Amber's Embrace (19 page)

The deep velvet of his voice broke into her momentary daydream. “Come on, Amber. Let’s go. The festival must be lively by now.” Hand in hand, they wound their way between chattering crowds at the close-standing tables to the exit, where Zachary thanked the owner of the family-run establishment, paid the bill, then led her to the street.

The festival was, indeed, under way, with crowds milling down Hanover Street, through the heart of Little Italy. Cars had been banned from the thoroughfare, now, yielding to food and crafts stands and stands bearing religious ornaments directly pertaining to the celebration. For several minutes they stood in silence, watching the melange of activity before then. Amber breathed in the aroma of the street, a hearty blend of fried dough and peppers, spicy sausage, quahogs, and pizza. Her eye absorbed the colorful array of clothing, both on the patrons and on the stalls of clothes intermittently lining the sidewalks. Red, green, yellow, and blue were the colors of youth; the elders wore black, sedate and homely, yet they held as much appreciation of the holiday as the most jubilant of the youngsters.

Zachary held her close beside him as they slowly ventured down the street, pointing occasionally to a group of children on a high-slung balcony or an old woman leaning precariously from a window overhead, laughing with her at the sight of several young boys chasing their female counterparts through the crowds, squeezing her hand as they passed an infant, sleeping soundly in a pouch on its father’s back while the melee continued all about it.

When he suddenly whipped her down a side street, she looked up at him, startled, to see an expression no less than triumphant on his handsome face, now darkened even more by the night shadows. “I wasn’t sure which of these streets it was on,” he explained lightly, pointing to an open doorway, through which another couple, much like them, had just emerged. “The best cannoli in the North End.”

“But we’ve just eaten a huge—”

“This is dessert—for later, tomorrow, whenever. It’s great. Wait and see.” If she had any choice, she couldn’t see it. Zachary called the shots. If he wanted cannoli, cannoli it was! Sighing with a strange delight, she followed him into the minuscule bakery. The small box with which they emerged several minutes later soon joined the others when they returned to the butcher’s shop. As the BMW retraced the route from Boston through the western suburbs to Dover, Amber was to wonder about the abundant supply of food they carried. There was enough to feed them for a month, should they suddenly become stranded somewhere, far from civilization. What a lovely thought it was! To spend a month, alone and in solitude, with this incredibly desirable man … the thought sent twin spears of pain and pleasure through her. That would never happen, would it? It was the kind of irresponsible daydream which had led to her disastrous marriage years ago. Now, she was supposed to be older and wiser. And she had Scott, who would be returning from his father in less than a month. What would become of this relationship between Zachary and her, then? Liz would be returning also; how could he handle that?

“You’re very quiet tonight. Did I really intimidate you?” he spoke softly, just loud enough to be heard over the purr of the car’s engine.

Her blond head swiveled toward his, darker and now in profile as his eye held to the road. “Intimidate me? Impossible!” she lied, sounding unsure, even to herself.

A bronzed hand snaked out to snare her shoulder, its strong forearm curving beneath the weight of her hair and about her back, to draw her into the crook of his arm so that her head rested comfortably on his shoulder. Her body turned reflexively toward his, her hand fell to his thigh, causing him to curse softly under his breath.

“You’d better be careful, young lady,” he whispered into the silken crown of her hair.

Burrowing more deeply against his warmth, relishing it to the fullest, she smiled. “You started it, Doctor. I’m merely giving you a dose of your own medicine—” Her voice broke off as he crushed her harshly against him.

“You, my little spitfire, may live to regret that witty tongue of yours. When we get home…” This time, it was his words that died, only the cause of death was not a physical crushing, but a more psychological one. It was as though they were a couple, headed to the home they shared, after a happy evening out. Unsure as to whether he regretted having created the image, Amber savored it nonetheless. In his company, she felt at home, in every sense of the word. It was a heady feeling, full of speculation as to what the rest of the evening might hold.

Conversation was minimal as they transferred the meat, vegetables, and fruit to his kitchen from the car. Amber had not questioned their destination, intent on her wish to enjoy the evening minute by minute, following the dictates of the man she loved. When he led her back to the car and drove her home, she made no protest. When he deposited the box of cannoli in her refrigerator, then took her hand and headed for the stairs, she didn’t resist. When he pulled her into the welcoming band of his arms, not far from the foot of her bed, she moved happily. Without thought of any other minute, there was no other place she would rather have been at this particular one.

As always, his lips lulled her as his hands caressed, coaxing the response which she so wanted to give. Driven to mindlessness by the fire of his touch, she found herself on her bed, its bedclothes pulled back and discarded as were hers. Yet Zachary remained dressed, resisting her attempts to caress him in return, to let her fingers find admittance to his chest, his arms, his body, much as his had already done.

His movement over her was sweet torment, a game where the players were his lips, his tongue, his fingers, and the board her body, pliant and aching for fulfillment. Soft words slipped helplessly through her lips, moans of pleasure, sighs of delight. When she begged for release, he held her off, retreating to an earlier stage of the game to build her to an even higher pitch. So sure was he of every step he took, that she didn’t stop to question him … until she could take no more.

“Zachary, please,” she moaned softly, groping in the dark to find the touchpoints on his body that would arouse him to a similar state. His breathing was unsteady, proof of his own fired condition, yet he was in full control. The hands that had crept below the buckle of his belt were suddenly drawn back up to shoulder height by two larger ones which pinned them there firmly.

As he kissed her a final time, his lips held a clear smile. “Good night, Amber. Sleep well.”

“Zachary?” But he was off the bed and gone, his footsteps echoing down the stairs, the door slamming shut behind him, his car leaving the drive before she could begin to understand what had happened.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Bright sunlight the next morning failed to enlighten her, either. She had been so sure that he would make love to her; everything in that evening had led up to it. Yet he had rejected her once again, this time seemingly as part of a preset plan, outlined in fine detail for his mind alone.

The night of sleeplessness had left her weary and drawn. Impulsively, she showered, threw on a pair of shorts, a halter top, and sneakers, hopped on her bicycle, and sped to his house. It could have been no more than ten in the morning, though she had absently left her watch lying on the bathroom shelf. Her bike stood by the garage as some uncanny instinct propelled her around the house, over the gentle flagstone walk to the point where the fringe of firs and head-high junipers gave way to a more open area.

His body caught her eye instantly, its gleam in the bright sunlight a homing signal. He stood tall beside a shallow hole, large metal shovel in hand, his head moving from the hole to a tree which stood beside it, roots balled neatly in burlap and wrapped in twine, topmost shoots no taller than Amber herself and a dogwood by species, if she guessed properly. Intent on his mental calculation as to how deep to plant the young tree, Zachary was unaware of her presence. She remained invisible, moving even further back to the cover of the greenery, as he bent to dig once more.

The rhythmic thud of the shovel as it pierced the earth steadied her breathing for the moment. She had come here in anger, she realized now, bent on determining his precise motivation for having treated her so cruelly last night, intent on venting her frustration on him. For, as surely as he had known she would go out with him that evening, he had known that he was
not
going to make love to her. It had been planned from the start; now, she wanted to know why.

But if she had come in anger, it vanished at the sight of him clad only in shorts and sneakers, his bronzed back glistening under a sheen of sweat in the hot sun. Muscles rippled with each thrust of the shovel, as the hole gradually deepened. His build was that of the athlete, a breathtaking body responding magnificently to the command of his brain. Rooted in her place of concealment, Amber’s pale green eyes caressed the flow of that body, as she had been unable to do last night. Her fingertips ached to slide over the moistness of his skin, her lips tingled at the thought of mingling with his sweat, as every instinct of her traitorous body yearned to do.

As she watched the hole grow wider now, nearly ready for the planting, and the rugged and handsome body poised for a moment of rest on its rim, she could take no more. Turning, she fled, oblivious to the swivel of the dark head toward the rustle of the shrubbery and the subsequent shrug, as Zachary assumed that the squirrels were at play once more.

Her bicycle pedals rotated nonstop, propelling her toward home. Bursting into sobs on the pillow of her unmade bed, she surrendered to the torment of heartache, confusion, and unfulfillment that gnawed within. Where had that spunky young woman gone? she asked herself helplessly. Why hadn’t she challenged him? Demanded of him? Forcefully sought the answers she needed so badly to know? What had become of the headstrong woman, who had built a life of security and stability for herself and her son? Reduced to tears this way, she failed to recognize herself. There seemed to be only one explanation. She was a woman in love, irrational and blinded to all too many things.

A cry of anguished determination brought her abruptly to a sitting position on the bed. Determinedly, she swiped at her tears with the backs of still-trembling hands. Zachary Wilder may have stolen her heart and taken with it a huge chunk of her pride, but she still had so much. There was Scott, her career, and, more immediately, a date with Andrew Pasco tonight. If nothing else, she would enjoy herself,
damn it!

But determination was not enough. She was destined to failure. The whirlwind of activity with which she filled this Saturday, rather than giving her relief from her obsession with Zachary, merely exhausted her, such that, when the young photographer showed up at her front door at seven, she was fit company for no man. Makeup concealed the extent of her exhaustion, yet nothing could hide the lack of enthusiasm she felt in Andrew’s presence. The drama production was inspiring, his conversation interesting, but terribly one-sided. After apologizing repeatedly to him for her unusual quiet, she was none too distressed when he suggested he take her home.

Puzzled by the difference in this woman, from the vivacious one he had met at the party the week before, he escorted her to her door in silence. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to enjoy yourself more, Amber. Something is obviously on your mind.” His sensitivity touched her, increasing her feeling of guilt. It would be unfair to see him again—if he bothered to ask. She had wronged him even this time, going through with the date when she knew that her mind was entirely preoccupied with another man. It was something that the other had said, which gave her the solution to her present quandary.

“No,
I’m
sorry, Andrew. It’s been a bad spell for me. My son is away for the summer visiting his father. I’ve missed him.” Gauging the surprised expression on her companion’s face, she went on. “He will be back in several weeks. I don’t think I’ll be quite the same until then.”

The photographer shook his head in symbolic dismissal. “Whew, I would have never dreamed you had a child. Well, good luck with him. Maybe I’ll see you around…”

His back was turned quickly toward her, as he made his way to his car. Zachary had been right, she mused. Young and carefree men like this would run from thoughts of family and children. But not men like Zachary Wilder …

Where that thought left her, she didn’t know. The next few days were miserable ones for her. She heard nothing from Zachary, nor did she catch sight of him at the hospital. Fortunately, the worst of the preparation for the final report was done; when Tony Leeter called her on her preoccupation, she pleaded exhaustion and left earlier for home that day.

The situation at home, however, was no better. Scott’s letters came regularly, and she spoke with him every Sunday. Knowing that he was relatively content and well cared for, her thoughts turned to this other man in her life. Her gaze wandered to the telephone over and over again, yet it did not ring—at least, not at the instigation of Zachary Wilder. There were the usual calls from friends, all received with feigned good spirit—that vanished with the replacement of the receiver on its cradle.

The article on Little League had been submitted the week before. Diligently, she applied herself to one of several other intended articles—only to throw her pen down in disgust when her mind continued to wander to that dark face with the warm eyes which beckoned, beckoned irresistibly. How could she cope with him? She had met her match for wit and determination and sheer stubbornness. For there had to be a reason why Zachary hadn’t called, why he had held his control in such preordained check that last night they had been together. What was his plan? When
would
she hear from him?

If she had expected his eventual contact to be made with a victorious drawl to his voice, she was grossly mistaken. The fatigue which he was unable to hide when his voice filtered over the line to her on Friday morning startled her.

“Amber, it’s me, Zachary,” he began, when she had picked up the extension of the office phone in her own private cubby. “Look, I’ve only got a minute, but do you think you could get away for the weekend?”