Amber's Embrace (18 page)

“That’s what you
least
want.” The laughter in his azure orbs mocked her.

This time, she repeated her order more forcefully, accompanying it with a sharp but ineffective jab of her foot to his shin. “Let me go—I don’t want you!”

“No?” His arched brow chided her dishonesty. But she had come too far to retreat willingly. She had to make a break. It would simply be impossible to live with his “wants” and her values, simultaneously.

“No!”

“I think it’s time for your first lesson in reality, then…”

“Zacha—”

His name drowned in his mouth as it covered hers, his lips moist and compelling a response that she fought furiously. Wiggling madly to escape his embrace, she only managed to wedge herself more snugly against his manly lines as his arms tightened about her.

“No, Zachary, no…” she cried when he allowed her the chance to speak, then took advantage of her parted lips to plunder the recesses of her mouth with his tongue, drawing a deep shudder from her. As all shreds of reason fought his mastery, her body betrayed her. Her lips softened beneath his helplessly, then, slowly, slowly began the response he wanted.

“There,” he crooned by her cheek, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?” His mockery set fire to her again. Her palms shoved at his chest and she writhed to escape him.

“I won’t give in to you, Zachary,” she yelled frantically, fearful that her own awesome craving would make a lie of her words. Her fear increased as his hands ran the length of her sides, his thumbs skimming the outer curve of her breast, then venturing inward to pinpoint their already taut bud.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, laughing softly and hoarsely in her ear. “We’ll either go upstairs to bed right now, or you’ll change into some … clothes … and come with me to the North End, as we had originally planned.”

She gasped, part from the continued touch of his hands, part from the gist of his words. “
I
never planned any—”

“Then, it’s to bed!” he exclaimed, swinging her off her feet before she knew what had hit her.

Desperate, she capitulated. “I’ll go, I’ll go!”

“To bed?” he drawled deeply by her ear as he raised a foot to the first step, then paused.

“To the North End.”

Her feet slowly slid to the floor, though her body was still held to his by the arm curved about her waist. “Without any more fuss?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” It seemed pointless to fight him; he would win anyway. Her eyes lowered to the button of his shirt for just a moment, before his thumb and forefinger cupped her chin and tilted her face back up. “Remember, Amber. No more Mister Nice Guy…”

She could have been a child, for the blatant humor that he directed at her. Yet, aroused as she had been by his body seconds before, there was no will to protest. “No more Mister Nice Guy,” she heard herself repeat, a smile tugging helplessly at her lips. Strong hands turned her and, with a firm rap to her bottom, urged her up the stairs.

“You’ve got ten minutes. Pick something … feminine,” he ordered, his blue-eyed gaze sizzling over her in anticipation. Without a word, she retreated to the privacy of her bedroom, remembering to close the door purposefully. Her quandary was the same, though somehow more distant now. A tingle of excitement surged through her as she lifted a bright yellow dress, scoopnecked and cap sleeved, from its hanger. There was something very wicked about this new face of Zachary Wilder, and she felt in the mood for something wicked! He did please her—she loved him. Though she could never tell him that, his apparent determination to be with her gave her momentary pleasure. Because he had given her little choice, she had chosen the lesser of the evils, tossing her earlier resolve to the winds. She would take this evening moment by moment, savoring it, refusing to worry about what lay ahead. When the time came for Zachary to make good his threat of bedding her, she would fight him then … unless … unless … Could he possibly have the seeds of love within him, waiting to be released at her command? He spoke of physical desire, nothing more. Yet he could have easily taken her to bed right then; he had to know that, from the trembling of her body, so exposed by his caress. Perhaps he really
did
want her company, as well. Was that reason for hope?

Several moments in the bathroom was all she needed to freshen up. As the soft yellow fabric slid down over her shoulders to fall across her unencumbered breasts on down to her hips, she stepped into a pair of white high-heeled sandals, dabbed a refreshingly mild Yves Saint Laurent scent behind her ears, at the crook of her elbows, at the hollow of her throat, then lower, more daringly, to her cleavage, and sat down at her dressing table to apply light makeup to her face and secure her hair in a topknot far off her neck. That her smile seemed brighter, as a suddenly steady hand smoothed lipstick on her lips, was no mystery. This evening would be fun—she would make it so. Tomorrow could be damned, as could that Ginny Warner. But tonight, Zachary was all hers.

A strange shyness slowed her step as she descended the stairs. Zachary was at the bottom, the eye on his watch rising to catch sight of her. “Ten minutes on the dot. Good girl!” he complimented her. Where earlier she might have taken his humor as condescension, now she simply accepted it, word for word. His eye ran a thorough appraisal of her, however, and this she could not totally ignore.

“Do I please you?” The coyness in her voice was odd, foreign to her usual manner. But she did want to please him, very much. His gaze continued its study, flaming softly as she joined him at the foot of the stairs. Only then did his eyes meet hers.

“Very lovely,” he murmured, then reached behind her to deftly pull the pins from her hair and let the blond tresses fall to her back. “
Very
lovely,” he repeated with appropriate emphasis.

“It’s going to be hot this way.” Amber’s warning was in reference to her hair, thick and luxuriant now over her shoulders as Zachary’s fingers combed through it, spreading the strands in a sensual array of gold.

His voice was a deep groan. “What the hell, it’s going to be hot,
anyway.
Let’s get out of here, before I change my mind and opt for the bedroom.” His lips feather-touched her ear as he ended with a whisper. Again, she was torn—knowing she should chide him for his one-track mind, yet thrilling at the promise of his ardor. Would she satisfy him? Could she satisfy him? Staunchly, she pushed that fear from mind, determined to make the most of the next few hours in Boston.

*   *   *

As always on a Friday night, the Haymarket throbbed with activity. Long rows of ancient wooden stands held the freshest of fruits and vegetables, all open, all ripe, all waiting to be tested, then bought, by the shoppers who ambled through. Signs of city turmoil were nonexistent here, for the narrow walkways were crammed with people such that a leisurely pace was enforced. Though Amber had lived in the Boston area long enough now, she was forced to admit in embarrassment that she had never been here.

“Never been to the Haymarket?” Zachary’s disbelief was second only to the pride he took in initiating her to the rite. His long fingers wove between her more slender ones to lock securely as he led her past stall after stall of the open-air market. Sawdust was scattered underfoot, cushioning the wooden legs that held up the long, open trays. It was a gold mine for the artist, a still life in magnification. There were pyramids of bright yellow grapefruits and deep-toned oranges. There were mountains of lettuce, cabbage, and spinach, and forests of broccoli and carrots, plus a myriad of other fresh-grown offerings.

Each stall had its vendor, each vendor his unique personality. There was the quiet young man in faded denim overalls who carefully selected produce for each customer, the elderly veteran of the market whose haphazard costume reflected his style of tossing goods into bags, and the homespun woman whose sweet smile could sell even the most bruised of fruits.

Amber’s eyes were as large and round as the greenest of the honeydew melons. “Fantastic!” she grinned, when Zach looked down at her for an instant before getting down to business.

He knew precisely what he wanted, pausing here and there to purchase a lemon, fresh peaches, tomatoes, and a head of lettuce, instinctively handing brown paper bags to Amber when his own arms grew laden. Reluctant to release her hand, he kept that close link between them, as their outer arms bore his purchases.

To Amber’s amusement, when she began to wonder where she would put another bag, she found herself drawn down a stairway, one of many that forked off the main corridor of booths, and was led down into what she immediately discovered to be a butcher’s shop.

“Dr. Wilder!” the proprietor, a small, wizened gentleman, buried in a once-white apron, now spattered with the proof of his profession, greeted them. “What can I get you this evening?” His accent was heavy, a Polish-American, Zachary whispered in her ear when the little man trundled off to the back room in search of the leg of lamb and the side of beef about which he had asked.

“You’re buying a whole leg of lamb and a side of beef? Where do you put it?” she asked in amazement, her eyes falling to the slimness of his waist. “And don’t tell me Liz will eat all that meat…”

He laughed softly, pausing to examine the samples the butcher had produced, then with a nod and his order, “The regular, Sam,” he turned to Amber. “He gives me a supply which I can freeze. It’s really much less expensive to buy this way, and the quality of the meat is excellent.”

“But how will we cart all of this from here to the North End, then back to the car?” Their purchases now sat in a large pile on the counter. Her lime-filled gaze took them in dubiously.

Once more, her companion had the solution. “Sam will hold everything here for us until we return. Then,
you,
coach, will have to handle the bags while I—with my sturdy muscles”—his voice tickled her ear with its closeness and exaggerated note of seductivity—“haul the meat myself. Actually, it’s not all that much. I only have so much money, you know.” His eyes twinkled mockingly. “And if we still want to make it for dinner at Felicia’s…”

Amber rose to the occasion, playing the part of the liberated woman to the hilt. “
I’ll
pay for dinner,” she declared, only to be interrupted sharply.

“You’ll do no such thing!” The dark hair that fell across his forehead gave him a tyrannical air. That, combined with the vehemence of his tone, precluded any argument.

Amber’s low whispered, “No offense intended,” wafted into the close and suddenly pungent air, as she turned and walked slowly to the steps that led back up and out, waiting there for Zachary to join her. When he did so, his good humor was fully restored.

“Hungry?” he asked, his arm falling across her shoulder as they climbed the steps side by side. Amber could not help but notice how well their steps matched and how delightfully protected she felt, held like this to his side. It was her own mind that put a dual meaning to his words; he had been totally innocent of it.

“Ummm,” she conceded, not trusting herself to speak.

“That’s good. Ever been to Felicia’s?”

“Nope.”

“Even better.” As they talked, they made their way back down the line of produce stands, turned toward the North End, then crossed beneath the Expressway until they reached Hanover Street, the gateway to Boston’s Italian district.

“By the time we’re done eating, the festival will be in full swing,” he explained, guiding her to the appropriate side street that housed the restaurant. “It’s quite something to see—there are festivals throughout the summer. One is as exciting as the next. The flavor … well, you’ll see for yourself later.” He said no more as he ushered her into the restaurant. That he was enjoying himself immensely was obvious, and, in that, Amber derived much of her own pleasure.

What she ate or drank that evening, she barely noticed, other than being aware of the general excellence of the Italian cuisine, the cluttered gaiety of the atmosphere, and, above all, the potency of the man across the small table from her. He made the selections, ordering an antipasto and two main dishes—veal and fish—which they then proceeded to share. As the spicy aroma wafted about, they talked, warmly and freely, each of their own childhood, their upbringing, their family.

“Do you see your sisters and brother often?” she asked.

“It’s difficult. They’re as busy as I am. With Laura and Susan being doctors themselves, we meet at an occasional conference. Michael is freer occupationally, being an accountant, but his family ties him down.” His eyes sparked in admiration. “He has four teenagers and an eleven-year-old.”

Amber spoke on impulse. “Would you have liked to have had more children?”

The deep blue of his eyes washed over her for long moments before he answered. “Yes. I still would. But…” He averted his gaze, denying her any hint of his thoughts at that moment. Fearful of pushing him lest his response distress her, she pursued a different course, only to find it, too, leading toward danger.

“Your parents must have enjoyed their grandchildren. Does Liz remember them?”

“They died when she was six. Yes, she remembers them vividly. She spent a lot of time with them while … Sheila and I … were having our … problems.” His eyes held a faraway glaze as he continued to speak, strangely intent on sharing all of this with her. “My father died within three months of my mother’s stroke. When she didn’t make it, he more or less gave up. They had been like this.” He raised his fore and middle fingers, straight and together. “They were both in their early seventies at the time—I was the baby of the family.” His boyish smirk endeared him all the more to her. “I think my parents were badly affected by my divorce. Their marriage had been so strong; they assumed that any of their children’s would be the same.”

“Neither Laura nor Susan has married?”

“Susan did—briefly. There were no kids.”

“Oh.” Amber’s fingers twisted around the stem of her wineglass. Anyone who coached a Little League team had to love children; her own experience had convinced her of that. Zachary must be a wonderful father, she mused wistfully. How nice it would be …