here I am. This is me proving that you can trust me to keep my word and do whatever it is you need me to do. Your personal slave is ready for action. So let’s get started.’
‘Oh, now don’t tempt me,’ Amber murmured under her breath, then she lifted her chin and peered at him through creased eyebrows. ‘You had better come into my bedroom.’
Sam blinked several times. ‘I am liking the sound of this already.’
She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘And I am regretting it already. Do not even try and flirt with me because it won’t work. Okay?’
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ Sam replied, then winced at the searing look she gave him. ‘Okay, I get the message. I am a snake who cannot be trusted. So. Let’s get this game of charades started. What is the first thing on that long list of yours?’
Amber pressed her forefinger to her full, soft pink lips and pretended to ponder.
‘You may have noticed that I am having a bit of a declutter at the moment.’
‘Declutter? Is that what you call it? I have to tell you that, despite reports to the contrary, my knowledge of female clothing is not as great as you might imagine. So if you are looking for fashion advice...’
Amber jabbed her finger towards the bedroom wall right in front of them, which was covered with a framed collection of artwork, portraits of Amber and old sheets of music manuscripts.
‘I need someone to take my pictures down so I can decorate. It is a bit tricky one-handed and some of them are quite valuable. I vaguely recall that you can handle a screwdriver. Think you can manage that?’
Sam stepped forward so that they were only inches apart.
‘Bambi, I can handle anything you throw at me.’
She took a step closer, startling him, but there was no way that he was going to let her know that.
‘Oh, this is only the start. I have a very, very long list.’
‘I expected nothing less.’
He turned to go back into the living room, and then looked back at Amber over one shoulder. ‘And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that you couldn’t wait to drag me into your bedroom the first chance you could get.’ He tapped one side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘It will be our little secret.’ And with that he strode away from Amber, leaving her wide-mouthed with annoyance, delighted that he had managed to squeeze in the last word.
Two hours later Sam had taken down the framed pictures from the walls of two bedrooms, a kitchen and a hallway, covered them in bubble wrap and packed them into plastic crates already stacked two high along the length of Amber’s hall, before starting on the living room.
The barrage of noise, telephone calls and visitors had slowly faded away as the morning went on so that by the time he had unscrewed the last of the huge oil paintings and modern art installations in the living room, he didn’t have to worry about stepping on Amber’s peep toe sandals as she worked around him, or accidentally brushing plaster dust onto some fabulous gown which had been casually thrown over a chair or garment rail.
It took superhuman effort but for most of that time he kept his eyes on the rawl plugs and loose plaster behind the pictures instead of the long, lean limbs of the lovely woman who brushed past him at regular intervals in the hallway, leaving a trail of scented air and a cunning giggle in her wake.
Decluttering? When he’d cleared out his furnished Los Angeles apartment, he had walked out with two suitcases and a laptop bag. The same way he had found it. All of his car magazines and photos were safely scanned and digitised. The rest had been recycled or passed on to his pals. He never had to go through this palaver.
Sam stood back and tilted his head to look at a pair of large oil paintings made up of small shapes inside larger shapes inside larger shapes which was starting to give him a headache.
And some of the picture frames had sticky notes on the front with the letter S written in purple marker pen. Purple, he snorted. What did that mean?
Right. Finish this little collection. Then it was time to go and find the lady and find out.
No need. Here she was, ambling towards him. Head down, a large garment bag over one shoulder and a cellphone pressed against her ear, oblivious to his presence.
From the corner of one eye he watched her flip the phone back into her pocket and pick up several scarves from the top of the piano. Then Amber paused and ran two fingertips along the surface of the keys without pressing them firmly enough to make music.
Only as he watched, her lovely face twisted into a picture of sadness and regret and pain that was almost unbearable for him to see.
He turned around to face her, but it was too late—the moment was lost as Amber suddenly realised that she was being observed. A bright smile wiped away the trauma that had been all there to see only a few seconds earlier, startling him with how quickly she could turn on her performance face, and she lowered the lid on the piano. ‘Plaster dust,’ she whispered. ‘Not a good idea.’
‘Don’t let me put you off playing,’ Sam quipped and gestured towards the piano with his screwdriver. ‘I brought my own earplugs in case you were holding a rehearsal session.’
‘Very funny, but your ears are safe. I am not playing today.’ She took a breath and raised her plaster cast towards him. ‘My wrist is hurting.’
Her chin lifted and she angled her head a little. ‘You can tell your lovely readers that I simply cannot tolerate second best. My standards are just as high as ever.’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Right. It’s just weird that you haven’t even tried to play. It used to be the other way around. I spent a lot of time trying to drag you away from the nearest keyboard.’
Sam looked into her face with a grin but her gaze was firmly fixed on the scarves in her bag.
‘That was a long time ago, Sam. People change.’ And with that she turned away and strolled back to her bedroom. In silence.
As he watched her slim hips sway away from him, every alarm bell in his journalist’s mind started ringing at the same time.
Music used to be the one thing that gave Amber joy. She used to call it her private escape route away from the chaos that was her mother’s life.
Well, it didn’t look like that now.
Something was not right here. And it was not just her wrist that was causing Amber pain.
And, damn it, but he cared more than he should.
* * *
Amber ran her fingers over the few dresses still left in her wardrobe and stifled a self-indulgent sniff. She had loved wearing those evening gowns which were now on their way to a shop specialising in pre-loved designer wear. But she had plenty of photos of the events to remind her what each dress had looked like if she wanted a walk down memory lane.
Which
