Heather Graham (6 page)

“Just the point, Monica.”

“Brittany—”

“Monica, please!” Brittany stared across the table at Flynn. Those blue-gray eyes were irrevocably on her. She plastered another smile to her lips.

“Monica, this is the world’s worst connection! I’m going to have to get back to you.”

“You’d better get back to me, Brittany Martin,” Monica threatened. “Flynn Colby! I gather that someone is listening, but I don’t like it one bit. Not one bit! You call me as soon as you can—collect. Understand?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you so much, Monica!”

Brittany replaced the receiver and tried to hide her hesitation as she looked at Flynn. He was smiling at her as he did so often; that subtle curl of amusement just barely visible.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Ah, yes. Fine. Just fine. Monica hasn’t heard from them yet, but as soon as she does, she’ll explain the situation, and they’ll be in touch.”

“Wonderful,” Flynn murmured.

Yes, wonderful. Brittany felt as if it had been the longest day of her life. She just wasn’t sure if she could keep smiling anymore.

She pushed back her chair and stood. Flynn instantly did likewise.

“No, please, sit, Flynn. But if you’ll forgive me, I’m just exhausted. Would you mind terribly if I turned in?”

“My apologies. I should have realized that you must be frightfully tired. It was such a harrowing day.”

“Harrowing …”

“Your experience with El Drago.”

“Oh, yes … you do understand …”

How was she managing to face him? Easy, she reminded herself. Because he just might be the most cunning liar of all.

“I’ll walk you to your room.”

“But you needn’t—”

“Brittany, I wouldn’t dream of not escorting you …”

That voice with its deep, smooth and velvet tones. The burr that caressed and hypnotized.

He could probably sell refrigerators to Eskimos.

Brittany decided to give in.

“Well, then, thank you. As always, you’re incredibly kind.”

Flynn smiled and took her arm. He didn’t chatter; he did speak idly as they transversed the corridors, telling her about the terra-cotta sculptures in the breezeways, and how they commemorated the various gods who were important to the Spanish seafarers.

Finally they reached her door. Brittany found herself with her back to it, caught between him and the paneling.

Her breath seemed to escape her, and she could not reclaim it. The light was muted; dim, that of a candle’s glow. She saw only the glitter of his eyes, blue now; the flash of white teeth in that handsome, golden face. She sensed him, the clean scent, fresh like the sea, male like the heated energy, the passion and tension that were his.

And she forgot—cleanly forgot—why she was there. That everything was a lie; that she was a lie. That she had come to trick and deceive a grand deceiver.

For a moment she was aware only that she longed to touch him and feel his touch. There would be a unique beauty in the strength of his arms about her, in the pounding of his heart. His whisper alone could touch chords of rich excitement …

“Good night, Flynn,” Brittany said. She realized that her hands were braced against the door, that her nails were digging into the wood.

He lifted a hand slowly. He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and his smile now did not hold its unnerving humor; it seemed … wistful.

She thought, perhaps, that he would linger forever. Until she gave up her grip on the door, cried out, and fell into his arms.

His hand slowly dropped.

“Good night, Brittany,” he told her. And then he turned. She closed her eyes, but she could hear his footsteps as he moved down the corridor. It was a light tread. Smooth and quick, but surprisingly light.

It warned her that he could move very silently.

And that she could just find herself pounced upon when she least expected it.

J
UAN WAS STANDING IN
the patio when Flynn returned via the elevator. Flynn noted that his friend—who had a flair for subtly dramatic dress—was looking exceptionally sharp. His light leisure-wear suit was off-white, and in contrast, his open-neck shirt was a black silk.

Flynn quirked a brow as he approached his friend. Juan tilted his head and gave him an inquiring grin. The Spaniard was slightly the shorter of the two, and his build was slim. Flynn knew that there was a wiry strength to that slimness.

“Going out on the town tonight?” he asked Juan dryly, lifting a hand to indicate the table.

“I might ask the same of you,” Juan replied.

“I doubt you dressed up for me.”

“Nor,
amigo
, did you do so for me.”

Flynn grimaced and sank into the chair he had recently vacated. “I’ve a guest in the house. Of course I dressed. And I wouldn’t think of deserting her. What if she were to wake in the middle of the night, plagued by nightmares?”

Juan chuckled. He moved to the table, found a stemmed glass chilling in the ice bucket, and helped himself to the wine. Flynn watched in polite silence as Juan swallowed a sip of the wine, choked, coughed—then stared at him in amazement as he was coming up with a soft variety of curses in his native tongue.

“
Mi madre
! But what is that stuff?”

Flynn lifted his hands, grinning. “I’m not really sure. The cheapest stuff Donald could find at the market. Mixed with a little vinegar.”

“You are loco, Scotsman!” Juan charged, sliding into the chair opposite Flynn. “You serve this … this—” Juan finally found a suitable description for horse manure in Spanish and spat it out, then continued, “to a guest? To a young lady?”

Flynn shrugged, idly drumming a drum against the table. “I told her it was a vintage German Riesling. She believed me.”

“No! Anyone would know—”

“Anyone who knew wine.”

“So—she does not know wine. What does that prove?”

“That she isn’t any bloody socialite.”

Juan shrugged. “Her manners are impeccable. Her voice … the lines of her face. She has elegance and breeding—”

“We’re not talking about a racehorse, Juan. We’re talking about a woman.”

“
Sí
—but you can prove nothing against her for not spitting out your excuse for wine. Rather, it but enhances her perfection. She was too polite to insult her host.”

Flynn leaned back and lit a cigarette, staring at Juan with narrowed eyes that sparkled with both amusement and reproach.

“You’re bewitched, Juan. It isn’t like you.”

“No—I’ll correct that,” Juan retorted, wagging a finger at Flynn. “It is exactly like me. Me—I am hot-blooded. I love to fall in love. But you … you fall in love only when it fits your convenience. And never with reckless passion. Yet I would say that you are—in the very least—intrigued.”

“I have to be intrigued. And careful.”

“Careful-bah! So she is not a socialite! She is a poor beauty, thrilled to have fallen into the good graces of Flynn Colby. Have you nothing to offer me to drink to cleanse my palate of that—”

“I know what you think of the wine.” Flynn crushed out his cigarette and stood, then strode for the bar. “Brandy?”

“Fine.”

Flynn proceeded to pour out the drink.

Juan watched him reflectively for a minute. “Her name is real,” he said at last.

Flynn gazed up. “You’ve checked?”

“Yes. The police have already checked with the consulate about a new passport. She is Brittany Marie Martin, twenty-five, of Cocoa Beach, Florida, U.S.A.”

Flynn walked back around the bar and set a snifter before Juan. “So her name is real.” He took his seat again.

Juan waved a hand in the air impatiently. “Perhaps she is just lovestruck—entranced with a notorious figure from the pages of a magazine.”

“I don’t think she’s terribly entranced with me.”

“Ah, but she’s in your
casa
. Would it were mine!”

“Seriously, Juan, I’m worried. She could be my downfall.”

“You’re worried? I don’t believe it. How could she know anything?”

“I don’t know.” He lit another cigarette, exhaled, and stared musingly at the smoke as it drifted into the air. Then his gaze fell to meet Juan’s directly.

“I’ve got a phone number for you to get on tomorrow.” He called out a string of numbers. Juan briskly drew a pad and pen from his jacket to write them down. “It’s Cocoa Beach—find out what you can.”

“First thing,” Juan agreed. “And you—what will you be doing? Entertaining your guest?”

“You know I can’t. I’ve work to do. Funds to transfer. But tomorrow night, I’ll be bringing her to Drury’s dinner party.”

“Will that be wise?”

Flynn shrugged. His lids lowered to give his eyes a lazy cast and he relaxed more comfortably into the chair. But even in those thin slits, there was a sharp glitter, and Juan doubted that his friend ever missed a thing—not even in sleep perhaps.

“I want to see her in action.”

“Do you, I wonder?” Juan queried lightly. “Drury is a man of charisma and I think he’ll find your guest charming and innocent—even if you don’t.”

Flynn started; his eyes opened fully. It was surprising how much Juan’s suggestion jarred him. “I’ll have to see that he doesn’t charm her away. I don’t want her getting too close to Drury. Not when I don’t know what either is up to—and I have to make bloody damn sure that they don’t key in on me.”

Juan stood up and drained his brandy. “There are other reasons to see that another man does not take such a woman away.”

“Yes, there are,” Flynn agreed pleasantly.

Juan shrugged and started to walk from the table. He paused, turning back. “You know, you could just ask her exactly who she is—and what she is doing. You could, in fact, be angry. And passionately demanding.”

Flynn chuckled. “No,
amigo
, I think that my way is better. I will discover things in my own way.” His eyes were sharp; blue ice. “My day for demands will come—at my time, and my convenience. Until then, well, I will act out the role that she sees for me.”

Juan shrugged. “As you wish. You are the boss,
amigo
.”

“
Buenas noches
,
Juan
.
Mañana
.”

“
Mañana
. I’ll give you whatever I’ve gotten on our mermaid at the party.”

“
Bueno
.”

Juan continued on out. Flynn picked up the bottle of horrible wine, swirled it around, smiled curiously, then slowly frowned.

“Ms. Martin,” he murmured aloud, “you are definitely a lovely mystery. But just what are you up to? It will be fascinating to find out. Juan has an eye for beauty, and he is right about yours. But …” He slipped into his chair again, sighing a little wearily.

“But I can’t let you get in my way, Brittany. I just can’t let you get in my way.”

The upstairs corridors of the sprawling house were open beneath rounded archways to lead to huge, sun-drenched balconies. The rear of the house looked out over the ocean, and it was here, beneath a candy-striped umbrella, that Brittany sat musing the next afternoon. The view was glorious. Beneath her was the pool, and beyond that a stretch of snow beach, and to the left of the beach, where the water darkened with depth, was a private dock. Brittany could see the mast of Flynn’s
Bella Christa
, listing proudly as she rocked with the small, rippling waves that touched her at her berth. There were a number of boats there too—smaller craft. Two catamarans, and several sleek speedboats.

Brittany sat back in her deck chair, enjoying the sun on her legs, and sipping the piña colada Donald had insisted she needed. It was definitely what they called The Life, but though it was fun in a way, it was disturbing in another. She was so accustomed to being busy that she was already feeling restless.

She tapped a fingernail against her glass, and sternly reminded herself that patience was a virtue. She hadn’t expected Flynn Colby to be gone when she had awakened. “On business,” Donald had told her. She had thought she might spend the day in his company, and come closer to an analysis of the man.

Maybe it was a good thing she’d had the day to herself, she admitted wryly. Flynn Colby might have come closer to an analysis of her. He had a talent for shifting from a question and becoming the inquisitor himself.

And then maybe he wasn’t being an inquisitor at all. If you found a woman floating around on a plank and brought her home, it was certainly natural to ask questions. If a man and woman met over coffee, they naturally asked questions of one another.

The sun was starting to fall, Brittany noticed, and the sky was taking on a lovely crimson. The sea was becoming a deeper blue, and where it met the horizon, the colors created a glorious crash. Just like a little piece of paradise.

It could be paradise here—if she weren’t so terribly hurt and angry. But then again, if she hadn’t been such a caldron of emotion, she would never have come here in the first place. And she wouldn’t have dreamt of attempting to throw herself in the path of Flynn Colby.

A chill breeze swept by with the sinking of the sun and Brittany shivered. She was glad Flynn hadn’t been with her that morning when Donald had taken her to the hotel to collect her things. She had been careful about the wardrobe she had brought, but something made her think that Flynn Colby might just have looked around her room and decided that they weren’t the belongings of a member of the filthy rich. Donald, bless him, was too proper to oppose her in any way. She’d asked him to wait in the lobby, and he had done so with no protest. Flynn would have probably insisted on helping her.

My God, but Flynn was something! she mused. So attractive, and yet his draw wasn’t on any rational level. It wasn’t that he made a woman feel weak or foolishly feminine, but rather that there was something jarring and exciting and tense about him. He could touch the senses without the mind even being aware …

Don’t make it be him
, she prayed silently. Then she sighed, because she had no way of knowing yet, and if he was her crook, she knew that she would be able to hate him with total intensity.

If he was her crook. Tonight she just might be able to find out. How perfect. She had no right to feel restless; she needed to meet Ian Drury, and tonight was her perfect opportunity. Her two chief suspects in one room. Things were moving quickly and far better than she had a right to expect after plunging in so recklessly.