Keeping Her Up All Night

by Anna Cleary

  Her lashes flickered down to make soft concealing arcs. He could have bitten his tongue off. Was he insane? Where was his control? He held his breath for fear he’d damaged the delicate accord.

  But she ignored his witty double entendre. Maybe she hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘It isn’t usually all that dark,’ she said evenly. ‘If there’s a moon, the skylight makes the room bright enough. There isn’t anywhere near enough space in there, of course, but it’s my biggest room.’

  He glanced at her once, then again. Her delicious lips were tightly pressed. She was wearing that expression. The one that froze him out. The snowball’s chance in hell one. She’d noticed, all right.

  He felt chagrin. No doubt he was a blundering fool, but eggshells had never been so precarious for walking on. If she didn’t want him to continue desiring her, she shouldn’t have told him she danced in the dark. What was that all about, anyway? And why tell a helpless visionary like him about it unless to enchant and seduce him?

  ‘What I meant to say was …’ He scrambled to right himself. ‘What if there isn’t a moon? Is there anything wrong with dancing in the light?’

  Her voice was a little gruff. ‘No. It’s …’ She hesitated, gave a shrug. ‘Oh, well. I’m probably conscious of needing to save on the electricity bill. I try to go without using it wherever I can.’ A flush suffused her cheek.

  It slayed him. Call him a bleeding heart, but that small simple truth devastated him. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t he realised? What an idiot he was. What a spoiled, complacent, rich idiot.

  She glanced at him and added earnestly, ‘Though there can be something really atmospheric about dancing in the dark. If the music is right. If you could imagine that.’

  He could imagine it so vividly he could barely meet her eyes. He said constrainedly, ‘I think I can. What sort of dancing do you do?’

  ‘Well, I was with the Oz Ballet. Now I do a bit of everything. Whatever I get the chance to do.’

  Didn’t he just know it?

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘The Australian Ballet. That’s really impressive. That’s like being an Olympic champion.’

  She gave him an ironic look meant to convey his crassness in not understanding the difference between sport and art.

  And it was just, to some degree. His imagination was hooked on her gymnastic ability. On a piano. Her lithe and lovely form folding into a flower. Then unfolding. Into a woman. Driving him wild.

  Wicked, witty lines he might have used to remind her of that moment rose to his tongue, but regretfully he had to restrain them. All forbidden, alas. He must behave as though he’d never touched her. Never tasted her mouth or sunk himself into her silken flesh.

  ‘Oh.’ She lifted her head. ‘Looks like it’s pretty busy. I hope they kept our table.’

  Following the direction of her gaze, he entered a surreal moment. Of all things, his bemused gaze assured him, she was leading him to a church. Set on a grassy knoll overlooking the harbour, with its pretty spire and stained glass lit invitingly from within, it looked charming enough to attract a swarm of unbelievers.

  But not Guy Wilder. Never him.

  His heart went stone-cold.

  ‘You mean we’re eating here?’ He halted abruptly, hardly knowing what he said. ‘This is it?’

  She nodded, beaming up at him. ‘I know. Isn’t it gorgeous? I’ve always wanted to try it. They say the cuisine is quite authentic.’

  Guy barely heard. Must have been the shock. Before he could stop it the last fateful time he’d stood in a church rolled right back to sandbag him in full vivid Technicolor.

  Flowers. Everywhere flowers. All of their friends, even his parents. The priest, gorgeous in her celebratory robes. Violet edged with gold. He’d concentrated on them while he waited. Colours for festivity. Joy. Her encouraging smiles beginning to wear a bit thin. More waiting. An eternity of waiting.

  Relentless minutes ticking by. Murmurings. The bride was late, someone said. Ridiculously late, surely? He’d begun to wonder himself.

  The suspense. In his nerves. In the air. And the restlessness he’d suddenly started to sense. Little rustlings amongst the congregation. Murmurs.

  His hands had suddenly been damp, his beautifully laundered collar uncomfortably tight. His man’s finery wilting. But he’d stood upright, sure and confident, trusting to the end. Though others around him were giving in, twisting to scan the long, empty aisle.

  The anguished look he’d caught between a couple of his mates … It had confused him, while at the same time cutting him to the quick. What were they thinking? And then the moment. That gut-wrenching moment when he’d understood.

  All at once he felt the weight of Amber O’Neill’s clear gaze. He realised his hands were clenched. With an effort he dragged himself back to the here and now.

  Hell, it was nothing to do with her. Amber wasn’t to know what a fool he’d been made. Made of himself. He wasn’t a madman, for goodness’ sake. Just the common or garden variety of lunatic who’d entrusted a piece of himself to a woman.

  The church had come as a surprise, that was all. But it was a restaurant. Only a restaurant.

  ‘Guy?’ She looked concerned. ‘Are you all right? You look so grim all of a sudden.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Deliberately he made his muscles and everything inside him unclench. He breathed normally and flashed her a grin. ‘Must be hunger. You know that low blood sugar thing?’

  Amber smiled, though uncertainly. Grim had been too mild a word for what she’d imagined. For a second there she’d imagined something almost stark in his expression, though there was no sign of it now. Still, she’d heard the note of surprise in his voice when he’d spotted the restaurant.

  A dismaying thought struck her. What if he couldn’t afford it? Since this was only meant to be a discussion about the shop, maybe he’d intended a café or somewhere more simple.

  Had she blundered with her choice?

  Though he seemed too well dressed for a café, looking so groomed and sleek. Not that she was looking. Or smelling. All the way here she’d made a point of not. She’d deliberately kept her hand from brushing his sleeve and kept her eyes fixed on the path ahead. Though it was impossible not to notice the smoothness of his lean cheek. Clearly he’d shaved for the occasion, because she remembered how he’d looked beforehand. Vividly. And he smelled quite—woodsy.

  Probably not like the Wessex woods, of course, where Eustacia Vye was wont to roam. When she wasn’t stalking Kirribilli like a cat on a hot tin roof.

  ‘Look, Guy,’ she said. ‘This place looks a lot more expensive than I realised. It’s probably a bit up-market for a business discussion. But I’m pretty sure we can still cancel.’ She dug for her mobile. ‘There are plenty of other places.’

  His expression lightened. ‘Hey—no, no. Put that away.’ His strange mood, if it had ever been there, vanished without a trace. ‘Here will be fine. Honestly. You’re my client, and the client must be properly wooed.’ His grin was reassuring. ‘Up-market is how we do biz at Wilder Solutions.’

  ‘Is it really?’ Amber wasn’t altogether convinced. But, however Wilder Solutions chose to operate, she felt honour-bound to pay her share.

  She resolved not to eat much. If she ordered the cheapest dish on the menu it would keep costs down. This wasn’t an occasion for the letting down of hair, anyway. She’d be keeping hers tightly bound up.

  In fact it would certainly be unwise to accept wine, should Guy suggest it. She wondered if a French restaurant would be likely to serve vee juice. It was important to remember how reckless she’d been on the night of the wine. Not that the wine had been totally to blame. Other things had been in play then.

  The music. His hands. His mouth.

  As though to mock her, as soon as she stepped inside the gothic portal the ripple of a piano slunk into her ears. An old lovesong with a haunting refrain. The old black magic slithered wickedly along Amber’s veins, inevitably bringing to mind her late erotic
adventures.

  She could have groaned. Why did she have to be so susceptible? That ‘adventure’ had had serious consequences to her peace of mind. Ignoring the liquid tones tugging at her heartstrings, she steadfastly resisted looking at Guy. The last thing she wanted to do was remind him. Something told her any references to that night would be dangerous in the extreme.

  The trouble was it was reminding her. This tight rein of control she was attempting to exert on her primitive instincts needed to be yanked tighter and tighter. Why did the senses have to overrule everything? The more she saw of Guy, even with what she’d learned, the more alive she was to his appeal.

  It seemed their sexual exchange was branded on her body’s memory. A barrier had been removed and, though a different one was in place, the lack of the first was having a weakening effect.

  If she wasn’t careful, before she knew it she’d be crawling up on that piano lid.

  He was glancing around him, taking in the fittings. ‘Well, it doesn’t feel like a church. Doesn’t sound like one either.’

  He smiled, but she pretended not to understand his meaning. Before he could make any other sly references to recent history she said, ‘Not with all those delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. Mmm … Smell the garlic.’

  The place was abuzz, with waiters swishing adroitly between tables and bearing steaming dishes. The tantalising fragrances made Amber’s stomach juices yearn. Lucky her years of ballet training hadn’t been for nothing. In the food department, at least, she could do abstinence standing on her head.

  As she approached their table, conscious of Guy behind her, she felt his light touch in the small of her back. Just the standard polite, masculine touch. Instantly a tiny electric tingle shimmied up her spine and infected her blood.

  She settled into her place, lashes lowered. That quickening in her blood and the warm tidal surge to her breasts was too pleasant a sensation to quell all at once. But, tempting though it might have been to meet Guy’s eyes, it was important not to. She had to keep her focus on the shop. The meeting. Not on his hands. Not on his mouth.

  He slipped off his jacket and hung it on his chair. Impossible not to glance at least once. His linen shirt, white against his tan, was cut with a casual elegance that suited his lean build. Perfect for the warm evening. His sinewy forearms, those hands, would have tempted a nun’s eyes to linger, but she made herself look away while the image burned in her retina.

  She needed to remember. Though grateful for his apology, and respectful of it, it couldn’t essentially change what she’d learned about him. About how much he was prepared to offer another soul. During the midnight hours, when the need for human comfort was at its most searing.

  When the sommelier arrived and Guy suggested champagne or a cocktail she politely declined and enquired about juice.

  ‘Very wise,’ Guy said as the waiter took her modest order. ‘We need to keep our wits about us.’

  But she noticed that for himself he ordered a glass of champagne. Watching it foam into his glass, so zingy and alive, she couldn’t help thinking how refreshing it looked. Guy savoured his first sip like a connoisseur, closing his eyes in a sort of ecstasy.

  She couldn’t restrain herself from commenting. ‘Anyone would think it was nectar.’

  ‘That’s what it reminds me of.’ He held the flute high, the better to appreciate the wine’s pallid sparkle. ‘The divine nectar of the lotus. Would you like a taste?’ His eyes shimmered into hers, enticement in their depths.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  What did he mean by bringing up the lotus, anyway? Was it some sort of sly jab about the other night? She retreated to her carrot juice. Tried not to notice how flat it was. How thick and pointless. But tonight abstinence was her middle name. So when it came time to order the food she remained wedded to her resolve.

  ‘I’ll just have a green salad, thank you.’

  The waiter, a small dramatic man with a not-very-convincing French accent, seemed mortally wounded by her restraint.

  Guy was even harder to convince. He stared at her above the top of his menu and his black brows shot up. ‘Truly? Is that all?’

  She reached for her juice. ‘That’s all I require, thanks.’

  He studied her, his head a little to one side. A gleam crept into his eyes. He glanced at the waiter, then back at his menu, his brow wrinkling. ‘Hmm … I’m tempted by the potage, myself, but I’m not entirely sure how substantial onion soup is likely to be. So for my entrée, along with my soup, I’ll order the duck parfait with balsamic onion jam and cornichons, and the cheese and walnut soufflé with frisée and pear salad.’

  ‘All for monsieur?’ The waiter could scarcely keep the shock from his voice. ‘While mademoiselle goes hungry?’

  Guy nodded gravely, though his eyes danced with amusement. ‘Mademoiselle prefers to dine lightly, while I find myself ravenous. For my main course I’ll have the Châteaubriand with the mushroom ragout, witlof salad, Dutch carrots and Pommes Lyonnaise.’

  A look of sly triumph occupied the waiter’s face. ‘Aha. It desolates me to inform monsieur that the Châteaubriand is only permitted for two diners. If you read on further, you will see there is a single-serve dish of filet with Brussels sprouts and a lentil jus. Very substantial—even for such a hungry man as yourself.’

  Guy shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not much of a Brussels sprouts man. I’m afraid I have my heart set on the Châteaubriand.’

  Amber nearly gasped. Was the man a glutton?

  The waiter shared her concern. ‘But, monsieur. This Châteaubriand is a very large dish.’ He demonstrated excitedly with both hands. ‘There are two platters and side dishes to accompany. The Pommes Lyonnaise alone …’ He threw up histrionic hands as though words failed him.

  ‘I find I have a very large appetite,’ Guy said. ‘In fact, I see here in your dégustation menu you suggest a wine to accompany each individual dish.’

  The waiter’s brows shot high on his forehead. He said incredulously, ‘Monsieur is wishing to order different wines with each individual dish?’

  Guy frowned. ‘Oh, hang on there. Not every wine. Just this sauv blanc. And yes. I think the Bordeaux. The Châteaubriand deserves the finest available red, don’t you think? And bring the rest of this bottle, will you?’

  He indicated the champagne. Rolling his eyes, the waiter departed, but soon the bottle was produced and placed in a très elegant ice bucket.

  Amber eyed Guy bemusedly. Surely he wouldn’t drink all that, and then more? The man would be sloshed. How much planning would get done?

  She watched him pour himself more champagne from the bottle and raise it to his lips. As he savoured the sip, a strange expression crept over his face. ‘I’m not sure this is the same wine.’ He examined the label, sniffed it thoughtfully, then sipped again. ‘Nope. If it is the same it’s from a different bottle. This stuff’s off.’

  ‘Off? Are you sure?’ She glanced about at the austere gloss of the exclusive place. Every surface gleamed with class and honour. ‘What do you mean? Surely they wouldn’t—? Not here.’

  He gave a solemn nod. ‘I’m afraid it can happen anywhere. If you don’t believe me … here, look. Give me that glass. Tell me if this tastes sour and vinegary to you.’

  She handed over her empty water glass and he poured her a substantial drop of champagne. ‘Now, try that. Tell me if you think the quality has been compromised.’

  Conscious of his grey gaze sparkling with alertness, she took a cautious sip. After the carrot juice, the wine tasted pleasantly tart on her tongue. Swallowing was like drinking a delicious mouthful of ocean wave. Almost as soon as the zesty bubbles hit her stomach streams of sensuous warmth irradiated her middle.

  ‘What do you think?’ There was a veiled gleam in Guy’s eyes, his crow’s feet charmingly apparent.

  She glanced at him from under her lashes. ‘I can’t really tell yet.’

  Well, it was essential to conduct a test rigorously
. These French champagnes didn’t come cheap.

  If Ivy could see her now …

  If Ivy had read the prices on this menu …

  She smiled. ‘I think perhaps the carrot juice could still be affecting my palate. I could probably give you a more accurate reading next time.’ She held out her glass. ‘A little more, please.’

  This time she closed her eyes and swirled the blessed drop on her tongue before swallowing. ‘Mmm. Oh yes, yes. A little tangy to start with. Creamy. And then you get the full surge effect. And what a fantastic climax. Bliss.’

  Heavens. Her eyes flew open. Had she actually said that, or just thought it?

  He was scrutinising her, and with that silvery shimmer in his eyes, and the almost-smile curling up the corners of his mouth, she had the impression she might have actually said it.

  ‘So?’ he said, as smoothly as a wolf emerging from the trees of the Wessex woods. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  She smiled. Gave a small bewitching laugh. ‘Don’t think I don’t know your game. You did that deliberately. You’re devious, Guy Wilder.’ She shoved her glass across the table at him. ‘Go on, then. Fill it up.’

  It would have been unreasonable to drink his wine and then refuse to participate in any of the feast when it was delivered. Whether by art or coincidence, Guy found he didn’t really care for soufflé after all, or onion soup. He finagled a swap with her green salad, yet somehow she ended up eating as much of it as he did. As for the Châteaubriand, her half was sublime, especially washed down with a drop of Bordeaux.

  And it was only a tiny drop. She wasn’t entirely seduced by the wine. But by the man …?

  She was grappling with that. Desire seemed to burn more fiercely when emerging from under a cloud. Her memories of his lips and hands on her body were powerful enough. The glow in his eyes seared her to the marrow.

  As if by mutual accord neither she nor Guy made any reference to past wounds inflicted. Somehow, over dessert, he managed to listen to her dreams about the shop without laughing. And on the way home, after she’d tucked a copy of the menu into her purse to show Ivy, she must have forgotten for the moment who she was talking to—because she told him all about her mother.