You never forget your first…

Sam Richards was Amber DuBois’s first crush, first kiss and first love. Until he broke her heart and left town.

Now older and wiser, world-famous concert pianist Amber is at a crossroads in her life. But the sweetheart who spurned her is back—hotter, richer and in need of a favor! Glamour, romance and old heartaches resurface, but will her first crush stand the test of time?

The First Crush Is the Deepest

“Are you offering me an exclusive?” Sam asked. “What’s the catch?”

“Oh, how suspicious you are. Well. As it happens, I might be willing to give you that interview.” Amber cleared her throat and tilted her head, well aware that she had his full attention. “But there are a few conditions we need to agree on before I talk on the record.”

“Conditions. This sounds like the catch part.”

“I prefer to think of them as more of a trade. You do something for me, I do something for you.”

“Ah. Now we have it. You know you have the upper hand so you decided to come down here to gloat?”

“Gloat?” she repeated. “Do you really think I would do that?” Her words caught at the back of her throat. Was that how he thought of her? “I haven’t changed that much, Sam. You need an interview and I have a few things I need doing, which you might be able to help me with. It’s as simple as that.”

“Simple? Nothing about you was ever simple, Amber.”

The First Crush Is the Deepest

Nina Harrington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About Nina Harrington

Nina grew up in rural Northumberland, England, and decided at the age of eleven that she was going to be a librarian—because then she could read all the books in the public library whenever she wanted! Since then she has been a shop assistant, community pharmacist, technical writer, university lecturer, volcano walker and industrial scientist, before taking a career break to realize her dream of being a fiction writer. When she is not creating stories that make her readers smile, her hobbies are cooking, eating, enjoying good wine—and talking, for which she has had specialist training.

This and other titles by Nina Harrington are available in ebook format—check out www.millsandboon.co.uk.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

ONE

Amber DuBois closed her eyes and tried to stay calm. ‘Yes, Heath,’ she replied. ‘Of course I am taking care of myself. No, I am not staying out too long this evening. That’s right, a couple of hours at most.’

The limo slowed and she squinted out at the impressive stone pillars of the swish London private members club. ‘Ah. I think we have arrived. Time for you to get back to your office. Don’t you have a company to sort out? Bye, Heath. Love you. Bye.’

She sighed out loud then quickly stowed her phone in a tiny designer shoulder bag. Heath meant well but in his eyes she was still the teenage unwanted stepsister who he had been told to look after and had never quite learnt to let go. But he cared and she knew that she could rely on him for anything. And that meant a lot when you were at a low point in your life.

Like now.

Amber looked up through the drizzle and was just about to tell the limo driver that she had changed her mind when a plump blonde in a purple bandage dress two sizes too small for her burst out of the club and almost dragged Amber out of the rain and into the foyer.

She looked a little like the mousey-haired girl who had lorded over everyone from the posh girls’ table at high school.

Right now Amber watched Miss Snooty ‘my dad’s a banker’ rear back in horror when she realised that the star of the ten-year school reunion alumni had a plaster cast over her right wrist, but recovered enough to bend forward and air kiss her on both cheeks with a loud mmwwahh.

‘Amber. Darling. How lovely to see you again. We are so pleased that you could make our little get-together—especially when you lead such an exciting life these days. Do come inside. We want to know everything!’

Amber was practically propelled across the lovely marble floor, which was tricky to do in platform designer slingbacks. She had barely caught her breath when a hand at her back pushed her forwards into a huge room. The walls were covered with cream brocade, broken up by floor to ceiling mirrors, and huge gilded chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

It was a ballroom designed to cope with hundreds of people.

Only at that moment several clusters of extremely bored-looking women in their late twenties were standing with their hands clasped around buffet plates and wine glasses.

Every single one of them stopped talking and turned around.

And stared at her.

In total silence.

Amber had faced concert audiences of all shapes and sizes—but the frosty atmosphere in this cold elegant room was frigid enough to send a shiver down her spine.

‘Look everyone. Amber DuBois made it in the end. Isn’t that marvellous! Now carry on enjoying yourself. Fabulous!’

Two minutes later Amber was standing at the buffet and drinks table with a glass of fizzy water in her hand. She smiled down at her guide, who had started to chew the corner of her lower lip. ‘Is everything all right?’ Amber asked.

The other woman gulped and whimpered slightly. ‘Yes—yes, of course. Everything is just divine. I just need to check something—but feel free to mingle, darling...mingle.’

And then she practically jogged over to a girl who might have been one of the prefects, grabbed her arm and in no uncertain terms jabbed her head towards Amber and glared towards the other side of the room.

Amber peered over the elaborate hairstyles of a cluster of chattering women who were giving her sideways glances as though scared to come and talk to her.

This was so ridiculous. So what if she had made a name for herself as a concert pianist over the years? She was still the quiet, lanky, awkward girl they used to pick on.

And then she saw it. A stunning glossy black grand piano had been brought out in front of the tall picture windows. Just waiting for someone to play it.

So that was the reason her old high school had gone to such lengths to track her down with an email invitation to the ten-year school reunion.

Amber sighed out loud and her shoulders slumped down.

It seemed that some things never changed.

They had never shown the slightest interest in her when she was their schoolmate—far from it in fact. Amber DuBois might have had the connections but she was not one of the posh clique of girls or the seriously academic group. She was usually on the last table and the back of the bus with the rest of the eccentrics.

Well. If there was a time to channel her inner diva, then this was it. One final performance—and the only one they would be getting from her that evening.

Cameras flashed as Amber strode, head high, canapés wobbling, across the polished wooden floor towards the ladies room.

Behind her back, Amber heard someone tap twice on the microphone but the squeaky posh voice was cut off as she stepped inside the powder room, pushed the door firmly closed with her bottom and collapsed back against it for a moment, eyes closed.

Sanctuary! If the speeches had just started she might have the place to hide out for a few precious minutes—it could even be a chance to escape.

She was just about to peek outside to check for options when the sound of something falling onto the tiled floor echoed from the adjoining powder room, quickly followed by a colourful expletive.

Amber’s heels clattered on the tiles as she strolled over and peered around the corner to see where the noise was coming from.

A short brunette was standing on tiptoe, straddling two washbasins, with her arms outstretched, trying to reach the handle of the double-glazed window which was high on the wall above her. A red plastic mop bucket was lying on its side next to the washbasin.

‘What’s this? Kate Lovat running out on a party? I must be seeing things.’ A short chuckle escaped from Amber’s lips before she could stop it, and instantly the brunette whirled around to see who it was—and screamed and waved her arms about the instant she saw who had asked the question.

Which made her wobble so much that Amber rushed forwards, slid her buffet plate onto the marble counter, flipped up the bucket to create a step and then wrapped her left arm around the waist of a compact bundle of fun in a stunning cerise vintage cocktail dress.

Kate Lovat was one of the few real pals that she had made at high school.

Irrepressible, petite and fierce, Kate used to have a self-confidence which was as large as the heels she wore to push her height up to medium and a spirit to match. Today her short tousled dark hair was slicked into an asymmetric style which managed to make her look both elegant and quirky at the same time.

‘Kate!’ Amber laughed. ‘I was praying that you were going to turn up at the reunion. You look fabulous!’

‘Why thank you, pretty lady. Right back at you. You are even more gorgeous than ever.’ Then Kate’s mouth fell open, her eyes locked onto the floor and she gave a high pitched squeak as she grabbed Amber’s arm. ‘Oh my...those shoes. I want those shoes. In fact if you were not several sizes bigger than me, I would knock you down and run off with them.’

Then Kate took one step back and peered into Amber’s face, her eyes narrow and her brow creased. ‘Wait a minute. You look peaky. And a lot skinnier than the last time I saw you... Did I tell you that I have suddenly become clairvoyant? Because I foresee chocolate and plenty of it in your very near future.’

Then she pointed at the plaster cast on Amber’s wrist. ‘I have to know. Wait.’ She held up one hand and pressed the fingertips of the other hand to her forehead as though she was doing her own mind-reading act. ‘Let me guess. You slipped on an ice cube at some fashionista party, or was it a yacht cruising the Caribbean? It must make playing the piano a tad tricky.’

‘Kate. Slow down. If you must know, I tripped over my own suitcase a couple of weeks ago. And yes, I have cancelled everything for the next six months so my wrist has a chance to heal.’ Then she paused. ‘And why do you need to sneak out of the window at our school reunion when you could be catching up on the gossip with the rest of our class?’

Kate took a breath, her lower lip quivered and she seemed about to say something, then changed her mind, broke into a smile and waved one hand towards the door. ‘Been there. Done that. This has been one hell of a rotten day and the kidnappers have blockaded the doors to stop us from getting out.’

Then Kate lifted her chin. ‘But here is an idea,’ she said, her dark green eyes twinkling with delight. She gestured with her head towards the red velvet chaise at the other end of the powder room. Two buffet plates piled high with pastries and cocktail skewers were stashed on the floor.

‘Who cares about them? We have a sofa. We have snacks. And the really good news is that I crashed into Saskia five minutes ago and she is now on a mission to find liquid refreshment and cake. The three of us could have our own party right here. What do you say?’

Amber’s shoulders dropped several inches and she hugged her old friend one-handed. ‘That. Is the best idea I have heard in a long time. Oh, I had forgotten how much I missed you both. But I thought Saskia was still in France.’

Kate winked. ‘Oh, things have certainly changed around here. Just wait until you hear what we have been up to.’ Then she waved both hands towards Amber and grabbed her around the waist. ‘It is so good to see you. But come on, sit. What drove you out from the chosen few? Or should that be who drove you out?’

Suddenly Kate froze and her fingers flew to her mouth. ‘Don’t tell me that snake in the grass Petra dared to show her face.’

Petra. Amber took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Well, if Petra was in there, I didn’t notice, and somehow I think I would have recognised her.’

‘Damn right.’ Kate scowled. ‘Ten years is not nearly long enough to forget that face. A friend does not jump on her best pal’s boyfriend. Especially at that pal’s eighteenth birthday party.’ Her flat right hand sliced through the air. ‘For some things there is no forgiveness. None. Zero. Don’t even ask. Oh—is that a mushroom tartlet?’

‘Help yourself,’ Amber replied and passed Kate her plate. Strange how she had suddenly lost her appetite the moment Petra’s name was mentioned. The memory of the last time she had seen the girl she used to call her friend flittered across her brain, bringing a bitter taste of regret into her mouth. ‘It takes two to tango, Kate,’ she murmured. ‘And, from what I recall, Sam Richards wasn’t exactly complaining that Petra had made a move on him. Far from it, in fact.’

‘Of course not,’ Kate replied between bites. ‘He was a boy and she bedazzled him. He didn’t have a chance.’

‘Bedazzled?’

‘Bedazzled. Once that girl decided that Sam was the target he was toast.’ Then Kate coughed and flicked a glance at Amber before brushing pastry crumbs from her fingers. ‘He’s back in London now, you know. Sam. Working as a journalist for that swanky newspaper he was always talking about.’

Amber brought her head up very slowly. ‘How fascinating. Perhaps I should ring the editor and warn him that his new reporter is susceptible to bedazzlement?’

‘Careful.’ Kate chuckled. ‘They’ll be saying that I am having a bad influence on you.’

‘Well, that would never do! Hi Amber,’ a sweet clipped voice came from the bathroom.

‘Saskia!’ Kate instantly leaped up from the sofa and grabbed the plate of mini chocolate cakes that was threatening to topple over at any second. ‘Look who’s here.’ Then she caught her breath. ‘What happened to your dress?’

Saskia slid onto the sofa and lowered a screw cap bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses onto the floor in front of them so that she could give Amber a hug.

It was only then Amber noticed the red wine stain which was still dripping down the sleeve of Saskia’s cream lace dress. It was almost as if someone had thrown a glass of wine at her.

Maybe things had changed? Because if Kate was the petite quirky one of their little band and Amber the lanky American, then Saskia was the classic English beauty. Medium brown hair, medium height and size. And the one girl who would never cause a scene or make a fuss.

‘Excuse me for a moment.’ Saskia nodded. And, without waiting for an answer, she clenched her teeth and picked up one of the paper hand towels and tore it violently into strips lengthways. Then into smaller strips, then more slowly into squares. Only when the whole towel was completely shredded into postage stamps did Saskia exhale slowly, gather up all of the pieces and toss them into the waste basket.

‘Well, I feel a lot better now.’ She smiled and brushed her hands off.

Kate was still choking so Amber was the one who had to ask, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Saskia sat bolt upright on the sofa, too proud to slouch back against the cushion, and casually mopped the stain with a paper napkin. ‘Apparently I am all that is bad in the world because I refused to let the school alumni committee use Elwood House for free for the weekly soiree—you know, the one I have never been invited to? You should have seen their faces the moment I mentioned the going hourly rate. That’s when the abuse started.’

She sniffed once. ‘It was most unladylike. Frankly, I am appalled.’

Kate pushed back her shoulders and her chin forward. ‘Right. Where are they? No one disses my pal and gets away with it. There are three of us against the whole room—no contest.’

‘I have just finished ten years of training as a full-on concert diva,’ Amber added. ‘Want to see me in action? It can be scary.’

Saskia shook her head. ‘That would be playing right into their hands. They would just love it if we made a scene. It gives them something to talk about in their shallow little lives. Let it go. Seriously. I have decided to rise above it.’ Then her face broke into a smile. ‘I am already having far too good a time right here. Kate. Would you be so kind as to twist open that bottle? I want to hear everything. Let’s start with the obvious. My love life is on hold until Elwood House is up and running, but what about you, Kate?’

Kate looked up from pouring the wine. ‘Don’t look at me,’ she replied in disgust. ‘I seem to have an inbuilt boy repellent at the moment. One taste and they run. Unlike some people we know. Come on, Amber. What’s the latest on that hunky mountain man we saw you with in the celeb mags?’

‘History. Gone. Finished,’ Amber replied and took a sip of wine before passing it to Saskia. ‘But I live in hope. If I ever get out of this powder room I am going to start fund-raising for my friend Parvita’s charity in India and, you never know, I might meet someone over the next few months. I visited the orphanage with her a few months ago and I promised the girls that I would go back if I could.’ Her eyes stared over their heads at the large white tiles. ‘It is the most fabulous place and right on the beach,’ she added in a dreamy faraway voice.

Then her shoulders slumped. ‘Who am I kidding? Heath would be furious with me for even thinking about going back to India.’

‘Heath? You mean, as in your stepbrother Heath?’ Kate whispered. ‘Why should he object to you going to India?’

Amber took a breath and looked over at Saskia and then back to Kate. ‘Because he worries about me. You see, I didn’t just fall over my suitcase and break my wrist. I had just got back from India and I sort of collapsed. There was an outbreak of...’

The sound of raucous laughter cut Amber off mid-sentence as a horde of noisy chattering women burst into the ladies room. Their voices echoed around the tiled space in an explosion of sound.

Amber pressed both hands to her ears. ‘Sounds like the speeches are over and I have just heard the word karaoke.’ She gestured towards the entrance. ‘We might be able to sneak out the side entrance if we are quick. My apartment is the nearest. Then I’ll tell you what really happened in India and why Heath is as worried as I am.’

TWO

‘Tell me what you know about Bambi DuBois.’

The question hit Sam Richards right between the eyes, just as he was swallowing down the last of his coffee, and he almost choked on the coarse grounds in the bottom of the cup.

Frank Evans strode into the corner office as though he had a hurricane behind his back and waved a colour magazine in front of Sam’s nose.

Sam sniffed and gave his new boss a one-handed hat tip salute. Frank had made his name in the media company by being one of the sharpest editors in the business who only worked with the best, but Sam had already been warned that Frank had not earned the editor’s desk through his personnel skills.

‘And good morning to you too, Frank,’ Sam replied. ‘And thank you for your warm welcome to the London office.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Frank shooed a hand in Sam’s direction and pointed to the desk. ‘Take a seat. Monday madness. Worse than ever. You know what it’s like. The chief is on my back and it’s not nine o’clock yet. Time to rock and roll. You talk. I listen. Let’s hear it. Show me that you’re not completely out of touch with the London scene after all those years out in the wilderness.’

Sam stifled a laugh. So much for an easy first day in the new job.

Frank settled the seat of his over tight suit onto the wide leather chair on the other side of the modern polymer table and ran his short stubby fingers through his receding grey hair before drinking down what must now be cold milky coffee.

His cheap tie was already tugged down a couple of inches and his shirt sleeves had missed the iron, but in contrast his eyes sparkled with intelligence as he leant his arms on one of the cleanest and most organised desks Sam had ever seen.

Bambi DuBois? The shock of hearing her name kept Sam frozen to the spot, cup in hand, before his brain kicked in and he frowned as though thinking about an answer. A few manly coughs gave him just enough time to pull together a casual reply to the editor who he had previously only spoken to twice on the telephone.

The editor who had the power to decide whether he had a future career in this newspaper—or not.

This was definitely not the perfect start to his dream job that he had imagined!

Lowering his cup onto a coaster, Sam assumed his very best bored and casual disinterested journalist’s face. His career depended on this man’s decision.

‘Do you mean Amber DuBois? English concert pianist. Blonde. Leggy. Popular with the top fashion designers, who like her to wear their gowns at performances.’ He shrugged at the newspaper editor and new boss who was staring at him so intently. ‘I think she was the face of some cosmetic company a few years ago. And I would hardly call Los Angeles the wilderness.’

Frank slid a magazine across the desk. ‘Make that the biggest cosmetic company in Asia and you are getting close. But you seem to have missed something out. Have a look at this.’

Sam took his time before picking it up and instantly recognised it as the latest colour supplement from their main competitor’s weekly entertainment section. And any confusion he might have had about Frank’s question vanished into the stiflingly hot air of the prized corner office.

The cover ran a full colour half page photograph of Amber ‘Bambi’ DuBois in a flowing azure dress with a jewel-encrusted tiny strapless bodice.

The shy, gangly teenage girl he had once known was gone—and in her place was a beautiful, elegant woman who was not just in control but revelling in her talent.

Amber was sitting at a black grand piano with one long, slender, silky leg stretched out to display a jewelled high heeled sandal and Sam was so transfixed by how stunning she looked that it took him a microsecond to realise that his new boss was tapping the headline with the chewed end of his ballpoint pen.

International Concert Pianist Amber DuBois Shocks the Classical Music World by Announcing her Retirement at 28. But the Question on Everyone’s Lips is: Why? What Next for ‘Bambi’ DuBois?

Sam looked up at his editor and raised his eyebrows just as Frank leant across the desk and slapped one heavy hand down firmly onto the cover so that his fingers were splayed out over Amber’s chest.

‘I smell a story. There has to be some very good reason why a professional musician like Amber DuBois suddenly announces her retirement out of the blue when she is at the top of her game.’

Frank aimed a finger at Sam’s chest and fired. ‘The rumour is that our Amber is jumping on the celebrity bandwagon of adopting a vanity charity project in India to spend her money on, but her agent is refusing to comment. As far as I am concerned, this is a ruse to get the orchestras begging her to come back with a solid platinum hello. And I want this paper to get in there first with the real story.’

Frank sat back in his wide leather chair and folded his arms.

‘More to the point—I want you to go out there and bring back an exclusive interview with the lovely Miss DuBois. You can consider this your first assignment.’

Then Frank shrugged. ‘You can thank me for the opportunity later.’

The words stayed frozen in the air as though trapped inside an iceberg large enough to sink his new job in one deadly head-on collision.

Thank him?

For a fraction of a second Sam wondered if this was some sort of joke. A bizarre initiation ceremony into the world of the London office of GlobalStar Media, and there was a secret camera hidden in the framed magazine covers behind Frank’s head which were recording just how he was reacting to the offer of this amazing opportunity.

Sam flexed out the fingers of both hands so that he wouldn’t scrunch up the magazine and toss it back to Frank with a few choice words about what he thought of his little joke, while his normally sharp brain worked through a few options to create a decent enough excuse as to why Frank should find another journalist for this particular gig.

Sam inhaled slowly as each syllable sank in. It had taken him three months to arrange a transfer from the Los Angeles office of the media giant he had given his life to for the past ten years. He had worked himself up from being the post room boy and sacrificed relationships and anything close to a social life to reach this point in his career.

This was more than just a jump on the promotion ladder; this was the job he had been dreaming about since he was a teenager. The only job that he had ever wanted. Ever. No way was he going to be diverted from that editor’s chair. Not now, not when he had come so far.

Sam blinked twice. ‘Sorry, Frank, but can you say that again? Because I think I must have misheard. I’ve just spent the last ten years working my way from New York to Los Angeles on the back of celebrity interviews. I applied to be an investigative journalist not a gossip columnist.’

Frank replied with a dismissive snort and he bit off a laugh. ‘Do you know what pays for this shiny office we are sitting in, Sam? Magazine sales. And the public love celebrity stories, especially when it concerns a girl with the looks of Amber DuBois. It’s all over the Internet this morning that orchestras have been lining up and offering her huge bonuses to come and work for them for one last season before she retires. And then there is her publicity machine. The girl is a genius.’

He raised one hand into the air and gave Sam a Vee sign. ‘She has only ever been seen with two dates in the last ten years. Two. And not your boring classical musician—oh, no, our girl Amber likes top action men. First there was the Italian racing car driver who she cheered on to be World Champion, then that Scottish mountaineer. Climbing Everest for charity. With the lovely Amber at Base Camp waving him farewell with a tear in her eye. She is the modelling musical sweetheart and her fans love her—and now this.’

The pen went back to some serious tapping. ‘Think of it as your first celebrity interview for the London office. Who knows? This could be the last fluff piece you ever write. Use some of that famous charm I’ve been hearing about—the lovely Miss DuBois will be putty in your hands.’

His hands? Sam’s fingers stretched out over his knees. Instantly his mind starting wheeling through the possibility that someone had tipped off this shark of an editor that ten years ago those same hands had known every intimate detail about Amber ‘Bambi’ DuBois. Her hopes, her dreams, the fact that she always asked for extra anchovies on her pizza and had a sensitive spot at one side of her neck that could melt her in seconds. The way her long slender legs felt under his fingertips. Oh, yes, Sam Richards knew a lot more about Amber DuBois than he was prepared to tell anyone.

This job was going to make or break his career, but he had promised himself on the night they’d parted that, no matter how desperate he was for money or fame, he would never tell Amber’s story. It was too personal and private. And he had kept that promise, despite the temptation—but the world he worked in did not see it that way.

Sam had seen more than one popular musician or actor pull celebrity stunts to get the attention of the media, and he had learnt his craft by writing about their petty dramas and desperate need for attention, but Amber had never been one of them. She didn’t need to. She had the talent to succeed on her own, as well as a body and a face the camera loved.

Frank shuffled in his chair. Impatient for his reply.

Sam took one look into those clever, scheming eyes and the sinking feeling that had been in the bottom of his stomach since he had walked into the impressive office building that morning turned into a gaping cavern.

He was just about to be stitched up.

What could he do? He did not have the authority to walk into a new office and demand the best jobs as though they owed him a future. Just the opposite. But Frank might have waited until his second day as the new boy.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Frank. But I was looking forward to getting started on that investigation into Eurozone political funding we talked about. Has it fallen through?’

Frank reached into his desk drawer and handed Sam a folder of documents.

‘Far from it. Everything we have seen so far screams corruption at every level from the bottom up. Take a look. The research team have already lined up a series of interviews with insiders across Europe. And it’s all there, waiting for someone to turn over the stones and see what is crawling underneath.’

Sam scan read the first few pages of notes and background information for the interviews and kept reading, his mind racing with options on how he could craft a series of articles from the one investigation. And the more he read, the faster his heart raced.

This was it. This was the perfect piece of financial journalism that would set him up as a serious journalist on the paper and win him the editor’s job he had sacrificed a lot to achieve. And it had to be the London office. Not Los Angeles or New York. London.

‘Does your dad still have that limo service in Knightsbridge? We’ve used them a couple of times. Great cars. Your dad might get a kick out of seeing your name on the front page.’

Might? His dad would love it.

His father had sacrificed everything for him after his mother left them. He had been a single parent to a sullen and fiercely angry teenager who was struggling to find his way against the odds. Driven by the burning ambition to show the world that he was capable of being more than a limo driver like his dad.

Sam Richards had made his father’s life hell for so many years. And yet his dad had stuck by him every step of the way without expecting a word of thanks.

And now it was payback time.

This promotion to the GlobalStar London office was a first step to make up for years of missed telephone calls and flying Christmas visits.

Shame that his shiny new career was just about to hit an iceberg called Amber DuBois.

Aware that Frank was watching him with his arms crossed and knew exactly how tempting this piece was, Sam closed the folder and slid it back across the desk. This was no time to be coy.

‘Actually, he sold the limo business a few years back to go into property. But you’re right. He would be pleased. So how do I make that happen, Frank? What do I have to do to get this assignment?’

‘Simple. You have built up quite a reputation for yourself as a hard worker in the Los Angeles office. And now you want an editor’s desk. I understand that. Ten years on the front line is a long time, but I cannot just give you a golden story like this when I have a team of hungry reporters sitting outside this office who would love to make their mark on it. All I am asking you to do is show me that you are as good as they say you are.’

Frank slid the dossier back into his desk drawer. ‘If you want the editor’s desk, you are going to have to come back with an exclusive interview from the lovely Amber. Feature length. Oh—and you have two weeks to do it. We can’t risk someone else breaking Amber’s story before we do. Do we understand each other? Excellent, I look forward to reading your exposé.’

Sam rose to shake hands and Frank’s fingers squeezed hard and stayed clamped shut. ‘And Sam. One more thing. The truth about “Bambi’s Bollywood Babies” had better be amazing or you will be back to the bottom of the ladder all over again, interviewing TV soap stars about their leg-waxing regime.’

He released Sam with a nod. ‘You can take the magazine. Have fun.’

Sam closed the door to Frank’s office behind him and stood in silence on the ocean of grey plastic industrial carpet in the open-plan office, looking out over rows of cubicles. He had become used to the cacophony of noise and voices and telephones that was part of working in newspaper offices just like this, no matter what city he happened to be in that day. If anything, it helped to block out the alarm sirens that were sounding inside his head.

This was the very office block that he used to walk and cycle past every day on his way to school. He remembered looking up at the glass-fronted building and dreaming about what it must be like to be a top reporter working in a place like this. Writing important articles in the newspapers that men like his dad’s clients read religiously in the back seat of the limo.

The weird thing was—from the very first moment that he had told his dad that he wanted to be a journalist on this paper, his dad had worked all of the extra hours and midnight airport runs, week after week, month after month, to make that possible. He had never once doubted that he would do it. Not once.

And now he was here. He had done it.

The one thing he had never imagined was that his first assignment in his dream job would mean working with Amber.

Sam glanced at the magazine cover in his hand. And reflected back at him was the lovely face of the one woman in the world who was guaranteed to set the dogs on him the minute he even tried to get within shouting distance.

And in his case he deserved it. The nineteen-year-old Sam Richards had given Amber DuBois very good reason to never want to talk to him again.

He might have given Amber her first kiss—but he had broken her heart just as fast.

Now all he had to do was persuade her to overlook the past, forgive and forget and reveal her deep innermost secrets for the benefit of the magazine-reading public.

Fun might not be the ideal word to describe how he was feeling.

But it had to be done. There was no going back to Los Angeles. For better or worse, he had burnt those bridges. He needed this job. But more than that—he wanted it. He had worked hard to be standing on this piece of carpet, looking out, instead of standing outside on the pavement, looking in.

He owed it to his dad, who had believed in him when nobody else had, even after years of making his dad’s life a misery. And he owed it to himself. He wasn’t the second class chauffeur’s son any longer.

He had to get that interview with Amber.

No matter how much grovelling was involved.

THREE

‘And you are quite sure about that? No interviews at all? And you did tell Miss DuBois who was calling? Yes. Yes I understand. Thank you. I’ll be sure to check her website for future news.’

Sam flicked down the cover on his cellphone and tapped the offending instrument against his forehead before popping it into his pocket.

Her website? When did a professional talent agency direct a journalist to a website? No, it was more than that. His name was probably on some blacklist Amber had passed to her agent with instructions that she would not speak to him under any circumstances.

He needed to think this through and come up with a plan—and fast.

Sam wrapped the special polishing cloth around his fist and started rubbing the fine polish onto the already glossy paintwork on the back wheel arch of his dad’s pride and joy. The convertible vintage English sports car had been one of the few cars that his dad had saved when he had to sell the classic car showroom as part of the divorce from Sam’s mother.

It had taken Sam and his dad three years to restore the sports car back to the original pristine condition that it was still today. Three years of working evenings after school and the occasional Sunday when his dad was not driving limos for other people to enjoy.

Three years of pouring their pain and bitterness about Sam’s mother into hard physical work and sweat, as though creating something solid and physical would somehow make up for the fact that she had left Sam with his dad and gone off to make a new life for herself with her rich boyfriend. A life funded by the sale of his dad’s business and most of their savings.

But they had done it. Together. Even though Sam had resented every single second of the work they did on this car. Resented it so much that he could cheerfully have pushed it outside onto the street, set it on fire and delighted in watching it burn. Like his dreams had burnt the day his mother left.

In another place, with another father and another home, Sam might have taken his burning fury out in a sports field or with his fists in a boxing ring or even on the streets in this part of London.

Instead, he had directed all of his teenage frustration and anger and bitterness at his father.

He had been so furious with his dad for not changing jobs like his mother had wanted him to.

Furious for not running after her and begging her to come back and be with them—like he had done that morning when he came down for breakfast early and saw her going out of the front door with her suitcases. He had followed that taxi cab for three streets before his legs gave way.

She had never even looked back at him. Not once.

And it was all his dad’s fault. The arguments. The fights. They were all his fault. He must have done something terrible to make her leave.

Sam’s gaze flicked up at the thin partition wall that separated the cab office from the workshop. Just next to the door was a jagged hole in the plaster sheet the size of a teenage fist.

Sam’s fist.

It was the closest he had ever come to lashing out at his dad physically.

The screaming and the shouting and the silent stomping about the house had no effect on this broken man, who carried on working as though nothing had happened. As though their lives had not been destroyed. And to the boy he was then, it was more than just frustrating—it was a spark under a keg of gunpowder.

They’d survived three long, hard years before Sam had taken off to America.

And along the way Sam had learnt the life lessons that he still carried in his heart. He had learnt that love everlasting, marriage and family were outdated ideas which only wrecked people’s lives and caused lifelong damage to any children who got caught up in the mess.

He had seen it first-hand with his own parents, and with the parents of his friends like Amber and the girls she knew. Not one of them came from happy homes.

The countless broken marriages and relationships of journalists and the celebrities he had met over the years had only made his belief stronger, not less.

He would be a fool to get trapped in the cage that was marriage. And in the meantime he would take his time enjoying the company of the lovely ladies who were attracted to luxury motors like free chocolate and champagne, and that suited him just fine.

No permanent relationships.

No children to become casualties when the battle started.

Other men had wives and children, and he wished them well.

Not for him. The last thing he wanted was children.

Pity that his last girlfriend in Los Angeles had refused to believe that he had no intention of inviting her to move into his apartment and was already booking wedding planners before she realised that he meant what he said—he cared about Alice but he had absolutely no intention of walking down an aisle to the tune of wedding bells any time soon. If ever.

No. Sam had no problem with using his charm and good looks to persuade reluctant celebrities to talk to him—and he was good at it. Good enough to have made his living out of those little chats and cosy drinks.

But when it came to trust? Ah. Different matter altogether.

He placed his trust in metal and motor engineering and electronics. Smooth bodywork over a solid, beautiful engine designed by some of the finest engineers in the world. People could and would let you down for no reason, but not motors. Motors were something he could control and rely on.

He trusted his father and his deep-seated sense of integrity and silent resolve never to bad-mouth Sam’s mother, even when times had been tough for both of them. And they had been tough, there was no doubt about that.

But there had always been one constant in his life. His dad had never doubted that he would pass the exams and go to university and make his dream of becoming a journalist come true.

Unlike his mother. The last conversation that they ever had was burned into his memory like a deep brand that time and experience would never be able to erase.

What had she called him? Oh, yes. His own mother had called him a useless dreamer who would never amount to anything and would end up driving other people around for a living, just like his father.

Well, he had proven her wrong on every count, and this editor’s job was the final step on a long and arduous journey that began the day she left them.

It was time to show his dad that he had been right to keep faith in him and put up with the anger. Time to show him that he was grateful for everything he had done for him.

All of which screamed out one single message.

He needed that interview with Amber. He knew that she was in London—and he knew where her friends lived. He had to persuade her to talk to him, no matter what it took, even if it meant tracking her down and stalking her. He had come too far to let anything stand in his way now.

Amber DuBois. The girl he left behind.

His hands stilled and he stepped back from the car and grabbed a chilled bottle of water from the mini-fridge in the corner of the workshop and then pressed the chilled bottle against the back of his neck to try and cool down. Time to get creative. Time to...

The bell over the back door rang. Odd. His dad didn’t like customers coming to the garage. This was his private space and always had been. No clients allowed.

Sam turned down the radio to a normal level and was just wiping his hands on a paper towel when the workshop’s wooden door swung open.

And Amber ‘legs up to her armpits’ Bambi DuBois drifted into his garage as though she was floating on air.

* * *

He looked up and tried to speak, but the air in his lungs was too frozen in shock. So he squared his shoulders and took a moment to enjoy the view instead.

Amber was wearing a knee length floral summer dress in shades of pastel pink and soft green which moved as she walked, sliding over her slim hips as though the slippery fabric was alive or liquid.

Sam felt as though a mobile oasis of light and summer and positive energy had just floated in on the breeze into the dim and dingy old garage his dad refused to paint. The dark shadows and recesses where the old tins of oil and catalogues were stored only seemed to make the brightness of this woman even more pronounced.

She took a few steps closer, her left hand still inside the heart-shaped pocket of her dress and he felt like stepping backwards so that they could keep that distance.

This was totally ludicrous. After all, this was his space and she was his visitor.

His beautiful, talented, ridiculously lovely visitor who looked as though she had just stepped out from a cover shoot for a fashion magazine.

She was sunlight in his darkness—just the same as she had always been, and seeing her again like this reinforced just how much he had missed her and never had the courage to admit it.

Amber looked at him with the faintest of polite smiles and slipped her sunglasses higher onto her nose with one fingertip.

‘This place has not changed one bit,’ she whispered in a voice what was as soft and musical and gentle and lovely as he had remembered. A voice which still had the power to make his blood sing.

Then she glanced across at the car. ‘You even have the same sports car. That’s amazing.’

Sam had often wondered how Amber would turn out. Not that he could avoid seeing her name. Her face was plastered on billboards and the sides of buses from California to London. But that was not the real Amber. He knew that only too well from working in the media business.

No. This was the real Amber. This beautiful girl who was running the manicured fingertips of her left hand along the leather seat of the sports car he had just polished.

Maybe she had decided to forgive him for the way they had parted.

‘My dad kept it.’ He shrugged. ‘One of a kind.’

Amber paused and she sighed. ‘The last time I saw this car was the night of my eighteenth birthday party and you were sitting in the front seat with your tongue down the throat of my so called friend Petra. About twenty minutes after you had declared your undying love for me.’

She gave a strangled chuckle. ‘Oh, yes, I remember this car very well indeed. Shame that the driver was not quite as classy.’

Or maybe she hadn’t.

Sam pushed his hand down firmly on the workbench behind him.

So. Here we go. In her eyes he was still the chauffeur’s son who had dared to date the rich client’s daughter. And then kissed her best friend.

Goodbye editor’s desk.

Time to start work and turn on the charm before she chopped him into small pieces and barbecued him on the car’s exhaust pipe.

‘Hello, Amber. How very nice to see you again.’ He smiled and stepped forward to kiss her on the cheek but, before he got there, Amber flipped up her sunglasses onto the top of her head and looked at him with those famous violet-blue eyes which cut straight through any delusion that this was a social call.

Her eyes might have sold millions of tubes of eye make-up, but close up, with the light behind her, the iridescent violet-blue he remembered was mixed with every shade from cobalt to navy. And, just for him today...blue ice.

The contrast between the violet of her eyes and her straight blonde hair which fell perfectly onto her shoulders only seemed to highlight the intensity of her gaze. The cosmetic company might have chosen her for her peaches and cream ultra-clear complexion, but it had always been those magical blue eyes that Sam found totally irresistible. Throw in a pair of perfect sweet soft pink lips and he had been done for from the first time he had seen her stepping out of his dad’s limo with her diva mother screaming out orders from behind her back.

She didn’t seem to know what to do with her long legs, her head was down and she peered at him through a curtain of long blonde hair before brushing it away and blasting his world with one look.

Now she was standing almost as tall as he was and looking him straight in the eyes. The smile on her lips had not reached her eyes and Sam had to fight past the awkwardness of the intensity of her gaze.

‘My agent mentioned that you were back in town. I thought I might pop in to say hello. Hope you don’t mind.’

Her gaze shifted from the casual trainers he had found stuffed in the bottom of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom, faded blue jeans and the scraggy, oil-stained T-shirt he kept for garage work. ‘I can see that your fashion sense hasn’t changed very much. Shame, really. I was hoping for some improvement.’

Sam glanced down at his jeans and flicked the polishing cloth against his thigh. ‘Oh, this little old outfit? Don’t you just hate it when all of your chiffon is at the dry cleaner’s and you can’t find a thing to wear?’ He crossed his arms. ‘And no, Amber, I don’t mind you popping in at all, especially since my editor has been harassing your agent for weeks to arrange an interview. He will be delighted to hear that you turned up out of the blue, expecting me to be here.’

Amber floated forward so that Sam inhaled a rich, sweet floral scent which was almost as intoxicating as the woman who was wearing it.

A whirlwind of memories slammed home. Long summer days walking through the streets of London as he memorised routes and names and places for the limo business. Hand in hand, chatting, laughing and enjoying each other’s company as they shared secrets about themselves that nobody else knew. Amber had been his best friend for so long, he hadn’t even realised how much she had come to mean to him until they were ripped apart.

‘Don’t flatter yourself. May I sit?’

Sam gestured to the hard wooden chair his dad used at the makeshift desk in the corner. ‘It may not be quite what you’re used to, but please.’

She nodded him a thanks and lowered herself gracefully onto the chair and turned it around so that she was facing him.

Sam shook his head. ‘You are full of surprises, Amber DuBois. I thought that it would take a very exclusive restaurant in the city to tempt you to come out of your lair long enough to give me an interview.’

Her reply was to lift her flawless chin and cross her legs. Sam took in a flash of long tanned legs ending in peep toe low wedge sandals made out of plaited strips of straw and transparent plastic. Her toenails were painted in the same pale pink as her nails, which perfectly matched her lipstick and the colour motif in her dress.

She was class, elegance and designer luxury and for a fraction of a second he wanted nothing better than to pick her tiny slim body up and lay it along the bonnet of the car and find out for himself whether her skin felt the same under his fingertips.

‘What makes you think that I am here to give you an interview?’ she replied with a certain hardness in her voice which plunged him back into the cold waters of the real world. ‘Perhaps I am here to congratulate you on your engagement? Has your fiancée come with you from Los Angeles and my wedding invitation is in the post? I can see that you would want to give me heads-up on that.’

He reeled back. ‘My what?’

‘Oh—didn’t you announce your engagement in the Los Angeles press? Or is there another Samuel Patrick Richards, investigative reporter and photojournalist of London, walking the streets of that lovely town?’

Sam sucked in a breath then shrugged. ‘That was a misunderstanding. My girlfriend at the time was getting a little impatient and decided to organise a wedding without asking me first. Apparently she forgot that anything to do with weddings brings me out in a nasty rash. It’s a long-standing allergy but I have learnt to live with it. So you can save your congratulations for another time.’

Amber inhaled very slowly before speaking again. ‘Well, it seems that this garage is not the only thing that hasn’t changed, is it, Sam? You do seem to make a habit out of running out on girls. Maybe we should all get together and form a support group.’

She raised both of her arms and wrote in the air. ‘“Girls Sam Richards has dumped and ran out on.” We could have our own blog. What? What is it?’

Sam crossed the few steps which separated them and gently tugged at her cardigan. ‘Your arm is in plaster. Hell, Bambi, what happened? I mean, you have to play the piano...’

She pulled her cardigan over the plaster, but lifted her left arm across her chest.

‘I broke my wrist a few weeks ago and I’m officially on medical leave. And that is strictly off the record. My career is fine, thank you. In fact, I am enjoying the holiday. It is very restorative.’

Sam shook his head. ‘Must make your daily practice interesting...but are you okay? I mean there won’t be any lasting damage?’

She parted her lips and took a breath before answering, and for some reason Sam got the idea that she was about to tell him something then changed her mind at the very last minute. ‘Clean break, no problem. The exercises are working well and I should be as good as new in a few months.’

‘Glad to hear it. This brings us right back to my original question. What are you doing here?’

He stepped forward and stood in front of her, with one hand on each arm of his dad’s old wooden chair, her legs now stretched out in front of her and trapped between his. He was so close that he could feel her fast breath on his cheek and see the pulse of her heart in her throat.

Her mouth narrowed and this time it did connect with the hard look in her eyes.

But, instead of backing away, Amber bent forward from the waist, challenging him, those blue eyes flashing with something he had never seen before. And when she spoke her voice was as gentle and soft as a feather duvet. And just as tempting.

‘Okay. It goes like this. I understand that you want to interview me in the light of my recent press release concerning my retirement. I’m curious about what it is that you think you can offer me which is so special that I would want to talk to you instead of all the other journalists who are knocking at my door. You have never been the shy or modest type, so it must be something rather remarkable.’

‘Absolutely. Remember that dream I used to talk about? The one where I am a big, important investigative journalist working at that broadsheet newspaper my dad still reads every day? Well, it turns out that to win the editor’s desk I have to deliver one final celebrity interview.’ Sam pointed at Amber with two fingers pressed tight together and fired his thumb like a pistol trigger.

Amber nodded. ‘I thought it might be something like that.’ Her eyebrows went skywards. ‘I take it your editor doesn’t know about our teenage fling?’

‘Fling? Is that what you call it? No. He certainly doesn’t, or he would have sent me to your last known address with a bunch of supermarket flowers and a box of chocolates as soon as I walked into his office. No. That part of my life is filed under “private”. Okay?’

She gave him a closed mouth smile. ‘Why? I know you must have been tempted. I can see the headline now. “The real truth about how I broke Amber Du Bois’ heart”? Yes, there are plenty of television reality shows who would love to have you on their list. I could hardly sue, could I?’

‘I suppose not, but let’s just say that I was saving that for a financial emergency. Okay?’

‘An emergency? You were saving me to get you out of some money crisis? I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Or both. I’m not sure I like being compared to a stash of used notes which you keep under the mattress.’

‘Oh—is that where you keep yours? I prefer banks myself. Much more secure.’

Her eyes narrowed and she licked her lower lip as though she was trying to decide about something important.

He could remember the first time he’d kissed those lips. They had just come out of a pizza restaurant and got caught in a heavy rain shower. He had pulled her under the shelter of his coat, his arm around her waist and, just as they got to the car, laughing and yelling as the rain bounced off the pavement around them, she had turned towards him to thank him and her stunning face was only inches away from his. And he couldn’t resist any longer. And he had kissed her. Warm lips, scented skin, alive and pungent in the rain, and the feeling of her breath on his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder for a fleeting second before diving into the warm, dry car.

Not one word, but as he’d raced back to the driver’s door, there was only one thing on his mind.

She was the passenger and he was the driver. Her chauffeur. The hired help. And that was the way it was always going to be. Unless he did something to change it.

Which was precisely what he had done.

Except to Amber he would always be the rough diamond she broke her teeth on. Girls like this did not date the help.

Sam stepped back and chuckled as he tidied away the polishing kit.

‘Relax, Amber. It takes a lot of hard work to become a journalist in today’s newspaper business. I earned this new job in the London office. Besides, I don’t need to trawl through my past history to score points with my editor. Frank Evans is far more interested in what you are doing in your life right now. Not many people retire at twenty-eight. That’s bound to cause some interest.’

‘And what about you, Sam? Are you interested in what I am doing in my life right now?’

He looked up into her face, which was suddenly calm, her gaze locked on him.

Was he interested? A wave of confusion and a hot, sweaty mixture of bittersweet memories surged through Sam. His breathing was hot and fast and for a fraction of a second he was very tempted to lean back and give her the full-on charm offensive and find out just what kind of woman Amber had become by being up close and personal—and nothing to do with his job.

Fool. Eyes on the prize.

‘The only thing I am interested in is the promotion to the job I have been working towards for ten long years in the trenches. Sorry if that disappoints you, but there it is.’

‘Ah—so your editor needs a story and you thought you could use our teenage connection to wangle the real truth from my lips. Tut, tut. What shameful tactics. And if I even hear the words “for old times’ sake”, I promise that I will pretend to cry my eyes out and sob all the way home to my good friend Saskia’s house and my girl gang will be round with my legal team in an hour. And I will do it. Believe me.’

‘Oh—cruel and unnecessary. I think I just cut myself on your need for revenge. Well, think again, because I have no intention on wandering down memory lane if I can avoid it.’

Just for a second her lips trembled and the vulnerability and tender emotion of the girl he used to know was there in front of him but, before he could explain, her lips flushed pink and she chuckled softly before answering.

‘I’m pleased to hear it, because I have something of a business proposition to put to you. And it will make things a lot simpler if we can keep our relationship on a purely professional basis.’

‘A business proposition? Well, there’s a change. The last time we met your stepbrother and your mother were doing a fine job running your life. As I remember, you didn’t have much of a business sense of your own back then.’

And the moment the words were out of his mouth Sam regretted them.

How did she do that?

He made his living out of talking to celebrities and teasing out their stories with charm and professionalism, but one look at Amber and he slotted right back into being an angsty teen showing off and saying ridiculous things. Trying to impress the girl he wanted.

Yes, Amber’s mother had been furious when she found out that her musical prodigy of a daughter was sneaking out to see the chauffeur’s son, but he didn’t have to listen when she told him how a boy like him was going to hold her daughter back and ruin her career.

He was the one who’d taken the cheque Amber’s mother had waved in front of him.

He was the one who’d marched out of Amber’s eighteenth birthday party alone, only to find a warm and receptive Petra waiting for him in the car park.

Maybe that was why it still smarted after all of these years? Because the young Sam had fallen for her mother’s lies, just as she had planned he should. Because she’d been right. What hope did Amber have if she was trapped with a no-hoper like Sam Richards?

It did not excuse what he’d done. But at least her mother cared about what happened to her child. Unlike his mother.

Amber’s head tilted to one side and she peered around his side to focus on the sports car that he had just been polishing before answering in the sweetest voice, ‘Well, some of us have moved on in the last ten years.’

The silence between them was as rigid as steel and just as icy.

Then Amber shuffled forwards in his dad’s chair and raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you know what? I have changed my mind. Perhaps it was a mistake coming here after all. Best of luck with the new job and please say hello to your dad for me. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the features editor at another newspaper in about an hour and I would hate to be late.’

She pushed herself to her feet and waved a couple of fingers in the air. ‘See you around, Sam.’

And, without hesitating or looking back, Amber strolled towards the garage door on her wedge sandals, the skirt of her floaty dress waving back and forth over her perfect derrière as she headed out of his life, taking any chance of a career in London with her.

FOUR

‘Aren’t you going to ask me what it feels like to finally work in that shiny glass office I used to drag you down to ogle every week?’ Sam called after her. ‘I would hate for you to stay awake at night wondering how I’m coping with being a real life reporter in the big city. Come on, Amber. Have you forgotten all those afternoons you spent listening to my grand plans to be a renowned journalist one day? I know that you’re curious. Give me another five minutes to convince you to choose me instead of some other journalist to write your story.’

Amber slowed and looked back at Sam over one shoulder.

And her treacherous teenage heart skipped a beat and started disco dancing just at the sight of him.

Just for an instant the sound of her name on his lips took her right back to being seventeen again, when the highlight of her whole day, the moment she had dreamt about all night and thought about every second of the day, was hearing his voice and seeing Sam’s face again. Even if it did mean sitting in the back of the limo and in dressing rooms around the country as her mother’s unpaid assistant and general concert slave for hours on end.

It was worth it when Sam took her out for a pizza or a cola for the duration of the concert she had heard so many times she could play it herself note perfect.

She had adored him.

He had not changed that much. A little heavier around the shoulders and the waistline, perhaps, but not much. His smile had more laughter lines now and his boyish good looks had mellowed through handsome into something close to gorgeous. She was sorry to have missed the merely handsome stage. But, if she closed her eyes, his voice was the same boy she used to know.

And the charm? Oh, Lord, he had ramped up the charm to a level where she had no doubt that any female celebrity would be powerless to resist any question he put to them.

Sam had always had a physical presence that could reach out and grab her—no change there, but she had not expected to feel such a connection. Memories of the last time she came to this very garage flooded back. His ready laughter and constant good-natured teasing about watching that she didn’t knock her head on the light fittings. The nudges, the touches, the kisses.

Until he betrayed her with one of her best friends on her eighteenth birthday. And the memories of the train wreck of the weeks that followed blotted out any happiness she might have had.

Amber turned back to face Sam and planted her left hand on her hip.

‘Perhaps I am worried about all of those hidden tape recorders and video feeds which are capturing my every syllable at this very moment?’

He smiled one of those wide mouth, white teeth smiles and, in her weakened pre-dinner state, Amber had to stifle a groan. What was wrong with the man? Didn’t Sam know that the only respectable thing for him to do was to have grown fat and ruined his teeth with sugary food? He had always been sexy and attractive in a rough-edged casual way, as relaxed in his body as she had been uncomfortable in her tall gangly skin. But the years had added the character lines to his face, which glowed with vitality and rugged health. Confidence and self-assurance were the best assets any man could have and Sam had them to spare.

‘In this garage? No. You can say what you like. It’s just between us. Same as it ever was.’

The breath caught in Amber’s throat. Oh, Sam. Trust you to say exactly the wrong thing.

She flicked her hair back one-handed and covered up the bitter taste of so much disappointment with a dismissive choke. He must be desperate to go to such lengths for this interview. She had no idea how much journalists earned, but surely he didn’t need the job that much?

Drat her curiosity.

Of course she remembered the way he used to talk about how he was going to work his way through journalism school at all of the top London newspapers and be the star investigative journalist. His name would be on the front page of the big broadsheet newspapers that his dad read in the car as he waited for his clients to finish their meetings or fancy events.

Maybe that was it?

Maybe he was still hungry for the success that had eluded him. And this interview would take him up another rung in that long and rickety ladder to the front page.

She was a celebrity that he wanted to interview for his paper to win the extra points he needed for the big prize. And the bigger the story the more gold stars went onto his score sheet.

And that was all. Nothing personal. He had walked—no, he had run away from her at the first opportunity to make his precious dream of becoming a professional journalist a reality.

She did not owe him a thing.

‘Same as it ever was? In your dreams,’ she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear. ‘That editor of yours must really be putting the pressure on if you’re resorting to that line.’

Sam shrugged off her jibe but looked away and pretended to tidy up the toolbox on the bench for a second before his gaze snapped back onto her face.

‘What can I say? Unlike some people, I need the job.’ Then he laughed out loud. ‘You always had style, Amber, but retiring at twenty-eight? That takes a different kind of chutzpah. I admire that.’

He stepped forward towards her and nodded towards her arm, his eyes narrowed and his jaw loose. ‘Is it your wrist? I know you said that it was a clean break, but...’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It’s nothing to do with my wrist.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Then how about the other rumours? A lot of people think that you are using this announcement to start a kind of bidding war between rival orchestras around the world. Publicity stunts like this have been done before.’

‘Not by me. I won’t be making a comeback as a concert pianist. Or at least I don’t plan to.’

Amber swallowed down her unease, reluctant to let Sam see that she was still uncertain about where her life would take her.

She had made her decision to retire while recovering in hospital and she’d imagined that a simple press statement would be the easiest way to close out that part of her life. Her agent was not happy, of course—but he had other talent on his books and a steady income from her records and other contracts—she was still valuable to him.

But the hard implications were still there on the horizon, niggling at her.

Music had been her life for so long that just the thought of never performing in public again was so new that it still ruffled her. Playing the piano had been the one thing that she did well. The one and only way that she knew to earn her mother’s praise.

Of course Julia Swan would have loved her daughter to choose the violin and follow in her footsteps, but it soon became obvious that little Amber had no talent for any other instrument apart from the piano.

For a girl who was moving from one home to another, one school to another, one temporary stepdad to another, music had been one of the few constants in her life. Piano practice was the perfect excuse to avoid tedious evenings with her mother and whatever male friend or violin buff she was dating at the time.

The piano was her escape. Her refuge. It was where she could plough her love and devotion and all of the passion that was missing in her life with her bitter and demanding, needy and man-hunting mother.

So she had worked and worked, then worked harder to overcome her technical problems and excel. It was her outlet for the pain, the suppressed anger. All of it. And nobody knew just how much pain she was in.

Because there was one thing that her mother never understood—and still did not understand, even when she had tried to explain at the hospital. And then in the endless texts and emails and pleading late night phone calls begging her to reconsider and sometimes challenging her decision to retire.

Amber had always played for the joy in the music.

She was not an artist like her mother, who demanded validation and adoration. She just loved the music and wanted to immerse herself in the emotional power of it.

And Sam Richards was the only other person on this planet who had ever understood that without her having to explain it.

Until this moment she had thought that connection between them would fade with the years they had spent apart.

Wrong.

Sam was looking at her with that intense gaze that used to make her shiver with delight and anticipation of the time that they would spend together and, just for a second, her will faltered.

Maybe this was not such a good idea?

Getting her own back on Sam had seemed a perfectly logical thing to do back in the penthouse, but here in the garage which was as familiar as her own apartment, suddenly the whole idea seemed pathetic and insulting to both of them. She had made plenty of poor decisions over the past few years—surely she could forgive Sam the mistakes he had made as a teenager desperate to improve his life?

Amber opened her mouth and was just about to make an excuse when Sam tilted his head and rubbed his chin before asking, ‘I suppose this is about the money?’

And there it was. Like a slap across the face.

Her lower lip froze but she managed a thin smile. ‘Are you talking about the blood money you took from my mother to leave me alone and get out of London? To start your new career, of course.’

His mouth twisted and faltered. ‘Actually, I was thinking more about the generous donation the paper will be contributing to your favourite charity. Although I should imagine that we are not the only ones to offer you something for your time. Not that you need the money, of course. Or the publicity.’

‘You don’t think that I need publicity?’

‘Come on, Amber, your face was on billboards and the sides of buses, your last CD went into the top ten classical music charts and you have set new records for the number of followers you have on the social media sites. Publicity is not your problem.’

‘It goes with the job—I am in showbiz. Correction. Was in showbiz. That doesn’t interest me any longer.’

‘Okay then. So why are you even talking to me about doing an interview? Seeing as you don’t need the publicity.’

‘Logistics. I thought that the press would get bored after a couple of weeks and move onto the next musician. Wrong! I was almost mobbed outside the record company this morning. So it makes sense to do one comprehensive interview and get it over with.’

She waved one hand in the air. ‘One interview. One journalist.’

Sam shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, his casual smile replaced by unease.

‘Wait a minute. Are you offering me an exclusive?’ he asked. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘Oh, how suspicious you are. Well. As it happens, I might be willing to give you that interview.’ She cleared her throat and tilted her head, well aware that she had his full attention. ‘But there are a few conditions we need to agree on before I talk on the record.’

‘Conditions. This sounds like the catch part.’

‘I prefer to think of them as more of a trade. You do something for me, I do something for you. And, from what I have seen so far, you might find some of them rather challenging. Still interested?’

‘Ah. Now we have it. You know you have the upper hand so you decided to come down here to gloat?’

‘Gloat? Do you really think I would do that?’ she repeated, her words catching at the back of her throat. Was that how he thought of her? As some spoiled girl who had come to impress him with her list of achievements?

‘I haven’t changed that much, Sam. We’ve both done what we set out to do. You need an interview and I have a few things I need doing which you might be able to help me with. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Simple? Nothing about you was ever simple, Amber.’

Sam leaned back against the workbench and stretched out his long arms either side of him so that his biceps strained against the fabric of his T-shirt across his chest and arms. The sinewy boy she had known had been replaced by a man who knew his power and had no problem using it to get his way.

And the tingle of that intense gaze sent the old shivers down the back of her legs and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop them. Her heart started thumping and she knew that her neck was already turning a lovely shade of bright red as his gaze scanned her face.

She could blame it on the hot May sunshine outside the garage door, but who was she trying to kid?

What had Kate said about Petra? That she had bedazzled Sam that night? Well, the Sam who was scanning her body was quite capable of doing his own bedazzling these days.

Sam had been the first boy who had ever given her the tingles and there had only been two other men in her life. All god-handsome, all rugged and driven and all as far removed from the world of music and orchestral performance venues as it was possible to imagine.

And every single one of them had swept her off her feet and into their world without giving her time to even think about what she was doing or whether the relationship had a chance. Little wonder that she had ended up alone and in tears, bewildered and bereft, wondering what had just happened and why.

But one thing was perfectly clear. Sam had been the first, and there was no way that she was going to go through that pain again, just to score a few points on the payback scoreboard.

Decision time.

If she was going to do this, she needed to do it now, and put the tingles down to past stupidity. Or she could turn around and run as fast as she could back to the penthouse and lock the door tight behind her. Just as her kind friends thought that she should. Just as she would have done only a few months earlier, before her life had changed.

‘I hadn’t planned to give any more interviews after the press release. That part of my life is over,’ she said, her chin tilted up. ‘But I have a few things you could help me with and you need this interview to impress your editor and make your mark in the London office. Am I getting warm?’

He shrugged and tried to look casual. But there was just that small twitch at the side of his mouth which he used to have when things were difficult at home and he didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Warm enough.’

‘Warm? If I was any hotter I would be on fire. If I go to another paper, you will be waiting on the pavement for movie stars to stagger out from showbiz parties wearing their underpants as hats.’

Sam’s hands gripped onto the bench so tightly that his knuckles started to turn white. ‘Ah. Now I am beginning to understand. You want to see me suffer.’

Amber winced and gave a small shoulder shrug. ‘You walked out on me and broke my heart. So yes, it would be a shame to miss the opportunity for some retribution. And I am not in the least bit ashamed.’ She took a breath. ‘But that was a long time ago, Sam. And I am keen to put that away in a box labelled “done and dusted”. I think this will help me do that.’

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