here to witness the payback in person.
Time to get this over with.
Sam sniffed, pushed his shoulders back, stashed his bag behind the sofa so that it was out of the mayhem and by stepping over the entire contents of a luggage department, he wound his way through the obstacle course that was the corridor towards the source of the disco music.
He had been on racing circuits which had fewer chicanes than this room.
Sam paused at the open bedroom door and leant casually on the door frame, his arms crossed.
It was a long, wide room but surprisingly simply furnished with a large bed with an ivory satin quilt, a small sofa covered in a shiny cream fabric with flights of butterflies painted on it and a wide dressing table next to more patio doors.
One complete wall was covered with a floor to ceiling mirror.
And standing in front of the mirror were three girls he had last seen together at Amber’s eighteenth birthday party, what felt like a lifetime ago.
Amber, Saskia and Kate were wearing lemon-yellow oversized T-shirts with the words ‘ALL SIZES’ printed on them in large black letters. Kate was in the middle, moving her hips from side to side and jiggling along to the disco music and holding a hairbrush to her mouth as a microphone. Saskia and Amber were her backup singers. Kate could not be more than five feet four inches tall in heels, Saskia was a few inches taller in flat shoes and Amber—Amber had been six feet tall aged sixteen.
It stunned him to realise that he could recognise Amber’s voice so easily. She could sing like an angel and often had at Christmas concerts and birthday parties. Kate was the best singer in their little schoolgirl clique so Amber had left her to it and stayed on the keyboard, but she had such a sweet, clear voice. He had missed that voice. And whether he liked it or not, he had missed the sound of Amber whispering his name as she clung on to him with her arms looped around his neck.
Sam pressed back against the door frame.
A memory of those same three girls wearing those same yellow T-shirts at Margot Elwood’s house came drifting back. It was someone’s birthday party and the girls had put together a little musical routine for Saskia’s aunt and Amber had asked Sam to join in the fun. Strange. He had not thought about Elwood House in years.
These three girls looked the same—but he knew that they had all changed more than he could have imagined. But these three girls? In those T-shirts? It was a blast from a happier time when they all had such wonderful dreams and aspirations about what they were going to do with their lives.
This was a bad time to decide to become sentimental. Time to get this started.
He banged hard on the door with the back of his knuckles and called out in a loud voice, ‘Is the lady of the house at home? The help has arrived.’
They were so intent on singing along to the words of some pop tune from the nineteen nineties that it was a few seconds before Saskia even glanced in his direction.
She instantly stopped dancing, put down her can of hairspray microphone and nudged Amber in the ribs before replying, ‘Hi, Sam. Good to see you.’
‘Hey. We were just getting to the chorus,’ Kate complained, then turned towards him and planted a fist on each hip and tutted loudly, but Sam hardly looked at the support band.
His whole attention was focused on the girl who was peeking out at him over the top of Kate’s head.
In contrast to the fresh, floral Amber who had waltzed into his dad’s garage, this version of Amber had donned the uniform of the full-on casually elegant fashion world.
The T-shirt was V-necked and modest enough to cover her cleavage but fashionably off centre so that a matching azure bra strap was exposed over one shoulder as she moved. Her collarbone formed a crisp outline.
Amber had never been overweight, but it seemed that she was paying the price of working with fashion designers.
She was too skinny. Way too skinny.
She had tied her broken wrist into a long blue scarf with pink and gold threads which ran through it to form a kind of halter neck.
The shade of blue matched the colour of her violet eyes. Perfectly. And, without intending to, Sam’s gaze was locked onto those eyes as though he was seeing them for the first time.
Her hair was clipped back behind her head in a simple waterfall. She wasn’t wearing any make-up from what he could see and did not need any.
He wondered if she realised how rare that truly was. Yes, he had met stunning girls in Los Angeles—the city was full of them.
But Amber DuBois was the real deal.
No doubt about it.
The lanky, awkward girl who had never known what to do with her long legs and arms and oversized feet was gone.
For good.
Replaced by a woman who looked totally comfortable and confident in her own skin.
This was the Amber he had always known that she would become one day, and he was suddenly pleased that she had realised just how lovely she truly was. And always had been.
Now the world had the chance to see Amber the way he had once seen her. As a beautiful, confident woman with the power to take his breath away. Just by looking at her.
‘Hi, trouble,’ she replied casually with a bright smile as though she were greeting an old friend, which was about right. ‘You are right on time.’
He gave her a mock salute. ‘Reporting for duty as ordered.’
Her small laugh turned into a bit of a cough, then she turned back to Kate and Saskia and pressed her cheek lightly to each of them in turn. ‘Thanks, girls. I’ll see you the same time tomorrow. Oh—and don’t forget to check online about the shoes. Bye. Bye for now.’
Amber stepped past Sam and waved to Kate and Saskia as they carefully wove their precious cargo of bags and suit carriers down the hall towards the front door, laughing and chatting as they went, with only the occasional backwards scowl from Kate over one shoulder to indicate how pleased they were to see him again. Not.
Only then did Amber turn back to face Sam, her hand resting lightly on one hip.
‘I cannot believe that you actually came.’
‘So you weren’t serious about the audition? Great!’ Sam replied, pushing himself off the door post and dusting his hands off and patting his pocket. ‘Shall we get started now? I have my trusty tape recorder right here.’
Amber exhaled explosively and held up both hands. ‘Not so fast. I was perfectly serious—you have to audition for this gig.’
Sam lifted both hands as he grinned at her.
‘Well, here I am. This is me proving that you can trust me to keep my word and do wha
tever it is you need me to do. Your personal slave is ready for action. So let’s get started.’
‘Oh, now don’t tempt me,’ Amber murmured under her breath, then she lifted her chin and peered at him through creased eyebrows. ‘You had better come into my bedroom.’
Sam blinked several times. ‘I am liking the sound of this already.’
She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘And I am regretting it already. Do not even try and flirt with me because it won’t work. Okay?’
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ Sam replied, then winced at the searing look she gave him. ‘Okay, I get the message. I am a snake who cannot be trusted. So. Let’s get this game of charades started. What is the first thing on that long list of yours?’
Amber pressed her forefinger to her full, soft pink lips and pretended to ponder.
‘You may have noticed that I am having a bit of a declutter at the moment.’
‘Declutter? Is that what you call it? I have to tell you that, despite reports to the contrary, my knowledge of female clothing is not as great as you might imagine. So if you are looking for fashion advice...’
Amber jabbed her finger towards the bedroom wall right in front of them, which was covered with a framed collection of artwork, portraits of Amber and old sheets of music manuscripts.
‘I need someone to take my pictures down so I can decorate. It is a bit tricky one-handed and some of them are quite valuable. I vaguely recall that you can handle a screwdriver. Think you can manage that?’
Sam stepped forward so that they were only inches apart.
‘Bambi, I can handle anything you throw at me.’
She took a step closer, startling him, but there was no way that he was going to let her know that.
‘Oh, this is only the start. I have a very, very long list.’
‘I expected nothing less.’
He turned to go back into the living room, and then looked back at Amber over one shoulder. ‘And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that you couldn’t wait to drag me into your bedroom the first chance you could get.’ He tapped one side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘It will be our little secret.’ And with that he strode away from Amber, leaving her wide-mouthed with annoyance, delighted that he had managed to squeeze in the last word.
SEVEN
Two hours later Sam had taken down the framed pictures from the walls of two bedrooms, a kitchen and a hallway, covered them in bubble wrap and packed them into plastic crates already stacked two high along the length of Amber’s hall, before starting on the living room.
The barrage of noise, telephone calls and visitors had slowly faded away as the morning went on so that by the time he had unscrewed the last of the huge oil paintings and modern art installations in the living room, he didn’t have to worry about stepping on Amber’s peep toe sandals as she worked around him, or accidentally brushing plaster dust onto some fabulous gown which had been casually thrown over a chair or garment rail.
It took superhuman effort but for most of that time he kept his eyes on the rawl plugs and loose plaster behind the pictures instead of the long, lean limbs of the lovely woman who brushed past him at regular intervals in the hallway, leaving a trail of scented air and a cunning giggle in her wake.
Decluttering? When he’d cleared out his furnished Los Angeles apartment, he had walked out with two suitcases and a laptop bag. The same way he had found it. All of his car magazines and photos were safely scanned and digitised. The rest had been recycled or passed on to his pals. He never had to go through this palaver.
Sam stood back and tilted his head to look at a pair of large oil paintings made up of small shapes inside larger shapes inside larger shapes which was starting to give him a headache.
And some of the picture frames had sticky notes on the front with the letter S written in purple marker pen. Purple, he snorted. What did that mean?
Right. Finish this little collection. Then it was time to go and find the lady and find out.
No need. Here she was, ambling towards him. Head down, a large garment bag over one shoulder and a cellphone pressed against her ear, oblivious to his presence.
From the corner of one eye he watched her flip the phone back into her pocket and pick up several scarves from the top of the piano. Then Amber paused and ran two fingertips along the surface of the keys without pressing them firmly enough to make music.
Only as he watched, her lovely face twisted into a picture of sadness and regret and pain that was almost unbearable for him to see.
He turned around to face her, but it was too late—the moment was lost as Amber suddenly realised that she was being observed. A bright smile wiped away the trauma that had been all there to see only a few seconds earlier, startling him with how quickly she could turn on her performance face, and she lowered the lid on the piano. ‘Plaster dust,’ she whispered. ‘Not a good idea.’
‘Don’t let me put you off playing,’ Sam quipped and gestured towards the piano with his screwdriver. ‘I brought my own earplugs in case you were holding a rehearsal session.’
‘Very funny, but your ears are safe. I am not playing today.’ She took a breath and raised her plaster cast towards him. ‘My wrist is hurting.’
Her chin lifted and she angled her head a little. ‘You can tell your lovely readers that I simply cannot tolerate second best. My standards are just as high as ever.’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Right. It’s just weird that you haven’t even tried to play. It used to be the other way around. I spent a lot of time trying to drag you away from the nearest keyboard.’
Sam looked into her face with a grin but her gaze was firmly fixed on the scarves in her bag.
‘That was a long time ago, Sam. People change.’ And with that she turned away and strolled back to her bedroom. In silence.
As he watched her slim hips sway away from him, every alarm bell in his journalist’s mind started ringing at the same time.
Music used to be the one thing that gave Amber joy. She used to call it her private escape route away from the chaos that was her mother’s life.
Well, it didn’t look like that now.
Something was not right here. And it was not just her wrist that was causing Amber pain.
And, damn it, but he cared more than he should.
* * *
Amber ran her fingers over the few dresses still left in her wardrobe and stifled a self-indulgent sniff. She had loved wearing those evening gowns which were now on their way to a shop specialising in pre-loved designer wear. But she had plenty of photos of the events to remind her what each dress had looked like if she wanted a walk down memory lane.
Which she didn’t.
She had never been sentimental about clothes like some of the other performers. There was no lucky bracelet or a corset dress which was guaranteed to have her grace the cover of the latest celebrity magazine. They were just clothes—beautiful clothes which had made her feel special and beautiful when she had worn them. But clothes just the same.
So why did it feel so weird to know that she would never wear them again?
Amber sniffed again, then mentally scolded herself.
This was pathetic! She was still Amber Sheridan DuBois. She was still the girl with the first class degree in music and the amazing career. The same Amber who had flown so very high in a perfect sky which seemed to go on for ever and ever.
Until she had gone to India and fate had sent her tumbling back down to earth with a bang.
The sound of an electric screwdriver broke through her wallow in self-pity and Amber shivered in her thin top. All in the past. She was over the worst and her wrist would soon be better. She was lucky to have come through the infection more or less intact, and that was worth celebrating.
So why did she feel like collapsing onto her bed and sleeping for a week?
She was overtired. That was it. Idiot. The doctors had warned her about overdoing it, then her mother and Heath and now so had Kate and S
askia—and Parvita, who had offered to delay the wedding because she felt so guilty about inviting her friends to perform a concert at the orphanage. She had had no clue that there was a meningitis outbreak sweeping across Kerala.
Of course she had told Parvita not to be so silly—the astrologers had chosen a perfect wedding day and that was precisely what Parvita was going to have. A perfect wedding back in her home village without having to worry about an exhausted concert pianist who should be in Boston resting in glorious solitude at her stepbrother’s town house.
Pity that she had not factored in the mess in her apartment, and surviving a birthday party at Elwood House. And then there was the ex-boyfriend who had suddenly popped into her life again.
Yes. Sam might have something to do with her added stress levels.
Good thing he had no idea how her body was on fire when he was in sight or she would never live it down.
He had no idea that she had tossed and turned most of the night with an aching wrist, wondering would have happened if she had fallen into Sam’s arms that night of her eighteenth birthday. Would they still be together now? Or would their relationship have fizzled out with recriminations and acrimonious insults?
She would never know, but there was one thing she was sure about.
Ever cell in her body was aware that Sam Richards was only a few feet away from her in the next room. His boyish grin was locked into her memory and, whether she liked it or not, her treacherous body refused to behave itself when he was so close. Her hands were shaking, her legs felt as though they belonged to someone else and it had nothing to do with the fact that she was supposed to be resting. Nothing at all.
All she had to do was survive a few more days and Sam would be out of her life.
Amber rolled her stiff and sore shoulders and rearranged her sling.
Shaking her head in dismay, she stretched up to tug at the boxes on the top shelf of her dressing room but they slid right back into the corner and out of her reach.
Grabbing the spare dining room chair Kate had used earlier to find the hat boxes, Amber popped the headphones of her personal stereo in her trouser pocket over her ears, and hummed along to the lively Italian baroque music as she jumped up onto the chair and stretched out on tiptoe to reach the far back corner of the shelf.
The First Crush Is the Deepest Page 7