Keeping Her Up All Night. Anna Cleary

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ