"That bastard stole my spice rack!"
"No, I didn't." Marc had entered the kitchen and followed her into the pantry.
"The hell you say!" Amber launched herself at him, clipping him on the chin with her knuckles. "I looked all over for that rack when you sent me my stuff, but it was gone."
"Ow!" Marc dodged her other fist and caught her wrists easily. "You left it in my apartment. And I never packed your things; you did that yourself."
"No, I didn't," Amber insisted, trying to free herself. "You sent them in a huge box, all tossed in together, with a note saying we were through. And every time I called, you were in a meeting, or on a business trip. Let me go!" She finally succeeded in getting free and leaned against the stove, glaring at him.
"What business trip? Dad had me in meeting after meeting. He's the one who told me you'd cleaned out the apartment without so much as a goodbye; the only thing you'd left was the brooch that used to belong to my grandmother." Marc faced her, his arms crossed.
"I threw that at your father when he tried to buy me off!" Amber blazed at him, chest heaving with every breath. "When I couldn't get you to take my calls, I went to the apartment and he was there. He offered me ten thousand dollars to stay away from you; I told him to go fuck himself and then remembered the brooch you had given me. You know I always wore it; I thought you might like the family heirloom back, so I threw it at your dad and stormed off."
"He ... what? He offered you money?" Marc shook his head in disbelief. "Dad wouldn't have done that."
"Oh, wake up, Marcus," Amber cried. "After he caught us making love in the club's locker room, do you honestly think he was going to just give us his blessing? He kept trying to foist that prig Marion whatever-the-hell-her-name-was on you, because her daddy did business with your daddy!" She clamped her mouth shut, biting her tongue a little too late. Calming herself, she said quietly, "Don't tell me you married her...."
"Give me some credit," he snorted, loosening his tie. "I need a drink. Want to join me?" He walked to the swinging doors and waited.
"What about your guests?" she reminded him.
"Dad's got them in the sitting room. Come on."
"No, Marc. It ... it wouldn't be right. Bring me whatever you're having." Amber drummed her fingers on the stove absently and was surprised when he returned with a glass of Zinfandel.
"Thank you. I thought you were bringing me a whiskey."
"If memory serves, you can't stand the stuff." Marc sipped his whiskey on the rocks. "You're not the only one with the long memory."