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

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       SEVEN

      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 СКАЧАТЬ