Her Sweet Surrender: The First Crush Is the Deepest. Nina Harrington

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       SIX

      Sam Richards leant against the back wall of the elevator, propped his camera bag against his foot and crossed his arms as he enjoyed the view.

      Two tall, very slender brunettes dressed from head to toe in black had rushed in at the last minute from the cream and caramel marble reception area to Amber’s apartment building, gushing thanks and flooding the space with giggling, floral perfume and an empty garment rail which took up the whole width of the elevator. Judging by their sideways glances, indiscreet nudging and body language, they were not too unhappy with being crushed into the space with him, and any other time and place he might have started chatting and enjoying their company.

      But not today.

      His morning had already got off to a poor start when his dad had phoned from France saying that he was going to stay on a few more days because for once the weather in the Alps was perfect for a spot of touring.

      Perhaps it was just as well. His dad had not exactly been sympathetic when Sam had told him about Amber’s little scheme. In fact he had laughed his head off and told him to behave himself.

      As if he had a choice.

      Sam pressed his hands flat against the cool surface of the elevator wall.

      Amber had the upper hand and he was going to have to go with it, but it didn’t mean to say that he liked it. One. Little. Bit. He had stopped being at other people’s beck and call the day he’d left London and there was no way he was going to step into the role of Amber’s fool and like it.

      But he would get through it and move on. He could survive being pulled back into Amber’s high class life as a diva for a few days.

      If she could stand it—then so could he.

      Sam inhaled the perfumed air, which was suddenly overheated and cloying. He had no interest in this world of fashion and celebrity—he never had. The A-list party and clubbing circuit had long lost their appeal for him. It was his job and he worked hard to create something interesting and new out of the same old shallow gossip and the relentless need for fame and riches fuelled by the public obsession for celebrity—an obsession he helped to foster, whether he liked that fact or not.

      Past tense. He had paid his dues and earned the right to sit behind that editor’s desk, doing the job he had been trained for. And he wasn’t going to let that slip away from him without a fight.

      He had come a long way from the raw teenager with a fire in his belly that Amber had known.

      Man enough for the job? Oh, yes, he was man enough for the job all right.

      Even if he had no clue what the actual job was. Her text message had asked him to bring his camera bag and a screwdriver over and they were all the clues she had given him.

      Sam rolled his shoulders back as the elevator slowed and the girls starting fidgeting with the clothes rail.

      The elevator doors slid open on the floor number Amber had given him but, before he could stride forward with his bag, the girls swept out into the wide corridor of pale wood and pastel colours.

      Interesting.

      Unless, of course...

      With a tiny shoulder shrug Sam slowly followed the girls towards the penthouse apartment. Lively disco dance music drifted out through an open door towards him, the beat in perfect tune with the rattle of their high heels on the fine wooden floor.

      Disco music? If this was Amber’s place, she must be out shopping for the morning. The only music Amber DuBois liked was written by men with quill pens and dipping ink hundreds of years ago.

      The girls rolled the garment rail into the apartment, waved at someone inside, then swept back past Sam out into the hallway, arm in arm in a flutter of perfume and girly giggles.

      He paused for a second to admire them, then turned to face the door.

      This was it. Show time. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open another few inches, stepped inside the apartment and instantly went into sensory overload.

      What looked like the entire contents of a large fashion boutique was scattered over every surface in the living room. Handbags, shoes, hats and assorted female fripperies were draped across sofas, chairs and tables in a wild riot of colours and patterns, illuminated by the daylight streaming in from the floor to ceiling patio doors at the other end of the room.

      His first reaction СКАЧАТЬ