Heather Graham (11 page)

Brittany turned from the mirror, inhaling sharply and squaring her shoulders. This constant thought was going to make her go mad. The shift between panic and strength. There were times when she thought of Alice and in remembering her aunt she would feel such a rise of grief and anger at her useless death that it seemed that any move she should make, fair or foul, was necessary. Nor was she a child, she was twenty-five, she’d learned early to make her own way, make her own decisions, and stand on her own two feet. She’d known pain before; she’d lost her parents so early, and then there had been Jarod …

But grief had been different then. Their deaths had been acts of God, their lives had not been lost to the avarice of another.

Alice had been all that Brittany had left in the world. Her only living relative. And she had been taken so cruelly.

More the fool!
Brittany thought, and she tried to tell herself that she was not falling in love with Flynn Colby, that she could take care of herself, that she would use him and anyone else in her quest to see that justice was done.

Except, she thought bleakly, that she wasn’t getting anywhere. She wasn’t getting anywhere at all.

She was simply falling hopelessly beneath a spell.

There was a sharp rap at her door, followed by Donald’s voice.

“Ms. Martin?”

“Yes?”

Brittany hastily donned a halter dress and hurried to the door, opening it.

“Mr. Drury called earlier, Miss. I told him that you were sleeping, but he’s very persistent. Can you talk now?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Donald.”

She scrambled around for a pair of sandals and hurried down the hall behind him. The phone was set into the wall in a little niche. Brittany gave Donald an awkward smile and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Brittany,” Ian said.

“Hello, Ian.”

“Lunch?”

“Pardon?”

He chuckled softly.

“Lunch, today. I’ve been trying to get you all week, but Flynn seems to be doing a good job of occupying all of your time.”

“Oh, lunch.”

She felt absurdly guilty. She needed to see Ian; she needed to force him to talk. In reality, she and Flynn were nothing to one another but she still felt guilty. Never mind that she had used the man for the entire week, she now felt like a child going behind someone’s back.

She gazed around, but Donald had already disappeared.

“Brittany?”

“Lunch sounds wonderful, Ian,” she murmured uncomfortably. Where was Flynn?

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour then.”

She hesitated only slightly. Her mouth hurt from trying to smile so frequently, and she was talking to him over the phone, but she made herself smile again anyway.

“An hour’s fine, Ian.”

He said something else and hung up. Brittany held the phone awhile longer, then replaced it in the cradle. She gave herself a shake and hurried back to her room, brushing her hair, applying makeup.

She hesitated then. She didn’t want to see Flynn. She would blush and feel guilty all over again.

She ran downstairs and found Donald watering plants on the terrace. As always, he gazed at her with no expression; she could never tell what Donald was thinking.

No more than she could ever really tell what Flynn was thinking. Really thinking. Sometimes when he looked at her …

Sometimes she could swear that he longed to hold her.

Sometimes she thought that he longed to shake her. When his eyes seemed exceptionally sharp and silver, when they seemed to slice through her, straight through her heart. Strip her naked and bare her soul.

“Donald, where is Mr. Colby, please?”

“Out for the day, Miss. He said to tell you he’ll be home for dinner.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Are you going out, Miss?”

“Ah, yes.” She hesitated. Obviously, she had to tell Donald where she was going. “Mr. Drury is taking me to lunch.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Donald turned back to his plants. Maria appeared and asked Brittany if she would like coffee or breakfast and Brittany told her thank you, no, that she was going out.

It seemed forever that she waited there, with Donald silently watering plants, before the bell rang and Donald admitted Ian.

He was in a sports shirt and jeans, smiling effusively. Brittany stood when he approached; he took both her hands and gave her such a look of obvious appreciation that she flushed, uneasy.

“Thank God, I finally get a day in!” Ian laughed. He turned to Donald. “Tell your boss that she’s a grown-up and I’ll have her back when she’s ready to come!”

“Yes, sir,” Donald said simply.

Ian led her out to a little antique coupe. She didn’t know what the car was, she’d never seen one before. He set her in the passenger’s seat and came around to drive, starting the car with such a roar that she jumped. He smiled, and let loose.

Ian drove fast. Very fast. She was unnerved before they had gotten anywhere at all, but he cast her a gaze with such an engaging and boyish grin that she had to smile back.

“Don’t worry—I race cars sometimes.”

“Oh, I’m, ah, not worried at all,” Brittany lied. “Where are we going for lunch?”

His smile became a little wicked.

“My place.”

“Oh.”

Once they reached his house, Brittany convinced herself that she really had nothing to worry about at all. Oliver was there, Oliver was serving. He mixed them tequila sunrises which they took outside, down to the beach, where sea grapes sheltered them from the sun at a redwood patio table.

It was a beautiful setting. While they sipped their drinks Ian asked her about home, which was a good opening. If nothing else, she could describe Palm Beach to a tee, and she was easily able to talk about the exclusive shops on Worth Avenue. She even managed to twist the conversation, learning that a “chukker” in polo was merely a period of time play that could last from seven to ten minutes. If Flynn asked her questions now, she might have a few decent answers.

“I’ve talked about myself,” Brittany told Ian ruefully. “I’d love to hear more about you.”

He sipped his drink, smiling at her affectionately and she decided that she could congratulate herself, she was doing all right with Ian. She was managing to be charming—and safe.

But she couldn’t really manage that with Flynn, she reminded herself. She was always afraid that if he touched her, she would forget everything. As she had when he had kissed her that one time, a kiss that had led her to ridiculous dreams in which his touch followed his kiss, in which they didn’t stop until …

“I import and export goods,” he told her. “It’s a nice life.”

She smiled, plucking a grape from a bowl on the table. “Between Spain and England? So you travel frequently.”

“All the time. I was just in England, a few weeks ago.”

Her heart began to thump. He spoke so innocently.

When Flynn had lied to her.

He began to talk about his business. About his passion for cars, and for horses. She listened, she made the right comments. She felt a little ill, and then a little bit lost again, because she was wondering what she was after. No one was going to admit to her that he made his fortune by embezzling little old ladies.

Oliver served lunch, oysters on the half shell and seafood thermidor. It was delicious and she was ravenous. Brittany tried to steer the conversation toward Joshua Jones; all that she managed to learn, however, was that Joshua gambled heavily in investments and that his cash flow was often at a standstill.

“That girl of his is a problem,” Ian told her.

Brittany arched a brow, wondering if Ian knew that Elly was desperately in love with him.

Apparently, he didn’t. He went on to tell her that Elly was a spoiled brat, continually making her parents crazy.

“But let’s forget Josh and brood, shall we?” Ian said. He stood, reaching for her hand. “Let’s take a walk on the beach. Just leave your sandals. The surf feels wonderful.”

A little uneasily, she took his hand. When she stood, she felt the impact of the tequila, and wished she hadn’t imbibed quite so freely. She wanted to refuse him; she didn’t quite dare, because if he gave up on her, she wouldn’t be invited back and then she would never be able to watch him.

Depression weighed on her as she followed him along the sand. It all seemed more oblique now than ever. She was here; that much had been easy. She was managing to play the debutante all right, but where was she getting? Nowhere.

She was simply managing to fall in love with the wrong man after so many years of not feeling at all …

Ian had her hand. She was barely aware of the way that he was looking at her until he spoke. “So, what’s it between you and Flynn? Nothing serious, I hope?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You and Flynn. Is there anything between you?”

“He’s been very kind.”

Ian laughed shortly. “Surely, Brittany, you’re not that naïve. I can’t think of a man in the world who wouldn’t be—kind—to you.”

She stared out at the sea. “He’s offered me hospitality, nothing more.”

Ian tightened his grip around her fingers. “Then I have a chance, here, eh?”

“What?”

She stared at him. He kept smiling, but dragged her down to sit in the sand. Before she could react his fingers brushed over her cheeks and his lips pressed to hers.

He was strong. A very strong man. She fought his hold, gasping, tearing away from him.

And staring at him again, she saw that he was watchful, wary as he gazed at her.

“Ian, please—”

“I thought that I had a chance.”

“I—I can’t move this quickly!” she pleaded a little lamely. Good Lord! Did rich people just roll around that easily? She couldn’t believe that money could control everyone’s morals!

He touched her cheek. Gently. Smiled.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying, eh?” he said softly. He turned to watch the surf. “Water is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Brittany inhaled and exhaled slowly, shivering with relief. She stared out at the water with him, more than willing to be sweet and companionable with the danger passed.

And totally unaware that there was a greater danger at hand.

He saw them from the house, from the glass windows overlooking the rise that led down to the beach. Saw Ian holding her hand, saw him take her into his arms.

Saw the kiss.

Saw them settle down together, a couple then, shoulders touching, friends, staring out to sea.

It was as if a million tiny firecrackers exploded within his mind; he saw red and black and red again, and felt his body burn and twist as if heated shackles of iron had been cast around him.

His fingers clenched and unclenched, and he forced himself to breathe deeply because the urge was strong, primitively strong, to run down to the beach, wrench her to her feet—and throw her over his shoulder to carry her away.

Lord …

All week he had known that she was just lying, that everything about her was a lie. He used the greatest restraint just to keep silent, to keep watching her. He’d been with her, touched her, laughed with her, and fought the bitter twist of emotions that arose in him every time. She was a Circe, beautiful with that auburn hair, exquisite with those emerald eyes. He’d sat there nights when he’d thought that he would erupt with the longing, the raw desire to cast away her clothing and bear her down … anywhere … to have her. He’d listened to her voice, he’d heard it tremble, he’d seen the innocence in her smile.

And yet he’d known that there was no innocence. That it was some game, some ploy, that she had come with a purpose. To take him? To take someone else.

Restraint …

He’d held it all back. He’d been so careful. And now he felt like an inferno. Combustible. As if he couldn’t trust himself to walk down to the beach. To talk, to bring her back …

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The flame of her hair cascading down her back. Her feet, bare and touching the water. The length of her.

He ached, he hurt, he shook. His week had been filled with fantasy. He had searched his mind and soul in fantasy, clearing her every time, making her beautiful and innocent again. He thought logically that no man could be so great a fool as to fall when he knew … knew that she lied.

But fantasy had remained. At work, at rest, alone, knowing that she was just feet away. He had dreamed, he had imagined. Touching her. Her throat. Following the curve of his hand with his eyes as he drew that touch lower to her breast. Down her belly to her hip. Knowing the curve, the fullness, the angles …

“Would you like a drink, sir?”

“What? Oh, yes, Oliver, I bloody well would.”

“Ms. Martin and Mr. Drury were having sunrises. Would you prefer a Scotch?”

“Yes, Oliver, I’d prefer Scotch. Thanks. I’ll take it with me.”

While Oliver went for his drink, Flynn cast off his shoes and rolled up his jeans. As soon as Oliver handed him a rock glass of Scotch, he exited the back and walked along the beach to reach them.

Ian saw him first. They had been back on the subject of polo and Brittany had been listening intently. He gazed over her shoulder as he spoke, and he suddenly interrupted himself, saying, “Damn!”

“What?”

Brittany turned. It was Flynn. Feet and ankles bare and he slowly sauntered toward them. He smiled as he reached them. The sun was directly over his head, though, causing Brittany to squint to see him. And causing his eyes to seem very silver, narrow, and glittering.

“Hello,” he said simply, sliding down beside Brittany. It was a hot day; he seemed to radiate heat. But his smile was so slow and lazy, Brittany thought that it had to be the sun.

“Flynn,” Ian acknowledged tonelessly.

Flynn’s white teeth flashed brightly against the bronze of his features. “How was lunch?”

“Delicious,” Brittany murmured.

“I don’t mean to be rude, old fellow, but what in God’s name are you doing here?”

Flynn laughed. “I just came over to see about the game. We’re supposed to be up for a charity special a week from Saturday, you do recall. Inside. Rosy, you and me against the Aussies.”

“Fine,” Ian agreed. “Go on then, run home now.”

Again, Flynn laughed. Completely at ease, completely comfortable. “Can’t leave without Brit, here. Maria insists. Seems she planned some special dinner and simply must have Brittany home tonight.”