Heather Graham (15 page)

“Flynn,” she murmured, enjoying the flavor of a true vintage Riesling, “what am I going to do? You really have rather destroyed any chance that I—”

His fingers curled over hers, gripping them warmly.

“I asked you to trust me, to let me handle this.”

“But it’s my problem—”

“I can handle it better than you can.”

“But what do I do now?”

He smiled, looking down at his plate, then back at her. “You come away with me.”

“What?”

She wanted to pull her fingers back. This was the part of the situation she despised. While showering, she had mulled over everything. She had burned and sizzled with remembrance and pressed her fingers to flaming cheeks, and tried desperately to analyze it all.

If only he had been a beach bum. An employee of AT&T. Someone who she might have met casually …

She was twenty-five. She endured a fair amount of tragedy in those years. She’d learned to be independent, to live alone, to work and play and like it.

She deserved an affair. Some laughter, some love. Some experience. If only …

If only she didn’t know his reputation. If only he came from a world that she understood … where she belonged.

“Let’s go away,” he repeated.

“Away? Where? Why?”

He laughed, releasing her hand. “Away from here. Somewhere private. To get to know one another.”

“I—I don’t think that I can,” she murmured, lowering her eyes and feeling a crimson flush rise over her again.

“Why?”

“That would really make me a kept woman.”

He didn’t laugh, but she felt that his lips curled with a tender amusement.

“It’s really not amusing—”

“Brittany, you’re here with me, one way or another. Unless you’re willing to forget the whole thing and go home.”

“I can’t—”

“That’s right. So what difference does it make. Brittany—” He came around the table and caught her chin, raising her eyes to his. “Today, on the beach—you said that what happened was what you wanted. Only once? Aren’t you willing to take a chance? To explore further, to see what else is there for us?”

“I know what’s there,” she told him softly, with a rueful smile. “I read all about you before I came here.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “But still, on the beach …”

His voice trailed away; she sought for an answer but could find none when he was so close.

She was reprieved from an explanation then because Donald interrupted.

“Mr. Colby. Telephone, sir.” He hesitated. “Returning your call.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Donald.”

He withdrew from her, expression changing, becoming pensive and somehow dark.

And in this case, Donald did not bring the phone to the table. Flynn excused himself saying that he wouldn’t be long, and left her.

Brittany sipped more wine, trying to think of what she should say or do. She thought it over too many times. Her mind seemed to be burned out, she couldn’t think at all. She just felt tired.

Tired …

But though she protested it, still strangely alive. Yes, oh God, yes, she wanted to explore, to be with him, to feel him, to laugh with him … to love him.

Flynn stood at the hallway phone, listening to Chief Betancourt’s verifications.

“Alice Whalen, aged seventy-three, died of a heart attack on Baker Street. Apparently she was sharper than some of the others—something in their last meeting convinced her that she had been taken by a scam artist. Bloody good trick at that—we haven’t a single solid description of the man.”

“Do you think it’s the same man we’ve been after?” Flynn asked his immediate superior.

“Quite possibly. You can find out.”

“How?”

“He’s been accepting more than cash. He’s been taking jewelry. Easy to melt down and dispose of in either Spain or Morocco. Have you had any luck yet?”

“No, but I’ll be making another play soon.”

“What about the girl?”

“What about her?”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Do? Why, nothing, Chief. She’s my guest here. What would you have me do?”

“I’d have you be careful. What you’re doing is dangerous. There’s no help I can give you if you’re obstructed in any way. I’d deny having ever seen your face, and you know damned well, my boy, why that has to be.”

“I’m all right, Chief.”

“Are you?”

“Of course.”

The Chief laughed suddenly. “Bloody good ruse, bloody good damn ruse that was! El Drago having left her a pauper. You’d best watch your tail, boy.”

“I will.”

“Ta, then. I’ll be hoping for some good news soon.”

“I hope so, sir.”

Flynn waited until the line from London went dead. He held the receiver for a moment and thought that the Chief was right; if he had any sense in his head whatsoever, he’d have her on the next flight out of the country.

But he couldn’t send her away. She was determined. And if he let her out of his sight, it was possible that he could really cast her into danger.

But do I dare take a chance, having her so close?

Wanting her so badly …

Not now, you fool! He warned himself. This was not the time to fall in love … To let down his guard in the least, to take the slightest chance …

He closed his eyes and slammed a fist against the wall. I am not taking a chance! She’d lied, yes, but now he knew why, and he knew that everything that she had said today was true.

Trust no one; that was the key.

But he didn’t have to tell her anything. His life and their lives—what could be—were totally separate. And right now …

Right now he couldn’t change his course if his life depended on it. It had started when he’d pulled her from the ocean. Then he’d seen her, here, in his home, at his table. He watched her smile. He’d seen the way the sun caught and reflected and dazzled in her hair and caught all the brilliant emerald teasing lights in her eyes.

He held her away because he’d known he’d taken a siren from the sea, and he’d had the sense to take care, but all that sense had meant nothing today when he’d followed her to Ian’s, when he’d seen Ian touch her. And like an irate and possessive fool he’d dragged her down to the beach but even after all his horrid behavior she’d touched him, she’d wanted him, and he’d become one with her and now …

It wasn’t the time to fall in love.

He turned around and started back to the table. Love knew no time. He didn’t intend to be stupid.

He didn’t intend to let her go, either.

But when Flynn reached the table, she was gone.

“Ms. Martin left her apologies with me, sir. She has retired for the night.”

Flynn arched a brow. Donald watched him challengingly, but didn’t say any more.

“Thank you,” Flynn said.

“Shall you have coffee?”

Flynn shook his head and then grinned at Donald, too. “I shall retire for the evening, too.”

“Flynn!”

He swung back around, grinning. “Mind your position now, Donald.”

“You mind your manners.”

“I’m in love, Donald.”

“My arse—sir—if you don’t mind me sayin’ so!”

He laughed softly. “Oh, you doubting Thomas! Out of my own ranks!”

Donald pursed his lips and held silent for a moment.

“It isn’t a good time to be falling in love, sir.”

“I told myself that very thing. But don’t you worry, Donald. About either of us.”

Whistling, Flynn went up to his own room.

He showered vigorously with cold water. It didn’t help. He donned a robe and opened the balcony doors and looked out on the night, then he paced the floor for a while. He thought about what he was going to do. It was wrong, of course.

But he couldn’t help it.

He opened the closet, slid the back panel, and found himself in the darkness in a froth of lace. Lace that all seemed to carry her scent. The door to her closet was ajar. He pushed it farther and saw that she was lying in bed in something very soft and slinky, something that clung to her in the moonlight. But even in the moonlight, her hair was on fire—a sea of flame that cascaded over the pillow where she lay.

He walked over to her. She nearly screamed. She bolted upright, bringing her covers along with her.

“How—”

“The closets connect.”

“You’ve got no right—”

“But I do, Brittany. Really,” he told her huskily, sitting beside her on the bed, stroking her cheek. “I earned the right when I met a siren from the sea who cast out her tempting song and brought me crashing in upon the rocks.”

“The closets connect?” she murmured skeptically, but she was smiling as he touched the thin little spaghetti strap at her shoulder and eased it down her arm to press a kiss there. His arms came around her, they eased back down to the bed. He spread her hair out over the pillow and for a long moment their eyes met. His body ached and throbbed with each breath that she took, and he thought again that it was no time to fall in love, but that he would surely die in slow painful degrees if he did not love her. Then he kissed her and she wrapped her arms around him, her fingers threading into his hair, holding him tight against her. Her tongue, liquid and darting, delicately rimmed his lips. He drew it into his mouth, plunged his own into hers and felt himself tremble with the aching awareness, yearning desire.

They broke apart and her eyes met his. He came back to her, hungry—kissed her lips again and again, her cheeks, her chin, her throat. His mouth skimmed her shoulder and with those kisses he brought down the lacy froth of the nightgown baring her breasts.

Her skin was lightly perfumed and the scent seemed an elixir. He drew her breast into his mouth, cradling the weight, innately aware of the instinctive curl of her body to his, the soft, sweet rasp of her breath, the touch of her hands against him.

“Night after night … I lay awake,” he whispered, moving from her, shifting the gown. “I knew you were here. So close. And I knew you were lying and I didn’t know why and I wanted what came to us not to be a lie … I’d have never hurt you,” he told her. “Never, with malice, would I have—”

She touched his lips with her fingers and smiled. “Stop, please. Don’t speak.”

“You smell wonderful. You taste wonderful. If I were truly to crash against the rocks, I don’t think I’d give a damn …”

“Flynn …”

She touched his forehead, smoothing his hair. Her eyes were wide and clear and he shuddered, touched by the soft awe in them, by the evocative combination of sophistication and pure innocence that made her so unique. That made it more than …

Wanting.

“Touch me,” he whispered hoarsely to her, and she did. The palm of her hand rubbed against his chest, her fingers threading lightly through the mass of short hair there, slipping beneath the V of his robe, playing tentatively with muscles and flesh. Then more boldly, and slipping lower and lower. She found the belt and untied it and he haphazardly tossed his robe aside and he caught her gown and eased it from her and then …

He could wait. Wait to stare at her in the moonlight, the beautiful curves and angles of her body. His heart hammered and he couldn’t move.

She made a little sound, reaching for him, and he caught her hand, shaking his head slightly. “Brittany …”

He’d seen her in a skimpy bikini. He’d made love to her already. But he’d never seen her like this …

“Flynn.” She slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him back to her, nipping at his throat, his shoulders, touching her lips to his again and again.

“I’m just not … very good at … I’m not …”

He laughed and caught her cheeks tenderly between his palms and told her earnestly, “Brittany, no one can learn what you create. What you give. What you do to me.”

She sighed softly and kissed him again. He slid from her when she would have held him there, eased the taut heat of his body lingeringly against hers, bringing his touch, his caress, his kiss, against her. Slowly.

The first time had been passion and anger.

This was to be passion and tenderness and caring.

And it was. He cherished her from her fingertips to her toes. He was in love with her feet, small and high-arched and beautiful. Her legs long and shapely and as smooth as silk. Her thighs, trembling to his touch. Hot velvet touches between them, and the erotic beauty of her response …

She whispered to him a dozen times, and a dozen times he told her no … and each plea was more fervent. Each touch of her fingers against him—down his chest, following the pattern of his hair, spanning his hips, cradling him intimately. Until the woman who had blushed at simple nudity was gone, and the true siren took her place, sensual, and so attuned to the pleasure to be shared that she was wanton, still innocently wanton …

Locked with him, above him, below him, sweet pulsing motion, fever and heat in the night. Beats throbbed throughout him, he’d held it so long … but then he felt the rocketing shudders of her body, the rush of warmth against him and he cast back his head, thrusting deep, shuddering violently.

He held her close, nuzzling against her hair. Tendrils of curls waved and tangled over his shoulders and chest and mesmerized him even as he cooled in aftermath.

“Come away with me,” he whispered to her.

“Why do we need to go away?”

“Because I want you alone. Completely to myself. I want to watch you run naked on a beach. I want to—”

“Flynn!”

“Will you?”

And though she hesitated, this time she said “Yes.”

The place they came to was a tiny island off the coast. There were only two houses there, one for the caretaker, and the other for them. Flynn told Brittany with a shrug that a number of people knew of its existence, then he laughed and told her which celebrities had rented the place and they speculated together whether the affairs that had taken place there had been legitimate or illicit.

“Can you cook?” Flynn asked her, showing her the small kitchen with its brick fireplace.

“Well, not gourmet.”

“Edible?”

“I’ve survived this far.”

“Thank God. We won’t starve to death.”

“I take it you don’t cook?”

“Not for lack of effort. Maria says that I am capable of ruining boiling water.”