Island of the Heart (9 page)

now...'

'Then I'll postpone the question until later. But not much later.' He

took her hands, lifting first one, then the other to his lips, then

turned and walked away towards the drawing-room. Before the door

closed behind him, Sandie heard Magda's voice raised in greeting

and welcome.

As Sandie began to climb the stairs, she was aware that her legs

were trembling. She felt torn apart by indecision. Her head might be

advising caution, but her heart was thudding with nervous

excitement. Crispin Sinclair wanted her—wanted to make love, to

her. Crispin, the rich, the famous, the supremely talented, actually

needed her—Sandie Beaumont. Little Miss Nobody. She gripped

the smoothly polished wood of the banister rail to convince herself

that she wasn't dreaming, and paused for a moment to steady her

breathing.

He had said they had both known from the first, but was that really

true? She couldn't be sure. Yes, she'd been attracted to him, and

flattered by his interest in her, she'd even thought in terms of falling

in love, but had she ever anticipated a full-blown sexual affair with

him?

I don't think it ever crossed my mind, she thought.

But there was so much else to take into consideration, she warned

herself tremulously. For instance, she wondered if Crispin had

paused to contemplate his mother's possible reaction to this

fundamental change in their master-pupil relationship. Because she

could not, in honesty, imagine Magda being particularly delighted

with the news.

She still hasn't really accepted me as her accompanist yet, Sandie

told herself, biting her lip. I still have a hell of a lot to prove. And I

did come here to work.

As she reached the shadows at the top of the stairs, the landing light

suddenly came on, and she recoiled with a faint gasp, blinking her

eyes against the unexpected illumination.

'Well, he wastes no time, I'll give him that,' said Flynn. 'But before

you become too flattered by his impatience, I should warn you it can

work both ways. If you intend to test your power by stringing him

along, you may well find yourself supplanted by a more willing

lady, and to hell with the artistic rapport.'

He must have been standing there in the shadows- watching them,

listening to every word, Sandie realised with blank horror.

She said chokingly, 'How dare you! Eavesdropping's a filthy trick!'

'But instructive, nevertheless. I'd never have thought of getting a girl

into bed by telling her it would improve her piano playing.'

His tone was light, but its barely concealed note of contempt seared

across her nerve endings.

'You're vile,' Sandie said tautly. 'And you couldn't possibly

understand. ..'

'Of course not. A peasant from the bogs like myself shouldn't aspire

to comprehend the tumultuous passions of genuine artists—even

when they're just a thin disguise for old-fashioned lust.'

She bit her lip. 'I—I don't have to talk to you. It's none of your

business anyway.'

'Oh, everything that happens at Killane is my business, as I've

already told you,' he said softly. 'Even trying to talk some sense into

a star-struck little idiot with her brains in her knickers.'

As her hand, instinctively, swept up, Flynn's fingers closed like a

vice round her wrist.

'You don't play the same trick twice, darling.' His voice hardened.

'Not unless you want to invite the kind of retribution you'd least care

for.'

'Let go of me at once!' She tried unavailingly to pull free.

'When I'm good and ready, and when you've listened to what I have

to say.'

'Then say it and go to hell!' she flared.

'All right.' He paused briefly. 'If I thought there was a chance that

Crispin would make you happy, then I'd stand back and let nature

take its course. But he can't and he won't, and if you think you have

a future with him, then you're fooling yourself because there's one

woman in his life, and one only.' He released his grip on her so

abruptly that she almost stumbled.

'Is that it?' Sandie rubbed her tingling flesh, glaring at him.

'It's enough to be going on with. If you want it more plainly, I'm

telling you that Crispin's a married man.'

She said unevenly, 'I already know that. And I know all about

Francesca too. Crispin has been perfectly frank with me—and I'm

prepared to wait while it all gets sorted out.'

'Are you, now?' Flynn said derisively. 'Well, I doubt that he is.' He

reached out and wound a strand of blonde hair round his- finger,

staring down at it with a faint grim smile. 'You have so many—

irresistible attributes, Miss Beaumont.'

'You're—hurting me!'

'I'm trying to stop you from getting hurt, you little idiot.' He

shrugged. 'But if you won't listen...' He smoothed the lock of hair

back behind her ear and grinned down into her outraged face. 'In the

circumstances, it would be tactless to hope that you sleep well, so

I'll just wish you a pleasant night.'

'You're revolting!' she said stormily. 'You don't understand. You'd

never understand anyone like Crispin.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' said Flynn Killane. 'But I

comprehend well enough what's going on in your head, my little

frightened virgin. Because you are scaled of this—step into the

unknown, aren't you, darling? And although you're dazzled by all

the fine words, you're still not sure whether Crispin's the man you

want to take the step with. Whether he's capable of rousing you,

until everything else in heaven and earth slips away. And you're

right to have doubts. You deserve better.'

He was standing close to her—much too close, she realised, with a

swift unwelcome thud of her pulses.

She said thickly, 'I suppose you mean yourself. Your conceit—your

arrogance is disgusting!'

'Is it now?' said Flynn Killane. He bent his head, and his mouth

brushed hers with swift, devastating sensuousness. As a kiss it could

only have lasted a couple of seconds, no more, but she felt it in

every fibre of her being.

Oh God, he wasn't even holding her, yet it was suddenly impossible

to breathe—impossible to think. As he straightened, she found her

lips forming his name, but whether in protest or plea, she was

incapable of deciding.

He said softly and distinctly, 'Yes,' as if answering some unspoken

question.

Then he turned on his heel and walked away from her, leaving her

staring dazedly after him.

When Sandie reached her room, she was breathing as swiftly and

painfully as if she'd taken part in some marathon. She slammed the

door and leaned back against the heavy panels, trying to collect her

thoughts and emotions.

She felt mortified to her very soul. She'd allowed Flynn to kiss

her—although she couldn't see very well how she could have

avoided it—and, although he'd barely touched her, she now had to

admit that the caress had stirred her blood to tumult.

She shook her head slowly, staring unseeingly into space, rejecting

the very notion. Flynn had just capitalised on a situation which

Crispin had created. It was Crispin's words, Crispin's kiss which had

aroused her, that was all.

She shivered suddenly. 'Stealing and snatching.' The twins' words

returned to torment her. Flynn was simply trying to revive the old

malicious sexual rivalry between his brother and himself, and she

wanted no part of it. She dared not get involved, she realised.

He might be an unfeeling brute, but there was no doubt that Flynn

Killane possessed a powerful sensual charisma, and knew how to

use it. She wrapped her arms across her body in an unconsciously

defensive gesture.

Well, in future she would be on her guard, and Flynn would be no

further danger to her.

And in the meantime, there was Crispin...

She took a slow, deep breath, her eyes going almost distractedly to

the big bed. He was going to come to her room later, she was sure of

it, and then she would have to make one of the major decisions of

her life so far.

She tried to imagine herself, undressed, lying in the bed in Crispin's

arms, letting him kiss her—touch her—take her—and failed utterly.

She wondered rather desperately if Crispin really appreciated how

totally inexperienced she was. He'd talked indulgently about her

innocence, of course, but at the same time she couldn't help

remembering, incongruously, how impatient he became when she

struck discords on the piano.

She set her teeth. Now she was just being silly. She tried to

concentrate on practicalities. She hunted out the prettiest of her

clean nightdresses and crept along to the bathroom for yet another

quick bath. She sprayed herself with scent and brushed her long hair

until her arm ached with the effort, all the time keeping a wary eye

on her door, waiting for it to open, and Crispin to come to her.

She wondered if she ought to put on some lipstick. She applied

some, then with a grimace, wiped it off with a tissue. But the stain

of it still remained on her lips, and she supposed she should really

have another wash. She was half-way to the door when she stopped

suddenly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

What the hell was she doing? She was running in fruitless circles,

like a hamster on a wheel, just trying to stop herself from thinking—

from considering too deeply what she was doing.

She had been listening, she realised, for the telltale footstep in the

passage outside not with eagerness but with dread. Because,

although it galled her to admit it, Flynn Killane had been right about

one thing. She wasn't sure. In fact, she was a mass of seething doubt.

She had more or less allowed Crispin to talk her into something she

just wasn't ready for. She couldn't take this giant leap in the dark—

surrender herself without commitment, especially in this house

where all his family lived.

It's impossible, she thought, pressing her hands frantically to her

face. What could he have been thinking of? And why did I give him

even the slightest idea that I would be willing?

She half stumbled to the door, and using both hands, turned its big

old-fashioned key, screeching in protest, in the lock.

She turned off the light and got into bed, pulling the covers up to her

chin, hoping desperately that when Crispin came knocking at her

door, he would simply think she was asleep, and go away again. She

prayed he wouldn't actually try the door, and discover the reality of

her rejection of him.

It would be awful trying to explain it to him, trying to justify her

change of heart, if that was what it was. Whereas tomorrow she

could talk to him rationally, explain her misgivings—his own word.

But it was deeper than that. She'd experienced something close to

panic. She needed more time, and more reassurance. Surely—surely

she could make him understand.

She lay still, staring through the darkness at the door, as the minutes

became hours, and until, eventually, weariness overcame her, and

she fell deeply asleep.

SANDIE slept late the next morning. When she finally woke, a glance

at her watch had her frantically scrambling into her clothes. When

she arrived downstairs, out of breath, and a little embarrassed, the

house seemed curiously quiet.

'So there you are,' Bridie appeared from the kitchen regions. 'I

suppose you'll be wanting coffee.'

Sandie hesitated. 'I'm not sure I'll have time. Mrs Sinclair will be

wanting me.' _

'She's gone into Galway with the young ones. They'll not be back

until teatime.'

In a way it was a relief. Sandie felt as if her head was stuffed with

rather painful cotton wool, and not at all in any state to cope with

Magda's strictures.

She nerved herself. 'Do you know where Mr Crispin is?'

If he'd come to her room last night, she would been totally oblivious

to the fact. But whatever had happened, they had to have a serious

talk.

Bridie laughed. 'Mr Crispin, is it? You'll not be seeing him before

noon, with the head that he'll have on him! I'll get your coffee. Will

you take a rasher with it?'

Sandie shook her head. 'Just some toast would be fine.'

'Toast!' Bridie scoffed. 'Why, a puff of wind would blow you away