Amber's Embrace (16 page)

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That feminine instinct was not to find fulfillment at the home of Zachary Wilder on Tuesday night. As one part of her had known from the moment he had mentioned the meeting, she
did
attend it. The house was a ten-minute drive from her own, in an even more rural area of Dover, deeply forested, with large fields interspersed occasionally from one private drive to another. The sun had begun to lower for the night, spilling its orange glow through the verdant growth, across the roads, and, finally, over the front of his home, as it burst into view at the end of a long driveway. If her own was one of those nine out of ten old houses, his was not. Fully contemporary, from wood and glass front and sides to multiple skylights overhead, its concession to mankind was minimal, blending gracefully with the natural setting all about it, giving one the feeling, when within, of being, indeed, without.

Zachary was the perfect host, behaving toward her in as charming a manner as he was gracious to the others. Though he introduced her around at the start of the meeting, she received no further attention as one who was an outsider, so to speak. Her hand made note after note as the group of doctors talked. There were twelve of them, including two women whose status immediately put Amber in her place. Her eye fell on these two more often than on the others, with the exception of their leader. What did they think of him … as a man, she wondered? What were his thoughts about their own not inconsiderable feminine traits? Both were attractive and well-spoken, intelligent, and seemingly respected by the others in the group. Was there a special glow in Zachary’s eye when either of them spoke? Had he ever dated either one?

Such questions spilled one after the other through her brain as the meeting continued, then appeared to be winding up. Suddenly, she heard mention of her own name.

“Mrs. MacLaine”—
did he emphasize that Mrs. more so than necessary?
she wondered idly—“has been working on our PR material. Perhaps you could give us a quick run-down on the progress to date, Amber.” His blue eyes bore a challenge, as though he had been completely aware of her mental aberrations and found some enjoyment in jolting her from them.

Calling on every bit of her poise and composure, Amber rose to the occasion, both literally and figuratively. Determined, in the instant, to make the most of this opportunity both to push Zachary’s cause and to impress him with her ability to do so, she stood and moved slowly—and with a show of confidence that went no further than that lovely surface—to where Zachary had been standing, to where he now sat in a large easy chair. Placing herself just to his right, close enough to identify with him yet far enough for propriety, she spoke, outlining concisely the overall plan of the fund-raising drive, describing the preliminary brochures that had already been sent to the printer, elaborating more fully on the major report on which the bulk of her efforts was centered at this point. She sought eye contact wherever possible, making her delivery crisp and effective. The several questions that came to her were handled with similar ease, justifying the long hours she had spent at home poring over every last bit of material she had regarding the project and the fund-raising drive.

“Very effective, coach.” Zachary approached from behind while she stood talking with one of the other doctors moments later, when coffee and danish had been served in the large dining area at one end of the very open living room. “I’ll have to call on your talents again at my meetings.”

There was definite humor in his voice, though Amber’s mind blotted it out. Excusing herself from the man with whom she had been speaking, she turned to face the tall and commanding host. “You certainly didn’t need a hostess here, that’s for sure. You make a very good cup of coffee.” What she felt inside, she wasn’t sure. There was warmth and sarcasm, jealousy and admiration, attraction and resentment—a whole gamut of conflicts that his presence evoked. Yet, when he smiled, the even whiteness of his teeth so fresh and tempting to the tip of her tongue, she melted.

“I’ve had to learn to do many things myself. But I really did want you to come. Thank you.” He paused, his eye reinforcing that sentiment with a beam that seared into her, wrapping itself around her heart, which beat suddenly faster. “Have you been able to get any information you can use?” His dark head cocked toward the notebook she still held under her arm.

“I think so. I’ll have to read over my notes when I get home. There was a lot that was said—it will take some sorting out.”

Zachary’s nod preceded a silence that was anticipatory of something—then fell flat when one of the woman doctors approached. “Very interesting, Zach!” she congratulated him spiritedly, linking her elbow with his in an all too familiar way. Amber’s critical gaze grouped the two together, matching Zachary’s dark looks with this woman’s lighter, but equally as dignified ones. No, perhaps dignified was only one aspect of it; there was a subtle command in the demeanor of both that instantly classified them survivors in life. Was Amber one? As the two doctors became involved in a more technical discussion—
why the need for that elbow link?
Amber cried silently—than she could or would follow, she strolled off to find out whether she could indeed resurface from each tiny devastation such as this seemingly innocent one. Heading for the most compelling doctor in the group—a poor second to Zachary, she was quick to acknowledge to herself—she devoted herself to conversation with him, keeping her back to Zachary and his lady doctor until the evening appeared at an end. Whether she had aroused any jealousy in him, though she certainly did not glue herself to this stranger as Zachary’s friend had done to him, she would never know. For the chestnut-haired woman was still at his side, monopolizing him even as he bid good-bye to his colleagues.

With a pang of disgust, Amber prepared to leave. Then, she hesitated and, to her bemusement, proceeded to help herself to another cup of coffee and to settle into the large and comfortable sectional sofa in a most nonchalant way. It was as though some other being controlled her, willing her to fight for what she wanted. Did she want Zachary? One part of her, she knew, did very badly; all she had to do was to look at his lean muscular physique, clad this evening in an open-necked sports shirt and dark navy linen slacks, to relive her cravings. But did she want more? Could she accept the commitment that making love to Zachary would entail? For, in her mind, she could not give of herself without that commitment. Despite the image of the liberated woman, she was strangely traditional. There had to be love. Was there?

Her inner turmoil was belied by the outward calmness that possessed her as she sat, slowly sipping at the coffee, relaxing on the sofa as though it were her own. The lime-tinged eyes that slowly perused the room made it her own, studying every corner, every wall, every piece of furniture and decorative article, until she could close them and still see that which Zachary had built.

“Were you planning on sleeping here?” he asked in open amusement, his approach muffled by the thick shag carpet and startling her eyes wide open.

An instant flush spread from her neck to her cheeks. “I was just admiring your home—”

“With your eyes shut?” The dark brow that arched into his forehead dared her to speak truthfully, though the upward curve of his lips mocked her mercilessly. He stood before her, hands thrust in his pockets, the master at rest, so confident yet casual. The room was quiet; the others had apparently all left.

Amber felt impelled to speak truthfully. Her relationship with Zachary had been founded on the truth; they had certainly shared enough of it to enable her the freedom now. “It’s very comfortable here, Zachary,” she began softly, drawing herself up straighter in the corner of the sofa to explain her feelings. “I couldn’t help but”—her thick gold lashes flickered down, then rose again with determination—“close my eyes and enjoy the feeling.”

His response was enigmatic, his blue gaze unfathomable in a way it had never been. Puzzled, she wondered if he understood what she had said. Impulsively, she stood, fearful suddenly of being forced by his presence to say things she might regret, things that might reveal the extent of his captivation of her. “Here, let me help you clean these things up.” Her eye took in the assortment of cups, plates, napkins, and crumbs that littered the living room. Purposefully, she avoided the warm pull of his body, so straight and magnetic and masculine. For some reason, here in his home, her feelings were more exposed than usual. As she silently moved to escape him, collecting cups as she passed, she wondered just why she was suddenly affected this way. Had it been the meeting, seeing Zachary in action as a champion, the administrator of his cause? Without doubt, he had been magnificent at that. Had it been the presence of those two female colleagues of his, each attractive, as was her friend Corey, and each bringing out Amber’s own insecurities? Had it been the subtle intimacy of one of those women, that one who had fit herself so closely by his side? Or was it merely her instinct to fight, a coming to a decision, that perhaps, since the first time since her divorce, there was, indeed, someone worth fighting for?

“You don’t have to do that,” Zachary ordered from the same stance with which he had watched her. “I can take care of it later.” His voice sounded more tense; in the next moment, Amber knew why. For, from the bedroom area came the chestnut-haired doctor, seemingly disturbed about something though moving confidently to the sofa and sinking gracefully down into its folds.

The worst of imaginings coursed through Amber’s suddenly frigid brain. A numbness seeped through her, as she woodenly put down the cups, rescued her purse and notebook from
that
woman’s clutches, and headed for the door. Through it all, Zachary merely stood and watched her silently, his face a bronzed mask, even and unpenetrable. When she turned at the door, he was so very, very far away that a shaft of pain seared through that numbness. Her soft-murmured “thank you” was the only sound she was capable of, save a cry of anguish at the position she found herself in.
Damn it,
she loved him! There was no need to analyze the situation more deeply. She loved him! Without even intending to look, she had found a man with whom she was willing—no, wanted, even, needed—to spend the rest of her life. He was everything she could have asked in a man. And he was now back in his home, alone, with that attractive lady doctor—just as he had been on that patio with the raven-haired beauty at David’s party the Saturday night before. Oh, yes, he was everything she could have asked in a man—with one gross exception. He had that same wandering eye which had crushed her once before in her life. She would not let it happen again. Why was it, her heart screamed, that men found loyalty so difficult to uphold? For her, it was instinctive; if Zachary offered her his love, he would have her fidelity forever. But he did not love her. And he felt no need for fidelity. Why, even at this moment, she mused, as she pulled into her own drive, he was probably—

That night Amber cried herself to sleep. Love should have been so beautiful. Why, oh why, she asked herself in agonized refrain, did it always hurt her so badly?

CHAPTER SEVEN

The following morning, Amber arrived at her desk to find a casually scrawled note across the top sheet of her desk pad. “Work Friday
P.M.,
” it said. “We’ll go to Haymarket afterward, then to festival at North End. Be in your office at 6—pick you up there. Z.”

Dumbfounded, she stared at the note. It was the last thing she had expected to find when she arrived at work this morning, the last thing she needed to find after the tormented night she had spent, one that had left its mark on the pallor of her skin and the deep circles below her eyes. Two cups of coffee had done little to improve her humor at home; this note would do nothing to improve it now.

Confusion and anger created a whirlpool within her, churning furiously. After having been cordial but impersonal last night, then having flaunted his current bedmate before her nose, he had some audacity to leave such a note on her desk, filled as it was with the assumption that she was at his beck and call, on the job and off. Well, she fumed, Dr. Zachary Wilder would have another thing coming when he appeared at her office Friday to find that she had left at her usual one o’clock! There was no way she would willingly go out with him, particularly knowing as she did her one abysmal weakness, that of loving this divine but footloose man. The best course, she rued, would be one of a clean break; hopefully, she would be able to avoid him as much as possible, until the remaining four weeks of her job at this hospital were completed.

Mercifully, the time spent at the hospital for the rest of the week was in meetings with others of the staff, both PR and medical. Had she had the time alone at her desk, her mind might have wandered more. As it was, it took every bit of her mental strength to concentrate on the business at hand—that of drawing up the final blueprint for the major report on the proposed International Center for Sports Medicine.

Out of sheer annoyance at the presumption of his note, Amber made no move to inform Zachary that she would
not
be awaiting him at six o’clock on Friday evening. Guilt assailed her at her blatant breach of good manners. But the small voice within told her that he deserved to be stood up, that he would have to learn the proper way of asking a woman out, that he could just as easily go find himself a pretty intern—her stomach churned anew at the thought—to drag with him to the Haymarket. Not that she hadn’t wanted to go to that particular area—for the Haymarket, the Faneuil Marketplace, the North End were favorite spots of hers. But with Zachary? Out of the question—or so she thought.

Six o’clock Friday evening saw her propped in a chair before the television set, catching the evening news with one ear while her hand, braced with a pen, began a letter to Scott. The child was thriving, as she had known, begrudgingly, he would. His letters and phone conversations bore out this fact. He needed a father—there was no doubt about that. Much as she tried to be the perfect combination, Scott needed a male figure to emulate, and would need one increasingly as the years of puberty approached. In momentary daydream, she wondered what Zachary would have been like as a father for her son. She hadn’t seen him with his own daughter for more than a few minutes. Yet, even as she decried the inappropriate nature of the thought, she recalled the tenderness of his mien when he had turned to Liz on that first day Amber had ever seen him. The wealth of love in his expression when he had referred to Liz that day at the airport, then later in discussions they had had—all these things were proof of the type of father Zachary Wilder was. But, once again, Amber chided herself for the irrelevancy of the information. After all, Zachary surely did not love her and appeared to be in no rush, after his own unhappy marriage, to enter into that state again. Perhaps Liz managed very nicely between Zachary and the housekeeper, then her mother in the summers. What would it be like to have a daughter? Amber wondered. She had always hoped for more children, but it became a physical impossibility once Ron and she stopped sleeping together. What would it be like, she dreamed absently, to bear Zachary’s child? The thrill of excitement brought her back to reality, a reality which seemed to exclude the possibility of that ever happening.