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
