Not a Marrying Man (12 page)

Amber just lay there, absolutely stunned. She found it difficult to know what to say. Because of course she wanted him to stay up here and look after her. It was a dream come true.

Though not quite. A dream come true would be his saying he was doing it because he loved her and could not bear to lose her. Amber knew that Warwick’s amazingly generous gesture was inspired not by love but by guilt.

‘I take it you’re not too thrilled with my offer?’ he asked.

‘I’m just … surprised, that’s all.’

Warwick’s smile was wry. ‘I can imagine. But you have only yourself to blame.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. When I heard you telling your mother that I could do anything I set my mind to, I began thinking that maybe I
could,
even down to doing the cooking and washing. I admit it’s going to be a challenge. But I’m game if you are.’

Down deep, Amber knew that to agree to what Warwick was proposing was probably not a good idea. But she didn’t have the emotional—or the physical—strength to refuse. Today had been hell. Tomorrow didn’t promise to be any better. Then there was the reality of how
would
she cope on her own?

Not very well.

‘All right,’ she said somewhat wearily. ‘I accept your offer.’

‘That’s good. Now, before I forget, I need to know what you want me to collect for you from the apartment. I’m driving back down to Sydney tonight after I leave here. And before you tell me you don’t want anything, just remember that you
will
need something to wear. You can’t spend the next six weeks borrowing stuff from Tara. And you can hardly go shopping for more clothes just at the moment.’

Amber decided the time for excessive pride was not right now.

‘Okay. But I don’t want too much. Just some casual things, plus nightwear, undies and toiletries. Oh, and the towelling robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.’

‘Will do. Look, perhaps I’d better get going. What time is your operation tomorrow?’

‘I’m one of the first in the morning. I can’t drink or eat anything after midnight.’

‘I’ll ring the hospital mid-morning to find out how
things went and I’ll be back to see you after lunch. You should be ready to face visitors by then. You’re not allergic to anaesthetic or anything like that, are you?’

‘I … I don’t know,’ she said, a bit shakily. ‘Like I said, I’ve never had an operation before. I’ve always been disgustingly healthy.’

‘In that case you’ll be just fine,’ he said, and bent forward to give her a peck on the forehead. ‘Try to sleep, sweetheart. Oops. I mean, Amber.’ He smiled as he straightened. ‘Bad habits die hard. You might have to be patient with me. But I will do my level best to behave.’

‘And to keep your hands off,’ she reminded him.

He lifted his hands high into the air. ‘You already have my solemn oath.’

Amber rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, just go, for pity’s sake, before I change my mind and tell you not to come back.’

‘Methinks you won’t be doing that. Not unless you want to go home with Mummy Dearest.’

Amber grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘I will, if you turn into one of those impossible patients who can never be pleased.’

‘Are you talking from experience here? ‘

‘I have to confess I was not the best patient in the world when my ankle was broken. I trust you will be much more … amenable. Now I really must go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

The moment Warwick disappeared from sight, Amber was besieged by doubts over her decision to accept his offer. What good could come of it? She wanted to get over the man, not fall even more in love with him. Which she might, if he showed her more of this noble side that he seemed to have suddenly acquired.

The only positive she could find about the prospect of living with Warwick as a friend rather than as a lover was maybe she would discover that, without the magic spell of his lovemaking, her so-called love for him would disappear like a puff of smoke. It was a vain hope but remotely possible. Sex had been a dominant part of their relationship up till now. It might have coloured her thinking. She’d read somewhere that it was common for young people to confuse lust and love. If that didn’t prove to be the case, and she remained hopelessly in love with him, then maybe being with her without sleeping with her would make Warwick see that there was more to her than just being his penthouse pet. Maybe he would finally fall in love with
her.

Wow! She hadn’t thought of that.

For the first time since the accident Amber’s spirits lifted.

‘Now that’s much better,’ the ward nurse said when she came in to take Amber’s blood pressure.

Amber blinked up at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re almost smiling,’ the woman replied. ‘Must be because of that handsome fellow I saw by your bed just now. Is he your boyfriend?’

Amber almost told the truth, but decided a little white lie couldn’t hurt. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘Lucky girl.’

‘We’ve been living together for nearly a year,’ Amber found herself adding.

‘Even luckier.’

‘He’s English.’

The nurse laughed. ‘He’s a right hunk, that’s what he is.’

‘That too,’ Amber agreed, smiling.

‘I’d be hanging on to him, dear, if I were you.’

‘I intend to,’ Amber said, finally accepting it was worth the risk of more heartbreak to give her hopes and dreams of a future with Warwick one last chance.

But she had no idea, as she began actually looking forward to her convalescence, that there might be no hope of a future with Warwick Kincaid. No hope of anything but heartache and unhappiness.

B
Y THE
time Warwick let himself into his Point Piper apartment, he’d totally come to terms with his decision to look after Amber himself. There were no longer any doubts and definitely no recriminations. It was the right thing to do. The
only
thing to do, if he was going to live with himself after they parted.

Okay, so there were going to be some difficult moments. He hadn’t gone six weeks without sex since he’d left boarding school at eighteen and entered Oxford University, not even when he’d broken his own ankle a few years back. There was nothing like physical inactivity and boredom to raise a man’s testosterone levels. Within a couple of weeks of entering the rehabilitation clinic he’d been climbing the walls. Figuratively speaking, that was. He hadn’t been climbing anything with that damned boot on. Fortunately, there’d been one very pretty nurse who hadn’t minded going that extra mile for her patient, especially when that patient was presentable and single and very, very rich.

So, yes, Warwick wasn’t in the habit of doing without.

But he was sure he could manage. How hard could it be?

Very
hard, he accepted when he started packing
Amber’s things. Damn, but her nightwear was sexy: no flannelette nighties for her. Everything was made of satin, silk and lace, something he should have realised since he’d bought most of the garments for her. Of course, he always kept the temperature in this apartment at a very pleasant level. Even in the winter, Amber had been able to swan around in flimsy lingerie without fear of catching a chill.

And he’d liked her swanning around in flimsy lingerie.

Bad train of thought, Warwick. Very bad train of thought!

Grimacing, he pushed the lingerie drawer firmly shut before emptying her underwear drawer into a bag without further inspection, knowing it would be just as sexy. After that he proceeded into the bathroom where he scooped all of her skin and hair care products into a large toilet bag, grabbed her bathrobe off the back of the door, then went back out into the bedroom where he stood, glaring at the bottles of perfumes sitting on her dressing table. They were all extremely expensive, exotic scents that he’d personally chosen for her and which turned him on.

‘She never said anything about bringing her perfume,’ he muttered. So he left them there, the same way he’d left the sexy lingerie behind. Tomorrow he’d go buy her some more modest nighties, which wouldn’t make him wish he’d never suggested this crazy idea in the first place.

Her casual clothes didn’t present any visual stimulation problems. But Warwick quickly realised that all Amber’s skinny jeans were unlikely to fit over the rather bulky boot she’d have to wear to support her broken ankle. He recalled how he’d lived in roomy tracksuits
during his recovery, ones where the pants had elastic around the ankles or zippers up the sides.

Amber didn’t have any tracksuits. She didn’t like them. She wore shorts or leggings to the gym.

He still threw all her jeans in with her other casual clothes, but he put a couple of pairs of jogging bottoms on his mental shopping list. Warwick recalled passing a large shopping centre between Gosford and Wamberal, which should have anything he needed to buy.

When he’d finally finished packing Amber’s things, he filled a suitcase with some clothes for himself, after which he took a long hot shower and tried not to worry about how he would cope, living the life of a monk. By the time he climbed into bed, he was so darned tired that his mind shut down immediately.

His dreams, however, were not quite so kind. Like most dreams they were rather jumbled, but still vivid and unfortunately very erotic, and about Amber. In the dream just before he woke, she was lying naked in her aunt Kate’s bed. He was standing by the bed, staring down at her, dying to climb in with her, but he couldn’t seem to move. Then another man came into the room: it was Hansen. Warwick recognised the smarmy smile on his face. When Amber lifted the bedspread to invite him in with her, Warwick went to cry out. But no sound came out of his mouth, even though he was screaming in his head. When Hansen started kissing Amber, he shot awake and upright, his hands balled into tight fists by his side.

The realisation that it was only a dream brought some relief. But only to his mind, not his body. Warwick sighed, then climbed out of bed and headed for a decidedly cold shower, after which he returned to bed and
just lay there, thinking about Amber and all that she’d said to him the previous day.

Despite being a man of considerable intelligence, Warwick wasn’t used to deep and meaningful thinking. He’d given it up soon after he’d found out what the future held for him, making a conscious decision to live his life in the here and now, seeking pleasure and satisfaction in whatever took his fancy for as long as it lasted. He didn’t let himself worry about what other people thought or felt. He didn’t worry about outcomes, even with his many and varied investments.

Knowing what awaited him had been strangely liberating in that regard. What did it matter if he lost all his money, when compared with the inevitability of losing his mind?

Perversely, his disregard of risk had made him an even wealthier man than he’d been when his father died. He’d plunged into deals that a more careful man would not have considered, most of which had returned a profit. On the other hand, he’d never been greedy, taking his money out of the stock market when it had still been on the rise, just before the disastrous crash in 2001. Not because he’d foreseen the future. Warwick didn’t think about the future. He just knew he’d already made good money and enough was enough.

People often said he was lucky. That always made him laugh. Lucky, he wasn’t. But as the saying went, fortune did seem to favour the brave. Not that he would call himself brave, either. He was impulsive and reckless and, at times, downright foolish. On the other hand, however, he did have a good brain—a brilliant brain, one of his teachers had once said.

One day, however, that so-called brilliant brain would begin to stop functioning. When this would happen,
Warwick could not be absolutely sure. But given his family history, it seemed likely that the age of fifty would be his deadline.

So what are you planning to do for the next ten years, Warwick, my man? he asked himself as he lay there in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. More of the same? Or something different. Something a little more … worthy.

‘An odd word, that,’ Warwick muttered to himself. ‘Worthy.’

What did it mean?

Suspecting that sleep was not likely to claim him now, Warwick climbed out of bed and padded, naked, out to the kitchen, where he set about making himself some coffee. The clock on the wall said it was ten past six. Soon the dark of night would lift and the sun would slide up over the horizon, heralding another day.

‘What does it mean to live a worthy life?’ he asked himself aloud as he waited for the electric jug to boil.

Warwick frowned. A year ago, he would never have been having this conversation with himself. He certainly wouldn’t have been questioning his lifestyle or searching his soul for enlightenment over how to live what was left of his life.

But then, a year ago, he hadn’t met Amber.

A year ago, he hadn’t been loved.

Warwick didn’t want Amber to ever look at him the way she’d looked at him yesterday. He wanted to see, if not love in her eyes, then at least admiration. He wanted her to be proud of him.

Which she might be, if he looked after her the way he’d vowed to last night. With his own two hands—those same two hands that had to be kept firmly off her delectable and highly desirable body.

Warwick’s mouth twisted to one side as he envisaged all the intimate things he might have to do for her: help her dress and undress; help her in the bathroom; help her into bed. The list contained nothing but endless torment.

He had to be the worst masochist in the world to suggest it. Or a saint.

Unfortunately, he was neither. The next six weeks, he realised, were going to be sheer, unadulterated hell!

Shaking his head, Warwick took his coffee into the living room, where he settled down on the sofa that faced the water. There he sat, slowly sipping the steaming liquid whilst watching the dawn, at the same time making a mental list of all the things he had to do that day.

Inform the cleaning service that he was going away for six weeks. Visit the club and tell the construction manager that he would be liaising with him by phone and email for a while. Ring the hospital to see how the op went. Drive up to Gosford. Buy flowers. Visit Amber. Then go to that shopping centre.