Heather Graham (4 page)

“Certainly not. Tomorrow you will, of course, be able to get your own things from the hotel. But for tonight … well, just as Mr. Colby wishes, I, too, hope that we can make you comfortable.”

“Thank you, Donald. You’ve been more than kind.”

“Not at all, miss.” Donald beamed. He moved into the room with the clothing bag and hung it in the wardrobe by the bathroom door. He smiled and started to leave her, then paused. “Mr. Colby dines at eight. Will that be convenient for you, Ms. Martin?”

“Yes, perfectly, thank you.”

There was no clock in the room, but Brittany had just heard a faint echo of chimes from somewhere in the house. It could only be minutes after seven.

Donald smiled again and left, closing the door behind him. Brittany felt her heart take on a thunderous pounding.

“Mr. Colby dines at eight.” …

Mr. Colby. Flynn Colby.

She felt it again. The horrible trembling. It wasn’t just in her hands, it seized hold of her limbs, fluttered like butterflies in her stomach, terrorized her heart. She really had to be insane to be here. At best, he had ten times her sophistication. At worst …

He was a swindler and con artist. Charming, beguiling, and very attractive. His body was muscled and toned, gold from the sun, agile … and uniquely fluid in movement. His eyes seemed to rivet one to them. They were blue … no, gray, or perhaps some shade in between. Perhaps they were blue when he laughed and they sparkled, and then smoked to a gray when his mood became more serious. Just like his smile. It was nice. Full, and wide.

But she could well imagine that smile tightening. Fading. Compressing into a grim line. Brittany shivered suddenly, wondering if Flynn Colby ever lost his perfect manners; if that air of courteous control ever left him. His face … it was so arresting when he smiled. But would those masculine features lose their charisma if they sallowed and tightened in anger? Or would they be equally attractive—just more dangerously so?

Brittany gave herself a little shake. She’d been reading too much about the man, and half of what she read had probably been invention anyway. Of course, she’d had to read about him. She’d read about every British national living in Costa del Sol who had been in London at the time of Alice’s death. Brice had produced his list of those who had departed England and she had carefully spent two weeks investigating the men as best she could. There had been only six names on the list—three of which corresponded with those names she’d discovered in the newspaper.

Two of the men worked for a British government concern. One was a father of five, and the other barely nineteen. Brittany had, perhaps foolishly, dismissed them both.

Foolishness—or instinct? Instinct said she was right. The scam that had wiped out her aunt’s finances had been a clever one; played often enough, it could reap a small fortune. The guilty party had to be living very well—which was why she had also dismissed another of the names. Jim Thorpe—according to an ex-landlady Brittany had managed to question—was a “bum of an artist—selling watercolors for shillings to tourists.”

Brittany’s field had been narrowed to those three original names. Oh, there were any number of Britons living the golden life at Costa del Sol. But only these three had been in London at the crucial time.

Flynn Colby, Ian Drury, and Joshua Jones.

She had convinced herself she was not afraid of any of them. She could handle herself well—as long as no one gave her more than two forks at the dinner table. She kept telling herself she wasn’t afraid, and she was no more worried now than she had been when she had plunged into the water. She could swim—she could take care of herself. Even against the Flynn Colbys of the world.

Flynn Colby. One of the world’s ten most eligible bachelors, according to several popular magazines. It seemed that he was a favorite of gossip columns in a multitude of countries, despite the fact that he avoided the press. Oh well, Brittany mused, people loved an enigma. Yet there was really very little tangible information about him to be had. No one had really managed to quite pin down just what it was he did to keep an inherited fortune afloat. He’d been married once in his early twenties—a very proper match with an earl’s daughter—but the marriage had ended in divorce in less than a year. Since then, he had raced his yachts around the world; he played polo, but really: was that enough to keep living in this kind of style?

He couldn’t be her man, Brittany thought passionately. He was so—magnetic.

But then a magnetic man was just the one to create such a scam.

He just didn’t seem right, Brittany thought with a sigh. Not with those sharp, direct eyes. Not with the way he could look … at a woman.

Or maybe he was all the better a suspect because of those eyes and his subtly overwhelming masculinity. Maybe she just didn’t want him to be the culprit because of that palpable tension she felt each time he was near.

Don’t be a fool!
she warned herself sternly.

Impulsively Brittany stood and hurried to the clothing bag Donald had hung in the wardrobe. A flood of color seemed to cascade into her hands as she unzipped it. Froth and silk—the bag contained a cool cocktail gown of emerald silk and a peignoir set in peach, lightly furred about the neck and hemline.

For a moment Brittany was enchanted by the sheer softness of the materials. Then she allowed them to fall from her hands in a moment of doubt and self-loathing.

What was the value of such clothing? And did it really matter? Colby probably didn’t care. She wondered what he thought of her. Had he believed her story? Or did that even matter to him? A slow flush suffused Brittany’s cheeks again. Flynn Colby was the type of man who attracted women. Like a football hero or rock star, he simply attracted women, and maybe two particular types of women: those who wanted just to touch such a man and enjoy what they could, and … those who simply wanted to be bought.

He was probably assuming she fell into the second category.

And in a way, she told herself dismally, it was true. She hadn’t the funds to stay on at Costa del Sol; and if she wanted justice, she had to stay.

Brice had told her point blank that there wasn’t a thing in the world that the British police could do. Not unless the man returned to British soil—or appeared in a country that did have an extradition agreement with the British.

But what was she doing? Brice didn’t even know what she was up to. If he did, he’d tell her she was a fool. That she was in deep water way over her head …

“What is the matter with me?” she whispered irritably. She had known ever since she decided to cast herself into the sea that she planned to use this man—whether he was guilty or innocent. And she had rationalized at that time that she certainly couldn’t hurt the man if he was innocent—entertaining a guest for a couple of weeks would be no hardship for him.

“So why the cold feet now?” she quizzed again out loud.

Planning to use him was a lot different from actually being here. Feeling like … feeling awful.

She had never worried about his reputation with women. Not in her planning stage. She had fought very competitively in a field where men were known to have the edge of strength and she had always held her own. And in her chosen profession, she’d come across all types—the golden and muscled; the suave and the cool beach boy toughs. She’d also learned to handle the worst of them; once she had learned to break the hold of a drowning swimmer, she could master any overambitious date.

She knew that when she needed to be, she could be hard and assertive. She felt she was capable of seeing her goal and heading straight for it. She was impatient with the idea of backing down, and leaving things to fate. To Brittany, it was impossible to forget what had happened. She had made her plans—fully aware that they could be dangerous as well as uncomfortable. She had to move forward—and keep in mind that Flynn Colby was just a man. Perhaps he did intend to seduce her. Fine. She needed him, and she needed his connections. She had to allow herself to be charmingly seduced—to a point: Unless he was the guilty party, of course. Then she would hope that he rotted in a jail cell until he was far too old to be much of a lady-killer. And if he wasn’t guilty … Maybe he would even understand.

Flynn Colby was different from any other man she had known.

She could feel him when he wasn’t even really near her. He moved with extra energy; his eyes were more intense than the average man’s. His voice could be a caress … or a whiplash. She barely knew him, yet when he looked at her, she felt he knew her through and through. There was just that manner about him. Courteous charm, complete confidence. It was easy to see why he had become such an international fascination. He was different—as rugged and sharp as an uncut diamond.

“Maybe it’s because he’s a crook!” she chided herself impatiently. She had to forget feelings. Turn her back on any situation which made her uneasy.

If she didn’t, someone was going to get away with what amounted to murder.

In short, she had to accept Flynn Colby’s charity, and she had to continue to play the role of a lost and sheltered socialite—being careful that she also kept her wits about her at all times. It was her only chance.

Grinding her teeth together hard, Brittany plucked the clothing from the floor. She tossed the peignoir set on the bed, and headed into the bathroom with the cocktail gown. Carefully folded into the elegant green depths was a set of equally elegant lingerie. Handmade lace panties, a teddy and stockings. Perfect for her size and the outfit. Perfect—and alarmingly intimate.

She bathed quickly and dressed, only realizing then that she hadn’t any shoes—nor did she have the slightest idea of where she was supposed to go for dinner. From Flynn’s yacht, they had gone directly to the police station—a horrendous experience as she had tried to remember her lie word for word—and when they had reached the
casa
, she had only seen the corridors briefly, downstairs, and then up.

She sat nervously on the bed again, running her fingers over the llama fur. Donald would probably come back for her.

Too nervous to sit on the bed for long, Brittany returned to the dresser and picked up the tortoise-shell brush again. She was startled by her own reflection. The emerald of the dress brought a flame to her eyes; they were wide and their color seemed to dance and shimmer along with that of the silk. Her hair fell over it in tumbling waves that gleamed a rich and radiant chestnut; she had never seen herself look better.

Someone really was a connoisseur—of clothing and women.

“
Touché
, Mr. Colby,” she murmured to the mirror. “We’re both after something. We’ll just have to see who succeeds.”

As if in answer, there was a single, sharp rap on her door. “Ms. Martin? It’s Flynn.”

Brittany stared at her reflection a moment longer. Again, that annoying flush of color stained her cheeks. Her heart thundered. She couldn’t panic …

“Ms. Martin? Are you ready?”

She forced herself to smile; the color faded. Brittany spun gracefully in the silk and threw open the door.

“Mr. Colby, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting!”

He was dressed for dinner. So often things were casual at Costa del Sol. Not Flynn Colby, not this evening. His dinner jacket was white; his trousers and vest were mahogany brown. He was clean shaven and his scent was not that of aftershave, but rather of clean male flesh, and it was somehow all the more alluring. He smiled, and the whiteness of his teeth contrasted sharply with the depth of his tan and Brittany was reminded again that this was a man known for his natural allure. It was a nice smile: friendly, open. His manner was not alarming or threatening. His appeal alone was both.

“You look absolutely wonderful,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Brittany said. She smiled. “And thanks to you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the loan of the gown—”

“It’s not a loan. It’s a gift. A ‘welcome to my
casa
.’”

She allowed herself to smile. “I can’t accept it as a gift, Mr. Colby. I would love to accept it as a loan.”

He shrugged. “As you wish. A loan then.”

“An elegant loan,” Brittany murmured.

“Ah, but what man who fishes a mermaid from the sea could offer anything less than the elegance she deserves?”

Brittany laughed, tilting her chin upward in challenge. She had to; without her shoes, she stood at five four. He was almost a foot taller than that. “Mr. Colby,” she told him lightly—but with calm certainty, “you’re very smooth.”

He laughed in return. “Flynn—please. And not really. I merely call it as I see it. I did fish you from the sea, and by circumstance, you’re my guest. There is a bit of fantasy to it. Please don’t begrudge my whim of the dress—it is perfect. Shall we go to dinner?”

Brittany grimaced and looked down at her feet. “I’d love to go to dinner—if you don’t mind stockinged feet.”

His smile fell. “Shoes! I remembered everything except shoes.”

Yes, he had remembered everything. Definitely in the intimate apparel line. And it seemed that he had made the selections himself. Brittany kept her smile intact. “Please, don’t worry. I appreciate the fact that you’ve been able to help me at all. From the way my day began …”

She gave a very convincing little shudder. It wasn’t difficult. Maybe because he was near.

“Ah, yes, your brush with El Drago,” Flynn said somberly. “I suppose we both must be thankful that you’re here at all …” He set a comforting arm about her shoulders. “I’ll have to do my best to set that awful incident from your mind. Come on—I’ll fix us drinks. I’m sure Donald can scrape up something in the shoe department, and then we’ll have dinner and hopefully I’ll convince you that it was all just a nightmare … nothing more than a fabrication of the mind.”

Brittany gazed up at him uneasily as he escorted her along the eastern corridor. He was staring straight ahead, no longer smiling, but giving no indication that his words were anything other than sincere. He must have sensed her eyes on him; he gazed down to her, and once again smiled. There was only moonlight and an occasional torch in the corridor; she saw a strange cast to his eyes, a sparkle. His features seemed more gaunt; sharper. And his smile seemed just a little bit …