Heather Graham (5 page)

“What size?”

“Pardon me?”

“Your shoes—they must be very small. Five, six?”

“Ah, yes, a size five and a half. But Mr. Colby—”

“Flynn. You are a guest, and I tend to think of my guests as my friends.”

“Flynn,” Brittany murmured, “please, you’re doing so much already. Don’t worry about shoes; it’s quite warm—”

“I wouldn’t dream of having you run around barefoot. It’s absolutely no problem. I apologize sincerely for such a lack of thought on my behalf.”

Brittany started to protest again, but Flynn had paused before a wrought-iron door which proved to be an elevator cage. He escorted Brittany in, and as the cage began to lower, muted light rose around them.

“We’re dining on the terrace,” he told her briefly in explanation.

The elevator came to a halt. Flynn pushed open the cage door, and once again, escorted Brittany before him.

The table was set on the patio, surrounded by flowers, foliage, and bubbling fountains. It was a small table, round, covered with a snowy white cloth and set with shimmering silver and crystal. Nearby, fitting in a curve around the rear corridor wall, was a bar. Flynn left her staring at the table and the fountains and flowers to slip behind it.

“What can I get you?”

“Rum and Coke, light please.”

He arched a brow, lifting a bottle to comply with her wishes. “Not the last of the big-time drinkers, I see.”

“No.”

Brittany gazed at him as he replaced the rum bottle, squirted Coke into her glass, and fixed himself something amber on the rocks. He smiled at her, then she realized that he was gazing over her shoulder. Donald was there. She hadn’t heard his arrival.

“Donald,” Flynn said pleasantly, “I seem to have made a major mistake in Ms. Martin’s wardrobe for the evening—I forgot all about shoes. Think we could find a pair somewhere, size 5 ½.”

“Certainly,” Donald said. He bowed slightly to Brittany, then addressed his next comment to Flynn. “Maria says that dinner can be served whenever you like.”

“Fine, Donald, fine. If you’ll see about some shoes for our Ms. Martin here, I’ll escort her around the atrium. Then I think we’ll be ready.”

Donald left them. Flynn came around from behind the bar, handing Brittany her drink, then taking her elbow to guide her along.

“Well, Brittany, what do you think of my home?” he asked her.

It was an innocent enough question; she wondered why she felt as if his eyes were boring into her soul.

She met them with a smile in her own. “It’s lovely,” she answered honestly enough, pausing then to study the intricate little vein lines on what appeared to be a huge philodendron. The atrium was exquisite—almost like a well-planned rain forest. She dropped the leaf, then returned her attention to him with polite interest. “But I’m curious, though—what brings an Englishman to live in the south of Spain?”

“Scotsman,” he corrected her again with a slight grin. “There is a difference.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’ve spent enough time in London to know that,” Brittany murmured apologetically. “But the question—if it isn’t too rude—still stands.”

He cocked his head with a grimace and a shrug. “I don’t live here full time. I keep a home here because I like the sun—and the water. The warmth. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Yes, it is,” Brittany mused. She was looking up at him again, and they were very close. She turned and followed a narrow tile path that led through a maze in the heart of the atrium.

“Where else do you live?” she asked idly, pausing again to survey a miraculously large and lovely rose.

“Scotland,” he answered, following behind her. “The old family castle, you know. And London—I keep a flat.”

“Nothing in the States?” she inquired, running a finger like a breath over a petal of the orchid.

He was standing beside her again. She could feel the brush of his jacket against her arm as he moved to the plant, snapping the orchid from its stem. Then he looked at her again, his eyes following the path of his hand as he slipped the orchid behind her ear. She felt as if she could barely breathe; tremors quaked inside of her and where he touched her, she burned.

“I’ve been thinking about letting a flat in New York,” he said, adjusting the flower.

“Apartment,” Brittany murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Ah … apartment. In New York, you would call it an apartment.”

“Oh, yes.”

Brittany took a step backward, annoyed that the gift of an orchid could make her stutter. She touched the flower herself and smiled. “Thank you—it’s a lovely flower.”

A small smile played about his lips. “Where do you live, Brittany? Are you familiar with New York? Perhaps you could suggest a suitable … apartment complex.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about New York,” Brittany murmured quickly, continuing down the path. She sure as hell didn’t know what to tell a man who owned a castle! She was getting too nervous, she warned herself, but she kept talking anyway. “I live in Florida. West Palm Beach. They’ve a marvelous polo club, and Daddy’s just wild about the game.”

She moved quickly along the path, barely seeing an array of bougainvillea and another of the delightful, bubbling fountains. Dismay had filled her. What on earth had prompted her to say such a thing? She knew less about polo than she did about the fashionable haunts of New Yorkers. And wasn’t polo one of his hobbies—second only to his racing enthusiasm? Great. Just great! she charged herself.

“I’ve been there,” Flynn said from behind her, and she felt her heart take a giant downward plunge. “It is a good field.”

Brittany spun around, smiling broadly. “I’m glad you found it so. To be honest, I rarely go.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Horrible, isn’t it—but I’m afraid of horses.”

“You don’t ride?”

“No.”

“A pity,” he said idly. “I’ve a full stable out back. A wonderful way to see the area.”

“Perhaps I can learn.”

“Perhaps. I’d love to teach you.”

He was next to her again. For some reason, she never saw him move, yet he was always there. Those steel-blue eyes were always on her. That polite, slightly amused curl always seemed to play about his lips—and then it would be gone, as if she had imagined it. He wasn’t touching her, and then he was—taking her arm like the perfect escort, only he wasn’t just an idle escort; not when she felt his touch as if he were energy and fire …

“I believe we’ve given Donald time enough to find some shoes. Shall we head back to the patio and the table? I must admit, I’m starving.”

“Of course,” Brittany murmured.

He didn’t glance her way as they followed the tile path back to the table; she found herself fighting to study his profile.

“There’s Donald.” At last he gazed at her, grinning. “Seems you’ll no longer have to patter around barefoot.”

“I hope these will do, Ms. Martin,” Donald offered. He held a pair of gold strap sandals that gave the appearance of being brand new. Brittany accepted the shoes, thanked Donald, then dropped them to the floor to slip her feet inside. Perfect.

“Well, now that you’re properly shod …” Flynn murmured. She felt his hand, lightly, at the base of her spine, directing her toward the table. She looked around for Donald as Flynn pulled out her chair, but he had silently disappeared.

“You do drink wine with dinner, Brittany?”

She murmured an assent, which probably wasn’t necessary since he was already reaching into a wine bucket. He casually—almost imperceptibly—sniffed the aroma as he removed the cork, then glanced her way with his strange brand of small smile before lifting the glasses to pour.

“It’s a German Riesling—1972. From the Hausfen vineyards. I hope you like it. I think that seventy-two was an excellent year.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Brittany murmured sweetly, sipping her wine.

It was awful. Dry enough to create a desert. This was supposed to be a good wine?

She smiled. “Lovely,” she told him.

“Umm.” He took his place across from her. Watching her. He lifted a hand; seconds later Donald was appearing with the appetizer, a plate artfully arranged with shrimp and chunks of exotic fruit upon a bed of lettuce. Brittany managed to chatter about the fruit for a while—a safe topic, she thought, as safe as her enthusiasm over the size of the delicious shrimp. But by the time they had traveled through a spinach salad, and started into the main course, a fantastic bouillabaisse, Brittany found that he was querying her again. She decided she’d better stick as close to the truth as possible.

“I spend most of my time on the beach,” she told him—hiding a wince each time she took a sip of the wine and trying to smile through the unpalatable taste. “The water is my life and my hobby, I suppose.”

He politely arched a brow, but his eyes fell to his fingers as they played idly about the base of his wineglass. “That’s it—the beach?”

She smiled—and drank more wine. “Well, of course, that’s not it. There’s the community, you know. And father’s social calendar.”

“You never had the urge to strike off into the world?”

“Not really. We’ve always traveled, you see.”

“Yes, of course,” he murmured easily. His eyes lifted; Donald was there to clear away the plates. Everything in the house seemed to work on well-oiled gears that took no more than a glance to set in motion.

“You never married?” Flynn asked, lighting a cigarette as coffee was set before them. He offered the pack to Brittany; she shook her head, wishing she did smoke just then so that she would have something to do with her hands.

“Ah, no.”

“Not for lack of proposals, I assume?” he queried politely.

“For lack of the … right man, I suppose,” Brittany murmured.

He leaned closer to her suddenly, running the tip of his thumb over her index finger. “Will he have to be rich, do you think?”

Brittany was suddenly grateful for the god-awful wine. It was, at least, allowing her to laugh like a debutante. “I haven’t the faintest idea at the moment. When he comes along, I’ll tell you. But really, my life is dreadfully boring. Do you really own a castle?”

“Yes.”

“It must be fascinating.”

“It’s an endless pit that hungers for constant renovation. A financial liability that can eat you alive.”

“Oh?” Brittany sipped her coffee. Money. Yes—a castle would need lots and lots of money. “Where is it?”

“The uplands. It’s on a spit of land near John o’Groats—northern Scotland.”

She sensed something then; in that softly pleasant burr to his voice. For all that it might be a liability, he loved that castle.

“Sounds lovely, though,” she murmured.

“It is. Very different from here, though. The weather can be very cold and harsh, and it’s a lonely place. The township is small; you see far more sheep than people there. But speaking of people, I haven’t given you a chance to try and contact yours.”

“Oh!” Brittany’s dismay was real. Who in the hell could she try to call? She was going to have to do something …

He was already solving that problem for her. “It would probably be impossible to try and reach your parents, but perhaps there is a neighbor they might contact? If you just call and report your situation to somewhere near, we can sit back and relax and let time take care of your problems.”

“What a wonderful idea. May I try to contact the States?”

Flynn lifted his hand again. Donald—good old Donald—was at his side immediately. “Could you bring the extension, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

Extension. Great. She was going to have to call right at the table with him sitting barely an arm’s distance away.

Somehow, she kept smiling.

Donald returned with the phone. Flynn picked up the receiver. “I’ll get the operator for you,” he told her. “In fact, if you’ll just give me the number …? My Spanish is probably a little better than yours.”

Brittany gritted her teeth and rattled off a number. Flynn spoke in quick and fluent Spanish to the operator, then hung up. “She says it will only be a minute, but of course, in Spain …” He shrugged, then leaned across the table again.

“I hope you won’t mind being involved in a few social events while you’re here, Brittany.”

“Social events?” She offered him a smile and her casual interest; her heart seemed to be pounding double-time. “I won’t mind at all, Flynn,”

His lids lowered briefly over the crystal gaze of his eyes, then that compelling stare fell her way again. “I like my name the way you say it,” he told her softly, the tone almost a caress. She shivered, but the moment was brief; it might have never been. He sat back. “There’s a fairly large British colony here, I’m sure you’re aware. An acquaintance of mine, Ian Drury, is planning a dinner party tomorrow evening. Perhaps you would attend with me.”

Another hammer blow seemed to seize her heart. “I’d just love to go with you, Flynn.”

“Good. I—”

The shrill ringing of the phone interrupted whatever it was that he was about to say. Brittany jumped, then stared at the phone a full second before grabbing it—a bit too hastily. An irritated voice was calling out a rapid succession of hellos.

“Hello, Monica, it’s Brittany.”

“Brittany! Where are you? I thought you were in London. The operator said something about Spain. I’m so sorry about your aunt, Brit. But what are you doing? When are you coming back to work—”

“Monica, please, listen to me for a minute. I’ve had the most frightful experience. I came for the sun, you know, and the season. But there’s this nasty pirate running around here, a sea-mugger, I guess is what he is. Anyway, I’m fine; I’m at the home of Flynn Colby—he’s been kind enough to take me in—”

“
Flynn Colby
!”

“Yes, Monica.” Brittany prayed that Colby hadn’t heard her friend’s shriek. “Monica, I’ve no way to reach Mom and Dad—”

“What is this, Brittany?” Monica demanded more soberly. “I should hope you
can’t
reach them. I don’t mean to be cruel, but they have been dead for ten years.”

“Monica, if they should contact you,” Brittany grated with sweet force, “please have them get in touch with me. I haven’t a dime left, that horrible man stole everything.”

“Brittany, I think you’ve lost your mind. You didn’t have a dime to begin with.”