by Miranda Lee
‘I don’t want to leave you like this,’ he said, scowling.
‘I’ll well aware of that! I know what you want, Warwick Kincaid. But you’re not getting it. Ever again.’ She climbed out of the car and slammed the door. ‘If you don’t go, I’ll call the police.’ And she fished her mobile out of her bag.
‘I’ll ring you,’ he said.
‘Please don’t.’
‘You can’t stop me ringing you.’
‘I’ll buy a new phone.’
‘How will you afford that?’
‘I have money, Warwick,’ she enjoyed telling him. ‘You think my life began the moment you walked into it? I have almost twenty thousand dollars in my savings account. I’ll survive very well without your wretched apartment!’
‘What about your clothes? And your jewellery? ‘
‘I don’t want them, either. Maybe you can recycle some of it for your next mistress.’
He glowered up at her before starting the engine. ‘This isn’t the end of us, Amber Roberts,’ he threatened in an ominously low voice. ‘I’ll be back once you’ve calmed down.’
Amber gripped her handbag defensively in front of her as she watched him do a rather savage U-turn, chewing up some of the grass as he accelerated out onto the road and sped off.
For almost a minute, she just stood there, listening to the slowly decreasing noise of his angry departure, till finally the only sound she heard was the low hum of distant traffic.
It was then that she started to cry, deep wrenching sobs, which she feared the neighbours might hear. There were houses on either side.
Not wanting contact with anyone at that moment, Amber dropped her phone back into her bag and snatched up the keys to the house. Naturally, the key to the back door was the last one she tried. By the time she locked the door behind her, her weeping had subsided somewhat.
But not her distress. Amber dropped her handbag onto the hall table before burying her face in her hands.
‘Oh, Warwick … Warwick,’ she cried heartbrokenly.
He had vowed to come back. But she doubted that he would. That had just been his ego talking again. Once he thought about it more rationally, he’d see that there was no point in trying to keep their relationship going. Not when it was obviously on borrowed time. As soon as Warwick realised he’d disposed of his Australian mistress very cheaply indeed, he would be a fool not to cut and run.
And Warwick was no man’s fool.
Despite knowing that their break-up was all for the best, such thinking depressed Amber. She’d honestly believed that he’d come to care for her; that she meant more to him than just a temporary plaything, to be bought off when he tired of her, or when she committed the unforgivable sin of becoming ‘emotionally involved’.
Amber noted, however, that even then Warwick couldn’t bring himself to say the world love. It was some comfort to her own pride that she’d never told him she’d fallen in love with him. Now, she never would.
She sighed as she lifted her head from her hands.
‘Maybe I should have accepted the apartment,’ she muttered dispiritedly. ‘People will think me a fool for ending up with nothing.’
But if she had taken it, then she would have become what everyone had probably been calling her behind her back. A rich man’s whore. At least she did have her pride, which, she supposed, was something.
Or was it?
What was that saying about pride being a lonely bedfellow?
Her mobile phone suddenly ringing was a telling moment. For in that split second Amber became brutally aware that pride was not as powerful as love. The truth was she wanted it to be Warwick calling her. She wanted him to come back.
Unable to stop herself, she hurriedly retrieved her phone from her handbag and flipped it open, her heart thudding loudly behind her ribcage.
‘Yes?’ she choked out.
‘It’s me, Amber. Your mother.’
‘Oh …’ Impossible to keep the disappointment from her voice, or the dismay from her heart.
‘Are you at Aunt Kate’s yet?’ her mother asked abruptly.
Amber sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Look, I forgot to tell you that Max Richmond wants you to give him a call. Kate used his solicitor, it seems, to make her new will and there are papers you will need to sign to transfer the house and car, et cetera, into your name.’
‘Fine,’ she said wearily. ‘Do you have his number?’
Amber put the number into her menu.
‘Is that all, Mum?’
‘Yes. No. I … er … can you talk for a moment? ‘
‘What about?’
‘Well … I’ve been thinking about the things you said to me today and I feel really terrible. I do love you, Amber. Yet I can see why you might think I favour the boys. Please … I’d like to try to explain how it was when you came along.’
Did her mother honestly think she didn’t know how it had been? She was well aware that her father had wanted to stop having children after the two boys were born. He’d only ever wanted sons, according to a conversation she’d once overheard. She’d been an accident, then had compounded things by turning out to be a girl, an unsporty, non-academic girl who just couldn’t compete with her overachieving, highly competitive brothers.
‘Mum … please … I don’t want to have this conversation right now.’
‘You know, Amber,’ her mother said, back to her usual stroppy tone. ‘Ever since you got mixed up with that man, you never have time to talk to me.’
Amber momentarily considered telling her mother that she’d broken up with Warwick, but fortunately stopped herself in time. No way could she stand the third degree over what happened. Or all the inevitable recriminations.
‘We’ve only just arrived, Mum, and I haven’t even had time to go to the toilet. I’ll give you a call later.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yes,’ Amber said, her chin beginning to wobble dangerously. ‘Bye for now.’ She choked back a strangled sob and hung up, after which she turned her mobile off.
For a long time she just stood there, clutching the phone and staring into space. The tears didn’t come, thank heaven. But she felt awful over the way she’d reacted to the phone ringing. How could she possibly want Warwick back? He was a bastard. An arrogant, selfish bastard!
And yet she’d fallen in love with him. Why? What had he ever done to deserve her love?
Okay, so he was a good lover. No, a great lover, she had to admit.
Amber shook her head from side to side. Was her so-called love for Warwick based on nothing more substantial than sexual pleasure? If so, then she was a terribly shallow person.
Her mind searched for other qualities Warwick possessed that deserved loving.
He was honest. She had to give him that. He’d never lied to her. At least, she didn’t think he had. He was also very generous, dispensing great chunks of money to this and that charity every other week.
But then, he could afford to, couldn’t he? came a cynical voice in her head. Easy to be generous when you were filthy rich.
What kind of man would he have been if he’d been born poor?
Amber decided it would be an interesting experiment to somehow put Warwick in a position where his life wasn’t so damned cushy. How would he handle adversity? Would it bring out the worst, or the best in him?
Amber shrugged her shoulders. She would never find out, would she? He was gone. Gone from her life, though not from her heart. She did love him, unfortunately. Love, it seemed, wasn’t always subject to reason, or reasons. It just was.
At last she dropped her phone back into her bag and made her way slowly along the hall to the tiny downstairs toilet, which was tucked under the staircase.
As she washed her hands afterwards the small mirror above the equally small hand basin showed nothing of the sadness she was feeling. She actually looked good, her bout of tears not having lasted long enough to bring on puffiness or dark circles. Finger-combing her windblown
hair into place, she made her way back along the hall into her aunt’s roomy country-style kitchen to make herself a cuppa. There she took off her leather jacket and draped it over the back of a wooden kitchen chair before filling the kettle with water. She was just getting a mug down from the pine cupboard above the counter when the doorbell on the back door rang.
Once again, that shocking vulnerability hit home. She practically ran to the door, despising herself even as she flicked open the lock and wrenched the door wide.
It wasn’t Warwick. The tall, good-looking man standing on the back porch was a perfect stranger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘YES?’ Amber said, unable to keep the dismay from her voice.
‘Hi there,’ he said, and flashed his business card. ‘I’m Jim Hansen, from Seachange Properties. I have an appointment to meet Mr Warwick Kincaid here at two p.m.’
Amber suppressed a groan. She’d forgotten about Warwick’s organising this meeting.
‘Hello,’ she said, using the practised smile that she’d perfected during her various jobs in the hospitality industry where you smiled no matter how lousy you felt. ‘I’m Amber Roberts, the new owner here, actually, not Mr Kincaid. I inherited it from my aunt who died recently.’
‘Ah. I didn’t realise. Sorry,’ he said.
‘I dare say Warwick didn’t enlighten you.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ the agent returned. ‘I thought he was the owner. So will your boyfriend be handling the sale for you, Ms Roberts?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ she returned somewhat brusquely. ‘And Warwick’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend who drove me up here today. He’s already gone back to Sydney.’
The agent smiled the kind of smile men often smiled at Amber. ‘In that case this is for you, Ms Roberts,’ he said, handing her the business card. ‘Or can I call you Amber?’
‘Amber will be fine.’
‘Great. I gathered from my conversation with Mr Kincaid that you want to sell—is that right?’
‘Well, to be honest, Mr Hansen—’
‘Jim,’ he interrupted smoothly.
‘All right. Jim, she said, irritated slightly at the agent’s confidence. She was rather tired of confident men. ‘To be honest,’ she went on, ‘I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do with my aunt’s place. I only found out last night that I’d inherited it. I’m afraid Warwick just presumed I would want to sell straight away and took it upon himself to contact you without my say-so. I’m sorry that you’ve wasted your time coming out here today.’
‘There’s absolutely no need for you to rush such an important decision,’ Jim said affably. ‘But since I’m already here, why don’t you give me a quick tour around the place? That way, I could give you an up-to-date valuation. Then you’ll know what to expect, if and when you do decide to sell.’
Amber almost said no, which was crazy. It was a sensible move to get a valuation. On top of that, if she sent him away she would be alone again. Alone and sad. Better to do something constructive and distracting.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ she said. ‘Look, I was just about to have a cup of coffee. Care to join me?’
‘Love to.’
‘This way,’ Amber said and led him into the kitchen.
‘Nice-sized room,’ the agent said as he pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down.
Ten minutes later, Amber was almost regretting asking the man to stay. He wasn’t exactly chatting her up. But he was exhibiting the kind of super-slick charm that successful salesmen invariably possessed.
Amber was in no mood to be charmed, or flattered.
‘If you’ve finished your coffee, Jim,’ she said, standing up abruptly, ‘I’ll give you that quick tour of the house and you can tell me what you think it’s worth.’
‘Okay,’ he agreed readily, and stood up also.
‘Well, as you can see, this is the kitchen,’ she started in a businesslike fashion. ‘I guess you’d describe it as country-style. Now, if you follow me I’ll show you all the downstairs rooms first.’
The downstairs consisted of a dining room and lounge room at the true front of the house, which faced north-east, towards the beach. At the back of the house was the kitchen-cum-breakfast room, across from which was a very large room, which had once been a games room, but which Aunt Kate had had converted several years ago into her own bedroom, complete with sitting area and her own private bathroom.
Upstairs had also been renovated around the same time, Aunt Kate having decided to change her establishment from a modestly priced guest house into a more upmarket B & B. The original five-bedroom, two-bathroom layout had been changed into three large bedrooms, each with its own en suite bathroom, along with a very nice sitting room where one wall was totally devoted to bookshelves and books. Two of the bedrooms overlooked the back yard, but the largest—plus the sitting area—opened out onto a balcony that had a lovely view of the ocean.
Amber had always thought her aunt’s house to be very nice, but as she showed the agent around she noticed for the first time that the décor was rather dated, and some of the furniture a little shabby. The lace curtains in the bedrooms looked old-fashioned, and, whilst the polished wooden floors were okay, the patterned rugs that covered them were not.
Perhaps she’d become used to living in Warwick’s super-modern, super-stylish apartment, with its wall-to-wall cream carpet, slick new furniture, recessed lighting and shiny surfaces. Whatever, she suddenly saw that her aunt’s place could do with some modernising. As she showed Jim around Amber began making mental notes on what she would do to the property, if she stayed on. The multicoloured walls would all be painted cream. Out would go the myriad lace curtains and in would come cream plantation shutters. The floral bedding needed replacing with something more modern, as did the overly patterned rugs. The bathrooms, fortunately, were fine, being all white. But there were far too many knick-knacks cluttering every available surface. Most of these could go to a charity shop.
Even the comfy country kitchen required some attention. The pine cupboards were okay but some granite bench tops would give the room a real lift, as would a tiled floor. There really was way too much wood.
Her head was buzzing with plans by the time the tour was over.
‘I probably will sell eventually,’ Amber told Jim as she escorted him out onto the back porch. ‘But not just yet. I don’t think I’d get the best price, the way the house is presented at the moment.’ She also wanted a project that would keep her mind occupied for the next few weeks, something to distract her from the depression that was sure to descend, now that all her secret hopes and dreams for the future with Warwick were dashed.
‘You’re quite right,’ Jim agreed. ‘You would achieve a better price with some changes. The décor spells out old lady, whereas the buyer prepared to pay top dollar for this place would be a young professional couple with a family looking for a holiday home which they could let out as well.
‘Though to be honest, Amber,’ he went on without drawing breath, ‘there are always buyers for homes in this location, regardless of their condition and presentation. I could get you a million for this place tomorrow without your having to spend a cent. Let me warn you that changing things takes time. Time and money.’
‘True. But the real-estate market is picking up at the moment from what I’ve heard.’ She hadn’t gone to countless dinners with all those wheeler-dealer contacts of Warwick’s without learning something. ‘And any beachside property sells for more during the spring and summer months. It would be far more sensible of me to fix this place up a bit, then put it on the market in a couple of months time.’
‘Wow,’ Jim said. ‘Not only beautiful but brainy as well.’
Amber just smiled.
‘I have your card,’ she said politely. ‘I’ll contact you if and when I’m ready to sell.’
‘You mean you might not sell at all?’
‘I don’t believe in making rash decisions.’ She’d only done
that once, and look where it had got her?
‘Sensible girl. Look, I hope you won’t think I’m being pushy, but would you like to go out to dinner tonight?’
Amber blinked her surprise. She’d forgotten how aggressive some men could be in their pursuit of the fairer sex. In the ten months she’d lived with Warwick, none of his male acquaintances had ever hit on her. But that was because they wouldn’t have dared.
Now, however, she was single again, and living alone, with no one to protect her from unwanted advances.
‘I noticed when you were making me coffee earlier that there wasn’t much in the way of food in the kitchen cupboards,’ Jim went on before she could open her mouth. ‘There’s several great restaurants in Terrigal. We could do French, or Mexican, or seafood. Whatever you fancy.’
Amber knew full well that it wasn’t concern for her lack of food that had inspired that invitation, but the predatorial gleam in his eyes that she’d glimpsed every now and then. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to fend off some testosterone-laden thirty-year-old who thought he was God’s gift to women.
Which Jim Hansen obviously did.
No doubt Jim was a great success in his job. Warwick would not have rung that particular agent without having found out through one of his many business contacts who on the Central Coast had sold the most houses last year. Given Jim’s natural good looks and confident manner, he was also no doubt a great success with the opposite sex.
But he was fighting a losing battle with her. Amber wanted nothing to do with men for a long, long time.
‘Thank you for the offer, Jim,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of you. But I am dining with some friends tonight who live not far from here.’ Of course it was a lie, but only a little white one. Amber had never been the sort of girl to issue brutal rejections.
He did look disappointed. And perhaps a little surprised. Clearly, he was no more used to rejection than Warwick.
Damn it, she’d been trying not to think about him.
