by Anna Cleary
She writhed to think of how easily he’d wiped the floor with her. Run home, little girl.
There had to be a way of salvaging her feminine honour.
Suddenly she froze on her bed of nails. She could hear him. He was in there, singing to himself like a man without a care in the world. Or … The thought stung through her agony. A man gloating.
Where was her feminine spirit? Was she just to lie down and take this?
She scrambled off the bed and took a minute or two to whip on a sexy push-up bra and some shoes with heels. She considered changing the rather deep-cut top, then discarded that idea. She didn’t want him to think she’d gone to any trouble.
She smoothed down her skirt, ran a brush through her long hair. A little strategic eyeliner, a spray of perfume. Flicked the puff from her compact over her nose. Then, more presentable this time, more together, more herself—she took a fortifying swig of Vee juice from the fridge, and sashayed to his door for a second time.
Striding up to the bell, she gave it one imperative ring.
CHAPTER TWO
GUY WILDER took his leisurely time. When he finally stood framed in the entrance he seemed even more physical than she remembered. More hard-muscled and athletic. He didn’t speak, just raised one arrogant black brow.
‘Er …’ Her mouth dried. She’d underestimated the sheer, overwhelming force of his presence. Bathed in that cool, merciless gaze, she felt her confidence nearly waver.
‘Look,’ she said, moistening her lips, ‘I think we can be adult about this.’
In a long, searing scrutiny his eyes rested on her mouth, then flickered over her, leaving a scorching imprint on her flesh that wasn’t altogether unpleasant, to her intense chagrin. He kept her pride toasting on the spit for torturous seconds, then opened the door just wide enough to admit her.
In the sitting room he leaned negligently against Jean’s mantel, his bold gaze surveying her with amusement. ‘What did you have in mind?’
It was the moment to apologise. She was a gentle person—too gentle, some said. Far too willing to accommodate the male beast. Be more assertive, Amber. Don’t be a doormat, Amber. Those were the sorts of things girlfriends had said to her in the past.
Normally she’d have begged his pardon, flattered him with a few waves of her lashes and been charmingly apologetic. But not this time. At the sight of him looking so insolently self-assured, his cool, intensely sensuous mouth beginning to curve in a smile, as though enjoying, relishing her discomfort, she felt her feminine pride challenged. ‘I merely wish to reiterate the point,’ she said coldly, ‘that the walls in this building are thin. Now your singing is keeping me awake.’
He smiled, eyes lighting and creasing at the corners. ‘You know, it concerns me that such a healthy woman—a woman so lithe, so supple and apparently fit …’ He put his head on one side, his mouth edging up just the tiniest sensual bit as he wallowed in his contemplation of her body. ‘In such excellent condition as yourself, should want to spend so much time sleeping. Do you ever do anything active, Amber? Go to the gym? Go clubbing? Dance till dawn?’
The irony of that. When she knocked herself out three mornings a week at dance class, ran a shop, studied, seized on any gigs going to keep the wolf from the door. ‘That’s none of your concern.’
He lowered his lashes, smiling a little. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve come to beg forgiveness.’
‘In your dreams. O’Neills never beg.’
There was a glint in his eyes. ‘No? Do they sing?’
He moved swiftly, and before she could protest grabbed her and pulled her down with him onto the piano seat. She gasped, braced to pull free, until his deep, quiet voice pinned her to the spot with a direct hit.
‘Is it music you’re allergic to, Amber, or men?’
She gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Oh, what? Don’t be silly. I like—love music.’ He slid a bronzed arm around her waist and pulled her close against him. She made a token attempt to break away, but his body was all long, lean bone and muscle, iron-hard and impervious to her resistance.
The clean male scent of him, his vibrant masculine warmth, the touch of his hand on her ribs, sent her dizzy senses into spinning confusion. She should have pushed him away, should have got up and walked out, but something held her there. Something about his touch, her excited pulse and wobbly knees. Her pride. Her need to win this game if it killed her.
‘What sort do you like?’ Up close, his growly voice had an appealing resonance that stroked her inner ear.
‘All sorts. Chopin. Tchaikovsky, of course.’
‘Oh, of course.’ He smiled.
‘Don’t mock,’ she said quickly. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their own taste.’
‘Sure they are. If you prefer to listen to the dead.’ His breath tickled her ear. His lips were nearly close enough to brush the sensitive organ.
‘They might be dead, but their music will live for eternity.’ She flicked him a challenging glance. ‘Can you say that about yours?’
He looked amused. ‘Now you’re really going for the jugular.’
A random thought struck her. She could, actually. His jugular wasn’t so far away. With just a slight lean she could lick his strong bronzed neck and taste his salt. Relish him with her tongue.
Adrenaline must be screwing her brain.
‘Chopin, of all people.’ He continued to scoff, mischief in his eyes. ‘Isn’t his stuff a bit wishy-washy for you, Amber? A bit …’ He made a levelling gesture. ‘Flat?’
Of course he would think that. But there was no use pretending she wasn’t a total nerd. Even before a firing squad her conscience wouldn’t let her deny her true colours. Not with all the ways Chopin’s piano works spoke to her. How subtle they were, and poignant. How they wound their way into the warp and weft of her most tender emotions.
‘No. Those pieces just—seep into my soul.’ She turned to look at him.
Guy met her clear gaze and felt the kind of lurch he should avoid at all costs. He should. But there were her eyes …
He heard himself say dreamily, ‘You know, you’re soft. Such curly lashes. And those sensational eyes …’
Amber felt a giant blush coming on. Unless a new heat-wave was sweeping Sydney.
Perhaps the man needed glasses or was a raving lunatic. She started to say something to that effect, and stopped. His mouth was gravely beautiful, and so close she had to hold her breath. His lips were wide and curled up at the corners, the upper one thin, the lower one fuller, more sensual. Lips made for kissing a woman into a swoon. Some poor hungry woman. Lips that could draw the very soul from that poor hungry, famished woman’s …
For goodness’ sake, Amber. Fatigue must be distorting her perceptions. Just because he had a lean, chiselled jaw and a stunning profile it didn’t mean she should forget the male/female reality.
She gave herself a mental slap. Feet on the ground and an eye to the door. That was a woman’s survival kit. That was what her mother had always told her, and Lise O’Neill had known better than most. When the going got tough, men disappeared.
Just because Amber had failed chronically to apply her mother’s wisdom on certain other crucial occasions it didn’t mean she had to fail now. Here was a prime opportunity to start inoculating herself against the cunning wiles of the wolfhound.
She didn’t have to be susceptible. She could resist.
‘Now, let’s see, Amber.’ At this distance she could almost feel the rumble of his deep voice in his chest. ‘Your lips are like cherries, roses and berries.’ He studied them appreciatively. ‘Although maybe softer, redder and juicier. I guess I’ll have to taste them to get that line exactly right …’
She tensed, waiting, pulse racing, but instead of delivering the anticipated kiss, he continued examining her.
‘And your eyes …’ He paused to inspect them. ‘What rhymes with amethyst?’
He rippled a few tunes, then settling on ‘Eleanor Rigby’, sang softly. “‘Amber O’Neill, mo
uth sweet as wine. And her eyes are like clear am—e—thyst. Never been ki—issed. Amber O’Neill. She’s twenty-nine and she goes to bed early to pine opp—or—tun—i—ties mi—issed …”’
He didn’t sing the next line, just played it. He didn’t have to. She remembered how it went. ‘All the …’
Her heart panged. ‘Very funny. It’s not even true.’
‘Which part?’
‘Any of it.’ Her breasts quickly rose and fell inside their confining bra. Anyone would be lonely in her situation. Of course she missed her mother every minute of every day. It was only natural. They’d only had each other. After she’d left the ballet company and all her friends there she hadn’t had much opportunity to make new ones, apart from people who worked in the mall.
And she knew why he thought she looked twenty-nine. It had to be her clothes. If it had been any of his concern, she might have explained about her work costumes. The only thing wrong with them, apart from being relentlessly floral, was that they weren’t all that shiny new.
Oh, this chronic lack of funds was approaching crisis point. There wasn’t much more she could do about it—unless the vintage shop around the corner had a sudden influx of barely worn clothes with flowery patterns.
She was signed up for Saturday night gigs at a Spanish club in Newtown for the next few weeks, though she’d planned to use those earnings for her stock explosion. She hadn’t planned on it—the shop must always come first—but maybe she could use some of her show earnings to buy something modern. Some new jeans, maybe? A little jacket?
Then she remembered Serena. She’d promised to give her an advance on her salary in return for an extra Thursday evening. And Serena deserved all the help she could get.
Amber noticed he was examining her with a serious expression while those dismal musings were flashing through her head faster than the speed of light. Then his face broke into a slow, sexy, teasing smile. It lengthened his eyes, made them do that crinkling thing at the corners.
She risked a glimpse into the silvery depths. ‘I’m sorry I swiped you with that sonata.’
He nodded gravely. ‘Okay. It’s a long time since I was smacked by a beautiful woman. Exciting, though.’ His voice was a velvet caress. ‘Do you often …?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. You’ve got quite a good wrist action there. I’d have thought you’d had a bit of experience.’ He saw her quick flush and, though his mouth grew grave, the smile still lurked in his eyes. Rueful, not unkind. Anything but unkind. ‘Never mind. Apology accepted.’
Her heart quickened and she dragged her gaze away. She shouldn’t have looked. She was, after all, Amber O’Neill, notorious push-over for charming heartbreakers. Next thing you knew she’d be starting to flirt, indulging in a little verbal sparring, giving him the husky laugh, luring him in, laying sultry glances on his mouth …
‘Tsk, now look. You have dark smudges here … and here.’ He lightly ran his thumb-tip under each eye. ‘You’ll have to cut out all this partying, Amber. You need to get some sleep.’
She ignored the soft imprint his thumb left on her skin, though lightning flickered through her skin cells and her sexual sensors went into a swoon. She hoped they didn’t lose their giddy little heads.
She tried to distract him with conversation. If she didn’t mention anything sexual, said nothing at all to do with his lips … Hers dried, and though she fought the urge she couldn’t resist running her tongue-tip around them. She noticed how the wolf gleamed at once from his knowing eyes. Oh, Lord. He was reading her like a traffic light.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ She kept her tone polite. Not too interested, just neighbourly. ‘Jean never mentioned you’d be staying.’
He nodded. ‘It was pretty last-minute. A builder’s knocking walls out of my house and it’s currently unlivable. Jean’s honeymoon has come at the right time.’
She frowned, thinking. ‘I don’t remember seeing you at the wedding.’
His face smoothed to become expressionless. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Oh. What a shame you missed it. It was fantastic. What a party. Jean must be sorry you couldn’t make it.’
He shrugged and gave a brief harsh laugh. ‘She’d have been surprised if I had.’
His knee brushed hers and she momentarily closed her eyes. At least he sounded fond of Jean, she thought, savouring the sparks shooting up and down her leg. That was one thing about him. Another was his voice. It was so deep and dark, and in its way musical, as soothing to the ear as a lute.
She noticed with some surprise her headache had just about departed. That might have been down to the lute effect. Or even the knee factor. The truth was, sound was not her only sensitivity. Like the beguiling Eustacia Vye, she’d always had this intense vulnerability to certain masculine knees.
Face it, there were times she felt like a sensory theme park. Right now the lights were on, the music was playing and she was glowing from the inside out.
‘It could be fantastic being here with you, Amber, or it could be … fantastic. What do you think?’ His lean, smooth hands rippling the keys made the notes sound like velvet water. She could imagine those hands playing along her spine like that. Gentling her, caressing her. Stroking her languid limbs, her hair. Better than a dangling twig any day.
She gave a throaty laugh—not her day-to-day one. ‘I wouldn’t say you’re with me, exactly.’
‘Getting closer, though. Don’t you think?’ His arm curved around her and he patted her hip.
‘You wish.’ She shifted away a little—though not as far as all that. ‘I don’t think you’ve demonstrated your desirability as a neighbour yet, Guy.’
He responded with a low, sexy laugh that demonstrated confidence in his abilities, if nothing else. ‘I’m working on it. Let’s see. Can I tempt you to some wine?’
She rarely drank alcohol. Fruit and veggie juices were her preferred drinks. Wine was not the ballerina’s friend. But, having assaulted him, she could hardly afford to be churlish. Besides, he smelled so deliciously male.
She lifted her shoulders. ‘Wine would be—fine.’
He was gone a few minutes. After a short while she heard him in Jean’s kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards.
She drew some hard, deep breaths to fill her lungs. Her exhilarated blood felt all bubbly. She felt pleasantly high and in control, as she sometimes did on stage. It gave her the same sort of out-of-body freedom—as if she wasn’t so much Amber as Amber’s avatar.
Looking more devastating by the minute, Guy returned with two glasses of red, along with the bottle. Amber recognised the glasses as Jean’s special wedding crystal. She accepted hers with a twinge of guilt. But, hey. She wasn’t the police. And she wasn’t in charge here, was she? Sometimes it was best to go with the flow.
They clinked glasses, Guy watching as she held her wine to her lips, his eyes shimmering with a warmth she knew only too well. Her blood quickened.
Desire was in the air.
‘Tell me about yourself, Amber,’ he said. ‘What do you do besides worship the dead?’
‘I’m a— I have the flower shop down in the arcade.’
He wrinkled his brow. ‘Don’t think I recall a florist’s. Where is that? It must be tucked down an alleyway.’
‘No, it’s not.’
He set down his glass and started rippling the keys again.
She tried not to watch. The less chance she had to obsess on the lean hand finding a tune with such casual expertise the better. Or the other one. The one absently stroking so close to her breast.
‘It’s right at the end, near the street entrance. I—haven’t had it long. There isn’t much stock yet so it’s not quite up and running. When I have more stock—more flowers, et cetera—you’ll be likely to notice it then. I’ll open up the street doors and put a lovely awning out in the street to catch the passing trade. Maybe in six months or so.’ With loads of luck, time and dancing gigs.
He frowned and put
his head on one side. ‘Yeah? How does that work?’
She looked quickly at him. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Just that. When you start something off you need to start as you intend to …’ He hesitated, his eyes calculating something she couldn’t read, then all at once his gaze narrowed and he looked closely at her. ‘Ah, now I can see why they called you Amber.’ His voice deepened, as if he’d made a thrilling, almost arousing discovery. ‘Look at that. They’re not straight violet, after all. The irises have the most beautiful little amber flecks.’
Stirred, she felt herself flush, and gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Oh, honestly. Guys like you.’
Though he smiled, his eyes sharpened. ‘What about guys like me?’
‘You’d say anything. No one has violet eyes—except maybe Liz Taylor.’
‘Hush. Where’s the poetry in your soul? Anyway, that’s only half true.’ Absently, he took a lock of her hair, ran it through his fingers as if it were made of some rare, precious silk. Her hair follicles shivered with joy. ‘There aren’t any other guys like me. I’m the original one-off.’
Certainly better than a twig. With the wine warming her cockles, she was starting to feel quite languorous. Voluptuous, even. Gently she removed the tress from his fingers. ‘They all say that.’
‘Do they? I’m starting to wonder what sort of guys you know, Amber.’ Then glancing at her, he gave a quick, rueful smile. ‘Oh, sorry. I guess a woman like you … You’d be used to men wanting to impress you.’ He flashed her a veiled look. ‘Do you receive a lot of offers?’
She supposed there’d been a few. Though always from people no one in their right mind would consider viable—apart from Miguel. Especially Miguel.
Not caring to boast, she made a non-committal, so-so sort of gesture. ‘Oh, well …’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said warmly. ‘There are so many of these blokes about. Operators looking for a beautiful woman to hook up with.’ He nodded, sighing. ‘Yeah, I know the type. First they use the old sweet talk routine to soften you up. Then they manoeuvre you into a clinch.’ He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘Or is that where they start these days? With a kiss?’
