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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 screwing her brain.

      ‘Chopin, of all people.’ He continued to scoff, mischief in his eyes. ‘Isn’t his stuff a bit wishy-washy for you, Amber? A bit …’ He made a levelling gesture. ‘Flat?’

      Of course he would think that. But there was no use pretending she wasn’t a total nerd. Even before a firing squad her conscience wouldn’t let her deny her true colours. Not with all the ways Chopin’s piano works spoke to her. How subtle they were, and poignant. How they wound their way into the warp and weft of her most tender emotions.

      ‘No. Those pieces just—seep into my soul.’ She turned to look at him.

      Guy met her clear gaze and felt the kind of lurch he should avoid at all costs. He should. But there were her eyes …

      He heard himself say dreamily, ‘You know, you’re soft. Such curly lashes. And those sensational eyes …’

      Amber felt a giant blush coming on. Unless a new heat-wave was sweeping Sydney.

      Perhaps the man needed glasses or was a raving lunatic. She started to say something to that effect, and stopped. His mouth was gravely beautiful, and so close she had to hold her breath. His lips were wide and curled up at the corners, the upper one thin, the lower one fuller, more sensual. Lips made for kissing a woman into a swoon. Some poor hungry woman. Lips that could draw the very soul from that poor hungry, famished woman’s …

      For goodness’ sake, Amber. Fatigue must be distorting her perceptions. Just because he had a lean, chiselled jaw and a stunning profile it didn’t mean she should forget the male/female reality.

      She gave herself a mental slap. Feet on the ground and an eye to the door. That was a woman’s survival kit. That was what her mother had always told her, and Lise O’Neill had known better than most. When the going got tough, men disappeared.

      Just because Amber had failed chronically to apply her mother’s wisdom on certain other crucial occasions it didn’t mean she had to fail now. Here was a prime opportunity to start inoculating herself against the cunning wiles of the wolfhound.

      She didn’t have to be susceptible. She could resist.

      ‘Now, let’s see, Amber.’ At this distance she could almost feel the rumble of his deep voice in his chest. ‘Your lips are like cherries, roses and berries.’ He studied them appreciatively. ‘Although maybe softer, redder and juicier. I guess I’ll have to taste them to get that line exactly right …’

      She tensed, waiting, pulse racing, but instead of delivering the anticipated kiss, he continued examining her.

      ‘And your eyes …’ He paused to inspect them. ‘What rhymes with amethyst?’

      He rippled a few tunes, then settling on ‘Eleanor Rigby’, sang softly. “‘Amber O’Neill, mouth sweet as wine. And her eyes are like clear am—e—thyst. Never been ki—issed. Amber O’Neill. She’s twenty-nine and she goes to bed early to pine opp—or—tun—i—ties mi—issed …”’

      He didn’t sing the next line, just played it. He didn’t have to. She remembered how it went. ‘All the …’

      Her heart panged. ‘Very funny. It’s not even true.’

      ‘Which part?’

      ‘Any of it.’ Her breasts quickly rose and fell inside their confining bra. Anyone would be lonely in her situation. Of course she missed her mother every minute of every day. It was only natural. They’d only had each other. After she’d left the ballet company and all her friends there she hadn’t had much opportunity to make new ones, apart from people who worked in the mall.

      And she knew why he thought she looked twenty-nine. It had to be her clothes. If it had been any of his concern, she might have explained about her work costumes. The only thing wrong with them, apart from being relentlessly floral, was that they weren’t all that shiny new.

      Oh, this chronic lack of funds was approaching crisis point. There wasn’t much more she could do about it—unless the vintage shop around the corner had a sudden influx of barely worn clothes with flowery patterns.

      She was signed up for Saturday night gigs at a Spanish club in Newtown for the next few weeks, though she’d planned to use those earnings for her stock explosion. She hadn’t planned on it—the shop must always come first—but maybe she could use some of her show earnings to buy something modern. Some new jeans, maybe? A little jacket?

      Then she remembered Serena. She’d promised to give her an advance on her salary in return for an extra Thursday evening. And Serena deserved all the help she could get.

      Amber noticed he was examining her with a serious expression while those dismal musings were flashing through her head faster than the speed of light. Then

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