Keeping Her Up All Night (9 page)

Despite the managerial sobriety she noticed his eyes shimmer.

Manners warred with her instinct for self-preservation, and as usual self-preservation was the big-time loser.

‘Deal, then.’ She let him clasp her hand in his warm, firm grip.

Oh, Amber. Mistake
. Fireworks sizzled up her arm and for a second or two her giddy brain couldn’t quite remember what the deal was. Or the day. Or her name.

Though his mouth remained firm and cool, there was no concealing the silvery gleam in his irises. ‘Great,’ he
said, straightening his shoulders, a new buoyancy in his tone. ‘Right. We need to start planning ASAP. I’m thinking dinner—somewhere local to save time. I’ll leave that with you, since you have the local knowledge. It’ll be on me. Half an hour enough time?’

She hadn’t been thinking about dinner—not with him at any rate. But, carried along on the flow of this sudden burst of crisp, authoritative energy, she nodded. Well, a girl had to eat. Whether or not she’d be able to swallow in his presence would be another story.

She supposed she could telescope her need to bathe, dress, work on her face and reflect deeply into half an hour.

He sprang to his feet and headed out with a brisk step, pausing to glance around at her as he fought his way through the obstacle path in the hall. ‘Have you only just moved in here?’

‘No, no. This stuff is only temporarily here. I needed to clear some space.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded, peering into the shadows of the sitting room. There wasn’t enough moon yet for the skylight to make much difference. ‘Space for what?’

‘Well, it helps me to sleep sometimes if I dance.’

He turned to gaze at her, his brows elevated.
‘Dance?’

‘That’s correct.’ She ignored the way his eyes lit up, as if she’d confessed to being a closet trapeze artist. She dampened her tone to keep it as flat and uninteresting as possible. ‘I used to be a dancer. The exercise helps to relax me. Before I sleep.’

‘Right. I see.’ He moved to the door. Stood there with his back to her. ‘That explains so much. Every time I’ve seen you I’ve thought … Er …’ He cleared his throat and turned to her. In the short silence one of those moments of intense suspense gathered.

She waited—expectant, hardly breathing—then he lifted his eyes to hers. They were glittering, quite intense and sincere.

‘About the other night. Well, I hope you
know
that at no time did I think you were anything but beautiful, gorgeous and exciting.’

The words swirled meaningless around in her head. All she
knew
was that her heart was bumping like crazy.

But she gave him a cool, repressive glance. ‘Half an hour, then?’

She closed the door firmly after him.

‘I
CAN’T
believe I didn’t guess.’ Guy adapted his stride to fit Amber’s. ‘That first night we met. Remember? The pizza guy? You were wearing your ballet slippers then. You must have been dancing that night.’

She was leading him on a winding, undulating trek through residential streets down towards the harbour. Summery fragrances wafting from behind garden walls mingled with hers. She had on a violet dress in some soft fabric. Narrow straps pressed into the smooth, satin flesh of her shoulders.

He was careful not to brush her bare arm. Each time they passed under a streetlamp a different angle of her face was illuminated. His eye kept being magnetically drawn to look again. Her mouth. Her neck. Her mouth.

It felt good to be out with a woman. Chatting, even if it was a little strained. Seeing the world through feminine eyes. Not that this was anything like a date. Hell, no.

Banter was strictly off the menu. No flirting allowed. Looking was the most he could aspire to now. Unless there was a way to reassure her she could trust him to … what? Be more the sort of guy she could cuddle up to? Could he even trust himself?

‘It wasn’t the pizza guy who disturbed me.’ She threw him a smiling look.

Aha, a smile. His blood quickened with pleasure and relief. A smile was the beginning of many a fantastic evening. He could do great things on the inspiration of a smile.

Sex, of course, was a no-go zone. He would have to stay well clear of the topic. Which was hard, what with sex and the art of the dance being so closely related. Interwined. Like lovers, one might say.

In response to her gentle gibe he covered his heart with mock humility. ‘In my defence, Your Honour, I didn’t think anyone was home.’ He glanced at her, invigorated to a bit of over-recklessness on the strength of that smile. ‘Do you always do it in the dark?’

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.’