the warm breeze was luxuriously dry and scented with the salty tang from the sea blended with spice and a tropical sweet floral scent.
A great garland of bougainvillea with stunning bright purple and hot pink flowers wound its way up the side of the school entrance and onto the coconut fibre roof, intertwined with a wonderful frangipani which spilled out from a blue ceramic pot, attracting bees and other nectar-seeking insects to the intensely fragrant blossoms. The perfume almost balanced out the heavy red dust from the dirt road and the bio odours from the cows and chickens who roamed freely on the other side of a low coconut matting fence.
He loved writing and his life as a journalist. He always had, but it was only when he came to villages like this one that it really struck home how much of his life was spent in open plan offices under fluorescent light tubes.
Even the air tasted different on his tongue. Traffic from the coast road roared past. Trucks in all colours, painted auto rickshaws and bright yellow buses competed with birdsong and the chatter of people and motor scooters. Everywhere he looked his eyes and ears were assaulted by a cacophony of life.
But as he relaxed into the scene, hands on his hips, the sound of piano music drifted out through the partly open door of what looked like a school building to his left and Sam smiled and wandered over, his shirt sticking to his back in the oppressive heat and humidity.
Amber was sitting on a very frail looking low wooden bench in front of an upright piano which had definitely seen better days. The polish was flaking off, the lid was warped and, from where he was standing, it looked as if some of the black keys were missing at the bottom of the scale.
But it didn’t matter. Because Amber DuBois was running the fingers of her left hand across the keyboard and suddenly the old neglected instrument was singing like a nightingale.
She was dressed in a blue and pink long-sleeved cotton tunic and what looked like pyjama bottoms, her hair was held back by a covered elastic band and, as her feet moved across the pedals, he caught a glimpse of a plastic flip-flop.
And, for the first time in his professional life, Sam Richards did not know what to say.
Amber DuBois had never looked more beautiful in her life.
Exotic. Enchanting. But at that moment there was something else—she was totally and completely relaxed and content. Her eyes were closed and, as she played, she was humming along gently to the music as it soared into flights of soft and then dramatic sections of what sounded to Sam’s uneducated ears as some great romantic composer’s finest work.
Her shoulders lifted and fell, her left arm flowing from side to side in brilliant technique while her plastered hand moved stiffly from octave to octave. But that did not matter—the music was so magical and captivating that it reverberated around this tiny school room and into every bone of his body.
The tropical garden and birdsong outside the window disappeared as he was swept up in the music.
This was her joy and her delight. The thing she loved most in the world.
He was looking at a completely different woman from the one who had flounced into his dad’s garage, or the fashion model who had haughtily gossiped with the designer goddesses as she decluttered her apartment.
This was the real Amber. This was the girl he used to know. The girl whose greatest joy was playing the piano for her own entertainment and pleasure.
She was back!
And Lord, the longer he looked at her and listened to her music, the more he liked what he saw and the more he lusted. The fire that had sparked the second his fingers had touched her skin in that ridiculous penthouse dressing room suddenly flared right back into a blazing bonfire.
The heat and humidity of Kerala in May was nothing compared to the incendiary fire in his blood which pounded in his neck and ears.
Did she know? Did Amber have any clue that when she played liked this she was revealing to the world how much inner passion was hidden inside the cool blonde slender frame?
He had thought that he had been attracted to her before, but that was nothing compared to the way he felt now.
He wanted her. And not just in his bed. He wanted Amber in his life, even if it was only for a few days, weeks or months. He wanted to be her friend and the man she wanted to share her life with. The music seemed to soak into his heart and soul and fill every cell with a fierce determination.
Somehow he was going to have to find a way of winning her back and persuading her to give him a second chance, or risk losing her for ever.
His bag slumped onto the floor.
Sam walked slowly into the room and slid next to Amber on the very end of the child-sized wooden bench. She did not open her eyes but smiled and slowly inhaled before giving an appreciative sigh.
‘They say you can tell a lot about a man from the aftershave he has chosen. Very nice. Did you buy it at the airport?’
Her hands never missed a note as he gave a short dismissive grunt in reply. ‘Then you won’t mind if I move a little closer.’
Sam was blatantly aware that the fine wool cloth of his trousers brushed against the loose cotton trousers Amber was wearing as he slid along the shiny wooden surface until the whole side of his body seemed to be aligned against her.
‘Hello. How was the flight?’
He started to say something, changed his mind, and left her staring at his mouth for just a few seconds too long. Much too long. His eyes scanned her face as though he was trying to record the images like a digital camera in his memory.
He had been worried about how awkward this moment was going to be. But, instead of watching every word, it was as though he was meeting one of his best friends in the world—and his heart lifted.
‘You’re playing nursery rhymes. From memory.’
She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘It sounds terrible and I am totally out of practice.’
‘But you are trying. In your apartment last week, I couldn’t help wonder if the old piano-playing business had lost its appeal. Am I right?’
Her fingers slowed down but did not stop. ‘Full marks to the man in the sweaty shirt. You’re right. I didn’t want to play. No. That’s wrong. I didn’t want to perform.’ She gave a little giggle and her left hand played a trill. ‘This is not performing. This is having fun. And I have missed that. Do you know what I spent this afternoon doing? Making up tunes and songs around nursery rhymes these girls have never heard before. We had a great time.’
‘Wait a minute. Are you telling me that you don’t enjoy performing? Is that why you decided to retire? Because you do know that you are brilliant, don’t you? I even splashed out and bought your latest album!’
She stopped playing, sat back and smiled, wide-eyed.
‘You did? That was very kind.’
‘No, it wasn’t kind. It was a delight. And you haven’t answered my question.’
Her gaze scanned his face as though looking for something important and Sam suddenly remembered that he needed a wash and a shave. ‘That depends on who is asking the question,’ she replied in a low, soft voice with the power to entrance him. ‘My old pal Sam who I used to trust once upon a time, or the newest super-journalist at GlobalStar Media who I am not sure about at all.’
He swallowed down a moment of doubt but made the tough choice. Editor be damned. ‘Let’s try that first option.’
‘Okay. Let’s.’ She looked down at her left hand and stretched out the fingers on the piano keys. ‘Well. Off the record. These past few years have been very hard going. I haven’t given myself enough time to recover from one tour before launching into rehearsals for the next. Combine that with all of the travelling and media interviews and suddenly I’m waking up exhausted every morning and nothing I do seems to make any difference.’
Her