‘I guess a woman like you … you’d be used to men wanting to impress you.’ He flashed her a veiled look. ‘Do you receive a lot of offers?’

Not caring to boast, she made a non-committal, so-so sort of gesture. ‘Oh, well …’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said warmly. ‘There are so many of those blokes about. Operators looking for a beautiful woman to hook up with.’ He nodded, sighing. ‘Yeah, I know the type. First they use the old sweet-talk routine to soften you up. Then they manoeuvre you into a clinch.’ He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘Or is that where they start these days? With a kiss?’

As if he didn’t know. Her heart bumped into double-time.

This conversation was heading in a certain direction, but it was undeniably thrilling. It had been ages since she’d felt on the verge of something truly dangerous and fantastic. All right, so he was an operator of the worst kind. She could be too, if she had to be. She hadn’t taken a celibacy vow yet, had she? Why else was she wearing a push-up bra?

About the Author

As a child, ANNA CLEARY loved reading so much that during the midnight hours she was forced to read with a torch under the bedcovers, to lull the suspicions of her sleep-obsessed parents. From an early age she dreamed of writing her own books. She saw herself in a stone cottage by the sea, wearing a velvet smoking jacket and sipping sherry, like Somerset Maugham.

In real life she became a schoolteacher, and her greatest pleasure was teaching children to write beautiful stories.

A little while ago she and one of her friends made a pact to each write the first chapter of a romance novel in their holidays. From writing her very first line Anna was hooked, and she gave up teaching to become a full-time writer. She now lives in Queensland, with a deeply sensitive and intelligent cat. She prefers champagne to sherry, and loves music, books, four-legged people, trees, movies and restaurants.

Recent titles by the same author:

THE ITALIAN NEXT DOOR …

DO NOT DISTURB

WEDDING NIGHT WITH A STRANGER

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Keeping Her Up

All Night

Anna Cleary

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

GUY WILDER wasn’t on the hunt any more. He’d given up chicks with promises of forever on their honeyed tongues. These days he poured his emotions into songs. Often tear-jerkers in the key of tragedy, best wailed after midnight in haunts for the broken-hearted. But they were tuneful, sexy, and always with a deep and honest soul beat. Songs a man could believe in, with no bitter twists at the end.

Yep, he was still a single man, and it was all good. By day he built his company, by night he dreamed up songs, and the Blue Suede boys were keen to perform them.

However badly they murdered his lyrics, the Suede showed promise. So, on the night of his return from a work trip to the States, the boys’ need for an emergency venue persuaded Guy to let them into his aunt’s apartment above the Kirribilli Mansions Arcade. Auntie Jean wouldn’t mind. Well, she was trusting him to hang there for a week or two.

The thing was, the Suede could pound out a pretty stirring beat. Guy did give some consideration to the noise. When the boys crowded through the door with their instruments he eyed the flowery fanlight above the neighbour’s place, but the apartment was in darkness.

It wasn’t late enough for sleeping. Who’d have guessed anyone was home?

He ordered pizza, but once he and the guys started on the song dinner floated from their minds. It wasn’t until the tempo had hotted up and they were into laying down chords that the distant ding of the bell penetrated the boys’ enthusiasm.

Calling a halt, Guy abandoned the keyboard of his aunt’s fabulous old grand and headed for the door.

The pizza lad was out there, all right, but not at Guy’s door. At the neighbour’s.

‘I assure you it wasn’t me,’ the woman was saying in a low, melodious voice. ‘I never order pizza. It must have been whoever’s in there, making that awful racket. Did you try knocking? Though you might need a sledgehammer to make any …’

Impact. Guy finished the sentence for her in his head.

She swivelled around to look at him, as did the boy, and impact happened.

Violet eyes, dark-fringed and serious, and cheekbones in a piquant face. A mouth as ripe and sweet as a plum. Gorgeous, was his first dazzled thought. A gorgeous, desirable, tantalising—trap. She was five feet six or thereabouts, unless his expert eye was dazzled out of whack, with long, dark, lustrous hair tied back. Gloriously rich, long, dark and lustrous. And legs … Oh, God, legs. And heaven in between.

He couldn’t see much of the heaven through the sweatshirt, but all the signs were there. Hills. Valleys. Curves. Anyway, a man didn’t stare obviously at a woman’s breasts. Or any other parts they might choose to conceal.

But if she happened to be wearing a short flimsy-looking dress thing, frilling out from under the longish sweatshirt, naturally his eye was bound to be snagged here and there. Particularly if she also had satin slippers on her feet. Tied on ballerina fashion, with criss-crossing strings.

He drank her in to the full, and she gave him every reason to believe she was eyeing him right back—only hers was a sternish scrutiny that seemed not to be dwelling on his manly appeal.

He smiled. ‘I think they’re for me.’ He produced money and accepted the pile of boxes. ‘Thanks, mate. Keep this for your trouble.’

The lad disappeared via the lift, the stairs—or maybe he vanished through the wall.

‘Sorry if you were disturbed, Miss …?’

‘Amber O’Neill.’ Her tone was earnest. ‘I don’t think you realise how much the sound reverberates in these apartments. It magnifies, actually, and the walls are very thin.’

He lifted his brows. ‘Yeah? The sound magnifies. Now, that’s interesting. A unique accoustic. Thanks for mentioning it.’

Amber, he was thinking, riveted on her irises, drowning in the violet. And her mouth—so soft and full. A dangerous yearning stirred the devil in his blood. Oh, man, it had been a long, long time.

Apparently she still hadn’t noticed his charm, for her luscious lips tightened. ‘Some people have to work, you know. Some even have businesses to run.’

‘Do they?’ He smiled, refusing to be chastised at eight-thirty in the evening. Practically daylight. Enjoying stretching out the tease. Listening to her voice. ‘Tsk. Don’t those people ever play?’

Maybe he should suggest she throw him over her lap and spank him. Now, there would be an inspiration. And right next door, too.

At the exact moment his brain generated the backsliding thought, he noticed her flick a glowing little glance over his chest and arms and down below his belt buckle. Despite her indignation, her eyes betrayed an infinitesimal spark.

An intensely feminine spark that opened a Pandora’s box of frightening possibilities.

Whoa, there. The hot rush on its way to his loins faltered and screeched to a halt.

Like a madman he turned back into his flat and shut the door. Stood paralysed, breathing for a dozen thundering heartbeats, before he realised the craziness of the impulse and snatched it open again.

Too late, though. She’d gone.

Breathing hard, Amber stood under the skylight in her empty sitting room and tried to resuscitate the mood.

Once more the ethereal chords of ‘Clair de Lune’ drifted on the air. Usually every note was a drop of silver magic on her soul, but though she rose on her toes and held up her arms to the moon filtering through the skylight … arabesque, arabesque, glissé …

Hopeless. The magic was gone. Murdered.

She switched off the music. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so annoyed. No use attempting to dance her insomnia away now. She could still hear the appalling racket from next door, even though they’d toned down the volume a notch. The truth was she didn’t want to be aware of them in the slightest. Of him.

And it had nothing to do with his mouth, or the way he’d looked in those jeans. She was used to well-built guys with chests. She was up to here with them, if the truth be known. And no way was it his eyes. She’d seen plenty of large grey, crinkling-at-the-corners eyes in her twenty-six years.

No, it had been the mockery in them. That amused, ironic assumption that since he was a man and she was a woman she’d be keen. He was so sure of himself he hadn’t even bothered to finish the conversation.

How wrong could a man be? The last guy who’d persuaded her to take that plunge had reminded her of all a woman needed to learn about heartbreak.

She peeled off her slippers and crawled back into her bed. For a while she lay on her side, as tense as a wire. Tried the other side. Still no good. Tossed. Turned. And in no time at all her brain was back to its churning.

Money. The shop. The renovations. Aloneness. Men who mocked you with smiling eyes.

Usually by late afternoon, the Fleur Elise end of the Kirribilli Mansions Arcade was quiet. This day, surely one of the longest in Amber’s memory, not a shopper stirred. After three disturbed nights Amber welcomed the possibility of snatching a quick reflective snooze in the room where the bouquets were made up.

Unfortunately Ivy, the book-keeper she’d inherited along with the shop, had come in to help out.

‘… you’re going to have to make cuts. Amber? Are you listening?’

Amber winced. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed the penetrating quality of Ivy’s voice. With only the mildest exclamation the woman could break windows.

Amber laid her aching head on the bunching table. Sleep deprivation had brought her nerves to a desperate state, thanks to that man. For two days now there’d been this throb in her temples. Maybe if she ignored Ivy she’d shut up.

As far as Amber was concerned this was not the moment to be raking over her failures with the accounts. She was tired. She needed to brood on what was happening in Jean’s flat night after night. The noise. The ructions. That—guy. She clenched her teeth. The sooner Jean and Stuart got back from their honeymoon the better.

She so resented the way he’d looked at her, with that scorching glance, that lazy smile playing on his cool, very, very sexy mouth.

Maybe he’d thought she’d be flattered. What men didn’t realise was that women knew when they weren’t looking their best. If a woman was wearing an old sloppy joe over her nightie and a man happened to show a certain kind of interest in her, it wasn’t flattering in the least. It immediately raised the likelihood that he automatically looked at every woman like that. In other words, he was likely to be the sort of chronic womaniser her father had been.

Oh, yeah. He looked the type, with that lazy grin. Typical narcissistic heartbreaker. If he saw her today, though, even he wouldn’t look twice. She was a train wreck.

She rested her head on her arms. One of the songs his band had been bashing out was grinding an unwelcome path through her brain. To add to her irritation, when she’d been bathing this morning she’d heard him in his shower, actually whistling the same tune in a slow, sexy, up-beat sort of way.

Why hadn’t Jean warned her? They were friends, weren’t they? She was the one who was supposed to be looking after Jean’s fish and watering her plants.

It was so unfair. With all she had on her plate, she shouldn’t have to be so distracted.

‘… cut your overheads.’ Ivy’s voice hacked through the fog of Amber’s musings like a saw-toothed laser. ‘That Serena’s a prime example.’

Shocked into responding, Amber said hoarsely, ‘What? Did you say I should sack Serena?’

‘Well, unless you cut your expenditure elsewhere.’

Amber was flummoxed. ‘Oh, Ivy. Serena’s our only genuine florist. Neither of us has her sort of talent. All right, I know she’s needed a bit of time off since she had the baby. But when she sorts out childcare that’ll get better. She really needs the work. She and the babe depend on her hours here.’

‘I’m not running a blessed charity,’ Ivy muttered. ‘Next you’ll be talking again about opening up the side door to the street and spending a fortune on redecorating.’

Amber felt her muscles clench all over. Ivy wasn’t running anything. Fleur Elise was her shop. Her inheritance from her mother. The words burned on her tongue but with a supreme effort she held them back. That business course she was studying strongly advocated the need to stay calm in times of conflict. Maintain her cool professionalism.

She drew a long, cooling breath. Several long breaths. She needed to remind herself her mother had had a great deal of faith in Ivy. Ivy’s legendary ability to avoid outlay was an asset, her mother had said. And it almost certainly was. Anywhere but a flower shop.

Amber’s flower shop, at least. Her shop should be spilling over with blooms. Poppies and tulips, snapdragons and violets, jonquils, forget-me-nots. Masses of everything—and roses, roses, roses. She dreamed of her rich, heady fragrances drawing people in from the street and following them throughout the arcade.

All right, she was the first to admit she might not be quite up to scratch yet as a businessperson—she was still in the early stages of her course—but instinct told her Ivy’s miserly cheese-paring approach wasn’t the way to go.

What would attract the customers was a mass of colours, textures and tantalising smells. The sort that would appeal to any sensuous, voluptuous femme like herself.

The self she could be, that was. On a good day. When she’d had sleep. When her brain hadn’t been tormented by noise. Today her sensuous, voluptuous quotient was at rock-bottom.

It was never any use arguing with Ivy, anyway. Nothing would shift her from her fixed position on any subject. If Amber hadn’t been so punch-drunk with fatigue she’d have remembered that and kept her mouth shut. As it was …

‘I’m thinking of getting a bank loan.’ She yawned.

Oh, wow. Wrong thing to say. She’d have been better throwing a grenade. Ivy’s short neck could stretch right out and swivel when she was outraged, alarmed and aghast.

Like now.

The small woman’s mouth gaped into an incredulous rectangle. ‘Are you out of your mind, girl? How will you pay it back if something goes wrong with the trade?’

‘Oh, what trade?’ Amber growled, incensed at being called ‘girl’. For God’s sake, though she might dress like it, Ivy was hardly her grandmother. She was only thirty-eight.

Amber pressed a couple of cooling roses to her temples. ‘Do we have to talk about it now, Ivy?’ she moaned. ‘I have a headache.’

And she needed to brood. About men and betrayal. Love and pain. Passion unrequited. She wasn’t sure why these things had to occupy her mind right now, when she was so tired and noise-battered, but for some reason lately they’d been looming large.

For three nights, in fact. Ever since she’d laid eyes on that—hoon next door.

It wasn’t that she found him so hot. Oh, all right, he was sexy—in a down-and-dirty, unshaven sort of way. Those jeans he wore should be dumped on the nearest bonfire. And as for that ragged old tee shirt she’d seen him in yesterday morning at the bakery … It looked to her as if someone had tried to claw it off him. Some desperate person.

No, not like her at all. She wasn’t desperate. She simply had a distinctive personality type that could be deeply affected by the sight of sweat glistening on bronzed, masculine arms. She was a highly sensual woman, with a sensual woman’s needs.

Very much the Eustacia Vye type, in fact.

She’d discovered Eustacia yesterday, during a few guilty moments of escapist reading in the shop. Well, there were never any customers at that time. If Ivy hadn’t insisted on coming in to help out this afternoon Amber might have had a chance to learn more about her exotic heroine. As it was she’d had to hide the book in her secret cache behind the potted ferns.

Eustacia was a woman so sensuous, so voluptuous, that if ever a dangling bough happened to caress her hair whilst she was rambling under the trees in the Wessex woods, the bewitching creature would turn right back and ramble under them again.

Fine. Amber accepted that she wasn’t all that beautiful or bewitching. Unless swathed in tulle and feathers, that was. On stage, illuminated in a pool of magic light. She could be pretty bewitching then. Just stick her in front of the footlights with an orchestra swelling to a crescendo and Amber O’Neill could bewitch the pants off a sphinx.

And her hair craved caresses. Ached for them. Though preferably administered via a lean, masculine hand rather than a twig.

She yawned again. Weren’t musicians supposed to have skinny arms and hollow chests?

‘Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.’ Even a tongue click from Ivy could attack the cerebral cortex like an ice-pick. ‘Have you been hiding these bills, Amber?’

Amber felt herself getting hot. ‘Not hiding. I just … may have … put them aside for a … Look, Ivy, I don’t feel like doing this now.’

But Ivy would show no mercy. Once she had her sharp little teeth into something she held on like a terrier until she’d pulled out all the entrails.

She waved a bunch of invoices in front of Amber’s face. ‘You know what I think? You’re going downhill. You’ll just have to face it, girl. Your best option is to sell. Do you want to be declared bankrupt?’

The word scrambled Amber’s insides like a butter churn.

She tried to breathe. ‘Ivy, try to understand. This was Mum’s shop. She loved this shop.’

But the humourless round eyes beneath Ivy’s straight brown fringe were as understanding as two hypodermic syringes. ‘Your mother managed to pay the bills. Your mother knew how to take advice.’

Amber flinched. For a small woman, Ivy could pack a lethal punch. Amber knew very well Lise hadn’t always been able to pay the bills. But she wasn’t about to argue over her mother’s faults or otherwise.

Her mother was in the cold, cold ground. And it scraped Amber’s heart every time Ivy dragged her name into the conversation. She couldn’t handle it with her loss still so fresh and piercing.

Amber drew a long, simmering breath. Lucky for Ivy, she was ace at controlling her temper. That was one thing she could do well. If left in peace. That was all she really craved now. Peace, and hours and hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Was that so much to ask? Ever since she’d relinquished twirling around on her toes to care for her poor mother, she couldn’t seem to find those essential things anywhere.

‘Have you seen the price of those long-stemmed roses?’ Ivy carped. ‘Why can’t you just go for the cheaper produce? Why can’t you ever …?’

The words prodded Amber’s insides like red-hot needles. She held her breath.

‘Just look at this item here. Why order freesias out of season? You can’t afford them.’

Amber gritted her teeth and said steadily, ‘You know Mum loves—loved freesias, Ivy. They’re—they were her favourites.’ Inevitably a lump rose in her throat and her eyes swam. Her voice went all murky. ‘It’s important to have flowers with fragrance.’

‘Fragrance, crap. Fragrance is a luxury we can’t afford.’

There were still ten minutes to go before closing. Amber knew Ivy was only trying to teach her the ropes, was doing her best according to her own weird lights, but Amber felt an overpowering need to escape. And quickly. Before she let loose and annihilated the little terrier with a few well-chosen words.

She staggered to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Ivy, I can’t deal with all this now. I have a killer migraine. I’m going upstairs. Do you mind locking up?’

Ivy’s jaw dropped, then she snapped her sharp little teeth together. Even so, her unspoken words fractured the fragile air like a clarion horn. Your mother never left early.

This was hardly true, but why should it matter? Amber wondered drearily. There’d barely been any customers then and there wouldn’t be any now.

She shoved her way through the potted ferns and the sparse display of bouquets and made her escape into the arcade before the book-keeper had time to lash her with any more advice. As she stumbled down the arcade to the lifts, past all the other glossy shops, she felt her migraine escalate.

In truth, she was starting to feel slightly sick every time she thought of Fleur Elise.

The ninth floor was blessedly silent. Amber unlocked the door to her flat and was met by a wave of hot, musty air. Resisting the temptation of the air-conditioner, she lurched around opening the windows and balcony doors. Then she tore the pins from her hair and let it fall to her waist. Dragging off her clothes, she collapsed at last onto the bed, her nerves stretched taut as bowstrings.

She closed her eyes. If she’d still been in the ballet company she’d be on the tram now, heading home after a beautiful day of music and extreme exercise, humming Tchaikovsky, her muscles aching, her spirit singing with endorphins.

Would she ever feel like that again in her life?

A frightening thought gripped her by the throat. What if Centre Management acted on their rules? What if next she lost the shop?

Fatigued though she was, it seemed like an age before her panic wore itself out. Eventually, though, exhaustion started its work. Her anxiety released its grip, and the pain in her temples lightened a little. A merciful cooling breeze from Sydney Harbour rustled the filmy curtains either side of the balcony doors and whispered over her skin like balm, and she felt herself start to drift down that peaceful river, dozing towards sleep.

She was nearly there, soothed at long last into blissful oblivion, wrapped in sleep’s healing mantle, when a heavy crash jarred through the floorboards and straight through her spinal cord. Her eyes sprang open and her jagged nerves wrenched themselves back into red alert.

The sound came from the other side of the wall.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

Amber leaped up and tore open her wardrobe to drag out a skirt and the first top she could lay her hands on. There was no time for shoes. In a fury she flew out of her flat to hammer on her neighbour’s door.

Her fist halted in mid-crash as the door opened abruptly.

It was him, of course. All six foot two of him. His stubble had progressed, and somehow his lashes seemed blacker too, though his grey eyes still held the same silvery glint. Leaning a powerful shoulder against the frame, he cast another of those long, slow, considering looks over her—like the king of the pride contemplating a plump little wildebeest.

‘Well, well. Amber,’ he said, in his deep growl of a voice. ‘Nice of you to drop by.’

Was he trying to be funny? No doubt in his black tee shirt and the artfully scruffy jeans clinging to his bronzed, muscled frame he was exactly the sort of testosterone machine certain women might have enjoyed bouncing a bit of stimulating repartee back and forth with …

She wasn’t one of them.

‘That noise you’re making,’ she rasped. ‘I’m trying to sleep and it’s disturbing me.’

He lifted his black brows. ‘At six in the evening? You should get a life, sweetheart.’

He started to close the door, but Amber was quick. She shoved her foot into the space. ‘Now, wait a minute. I have a life. A busy life. And it’s because you’ve been assaulting Jean’s piano …’ She shook her head, outraged at the scandal of it. Jean’s beautiful Steinway … ‘You and your friends with those stupid drums … That’s why I need to sleep at six in the evening.’

He looked at her for a long, considering moment, his strong brows still raised in disbelief. ‘You don’t like music?’

Her? Whose first steps had been a dance? She clenched her teeth. ‘I like music, mister. When I hear it. I’ve already asked you politely. Now, if you don’t keep your noise down …’

‘Ah. Here it comes. The threat.’ He tilted his head to one side and made a thorough appraisal of her from head to toe.

The full scorching force of bold masculine interest lasered through the thin fabric of her clothes. She grew conscious that in her rush she’d chosen a close-fitting top with a deep neckline, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and her feet were bare. Only with difficulty did she prevent herself from crossing her arms over her breasts.

‘I love women who talk tough,’ he said, with a lascivious twitch of a black brow. ‘What will you do to me?’

Wild words rocketed to her tongue. The frustrations and anxieties she’d been repressing over days seethed inside their cage. She wanted to rip open his arrogant jugular with her teeth and nails, claw at his lean face, draw his insolent blood.

He broke into a laugh and flash of white, even teeth lit his face. ‘Don’t do it. Why don’t you come in and we’ll see if we can work something out?’

She drew herself up. ‘Look, Mr …’ she hissed.

‘Guy. Guy Wilder.’ His sexy mouth broke into a smile, but she didn’t care that it illuminated his rather harsh face like a sunburst and made him handsome.

‘Whatever.’ Her breath came in short bursts, as if Vesuvius was seething inside her, alive and molten. ‘I came here to ask if your band can practise somewhere else. If you can’t be more considerate I’ll report you to the Residents’ Committee.’

Amusement crept into his voice. ‘We seem to be getting a bit heated.’

‘Does Jean even know you’re here?’

At her escalating pitch his black brows made an eloquent upward twitch. ‘Not only does my dear aunt know I’m here, she wants me to be here. I’ll give you her address, all right? You can check up. Set your mind at rest.’

‘I know Jean well, and I know she would strongly object to your upsetting her neighbours. She would never have agreed to your setting up your band in here night and day.’

‘It isn’t here night and day.’ His quiet, measured tone made a mockery of her emotion. ‘I write songs. The band you’ve been privileged to hear the last couple of nights—in the early part of the evening, let me remind you—were unable to use their usual venue. They have a gig coming up so they needed a run-through. That means …’

‘I know what it means,’ she snapped. ‘And it was no privilege. You might as well know now—your band sucks.’

His black eyebrows flew up and his eyes drifted over her in sardonic appreciation. ‘I’ll make sure I pass your critique on to the guys.’

She could hardly believe she’d said such a rude thing, but it gave her a reckless satisfaction. Even if he was Jean’s nephew, he’d made her suffer.

If he was. She had some vague recollection of Jean’s stories about various family members. There was the brilliant one who wanted to direct movies, the scientist who’d fallen in love on a voyage to Antarctica, the boy whose girlfriend—the love of his life, Jean had said—had stood him up at the altar and run away with a soldier. She couldn’t remember any mention of a musician.

The guy moved slightly. Enough for Amber’s critical eye to catch a glimpse of the indoor garden Jean kept in her foyer. Shocked by what she saw, she couldn’t restrain herself. ‘Just look at those anthuriums. Jean would be furious if she knew you were letting her precious plants die. Surely she explained her watering system to you?’

He gave a careless shrug. ‘She may have said something.’

‘And what about her fish?’

‘Fish?’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been feeding them? That aquarium is Jean’s pride and joy.’ She glared at him—at the grey eyes alight in his dark unshaven face, his black eyebrows tilted in quizzical amusement. She’d never in all of her twenty-six years wanted so much to do violence to someone.

‘I’m not sure how the fish are doing,’ he said smoothly. ‘Why don’t you come inside and check them out? You can take inventory while you’re here, in case I’ve damaged something.’

She caught the sarcasm but didn’t allow it to deter her. She pushed past him into Jean’s beautiful, immaculate flat and halted in the middle of the sitting room.

Twilight had invaded. Only one lamp was lit, casting a soft apricot glow, but with the skylight in the foyer and the glow from the aquarium it was enough for her to see the damage. Newspapers were thrown carelessly on the coffee table beside a functioning laptop, more scattered on the rug. A sheet of Jean’s expensive piano music had been tossed on the floor as well, near to where a couple of her Swedish crystal wine glasses rested against the rumpled sofa.

‘Better, don’t you think?’ The guy’s smug, complacent gaze shifted from the disaster scene to connect with hers. ‘Some rooms are like some people. Just cry out for a little messing up.’

Words failed Amber. Too late to try resolving this conflict without the use of aggression. This man deserved aggression—he begged for it—and she was in too deep now to pull out.

She snatched up Jean’s precious sonata from the floor, then marched over to the aquarium. It was almost annoying to see the tank as tranquil as ever. No bloated bodies floated on its placid surface.

She glanced back and saw him watching her with his thumbs hooked into his belt, a quirk to his mouth. ‘You have been feeding them, haven’t you?’ In her aggravation she rolled Jean’s sonata—rolled it and rolled it into a tighter and tighter cylinder. ‘This was just a ploy to get me in here, wasn’t it?’

He spread his hands. ‘Aha. You’ve guessed my master plan.’

She made a sharp, repudiating gesture with the sonata. ‘Don’t you mock me. I have every right to complain about your noise.’

‘Sure you do.’

He moved a couple of steps, so his big, lean body was close. Close enough for her to feel the heat of him. She couldn’t step backwards without crashing into the fish tank, so she stood her ground, her heart rate escalating.

His growly voice was deep and smooth as butter. ‘All right, I’m sorry to have stirred you up, Amber. I can see you’re a woman of strong passions. I think maybe you are a bit tired. People get overwrought.’ He drew his brows together and looked narrowly at her. ‘Amber? Are you sure that’s your name?’

‘What?’

‘I think it should be Indigo. Or Lavender. Your oldies must have been drunk.’ Missing her unamused glare, he shrugged. ‘Never mind. I accept your apology. How about a drink?’

‘I’m not apologising.’ Her voice trembled as she lost the final vestiges of control and reasonable behaviour. ‘And I don’t want a drink. Just look what you’ve done to Jean’s lovely home. You have no right to touch her precious piano. You’re a—a vandal. I don’t want to know you, or see you, or hear any more of your awful, awful noise.’

He studied her with a solemn, meditative gaze. But she knew, damn him, it was an act. Underneath he was dying to laugh. At her.

‘You’re a bit wired up.’

He advanced further, so that his chest was a mere five centimetres from her breasts. She inhaled the clean, male scent of him and sensed something else in him besides laughter. A high-voltage buzz of electricity that charged her own nerves with adrenaline.

‘You should calm down.’

His sensual gaze touched her everywhere, caressed her hair, her throat, lingered on her mouth.

‘I think I know a way I can help you to relax.’

‘Oh.’ Fury must have overheated her brain, because she lifted Jean’s sonata and whacked him across the face with it.

Danger flashed in his eyes like a lightning strike. She watched, aghast, as a thin red line appeared where the rolled up edge of the paper had struck his cheekbone.

How could she have?

The universe shuddered to a stop. There was a moment when they both stood paralysed. Then in a quick, shocking movement he caught hold of her arms.

‘You need to learn some control,’ he said softly, steel in his voice, his eyes.

Her heart took a violent plunge as his hands burned her upper arms. The breath constricted in her throat.

‘Let go of me,’ she said, trying to sound calm while her thunderous heartbeat slammed into her ribs. She blustered the first thing that came into her head. ‘Don’t … don’t you even think of trying to kiss me.’

His brows swept up in surprise, then his rainwater eyes sparkled like diamonds. As if she’d said something funny.

His lashes flickered half the way down. ‘Are you sure you really mean that, Amber?’

Knowing her Freudian slip was flashing a bright neon, while her traitorous lips still tingled with … Well, for goodness’ sake his lips were the most ravishing pair she’d encountered at close range for months. Her chaste, unkissed mouth was making a purely kneejerk and understandable chemical response.

Then, in an avalanche of bodily betrayal, her nipples joined in. She could feel a definite weakening arousal in them of a warming kind and wouldn’t you know it? More arousal, all the way south.

At the exact instant those sensations registered with her a high-voltage, purely sexual flare lit Guy Wilder’s eyes.

‘Take your hands off me.’ His grip slackened at once and she twisted away. ‘Thank you.’ Rubbing an arm, she hissed, ‘There may be women who buckle at the knees when they meet you, Guy Wilder, but I can assure you I’m not one of them.’

The heat intensified in his gleaming gaze. He gave a knowing, sexy laugh. ‘If you say so.’ He crossed to the foyer in a couple of long strides and held the door wide. ‘You’d better run home, little girl, and cool down. The wicked, wicked man might tempt you into doing something you enjoy.’

She brushed past him, racking her brains for a parting gibe. Then, with an insolent smile, she pointed to the angry patch on his cheek. ‘Better put something on that.’

He touched the wound with his fingers. A smile curled the edges of his mouth as he retorted softly, ‘Be seeing you, sweetheart.’

The door clicked to behind her.

Guy stood like a man who’d just been slammed somewhere strange by a tornado. It took some time for his aggravated pulse to ease. The fiery little exchange had stirred him in more ways than one.

He whistled. Whew. What a spitfire.

Nothing like a tempestuous woman to whip up a man’s blood. His creative spirit was zinging. The way she held herself with that straight, proud back. If only he could get her in front of a camera.

He groaned, thinking of the way she’d glided across the room with that lithe, graceful walk. He felt aroused and at the same time amazingly energised, his whole being like an electric rod.

His blood quickened. How long since he’d felt this way?

God, it felt great.

Safe inside her flat, Amber buried her face in her pillow, her mind churning with images of his handsome, taunting face. The things he’d said. The things she’d said.

Run home, little girl. The sheer arrogance of that. She clenched her teeth and tried to think of a hands-off way to murder the beast. Though with what she’d done so far, maybe hands-on would be more fitting. Why had she done such a terrible thing?

She should be wrung with shame, but to be honest she couldn’t even feel very sorry. What was wrong with her? To have actually used violence like some wild virago was completely out of character for her. No one who knew her would believe Amber O’Neill, meek and mild as honeydew, could be capable of behaving with such a lack of restraint.

Well, no one now.

She’d once disgraced herself by pouring a glass of beer over Miguel da Vargas’s handsome, lying head, but that was ancient history. Blood under the bridge. And he’d deserved it. This was all about sleep. If she didn’t get some soon she’d have to be locked up to keep the public safe.

She punched her pillow, tossed and turned, but all to no avail. It was no use. She’d acted like a fool and she knew it. What had happened to her resolve to stay calm in a conflict situation? He’d been the one who’d stayed cool, while she …

She writhed to think of how easily he’d wiped the floor with her. Run home, little girl.

There had to be a way of salvaging her feminine honour.

Suddenly she froze on her bed of nails. She could hear him. He was in there, singing to himself like a man without a care in the world. Or … The thought stung through her agony. A man gloating.

Where was her feminine spirit? Was she just to lie down and take this?

She scrambled off the bed and took a minute or two to whip on a sexy push-up bra and some shoes with heels. She considered changing the rather deep-cut top, then discarded that idea. She didn’t want him to think she’d gone to any trouble.

She smoothed down her skirt, ran a brush through her long hair. A little strategic eyeliner, a spray of perfume. Flicked the puff from her compact over her nose. Then, more presentable this time, more together, more herself—she took a fortifying swig of Vee juice from the fridge, and sashayed to his door for a second time.

Striding up to the bell, she gave it one imperative ring.

CHAPTER TWO

GUY WILDER took his leisurely time. When he finally stood framed in the entrance he seemed even more physical than she remembered. More hard-muscled and athletic. He didn’t speak, just raised one arrogant black brow.

‘Er …’ Her mouth dried. She’d underestimated the sheer, overwhelming force of his presence. Bathed in that cool, merciless gaze, she felt her confidence nearly waver.

‘Look,’ she said, moistening her lips, ‘I think we can be adult about this.’

In a long, searing scrutiny his eyes rested on her mouth, then flickered over her, leaving a scorching imprint on her flesh that wasn’t altogether unpleasant, to her intense chagrin. He kept her pride toasting on the spit for torturous seconds, then opened the door just wide enough to admit her.

In the sitting room he leaned negligently against Jean’s mantel, his bold gaze surveying her with amusement. ‘What did you have in mind?’

It was the moment to apologise. She was a gentle person—too gentle, some said. Far too willing to accommodate the male beast. Be more assertive, Amber. Don’t be a doormat, Amber. Those were the sorts of things girlfriends had said to her in the past.

Normally she’d have begged his pardon, flattered him with a few waves of her lashes and been charmingly apologetic. But not this time. At the sight of him looking so insolently self-assured, his cool, intensely sensuous mouth beginning to curve in a smile, as though enjoying, relishing her discomfort, she felt her feminine pride challenged. ‘I merely wish to reiterate the point,’ she said coldly, ‘that the walls in this building are thin. Now your singing is keeping me awake.’

He smiled, eyes lighting and creasing at the corners. ‘You know, it concerns me that such a healthy woman—a woman so lithe, so supple and apparently fit …’ He put his head on one side, his mouth edging up just the tiniest sensual bit as he wallowed in his contemplation of her body. ‘In such excellent condition as yourself, should want to spend so much time sleeping. Do you ever do anything active, Amber? Go to the gym? Go clubbing? Dance till dawn?’

The irony of that. When she knocked herself out three mornings a week at dance class, ran a shop, studied, seized on any gigs going to keep the wolf from the door. ‘That’s none of your concern.’

He lowered his lashes, smiling a little. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve come to beg forgiveness.’

‘In your dreams. O’Neills never beg.’

There was a glint in his eyes. ‘No? Do they sing?’

He moved swiftly, and before she could protest grabbed her and pulled her down with him onto the piano seat. She gasped, braced to pull free, until his deep, quiet voice pinned her to the spot with a direct hit.

‘Is it music you’re allergic to, Amber, or men?’

She gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Oh, what? Don’t be silly. I like—love music.’ He slid a bronzed arm around her waist and pulled her close against him. She made a token attempt to break away, but his body was all long, lean bone and muscle, iron-hard and impervious to her resistance.

The clean male scent of him, his vibrant masculine warmth, the touch of his hand on her ribs, sent her dizzy senses into spinning confusion. She should have pushed him away, should have got up and walked out, but something held her there. Something about his touch, her excited pulse and wobbly knees. Her pride. Her need to win this game if it killed her.

‘What sort do you like?’ Up close, his growly voice had an appealing resonance that stroked her inner ear.

‘All sorts. Chopin. Tchaikovsky, of course.’

‘Oh, of course.’ He smiled.

‘Don’t mock,’ she said quickly. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their own taste.’

‘Sure they are. If you prefer to listen to the dead.’ His breath tickled her ear. His lips were nearly close enough to brush the sensitive organ.

‘They might be dead, but their music will live for eternity.’ She flicked him a challenging glance. ‘Can you say that about yours?’

He looked amused. ‘Now you’re really going for the jugular.’

A random thought struck her. She could, actually. His jugular wasn’t so far away. With just a slight lean she could lick his strong bronzed neck and taste his salt. Relish him with her tongue.

Adrenaline must be screwing her brain.

‘Chopin, of all people.’ He continued to scoff, mischief in his eyes. ‘Isn’t his stuff a bit wishy-washy for you, Amber? A bit …’ He made a levelling gesture. ‘Flat?’

Of course he would think that. But there was no use pretending she wasn’t a total nerd. Even before a firing squad her conscience wouldn’t let her deny her true colours. Not with all the ways Chopin’s piano works spoke to her. How subtle they were, and poignant. How they wound their way into the warp and weft of her most tender emotions.

‘No. Those pieces just—seep into my soul.’ She turned to look at him.

Guy met her clear gaze and felt the kind of lurch he should avoid at all costs. He should. But there were her eyes …

He heard himself say dreamily, ‘You know, you’re soft. Such curly lashes. And those sensational eyes …’

Amber felt a giant blush coming on. Unless a new heat-wave was sweeping Sydney.

Perhaps the man needed glasses or was a raving lunatic. She started to say something to that effect, and stopped. His mouth was gravely beautiful, and so close she had to hold her breath. His lips were wide and curled up at the corners, the upper one thin, the lower one fuller, more sensual. Lips made for kissing a woman into a swoon. Some poor hungry woman. Lips that could draw the very soul from that poor hungry, famished woman’s …

For goodness’ sake, Amber. Fatigue must be distorting her perceptions. Just because he had a lean, chiselled jaw and a stunning profile it didn’t mean she should forget the male/female reality.

She gave herself a mental slap. Feet on the ground and an eye to the door. That was a woman’s survival kit. That was what her mother had always told her, and Lise O’Neill had known better than most. When the going got tough, men disappeared.

Just because Amber had failed chronically to apply her mother’s wisdom on certain other crucial occasions it didn’t mean she had to fail now. Here was a prime opportunity to start inoculating herself against the cunning wiles of the wolfhound.

She didn’t have to be susceptible. She could resist.

‘Now, let’s see, Amber.’ At this distance she could almost feel the rumble of his deep voice in his chest. ‘Your lips are like cherries, roses and berries.’ He studied them appreciatively. ‘Although maybe softer, redder and juicier. I guess I’ll have to taste them to get that line exactly right …’

She tensed, waiting, pulse racing, but instead of delivering the anticipated kiss, he continued examining her.

‘And your eyes …’ He paused to inspect them. ‘What rhymes with amethyst?’

He rippled a few tunes, then settling on ‘Eleanor Rigby’, sang softly. “‘Amber O’Neill, mouth sweet as wine. And her eyes are like clear am—e—thyst. Never been ki—issed. Amber O’Neill. She’s twenty-nine and she goes to bed early to pine opp—or—tun—i—ties mi—issed …”’

He didn’t sing the next line, just played it. He didn’t have to. She remembered how it went. ‘All the …’

Her heart panged. ‘Very funny. It’s not even true.’

‘Which part?’

‘Any of it.’ Her breasts quickly rose and fell inside their confining bra. Anyone would be lonely in her situation. Of course she missed her mother every minute of every day. It was only natural. They’d only had each other. After she’d left the ballet company and all her friends there she hadn’t had much opportunity to make new ones, apart from people who worked in the mall.

And she knew why he thought she looked twenty-nine. It had to be her clothes. If it had been any of his concern, she might have explained about her work costumes. The only thing wrong with them, apart from being relentlessly floral, was that they weren’t all that shiny new.

Oh, this chronic lack of funds was approaching crisis point. There wasn’t much more she could do about it—unless the vintage shop around the corner had a sudden influx of barely worn clothes with flowery patterns.

She was signed up for Saturday night gigs at a Spanish club in Newtown for the next few weeks, though she’d planned to use those earnings for her stock explosion. She hadn’t planned on it—the shop must always come first—but maybe she could use some of her show earnings to buy something modern. Some new jeans, maybe? A little jacket?

Then she remembered Serena. She’d promised to give her an advance on her salary in return for an extra Thursday evening. And Serena deserved all the help she could get.

Amber noticed he was examining her with a serious expression while those dismal musings were flashing through her head faster than the speed of light. Then his face broke into a slow, sexy, teasing smile. It lengthened his eyes, made them do that crinkling thing at the corners.

She risked a glimpse into the silvery depths. ‘I’m sorry I swiped you with that sonata.’

He nodded gravely. ‘Okay. It’s a long time since I was smacked by a beautiful woman. Exciting, though.’ His voice was a velvet caress. ‘Do you often …?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. You’ve got quite a good wrist action there. I’d have thought you’d had a bit of experience.’ He saw her quick flush and, though his mouth grew grave, the smile still lurked in his eyes. Rueful, not unkind. Anything but unkind. ‘Never mind. Apology accepted.’

Her heart quickened and she dragged her gaze away. She shouldn’t have looked. She was, after all, Amber O’Neill, notorious push-over for charming heartbreakers. Next thing you knew she’d be starting to flirt, indulging in a little verbal sparring, giving him the husky laugh, luring him in, laying sultry glances on his mouth …

‘Tsk, now look. You have dark smudges here … and here.’ He lightly ran his thumb-tip under each eye. ‘You’ll have to cut out all this partying, Amber. You need to get some sleep.’

She ignored the soft imprint his thumb left on her skin, though lightning flickered through her skin cells and her sexual sensors went into a swoon. She hoped they didn’t lose their giddy little heads.

She tried to distract him with conversation. If she didn’t mention anything sexual, said nothing at all to do with his lips … Hers dried, and though she fought the urge she couldn’t resist running her tongue-tip around them. She noticed how the wolf gleamed at once from his knowing eyes. Oh, Lord. He was reading her like a traffic light.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ She kept her tone polite. Not too interested, just neighbourly. ‘Jean never mentioned you’d be staying.’

He nodded. ‘It was pretty last-minute. A builder’s knocking walls out of my house and it’s currently unlivable. Jean’s honeymoon has come at the right time.’

She frowned, thinking. ‘I don’t remember seeing you at the wedding.’

His face smoothed to become expressionless. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Oh. What a shame you missed it. It was fantastic. What a party. Jean must be sorry you couldn’t make it.’

He shrugged and gave a brief harsh laugh. ‘She’d have been surprised if I had.’

His knee brushed hers and she momentarily closed her eyes. At least he sounded fond of Jean, she thought, savouring the sparks shooting up and down her leg. That was one thing about him. Another was his voice. It was so deep and dark, and in its way musical, as soothing to the ear as a lute.

She noticed with some surprise her headache had just about departed. That might have been down to the lute effect. Or even the knee factor. The truth was, sound was not her only sensitivity. Like the beguiling Eustacia Vye, she’d always had this intense vulnerability to certain masculine knees.

Face it, there were times she felt like a sensory theme park. Right now the lights were on, the music was playing and she was glowing from the inside out.

‘It could be fantastic being here with you, Amber, or it could be … fantastic. What do you think?’ His lean, smooth hands rippling the keys made the notes sound like velvet water. She could imagine those hands playing along her spine like that. Gentling her, caressing her. Stroking her languid limbs, her hair. Better than a dangling twig any day.

She gave a throaty laugh—not her day-to-day one. ‘I wouldn’t say you’re with me, exactly.’

‘Getting closer, though. Don’t you think?’ His arm curved around her and he patted her hip.

‘You wish.’ She shifted away a little—though not as far as all that. ‘I don’t think you’ve demonstrated your desirability as a neighbour yet, Guy.’

He responded with a low, sexy laugh that demonstrated confidence in his abilities, if nothing else. ‘I’m working on it. Let’s see. Can I tempt you to some wine?’

She rarely drank alcohol. Fruit and veggie juices were her preferred drinks. Wine was not the ballerina’s friend. But, having assaulted him, she could hardly afford to be churlish. Besides, he smelled so deliciously male.

She lifted her shoulders. ‘Wine would be—fine.’

He was gone a few minutes. After a short while she heard him in Jean’s kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards.

She drew some hard, deep breaths to fill her lungs. Her exhilarated blood felt all bubbly. She felt pleasantly high and in control, as she sometimes did on stage. It gave her the same sort of out-of-body freedom—as if she wasn’t so much Amber as Amber’s avatar.

Looking more devastating by the minute, Guy returned with two glasses of red, along with the bottle. Amber recognised the glasses as Jean’s special wedding crystal. She accepted hers with a twinge of guilt. But, hey. She wasn’t the police. And she wasn’t in charge here, was she? Sometimes it was best to go with the flow.

They clinked glasses, Guy watching as she held her wine to her lips, his eyes shimmering with a warmth she knew only too well. Her blood quickened.

Desire was in the air.

‘Tell me about yourself, Amber,’ he said. ‘What do you do besides worship the dead?’

‘I’m a— I have the flower shop down in the arcade.’

He wrinkled his brow. ‘Don’t think I recall a florist’s. Where is that? It must be tucked down an alleyway.’

‘No, it’s not.’

He set down his glass and started rippling the keys again.

She tried not to watch. The less chance she had to obsess on the lean hand finding a tune with such casual expertise the better. Or the other one. The one absently stroking so close to her breast.

‘It’s right at the end, near the street entrance. I—haven’t had it long. There isn’t much stock yet so it’s not quite up and running. When I have more stock—more flowers, et cetera—you’ll be likely to notice it then. I’ll open up the street doors and put a lovely awning out in the street to catch the passing trade. Maybe in six months or so.’ With loads of luck, time and dancing gigs.

He frowned and put his head on one side. ‘Yeah? How does that work?’

She looked quickly at him. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Just that. When you start something off you need to start as you intend to …’ He hesitated, his eyes calculating something she couldn’t read, then all at once his gaze narrowed and he looked closely at her. ‘Ah, now I can see why they called you Amber.’ His voice deepened, as if he’d made a thrilling, almost arousing discovery. ‘Look at that. They’re not straight violet, after all. The irises have the most beautiful little amber flecks.’

Stirred, she felt herself flush, and gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Oh, honestly. Guys like you.’

Though he smiled, his eyes sharpened. ‘What about guys like me?’

‘You’d say anything. No one has violet eyes—except maybe Liz Taylor.’

‘Hush. Where’s the poetry in your soul? Anyway, that’s only half true.’ Absently, he took a lock of her hair, ran it through his fingers as if it were made of some rare, precious silk. Her hair follicles shivered with joy. ‘There aren’t any other guys like me. I’m the original one-off.’

Certainly better than a twig. With the wine warming her cockles, she was starting to feel quite languorous. Voluptuous, even. Gently she removed the tress from his fingers. ‘They all say that.’

‘Do they? I’m starting to wonder what sort of guys you know, Amber.’ Then glancing at her, he gave a quick, rueful smile. ‘Oh, sorry. I guess a woman like you … You’d be used to men wanting to impress you.’ He flashed her a veiled look. ‘Do you receive a lot of offers?’

She supposed there’d been a few. Though always from people no one in their right mind would consider viable—apart from Miguel. Especially Miguel.

Not caring to boast, she made a non-committal, so-so sort of gesture. ‘Oh, well …’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said warmly. ‘There are so many of these blokes about. Operators looking for a beautiful woman to hook up with.’ He nodded, sighing. ‘Yeah, I know the type. First they use the old sweet talk routine to soften you up. Then they manoeuvre you into a clinch.’ He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘Or is that where they start these days? With a kiss?’

As if he didn’t know. Her heart bumped into double time.

This conversation was heading in a certain direction, but it was undeniably thrilling. It had been ages since she’d felt on the verge of something truly dangerous and fantastic. All right, so he was an operator of the worst kind. She could be too, if she had to be. She hadn’t taken a celibacy vow yet, had she? Why else was she wearing a push-up bra?

Right on cue Amber’s avatar sashayed into centre stage and met his gaze through Amber’s lashes. ‘I’m already pretty soft, Guy,’ she breathed through Amber’s lips. ‘There are times I prefer to go direct to the kiss.’

His eyes lit with a piercingly sensual gleam. He studied her, eyelids half lowered, reminding her even more of that sleek, smiling wolf.

The summer evening tensed. A shivery excitement prickled along her veins.

With his grey eyes shimmering, in dreamy slow motion he raised a bronzed hand to push a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. In the spot where his fingers connected her skin sprang into tingling life. Softly he trailed one finger over her cheek, down her throat to the hollow at its base.

Sensation rippled through her every nerve cell. Her lips parted as he stroked the delicate skin of her throat. Her skin fell into an enchantment. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth and darken and her heart gave a great bound.

She tilted her head, for a moment teetering on a magical edge of anticipation, then swiftly she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. His sexy mouth felt, firm and so electrically alive, and tasted of wine. She moved her lips against his and a delicious fire sprang to life and danced along them.

His smooth hands slid up to cradle her head, and she leaned into him to gain a more comfortable position. He seized the initiative from her, intensifying the kiss to a searing, sensual charge. She felt something like a deep gasp whoosh through her, and her body shot into electric response as the tip of his tongue slid through to tangle with hers and tantalise the delicate tissues just inside her mouth.

Then, just when she thought desire was a pleasant hunger, his mouth took her tongue captive and sucked.

Oh, baby. Desire was no gentle longing. It was a raging furnace. She gave herself up to the mindless sensation. His beard rasping her skin, his vibrant chest firm and solid under her restless palms.

Liquid quivers shuddered through the top of her head, roused her through her breasts and thighs, down the backs of her knees to the tips of her curled up toes. His hands travelled caressingly up her arms, slid to her swelling breasts, while hers flexed on his biceps. Fire flamed in her blood, stirred all her secret, private places with yearning.

His breath mingled with hers and the masculine flavour of him went to her head like wine. He pulled her closer and she felt the friction of his hard chest pressing her nipples.

The blood boomed in her ears and lust swept her like a flame—wild, searing and erotic.

In the grip of the inferno, she thirsted to be closer. Struggling not to in any way diminish the connection, she kept glued to his lips while she squirmed her way onto his thighs. Straddling that impressive lap, she felt her appreciation of the kiss escalate to a whole new dimension.

As though divining her hunger, he tightened his arms around her and rocked her on the hard ridge of his erection with electrifying results. Pleasure roiled through her in waves.

And her body gasped for more. Much, much more. Until in one impassioned, over-enthusiastic plunge she rocked him right off the piano seat and onto the floor.

Thwack. She landed on top of him in a graceless tangle of arms and legs. Half groaning in a laughing complaint about her roughness, he adjusted his position beneath her. She laughed as well, while every inch of her was aware of the raw, virile flesh separated from hers by a couple of thin layers of material.

There was a moment when their laughter faded and they both stilled. His arms tightened around her again. She could feel his heart thumping against her chest while his masculine scent invaded her head. Or maybe that was her heart pounding in her ears like a jungle drum.

Anything could happen—but just like that? With a stranger? In Jean’s flat?

She scrambled up, her head whirling. Adjusted her top. Smoothed her skirt. She might be a little drunk with that kiss, but parts of her brain were still connected.

Her host pulled himself up and adjusted his jeans. They almost managed to avoid one another’s glances. The air sizzled with incompletion. It tugged at her breasts and feminine loins. Made her feel like doing something dangerous.

Guy felt every part of his body tingle to the imprint of her soft, firm flesh. Was she about to slip through his fingers? Instinct told him not. Not if he played it easy.

He let his glance fall to where glimpses of her breasts tantalised at the edge of her shirt. Arousal had him in its grip. His erection was protesting the confinement of his underwear. Surely she must feel it too? Desire crackled in the air like electricity—a promise propelling them to an inevitable conclusion.

She must feel it.

Amber’s gaze collided accidentally with his and she felt singed. She smoothed her hair. Maybe she should go home before his eyes carried her away. Home to her dark flat, with the sitting room furniture all jammed into the hall. The single lamp she read by. No company.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ he said softly. ‘But you shouldn’t go. Not yet.’

That piqued her pride. ‘You don’t know what I’m thinking.’

His eyes shimmered. ‘Then show me. Let me in.’

As if she wasn’t already intoxicated, she picked up her glass and drank more of the wicked, wicked wine. Glass in hand, she leaned on the piano and smiled. ‘All right, tempter. Go on, then. Play for me.’

He frowned a little at first. She guessed he was disappointed. He’d had other entertainment in view. But he gave in with a gracious shrug and sat down at the piano.

He rested his hands loosely on the keys, then started into a song—some rare, long-forgotten tune that sidled into her heart with a haunting familiarity. He played it against the beat, like a true jazz man, drawing out its sexy sound.

Suddenly a door opened in her memory and a scene came rushing back.

Her mother and father, laughing and dancing in each other’s arms in the kitchen of their old house. When they were still together. When they still loved each other.

Now she knew the song. It was ‘Ruby’, an old number from a Ray Charles album her mother had loved. Lise had continued to play it long after Amber’s father had left her. Left them.

It didn’t even matter now that the lyrics weren’t being sung. From down the decades Ray’s beautiful dark golden voice was still in Amber’s head, recorded there forever in high fidelity, the bittersweet pain of his song as fresh as ever.

Blame the wine or the song, but the music plucked unbearably at her heartstrings. Twisted her most vulnerable emotions and swamped her with nostalgia and regret.

Guy looked up and touched her with his gleaming glance. Something arced between them. Some mutual understanding.

Quickly she lowered her lashes, though she knew he’d seen her tears. But still he continued to play, wringing every last poignant drop from the song as if her response was only natural. Maybe it was then she confused the music with the man.

Fighting tears, she gazed at his lean, strong hands dancing on the keys, on her heart, and her desire bloomed into an intense hunger.

Devouring him with her eyes, she was shaken by a fierce wanton need to bite his mouth, lick his strong neck, feel his warm skin under her fingertips. All at once being near him was both anguish and ecstasy. Yearning for him while at the mercy of the song, she pressed her fingers hard to the piano. Caressed the silky wood, stroked the elegant lines, urgent in her longing to be touched and held.

Guy could hardly keep his eyes from her. Attuned to the quickening sexual current, he switched into one of his own songs. Sexed up the tempo in time with his accelerating desire.

At the change of melody Amber felt both sorry and relieved. At least without the song’s weakening associations her defences managed to firm themselves up again. Good grief, she’d come close to an emotional meltdown. She was conscious of having allowed Guy, a stranger, to see too much, and everything in her scurried to cover up.

For goodness’ sake, this was hardly the time or place for tears. This was the bewitching hour.

Slipping off her shoes, she crawled up onto the piano lid.

Clunk. The music hit a bump. Cool, casual Guy Wilder must be startled. Amber giggled with delight when she saw his stunned face. He was staring at her, his eyes gleaming with an amused and intensely sensual light.

He gave a deep sexy laugh. ‘You bad, bad girl,’ he said softly. ‘What are you up to?’

Encouraged, she slithered across the lid to him, making herself as sinuous as a serpent. A voluptuous serpent, with a longing to feel the contact of hard, muscled man against her skin.

Her ravenous, tingling skin.

He stared at her, eyes ablaze, his hands suspended over the keys.

She rested her chin on her hands and smiled. ‘Did you know I can do the splits?’

The piercing hot gleam in his eyes could have set her aflame. ‘I’d really like to see that.’

The challenge in his husky voice revealed such a depth of wolfish excitement a laugh of pure exhilaration bubbled out of her. Amber O’Neill was flying high, as energised as if she’d just pirouetted right across the stage on points.

Loving her power to galvanise such warm admiration—very warm, judging by the bulge in Guy’s jeans—she ordered him to keep playing.

Guy was happy to accommodate. Eager, one might say. He did his best to comply, continuing to thump the keys while staring, mesmerised. At first she sat up, straight-backed, and tucked up her skirt into her pants’ elastic.

Then, before his hypnotised gaze, she folded her supple self into the lotus position. Each time his fingers faltered on the keys she nodded at him to play on. He started into something—though who knew what? His hands were on an erratic auto-pilot, since every other part of him, from his fascinated gaze to his painful, throbbing erection, was riveted on her.

His brows lifted in disbelief as she smoothly stretched first her right leg, way out to ninety degrees at one side, then her left to the other. All the impossible way. Until both gorgeous legs made a perfect one-eighty. His gaze was riveted to the tender, crucial little bridge touching the piano lid in the middle. His jeans tightened unbearably.

She gazed down upon him like some oriental goddess, her eyes shadowed and mysterious. ‘We call this the straddle position.’

Inside his constricting jeans, the skin of his engorged penis felt ready to burst.

Then, before his lustful gaze, she stretched her right arm over her head and with graceful ease laid her head down on her leg while she touched her left foot with her fingers, the long switch of her hair falling away from her neck.

Then she straightened her taut back and did the reverse, her left arm over her head, fingers touching her right foot. The graceful line of her body, the agonising beauty of her lithe form, her vulnerable neck, dragged at his heart.

It was too much for a guy two years on the sexual wagon.

He sprang up and seized her. With fire thundering in his blood, he lifted her off the piano and set her down on the floor.

Like a wild man, he took her sweet mouth in possession while somehow stripping off his clothes and fumbling with hers.

‘Hurry, hurry,’ she was trying to say through his frenzied kisses, as though he wasn’t rushing as fast as any painfully aroused guy was humanly able.

When she stood naked before him, the beauty of her nude body made his insides tremble. Her breasts small and so achingly perfect. The areolae around the rosy, pouting nipples flushed with arousal. Her waist so slender his hands could have spanned it. The smooth curve of her hips and the pretty triangle of curls sent what was left of his sanity flying out of the window.

Free at last, his rampant erection reached the zenith of rock-hard demand. He stooped gingerly for his jeans and dug for the condom in his wallet, grateful to have one on hand.