Heather Graham (3 page)

“Donald will escort you to a cabin—” He paused, glancing at her left hand quickly, “—Miss Martin. I’m sure you’ll wish to rest after such an ordeal.”

“Thank you, so very much, Mr.—”

“Colby. Flynn Colby.”

She laughed suddenly, delightedly. “
The
Flynn Colby?” She seemed truly startled—very surprised. Pleasantly, curiously so. Her inquiring smile was like warm honey.

He raised a brow, and she fanned those lashes over her cheeks once again, a slight blush staining her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but you’ve quite a reputation.”

“Have I? For what?”

“Oh … for being an intriguing Englishman, of course!” She bit her lip, then shrugged as if admitting her knowledge about him to be pure gossip. “A fabulously wealthy and reckless playboy—so they say.”

“I’m Scottish,” he told her, but he allowed a slight grin to play about his lips; he neither denied her words, nor encouraged them, but turned to his darkly handsome friend. “Ms. Martin, allow me to introduce Señor Juan Lopez, a native of our fair Costa del Sol, and an outstanding pillar of the community. He owns most of the resorts, and is sometimes a liaison with British diplomatic officials.” Juan somehow clipped his bare feet together and very formally bowed low over her hand. “I am charmed, Señorita!”

“Oh, no, Señor. The pleasure is mine,” she responded sweetly.

What a face!
Flynn thought. An angel in heaven should have such a face. A mixture of innocence and sultry, beguiling beauty. A voice as low and sweet as wine …

“Now that we have met, Señorita,” Juan told her, “I hope that I shall see you again about Costa del Sol. Perhaps you would be so kind as to—”

“Oh, no!” Brittany Martin exclaimed suddenly, clutching the white terry robe about her with dismay filling her features.

“What, Señorita?” Juan asked with alarm.

“I … I don’t know what I’m going to do!” she murmured ruefully. She lifted her hands and grimaced. “He has taken my money, my credit cards—everything!”

“Oh, Señorita! You mustn’t worry about such petty things when you have walked away with your life and health! My dear girl! After such a violent confrontation with El Drago, we must be grateful just to have you with us!”

“Oh, I am grateful for that!” she exclaimed. But Flynn noted that her lashes fell in a low sweep over her cheeks again, and again. She shuddered—remembering her confrontation? “I just don’t know what I will do.”

“You can call home from my villa—” Juan began.

Flynn chuckled softly to interrupt. He crossed his arms idly over his chest, and spoke huskily. “Juan,
mi amigo
! I believe I’m the one who actually fished our mermaid from the sea—the lady must be my guest.” He smiled at the girl. “Don’t be alarmed by my reputation. My life-style has been outrageously exaggerated. I’m thirty-three and fairly affluent and I’m afraid that’s all you need to make the newspapers these days. You’ve really nothing to fear. Donald and a number of servants reside at my
casa
.”

She smiled with gratitude. “Thank you both, so very much. I’m not at all afraid—just thankful. I hope that I can solve things quickly.”

“I don’t believe, Ms. Martin, that you could possibly outstay your welcome. Hell, I’m sure, would bloody well freeze first. And you mustn’t worry—calls and resources can take time.”

“I’m just afraid that …” She hesitated with a rueful grimace. “My parents are off somewhere—Germany, or Switzerland, I believe—on a second honeymoon. I’m going to have to track them down. I don’t wish to get in your way or disturb your life.”

“As I said,” Flynn told her softly, “you are welcome—indefinitely.”

“No strings attached, miss,” Donald said, very suddenly and very properly, staring at his employer—then Juan—rather than Brittany, as if he were reminding both of the men that they were promising good behavior rather than assuring Brittany.

Flynn gazed at Donald, mildly curious by the man’s quick, protective attitude. He was a little bemused. Women came and went—Donald was polite and courteous to them all. But this one … it seemed his staid employee was a little bit under a sea-spell of enchanted fantasy himself.

Flynn laughed. “Donald! That you should have to say such a thing to our guest! No strings attached, Ms. Martin.”

She had colored slightly. “Mr. Colby, as I said, I’m not afraid.”

But was she? he wondered. She seemed very tense. He kept smiling. “Let Donald see you to a cabin now, Ms. Martin. You must feel quite sea-logged. Enjoy a shower, and get some rest. You’ve been through one ordeal, the police might be another.”

“The police?”

“Yes, of course. You’ll want to report El Drago. Perhaps the police will be able to catch the culprit this time.”

“Oh, yes!” she agreed. Then, almost in aftermath, she added a quiet, “Of course.”

“It’s unlikely,” Juan murmured with a shake of his head. He looked at Flynn. “El Drago could be anywhere by now.”

“That’s the pity of it,” Flynn agreed.

“I suppose I must agree with Juan,” Brittany said, “and be glad that I am here now, with you. My things are small loss—thanks to your assistance.”

“You’ve made our day, Ms. Martin. Seafarers dream of plucking beauties from the sea; we’ve managed to do just that.”

Her eyes were downcast; she grimaced slightly. “You’re very kind.”

“Not at all,” Flynn said. “But you are shivering. Juan and I won’t detain you any longer.”

She gave him a tremulous grin, then stood, wavering slightly. Juan was there to steady her instantly. She rewarded Juan with one of those beautiful, rueful smiles, then righted herself. Donald stepped forward. “Right this way, miss. I’ll bring you tea in half an hour, if that will please you.”

“Oh, yes, Donald, thank you very much—”

She had started to follow the valet; she stopped, and turned back. “Thank you both so very much,” she murmured. “So very,’ very much.”

And then she was gone.

The two men watched the path of departure for several seconds in silence. Then Juan turned to Flynn.

“A little mermaid,” he murmured.

“Hmm. A little mermaid,” Flynn agreed.

Juan cocked his head. His expression was a bit curious, a bit wary—and more than a little bit amused.

“You started the day with the fantasy, Flynn.”

“Maybe I did,” Flynn mused. He arched a brow to Juan. “Fantasy seems a bit thick, though, don’t you think?”

“That’s what happens when a myth begins,” Juan warned.

“Apparently,” Flynn said thoughtfully. He rubbed his chin, frowning as he stared at Juan. “Well,
amigo
, what do you think?”

“About mermaids?” Juan’s dark eyes twinkled. “Frankly, I had always wondered what a normal hombre would do with one. Gaze at her beauty, touch her hair—but a fin would stand in the way of a great and fulfilling romance!”

“Ah—but this mermaid has no fin.”

“True,” Juan murmured. Then his tone lowered, and his dark eyes grew very serious. “So you tell me, my friend, what do you think.”

“Mermaids,” Flynn said slowly, “are not real. We both know that a mermaid is a creature of a seaman’s fantasy—and his desire.”

“Yes,” Juan agreed softly. “We both know that. But what if the mermaid is unaware that … mermaids are not real?”

Flynn smiled grimly. “That is something I intend to find out.”

Juan watched his friend’s face. “Beyond a doubt, she is beautiful, Flynn. Eyes like the cat; hair of fire. A temptress, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Flynn grinned at Juan. “Yes. But many women are beautiful. Or perhaps all are beautiful.”

Juan laughed out loud. “But we both know that this one is unique.”

“What are you getting at,
mi amigo
?”

Juan shrugged and picked up the brandy bottle, pouring himself a small portion, twirling it about in the glass.

“I was just thinking about Greek legend.”

“Greek legend?” Flynn chuckled and decided he could do with a brandy himself. He swallowed down his two fingers full, wincing as he felt the fire in his lungs. “Let’s hear this,” he told Juan wryly.

“I’m sure you know Homer’s story. The Greeks left Troy, but Odysseus was beset with tempests from then on. He listened to the song of the sirens, and could have been lost upon the rocks.”

“But he was aware that there was a siren, and he had himself bound to the mast.”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“Perhaps I should tie you to the mast.”

“And what about you, Juan?”

“All right.” Juan shrugged amiably. “Perhaps we should both be bound.”

“That would cause a bit of a problem.”

“
Sí
.”

“Our siren is a bit of a mystery—and it’s hard to solve mysteries, bound to the mast.”

“I believe,” Juan said slowly, watching his brandy twirl once again, “that we are, perhaps, evenly met.”

“Yes, evenly met,” Flynn agreed. He was no longer chuckling, or grinning. His tone had taken on a tension and solemnity. “But … I intend to take and use any edge that I can get.”

B
RITTANY STROKED THE TORTOISE
-shell brush through her hair and stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror. She set the brush down on the old Spanish dresser and gazed at her hands. Belatedly, they were shaking.

She willed it to stop; the shaking only increased and she set the brush down. Feeling horribly weak-kneed, she hurried to the bed to sit, pressing her temples tightly between thumbs and forefingers.

Now she just felt ill.

It’s okay, she tried to assure herself. She had carried it off. She was here; she had been accepted. As she had planned, her story had been excellent, and everything was going exactly as it should be going …

No, it wasn’t. Not at all. She was in way over her head. So far over her head that she could barely breathe; she could barely think.

“I need a drink.”

She whispered the words, heard herself, and bit her lip. She was insane. She had to be—to be here. Grief had made her mad. But could madness last that long? She had planned this trip, planned it all out with terrible bitterness and purpose as soon as the man from Scotland Yard had told her that there simply wasn’t a thing in the world that could be done.

And isn’t that why you’re here? Because it isn’t fair, it isn’t just, and you can’t accept that verdict?

Yes, of course, that was all true. But she shouldn’t be here anyway, and if she hadn’t found the newspaper article about El Drago when she had been cleaning the stupid bird cage, she would have never attempted such an absurd stunt.

Now, in Flynn Colby’s house, she was out of her league. A feeling that had touched her as soon as she had opened her eyes, as soon as she had seen him, really seen him, face to face. Felt him, the power of his body, the economy of his movement. The cast of his eyes, the sound of his voice.

Oh, God. What if she had to face him? Face him right now, blanched and pale and trembling?

It would be all right, she promised herself desperately. It would be all right. She could shake now. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Her fingers stubbornly persisted in trembling. If she should have to face Flynn Colby soon, she could surely convince him that she was still suffering from the aftermath of her horrible confrontation with El Drago.

Think of something else besides panic! she commanded herself.

She turned around, surveying the beautiful room that had been given her, then closed her eyes to reenvision her first images of the house. Mr. Flynn Colby knew how to live in style. The
casa
was perfect for the hot sun and breezes of the Costa del Sol. Everything was white or shell peach. Long open breezeways connected around a huge courtyard and atrium on two levels; shutters could be opened to the air or closed against the heat, and within the rooms opening off of the four long corridors, everything was of the highest quality, the zenith of understated elegance. Tile, marble, golden fixtures, stained glass.

Her room was huge, open and airy. The bed was raised upon a dais in the far center; it was massive and covered with a fur that looked like llama. With its old squared canopy, it looked like something out of a castle.

Cool Mexican tiles stretched across the floor, the dressers were heavy oak, shining with care. The walls were that shell pink that seemed so prominent here, a color that repelled heat. But they weren’t bare. Even in her room—a guest room—there was nothing left to the ordinary. Two of the paintings on the wall were Picassos. The third was a Dali. She was certain that they were originals.

The bed faced twin French doors that led to the balcony. The balcony overlooked a rose garden and sparkling fountain with Neptune, king of the sea, standing guard.

Brittany sighed nervously, walked to the dais, and cast herself onto the bed, staring up at the canopy above it. She started to shake all over again, amazed that she was really here.

She had to be insane. She would never be able to carry it off, and who was she kidding to think that she could possibly trap a swindler and trick him into returning to England—especially when she didn’t know who the man was?

Very especially when that man just might be Flynn Colby.

She closed her eyes tightly and inhaled a deep breath. She couldn’t panic now. She had plunged in head first, and she was just going to have to see it through to the end.

There was a knock on the door. Brittany sat up quickly, nervously clutching her robe about her throat.

“Yes?”

Donald opened the door and stood there very properly and cleared his throat. There was a gray clothing bag balanced over his shoulder.

“Mr. Colby took the liberty of sending for some clothing, Ms. Martin. He hopes you’ll accept the things without worry, and that the fit will be sufficient for the time being.”

“Oh,” Brittany murmured, catching her breath and lowering her lashes quickly, and then her head to hide a stubborn flush. What was she doing? she asked herself with dismay. She didn’t want to take anything from Flynn Colby. She felt horribly embarrassed; like a fortune hunter—or worse.

“Ms. Martin?”

“I—I’m very grateful to Mr. Colby,” Brittany murmured. “Thank you, Donald. I suppose I can’t keep walking around in a robe.”