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 …

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