Amber's Embrace (24 page)

“It’s very naughty … but I love it,” she had giggled mischievously at the time. Now, as she caught sight of his tall form returning to the living room, a large glass of lemonade in each hand, she giggled again.

A dark eyebrow arched in speculation. “And what is
that
about?” He stood lean and well-muscled before her, as attractive as he was charming, dressed for relaxation in a sport shirt and jeans.

Her eye darted from his as she blushed. “I was just thinking of our honeymoon. We’re really doing it differently, aren’t we?”

Suddenly serious, he knelt down before her, cupping her chin with his bronzed fingers, turning her gaze back to his. “Everything about this love is different, Amber. Everything about this marriage will be different, too. You’ll see.” His thumb feather-touched her lips, parting them gently, then receiving her kiss before she spoke.

“I know it will, Zachary. I love you so much…” The ache of longing in her eyes was matched by his, both undeniable. Her hospitalization had imposed the kind of abstinence which, given their soulful declarations of love to one another, was painfully trying.

“Here, drink your lemonade.” His voice came through thickly with its needed intrusion, the hand which thrust its tall glass into hers a reluctant diversion. He had vowed that she would rest, for the next few days at least. The question remained as to whether, given the explosive chemistry between them, he could live by his vow.

His eyes, pouring into her helplessly, told their story. Aware of his restraint, Amber made a mirroring gesture. “I enjoyed meeting Ginny. Once we were properly introduced”—she emphasized the words in teasing accusation—”we got along beautifully. Is her chance for that appointment as dead as she seems to feel?” Ginny, herself, had told Amber of the possibility of her appointment as chief of anesthesiology at a large medical center in North Carolina. It was an appointment she had wanted badly, but one that had been touch and go for weeks. Now it looked as though she was to be rejected primarily because of her age.

“There’s still a chance, as long as the final decision hasn’t been made,” he explained. “But it doesn’t look very good. It’s a shame—she’s good. If only she were five years older, with five years’ more experience under her belt…”

“That’s a funny twist. Usually women wish they were younger.” Her casual observation brought his royal blue eyes back to spear her.

“Do you?”

“No,” she answered instantly, softly. “If I were five years younger, I would not have met you. And, even if I had, I would not have had the maturity to be the kind of woman you need. There are moments when I still worry.” The old fear came back to haunt her, clouding her eyes momentarily. “I’ve failed once—”

“You’ll
never
fail me, honey,” he began vehemently, then his tone quickly altered, “unless you dare to go biking again without a helmet. You deserve a sound spanking for that!” He recalled vividly those few nightmarish days when she had been unconscious, when he had wondered whether she would ever rise to recognize him again. His eyes glittered dangerously, sensuality mingling with legitimate anger. “At least you had the good sense to keep screaming my name. That motorist caught it before you passed out. If the police hadn’t brought you directly to the General, I might not have found you for days. Do you believe
now
in wearing helmets?”

Suitably chastised by his gruff tone, she lifted rounded green eyes with appropriate timidity. “Yes.”

“And will you promise to wear one whenever you ride, from now on?”

“Yes.”

“And will you insist that the children wear them when they ride?”

“Yes.”

“Good!” Frowning sternly, he looked away from her to take a long drink of his lemonade. Amber followed the movement of his hand, his lips, then his throat as the cool liquid drained from the glass. The throb of the pulse at his neck mesmerized her, taking a toll on her resolve.

“Zachary…?” Her voice was a mere whisper, innocent though with a definite sensual lilt.

“What?” he barked.

“Kiss me…?” Among the many secrets they had shared in the last few days, she had learned the sure-fire way to humor him. Now she resorted to it with unabashed pleasure.

“What—” His dark head swiveled toward her golden one.

“A kiss,” she moaned, feigning pain. “I need … a kiss … right … now…”

His anger fled as quickly as it had sparked to life. Yet he clung to his sobriety for all he was worth. “You
need
a kiss…?”

“Badly,” she begged, her eyes widening in silent pleading. It was simply too hard to be near him; there was an element of truth to her words, despite their more impish origin.

The sternness of his expression melted against his very wish. An involuntary force drew him down onto the sofa beside her. “Amber,” he warned, calling on his last bit of sanity, “you need rest.” The inches he put between them had already begun to diminish.

“
Bed
rest,” she taunted him softly, grinning pertly as she shrugged away all propriety, all inhibition, all reserve.

His lips twitched at the corners as he struggled to withstand her devastating allure. At last he shook his head, surrendering to that spirit he admired in her, that spirit that had captivated him so long ago at the baseball game. “What am I going to do with you, Amber?”

She had the answer instantly. “You can begin by making love to me.” She rolled her eyes skyward, as though to enumerate all of the little erotic things that that might entail. “And while you’re at it, you could—”

“Amber, you’re shameless! I’m never sure what you’ll come up with next.” Her graphic demonstration was more than he could bear. With a deep groan, he swooped down to seize her lips beneath his own in a kiss born of intense need, crying of urgent hunger. “You are enchanting,” he murmured, deep and low, against the softness of her cheek, then abruptly halted his wandering fingers. “You won’t knock me with that thing, will you?” His head cocked to eye narrowly the large white cast which rested up against the back of the sofa in readied pose.

Amber laughed gaily, feeling free and frivolous. “Now why would I do a thing like that?”

His blue-eyed gaze took on a deeply sensual glow, sending sparks of desire through her. His voice held the huskiness that spoke of his need. “Because,” he began, lifting her into his arms easily and striding from the room, “I’m going to take you to my bed and make very passionate love to you. Right now.”

Her unencumbered arm coiled possessively around his neck, her fingertips reveling in the thick hair that tapered to his nape. “Thank God!” she whispered against the strong column of his throat, “I thought you’d never get around to it, what with lemonade, then lunch, then—” Her teasing ceased abruptly as her back hit the bed and her eyes caught the love in those above her. Gasping, she remained still, mesmerized by the intensity of feeling held therein. The time of play, of light banter, of gentle conversation was in the past and the future. In the present there was only love, yearning for expression in the most exquisite form of communication two people can know.

Reaching up, she drew him to her, offering her lips, her body, her essence. She loved him to distraction, as he loved her. Never again would they be apart. As their bodies became one, this knowledge was shared, bringing each a joy never known before. It was ecstatic, it was electric, it was endless—this love. And it was theirs.

Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s upcoming book

SWEET SALT AIR

In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin’s Press

Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.

But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.

When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.

She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.

There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.

The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.

The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.

Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.

But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.

Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.

Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.

Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.

Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.

Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.

Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.

But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.

“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.

His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”

“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”

He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.

He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.

Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.

Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.