Amber's Embrace (6 page)

Much later that night, before sleep finally came, she was to ponder that apparition. There was something about Zachary Wilder, whom she had now twice encountered and felt sure to encounter again, that was magnetic and soul-reaching: Inexplicably, as though the specter on the hill had been an omen, she sensed him to be a future force in her life. It totally defied reason, this purely intuitive suspicion, yet it lingered in her consciousness long after she fell asleep that night, blessing her dream world with an obscure sense of excitement, of fulfillment, of contentment that had too long been absent. By morning it was all forgotten—but she felt more rested than she had in months.

CHAPTER THREE

The next few days were, as Amber had expected, characterized by mood swings from the energetic to the lazy, from the frivolous to the sober, from the enthused to the indifferent. Through it wound the thread of loneliness which she attributed to Scott’s absence. By Sunday, however, when she put through her call to Santa Barbara, then managed to chat brightly with her son, free of the tightness of throat and the moistness of eye that had besieged her earlier that week, she knew she was fine.

Monday morning found her firmly entrenched in a chair in the office of the Director of Public Relations for the Massachusetts General Hospital. Tony Leeter was friendly and forthright, slightly bullish but abundantly sharp where his field was concerned. For several hours, the two of them pored over the rough information that had been gathered on the fund-raising project. The goal was a noble one—the establishment of an International Center for Sports Medicine to be housed at the Mass. General. Inevitably costly, the project entailed the raising of many, many millions of dollars to finance both the construction of a new and modern complex and the technical link-up with the foreign countries involved, a number growing by the month.

Arms loaded with more background material, Amber left the hospital shortly after one, heading home to begin wading through the pile. The subject fascinated her, sports-conscious as she was herself. Though many of her friends were runners, she had opted for the more strategic game of tennis, which she played faithfully two afternoons a week year-round. The legacy of sore muscles left by her evening bike ride had jolted her complacency as to her own physical condition, a situation she hoped to remedy as the summer progressed.

With the easing of that soreness, the evening outing became a regular thing. At first limited to the more familiar and immediate environs of her own neighborhood, it was a week before she ventured to the college again. Was it the beauty and serenity that had drawn her there? Or was it the thought of facing that shaded figure across the pond? Whether it had, indeed, been Zachary Wilder, she didn’t know. The man did not return a second time. In the meanwhile, however, she had another occasion to come across the doctor.

The course of her research on sports medicine had taken her back through the years to the earliest clinics, both abroad and in the United States. The past five years had seen the legitimization of such departments at most of the leading medical centers in the country. The projected effort at the General would serve to pool the finest resources in an offering of diagnosis, treatment, and prevention of sports-related ailments.

It was in an article from the annual report of a competing Boston hospital that she first saw the name—Dr. Zachary Wilder, Chief of Orthopedics. Described as a brilliant doctor and, at age thirty-four, the youngest ever to hold that position in the hospital’s history, his achievements in the field were impressive. Even five years ago, at the time of the publication of this annual report, his list of clinical studies and journalistic contributions boggled the eye, no less the mind. It was a well-earned jump he made across town to the General two years later.

Now, as she thumbed through the more recent information, it appeared that the erstwhile coach of Little League was not only a leader in his field, but the director-apparent of the new International Center.
Impressive,
she acknowledged with a sigh of admiration, as she let her eye wander from the paper before her to the window, opened now to invite the warm summer’s breeze into her study. The richly leaved grove beyond was a luxuriant backdrop for the image that materialized in her mind. Strangely, it was neither that of the jean-clad coach nor that of the proper-suited doctor. Rather, it was of the cyclist, dark and muscular, skin coated with a fine film of sweat, eyes holding hers magically.

It was clear to Amber from the start that an interview with the eminent Dr. Wilder would be a must for her work. When Tony proposed it the following morning, on her second day at the hospital, she was mildly unsettled. In normal circumstances, she would have had no hesitation. Through her other free-lance endeavors, there had been interviews with many an illustrious personality. As an interviewer and investigative journalist, she held her own.

Yet, in her mind, Zachary Wilder was not the “normal circumstance” to which she was accustomed. There was that all-seeing something in his subtle manner which disconcerted her. And there was that vague reaction within her at the mention of his name, a reaction which perplexed her. In the end, reason won out. He was handsome and friendly, a natural attraction; once recognized, she accepted those qualities. As an interviewee, he was sure to be open and easygoing. And, most important, the information he could give her, the quotes she might glean from the interview, would all be critical to the campaign.

Smothering her intuitive unease in a blanket of reasoned determination, she set up an appointment, through his secretary, for late Thursday morning in his office. Leaving her name and the PR department as identification, it occurred to her that he might not make the connection beforehand. After all, he didn’t know her name. A soft laugh tinkled into the quiet of her small office-cubby. Perhaps she should have identified herself as “the coach”—that would have given the secretary food for thought!

That she spent a longer time dressing on Thursday morning became apparent to her only when she walked into the office to find the others already diligently at work. They seemed to accept her khaki suit as standard professional wear, its straight skirt and tailored blazer conveying an air of competency, softened only by the warmer pink fabric of her blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, as she preferred it for work, and the flush on her cheeks was, for once, a natural one. Shortly before the appointed hour, she escaped to the ladies’ room to freshen up her makeup, adding a second layer of mascara, a dab of powder, and a light lip gloss, before smiling in rehearsal at her reflection.

“Go get him, Amber,” she murmured through gritted teeth. Straightening her shoulders, she willed herself to calmness as she started down the hall, wondering exactly what she was out to get as she entered the orthopedic unit and presented herself at the desk whose sign read “Dr. Zachary Wilder.” Moments later, she found herself in a small and modest office, simply decorated with a handful of framed diplomas, generously shelved with the latest medical journals in the field, and neat and orderly, much as she had expected it would be.

“Dr. Wilder has been momentarily held up in the OR. He should be arriving shortly. Do you have something to read while you wait?”

That she had been escorted into his office to wait was a surprise, one which she finally attributed to the fact that she was, in her way, a member of the hospital staff. “Oh, yes, I’ve got plenty to read.” With a grin, she lifted the folders in her arm, some of which contained background information, others of which contained her notes as to what she wanted to ask during this interview. “I’ll be fine.”

“Coffee?” the attractive secretary continued solicitously. Amber was quick to note the narrow wedding band and its matching engagement ring on the young woman’s finger; unaccountably, she felt relieved.

“No, thank you. Another cup and I’ll begin to shake. No, I’ll just sit and go over my notes.”

Smiling her understanding, the woman returned to her desk, leaving the office door opened and Amber to her musings. What was it like working for him? she wondered idly, her eye traveling the circuit of the room, pausing every so often to admire what appeared to be momentos of one address or another he had delivered. Her attention finally came full circle to rest on the desk, a modern teak piece covered with a deep blue blotter and numerous stacked folders and piles of papers. There were no truly personal items here, save the one small, chrome-framed photograph of his daughter, Liz, which stood on the edge of an adjoining bookshelf. Was his life this summer, bachelor rather than parent, full of the carefree social behavior to be expected of such a prime masculine specimen? Needless to say, he would have his choice of the nursing staff here at the hospital; perhaps there was even a female resident, with the smashing looks of her friend Corey, on his string. And Boston had its share of beautiful women, totally aside from the medical profession; Amber had herself felt far from glamorous, on more than one occasion, when she had shopped along Newbury Street and found herself side by side with the cream of the crop. “Banned in Boston” certainly did not apply to this attractive and socially graced group of women. Unconsciously, she checked to make sure that the buttons of her blouse were in place and the folds of her skirt smoothed out. Nervously, she twirled the gold stud in her ear, wondering all the while why she was on edge. When the sound of footsteps merged with the steady beat of the typewriter outside the office door, her pulse hammered in time.

“Heeeeeyyyyy, coach!” He stood at the door, all smiles and crispness and good looks, surveying her broadly before entering the room and closing the door behind him. “How are you?”

Amber’s heart accelerated at the sight of the man who now stood propped against the door, arms folded across his chest. For a minute, she was strangely tongue-tied, until his maddeningly confident grin goaded her into speech.

“You’re looking very pleased with yourself. Is it because you’re
only
ten minutes late?” Delighted to see him again, she could not restrain the smile that spread over her lips, giving jest to her words.

To her chagrin, he took them more seriously than she had intended, checking his watch and shaking his head in frustration. “I’m sorry about that. The surgery was more difficult than I expected. Actually, it’s a lucky thing I
was
only ten minutes late. I rushed like hell to get cleaned up afterwards.” The smile he gave her as he crossed the small space to perch on the corner of his desk was relaxed once more, as though he had, in that instant, put the surgical delay far behind and could now proceed to the next order of business. For Amber,
that
was a thorough analysis of the figure before her. He wore the traditional white coat of the doctor, yet it fit his broad shoulders and tapered torso with more dash than many a hospital corridor had seen in years. His pants were light gray, belted in fine black leather. The stark whiteness of his shirt was broken by a maroon and gray striped silk tie, knotted to perfection. He looked fresh and clean, his dark, dark hair still damp from his shower. For a brief instant, the image of the Wellesley cyclist superimposed itself, until she dispelled it with an imperceptible head shake and a gasp of determination.

The knowing gleam in Zachary’s eye said that he had not been ignorant of her inspection—nor did he sit idly by during its progress. Had Amber’s eyes been his, she would have observed a beautiful woman, much more rested this time than before, though still with the same ghostly sheen at the back of clear green orbs. The slight frown that momentarily shaded his features disappeared when he spoke, deeply and with a velvet smoothness to his timbre that sent rivulets of excitement through her.

“How have you been?” he repeated, with subtle stress to the query.

Amber smiled in a determined show of strength. “I’m fine. There were several tough days, but it’s … better now.”

“Keeping busy?”

“Uh-huh.” Confronted by the force of his royal blue eyes, she felt suddenly shy and nearly forgetful of her purpose. This was, after all, a business meeting, she chided herself. Zachary Wilder had enough to do without carrying on small talk with her. As though reading her mind and the urgency she struggled to recall, he prompted her.

“What can I do for you?” His voice was deep and warm, a rich melody which could have been distracting had she not had notes directly in front of her.

“I just wanted to ask you a few questions. We’re going to put several preliminary flyers together and we’d like to be able to use some quotes.” She reached down to the foot of the chair, where she had deposited her pocketbook and a small tape recorder. An identical one sat on the corner of Zachary’s desk; both were evidently of hospital stock. “Do you mind if I record our talk?” It was a formality to ask his permission; she knew that he would have no objection.

He grinned mischievously, spreading a tanned hand on the thigh that rested on the desk. Its muscular strength molded his pants well. “No—as long as I get royalties on anything that hits the top ten.” As she laughed easily with him, Amber felt her tension begin to recede. He put her at ease, as he had obviously intended. Without doubt, this man could do most anything he set his mind to do; that knowledge was a source both of solace and disturbance to her, though she willed all thought of the latter to a later time.

“Tell me about the project. Did
you
originate the concept of an International Center for Sports Medicine?”

“No. It’s actually been around for some time. But conceiving of something as far-reaching as this is very different from seeing it become reality. I’ve been very active in this latest thrust, but I am only one of many.” He paused, studying her keenly. “You look much better now. You must be sleeping.”

Stunned by the abruptness of his change of topic, she stared at him. He had switched from business to personal without batting an eyelash; would he return as easily?

“Yes, ah, I am.” She cleared her throat, musing that
he
might be more successful at that than she. The long legs, stretched casually to the floor and crossed at the ankles, were far too close for rational thought, as were the strong fingers, splayed now on either side of his lean hips, against the edge of the desk. Determinedly, she lowered her eyes to her notes. “I know that … there are many … individual sports clinics.” Praying that he would interpret her faltering as contemplation, she struggled to clear her mind of all else but the interview. “What do you feel the International Center will offer, above and beyond the present offerings of these smaller centers?” Sure enough, when she dared raise her eyes, he was once again the pensive administrator. And mercifully, he seemed unaware of her meanderings.