Amber's Embrace
Authors: Barbara Delinsky
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CONTENTS
Dear Reader,
I’m a woman with a past—namely, a group of novels that have been lost for nearly twenty years. I wrote them under pseudonyms at the start of my career, at which time they were published as romances. In the years since, my writing has changed, and these novels went into storage, but here they are now, and I’m thrilled. I loved reading romance; I loved
writing
romance. Rereading these books now, I see the germs of my current work in character development and plot. Being romances, they’re also very steamy.
Initially, I had planned to edit each to align them with my current writing style, but a funny thing happened on the way to
that
goal. Totally engrossed, I read through each one, red pencil in hand, without making a mark! As a result, what you have here is the original in its sweet, fun, sexy entirety.
A basic rule of writing is, write about what you know—which is why
Amber’s Embrace
opens with a Little League game in a suburb west of Boston. I’ve lived in a town just like Dover for as long as I’ve had kids—and, having three sons, I’ve sat through more Little League games than I can count. I also know Boston’s Massachusetts General Hospital, where my characters work and where I’ve been personally active for years, and the Haymarket near Faneuil Hall, where my characters buy fresh produce and meat. In the early days of our marriage, my husband and I used to visit a butcher shop there once a month, freeze what the guy cut us, and take great pleasure both in the outing and the super deals.
Amber’s Embrace
was originally titled
Amber Enchantment
. We changed the name here so that readers wouldn’t expect a book dealing with magic. That said, there is a kind of magic in how Amber meets Zach and how their paths keep crossing, though neither one is on the lookout for love. But isn’t that how it happens best?
Enjoy!
Barbara
CHAPTER ONE
“Strrrike!” The voice behind the mask delivered its loud verdict to a chorus of disbelieving gasps.
“But that was above his
shoulder!
” one high-muted chirp rang out.
Another echoed the sentiment in a barely disguised whisper. “
He
couldn’t have hit
that!
”
Then came the third, its call louder and, more dangerously, directed at the offending umpire. “Hey, get your glasses—”
“That’s enough, kids!” Amber MacLaine, clutching scorebook and pencil to her chest, stepped back from the baseline to still the team sitting on the bench. A sweeping flick of her wrist made a place for her in their midst. As she eased her slender frame down onto the hard wood, her tone held gentle warning. “Take it easy, now. Remember what I’ve told you—we win some, we lose some. Some calls go our way, some don’t. Let’s be patient. It’ll even out.”
“But, Mrs. MacLaine—”
“No ‘buts,’ Billy. Patience!” Her own stayed in check, as a jabbing forefinger returned the attention to the game. Some more begrudging than others, all eyes turned back to the pitcher’s mound. Sensing that he was once more the center of attention, the young pitcher adjusted his visor lower to blot out the lengthening shards of early evening sun spilling over the field, pulled himself up to his full four-foot-seven height, executed his most sober windup, then released the ball. All eyes followed its progress as it faltered toward the plate, seeming to hover on the outside corner before tipping the edge of the catcher’s mitt and bouncing into the screened enclosure behind.
“Strrrike!”
Close, perhaps justified this time,
she decided, glancing at the twelve boys and two girls to her right and left on the bench, raising a warning finger to her lips when rebellion appeared imminent then passed. A faint sigh of relief stole through her. It had been one thing to spend the last six weeks teaching these nine-year-olds the fundamentals of baseball, another to instill the attitude of good sportsmanship, her primary goal as a coach. A fighter herself, on more than one occasion it had taken every ounce of self-control to keep from yelling out her own opinion of the umpire’s haphazard calls. Now, frustration on the rise, she bit her lip. Little Peter Solway, the batter, had been up on the count, with three balls pitched, until the last two strikes were called. The full count put on the pressure. It would be hard enough for him to connect with the ball under optimal conditions; his only realistic hope of reaching base was on a walk. Fingers crossed, Amber urged the child on silently.
Relax, Peter. You can do it.
A hit would be just what his faltering ego needed.
Once again, there was the somber ritual of the visor-pull, the windup, and the release. Once again, the batter stood motionless as the ball approached, then whizzed by at eye level. Once again, the catcher went scrambling into the corner after it. “Strrrike three!”
This time, Amber did join the protest. Young bodies jumped up and down excitedly as she bounded toward the plate, a length of long blond ponytail streaming out from above the adjustable band of her team’s black hat. Long, slim legs, bare and delicately tanned from shorts to sneakers, covered the distance before the dejected boy even lowered his bat. “Good watching, Pete. You almost had it.” Her warm words sent the little batter back to his teammates, as she moved on, calling calmly to the umpire. “Excuse me, a word, please!” Reluctant to argue blatantly in front of the children, she gestured him to join her several yards from home plate. “I’m not sure if we have the same definition of the strike zone here,” she began carefully and in a lowered voice. The tapered fingers splayed at her hips emphasized their shapeliness. “That last one was way above his shoulder!”
The umpire’s mask came off to reveal a thoroughly disinterested look. “Just about
at
his shoulder, ma’am,” he corrected indolently, all but yawning his enthusiasm. Just a boy himself, in Amber’s opinion, he looked no more than twenty-one. Not for the first time this season did she wonder where the league picked up its umpires. In the case of this particular call by this particular umpire, it was wrong. “
At
his shoulder?” Her voice contained as much of a squeal as its whispered timbre would allow. “At
whose
shoulder?” The pale green of her eyes suddenly flashed darker with the vehemence she tried so desperately to contain. “You seem to forget that these children’s shoulders are considerably closer to the ground than yours!” The frustration of the season, a heartbreaker for her kids, had begun to take its toll, driving her on. “And that first strike you called was even higher!”
A carefree shrug met her accusation. “It was questionable—could have gone either way.” His move to replace his mask and resume the game was halted by Amber’s final plea.
“Either way?” Her eyes widened as she cried out incredulously, then instantly willed her voice to lower again. A slender finger shot out toward her now-scattered bench. “My poor kids are behind by eighteen runs. With only one inning to go, couldn’t you give them even the slightest benefit of the doubt?” It had been the story of the season for the Pirates—runs against them, close calls against them, only a multitude of errors and their enduring spirit to their credit.
“I do my best, ma’am.” His offering was devoid of feeling.
“That’s not good enough!” Infuriated at his total lack of compassion, she whirled on her heel, instantly colliding head-on with the wall of warm humanity that had approached from behind during the exchange. Had it not been for the bracing fingers steadying her shoulders, she might have fallen on the rebound.
“Whoa, what’s the problem?” His voice was deep and his head was held high. With a step back, Amber looked up determinedly at the newcomer. His own hat and dark glasses hid his expression, though his lips twitched at her resilience.
“That last pitch was
no
strike!” Her angry denunciation was met by an irrepressible grin, the inappropriateness of which prompted her follow-up. “And who are you?”
The man wore faded denims and an old crimson T-shirt with H-A-R-V-A-R-D emblazoned across its broad expanse. Now, a dark eyebrow shot skyward in open amusement. “It’s
my
team that’s creaming yours, little lady. I’d suggest you return to your bench…”
Rankled by his condescension, she pulled herself up straighter, appalled at her mere five-foot-six inches in comparison with his far greater height. “So
you’re
the Cubs’ coach. We’re glad you could finally join us.” Sweet sarcasm coated her words. “We waited as long as we could before one of the other parents took over.” Cheeks flushed, she belted away, aware that there was enough of a spontaneous intermission in progress among the small players to permit her diversion. “Your team plays beautifully without you!”
Twirling once more, she made good her escape, simmering as she gathered her team around and approached the bench. The pep talk was of the type she had become expert at delivering, therapeutic in its way for her as well. With a softer word of additional encouragement to one of the players, she sent him to the plate.
For several plays, things looked up. One batter singled, then stole second when the catcher missed another high pitch. The next batter hit a fly ball toward second base, a breath stopper until the second baseman bobbled, then dropped it, at which point the Pirates had players on first and third. Amber cheered her heart out. “Come on, Eric. Eye on the ball. Nice and easy! Josh,” her eager call carried to the boy on third, “don’t run until you’re sure.” She cupped her hands toward first. “On your toes, Amy!” To lose by a score of eighteen to two, or three, or heaven help us, perhaps even four, would be better than the eighteen to nothing debacle glaring from the scoreboard now. Then, the inevitable happened.
An unintentional bunt—the ball somehow made contact with the bat to the hitter’s shock, then belated delight—brought the third-base runner home. In a melange of arms and legs and dust and leather, a small white speck of ball grazed the runner’s leg. “Out!” The umpire’s decision tore all hope from the Pirates’ universally rounded eyes. In a flash, Amber took the side of her team, rushing forward quickly.
“Did you
really
see that ball touch Josh
before
his foot reached the plate?” It was so cruel; her little players had struggled so to have the possibility of a run. “Are you
sure
it was an out?” When the umpire nodded complacently, she opened her mouth to argue further. A purposeful tug at the back of her head startled her into momentary silence. Allowing her no time to recover, the hand that had captured her swaying mane proceeded to guide her smoothly from the fray. Its pressure was playfully firm, calculated to move her without hurting. Though her scalp prickled at its hold, there was promise of a sting only if she demurred; she did not. On the more private realm of the sideline, she was released.
“Look, miss,” he began, his eyes still hidden behind those darkest of sunglasses, his forehead by its low-drawn visor, “I realize that you’re defending your team. But, don’t you think you should soft-pedal it a little?” The ease of his stance, legs planted firmly apart, one hand in his pocket, the other falling idly now by his side, spoke of supreme confidence.