Island of the Heart (17 page)

much to him. And it certainly wouldn't have changed his life in any

fundamental way.

Whereas for me, nothing would ever be the same, she realised in

dazed wonder. My whole world would be overturned.

In fact, Flynn would become my world. And that's not what he

wants. It's not what either of us wants. And I—I dare not risk it.

I dare not fall in love with Flynn Killane.

She 'covered her face with her hands, and sat for a long time,

without moving, hoping and praying that it was not already too late.

THE first thing that struck Sandie when she opened unwilling eyes

the next morning was the silence.

She sat up, unzipping the sleeping bag and gazing round her. The

weather, it seemed, had done one of its about-faces, and the sun was

pouring in through the windows and spilling in golden pools across

the flagged floor.

The curtain to the bedroom had been neatly looped back, and there

was a mug on the draining board, but apart from that there was no

sign of Flynn's presence.

Sandie scrambled out of the sleeping bag and stood up, pushing her

hair back from her face with sudden unease. It had taken her a long

time to get to sleep the previous night. She'd lain awake for what

seemed like hours, rotating her problems in her mind, trying to come

to terms with the jumble of confused emotion besetting her. But

she'd reached no sensible conclusion by the time sleep deeply and

heavily overtook her. And now a swift glance at her watch informed

her that it was nearly noon.

Why had Flynn let her sleep so long? And why had she woken to

find the cottage apparently deserted? She bit her lip hard, as fresh

anxiety welled up inside her.

Even in the short time she'd been here, she'd become used to the

sound of shared living—his movements, the way he whistled softly

when he worked it.

the kitchen. To wake and find that he'd disappeared, and she was

quite alone, was disconcerting to say the least.

She grabbed underwear, jeans and a T-shirt, and shot into the

bathroom, where she was brought up short by the realisation that his

towel was missing from the rail.

What had happened while she slept? she wondered. Surely

O'Flaherty hadn't returned with the boat already? But what if he had,

and Flynn had decided to leave her here in splendid isolation for a

few days while he returned to the mainland?

Oh, no! she wailed inwardly. He couldn't—he wouldn't!

She washed and dressed in record time, and ran out into the

sunshine, looking almost frantically around her. She called out to

him, but apart from the excited chatter of startled birds, there was no

reply.

Beyond the immediate vicinity of the cottage, the undergrowth grew

wild and thick, and almost shoulder-high in places, but there were

tracks through it, as she'd discovered that first evening. She tried to

remember which was the one which led to the jetty, but they all

looked alike, and she made two false starts before she arrived,

breathless, at the cove. She stood shading her eyes, straining over

the sunlit water for the distant glimpse of a sail, but there was

nothing to be seen, and with a defeated shrug, she walked back the

way she had come.

Or thought she did. She found a clearing, right enough, but there

was no cottage sprawling in the sun, just a tumbled ruin of grey

stones rearing above the grass and bracken.

It's like a nightmare, Sandie thought faintly, as she backed away, or

one of those weird films where everything changes in the night, and

the heroine thinks she's being driven mad.

She tried once again to retrace her steps, only to find in front of her,

at the end of the narrow path through the crowding bracken, the

shimmer of the lake. I'm going in exactly the opposite direction, she

thought in dismay, as she checked.

But just as she was wondering what to do next and telling herself no

one could possibly get lost on an island this tiny, she heard,

somewhere to her right, the faint sound of a splash.

She walked forwards down the path, bending her head to avoid the

overhanging branches of the bushes and small trees which seemed

determined to block her passage, moving quietly in her soft-soled

trainers, and found herself on the edge of the stony beach of another

small cove.

She didn't see Flynn at first, not until he hauled himself out of the

water on to the rocks some yards away, his brown hair plastered,

sleek as a seal's to his scalp.

Sandie felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He hadn't gone. He

hadn't deserted her after all, she thought, taking an impulsive step

forward, her lips parting to call to him. Then she realised with heart-

stopping suddenness that he was totally naked and halted abruptly,

shrinking back into the sheltering trees, aware that she was blushing

like a schoolgirl.

Flynn stood for a moment, lifting his face to the sun, then began to

dry himself, vigorously towelling the length of his lithe muscular

body, and shaking the excess water out of his hair.

Sandie felt as if she was rooted to the spot. She wanted to turn away,

to restore the privacy she'd unwittingly disturbed, but she couldn't.

She'd never seen a man without any clothes on before, or at least

never in the flesh. Her parents had always been reticent about such

matters, and quite apart from her almost ludicrous lack of

experience with the opposite sex, Sandie had never felt the slightest

curiosity about how the other half was made. It was women who

were supposed to be the beautiful, the desirable without their

clothes, she told herself bewilderedly. But Flynn looked—

wonderful, lean and hard and utterly, arrogantly male.

She understood suddenly why the island meant so much to him.

Why someone who lived most of his life in penthouse offices and

hotel rooms in one major capital after another needed his own

domain, where he could be entirely himself, dispensing with the

basic trappings of civilisation.

And all she could do was spy on him—goggle at him like some kind

of awful Peeping Thomasina, she thought in self-disgust, as she

turned silently, and crept away.

This time, the path she took returned her straight to the cottage. She

flew inside, and put on the kettle, before attending to her sleeping

bag and folding up the bed. When he came back, she wanted to

make him think she'd been there all the time, tidying up. The last

thing she wanted him to know was that she'd been chasing all over

the island looking for him—or, indeed, that she'd found him, she

thought, swallowing.

By the time he lifted the latch, she'd spruced up the living-room, and

was pouring water on to coffee granules in two mugs.

'Hello,' she hailed him with spurious gaiety. 'I was beginning to get

worried. I thought you'd marooned me here alone after all.'

'You were sleeping so soundly, it seemed a crime to disturb you.'

Flynn tossed his wet towel on to the draining board and took the

steaming mug she handed him.

'Have you been swimming?' she asked, guilessly.

'I have,' he said. 'The water was wonderful. Why didn't you come

and join me instead of skulking in the bushes like that?'

Sandie wanted the floor to open up and swallow her, but it refused

to oblige. She stared down at the unresponsive flags, hating them.

'I didn't know you'd seen me,' she said in a low, mortified voice.

'I didn't,' he said. 'But when you're used to being alone here, as I am,

you soon learn to detect another presence. And you're no Indian

scout, Alexandra. You Sounded like a regiment of soldiers in full

retreat through those trees.'

'I didn't mean to butt in.' She was blushing to the roots of her hair.

'I—I just didn't know where you'd gone, that's all. I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologise.' He smiled at her, his eyes flicking over her slim,

jean-clad figure in deliberate reminiscence. 'We're only quits, after

all.'

'Yes,' she agreed in a strangled tone, turning away, and fussing with

a tea-towel, 'I—I suppose so.'

'Although I had by far the best of the bargain,' Flynn added with

unholy amusement. 'You were very beautiful, Alexandra, and also

very helpless. I had to call on depths of chivalry I never knew I

possessed before I could let myself touch you.'

'Don't—please!'

'Why not? I controlled myself then, and I've controlled myself since,

although it hasn't been easy, and maybe it's as well that you ran

away just now.'

'You—mustn't talk like this…'

'What harm can words do? For that's all there'll be between us, my

beautiful one, until you decide differently.' He paused. 'I won't take,

Alexandra, so you must give.'

'And if I—don't?' Her voice shook. 'If I won't?'

'Then it's your decision,' he said calmly. 'And in years to come,

when you've confounded us all and become a great piano virtuoso,

you'll wake sometimes in the middle of the night, and ask yourself if

there isn't more to life than music. If there isn't a harmony of the

emotions and the senses that you've missed out on.' Without

changing his inflection, he added, 'Now drink your coffee like a

good girl, and I'll take you fishing.'

Sandie leaned back against the slender trunk of the tree and closed

her eyes. She'd spent the past three hours being scolded, teased,

wildly encouraged and mildly sworn at; her jeans were soaked; she'd

laughed until she was weak, and now she was relaxing, boneless

with contentment, while Flynn stowed away the gear.

If anyone had told Her that standing around up to her thighs in cold

water, trying to coax a fish on to the end of a line, could be such fun,

she would never have believe them, she thought, a smile curving her

lips.

Yet would she have enjoyed such an afternoon so much in any other

company?

Her heart lurched. I mustn't think like that, she told herself. I

mustn't...

'You're looking grim.' Flynn dumped the rods down, and dropped on

to the grass beside her. 'No wonder the fish would come nowhere

near you!'

'That's not true!' Sandie sat up indignantly. 'I caught one. And you

threw it back.'

'It was too young to be away from its mother.' He pillowed his head

on his folded arms, and stared up at the sky. 'Isn't it a glory of a

day?'

'It's been like a dream.'

He turned his head and looked at her. 'The trouble with dreams is

waking up from them. And the real world's never far away, even

here.'

It sounded as if he was warning her. She shivered slightly, as if a

cloud had passed across the sun.

Was it all going to end, then? Would tomorrow bring O'Flaherty and

Graunuaille
? Was that what she was being told?

She shrugged. 'Then I suppose we just have to make the most of the

dream world while it's there.'

'I always do.' Flynn paused. 'Are you cold? Are your clothes still

damp? I don't want you to take another chill.'

'I'm fine,' she said. And physically, she supposed, she was. The virus

had vanished, leaving no after- effects. Her appetite was back to

normal—in fact she'd eaten more than her share of the thick slices of

ham and tomatoes which Flynn had provided for lunch.

All the problems were in her head—and her heart. She wished, for

the first time, that she was more like the others of her generation—

more streetwise and worldly. More experienced. She wanted to be

able to analyse her feelings, rationalise them.

One day, it seemed, she'd been falling in love with Crispin. Now she

was in even deeper emotional turmoil over Flynn.

I don't know what's happening to me, she thought.

It was as if she was caught up in some game, to which she did not

know the rules. All afternoon she'd carried that burning awareness

of Flynn inside her, although their relationship couldn't have been

more prosaic. Any physical contact between them had been brief

and purposeful, and he'd seemed more inclined to yell at her than

kiss her.

He was making it clear that he'd meant what he said, that any move

would have to come from her. Only she didn't know what to do.

'Come on, lazybones.' Flynn was on his feet holding out a hand to

her. 'Let's get back. I have a feast to prepare for us.'

'Fish and chips?' Sandie asked as he hauled her up, and laughed at