Heather Graham (8 page)

Once, he had come to believe that love itself was an illusion, that nothing of beauty could last. He had been young then, hurt and brash. The years had dimmed that pain; he looked back with only a little wistful sadness at what had been—what might have been had either he or Barbara possessed any wisdom—but was lost in the folly of temper and youth instead.

It was all long, long gone. And it had never come again—that feeling of urgency and need, longing to touch and be touched, to share the good and the bad, innermost thoughts and the most idle laughter.

And yet this girl with the emerald eyes …

It wasn’t love, and it wasn’t lust. Well, maybe there was just a little lust involved—he’d be a fool or a blind man not to be feeling a little lust. He was drawn to her. Pulled closer and closer by the tenacious threads of fascination. The hint of something deep and binding; summer days touched by the sea and sun, long winter nights warmed by a fire. Waking each morning beside a lovely and loved face with lips that curled to a shell-pink smile …

There was enough steam in the bathroom for him to call it a sauna.

Flynn gave himself an impatient shake. He hadn’t survived it all thus far by falling prey to beautiful faces.

He knew damned well that she was a liar. He couldn’t allow himself to forget for a minute just how adept she was at her lies. He had to accept them all …

He just couldn’t fall for them. Or her.

Until his day came to get at the truth. Which it would, he assured himself. Soon enough.

F
LYNN’S CAR WAS A
sporty Porsche, a red convertible. He asked Brittany if she minded driving with the top down. She assured him that she didn’t, silently glad that she had given up on the idea of doing something elegant with her hair, and had just left it to swing loose down her back.

The night was lovely and exciting. Lights sparkled upon the water; the air smelled pleasantly of salt and freshness and as the little car whipped along, Brittany felt soothed at the rush of wind against her cheeks. Flynn was a competent driver; she felt comfortable leaning back in the seat and allowing herself to feel the soft touch of the dark sky and delightful brush of the night air. Occasionally he glanced her way, and she was able to give him a languorous smile that bespoke a total ease with his company.

At length he turned inland, and they began to climb from sea level. The wind still caught at locks of her hair and teased them about her face, but Flynn slowed their speed, and they were able to talk above the roar of the engine.

“How large a gathering is it going to be?” she asked him. Her eyes fell to his hands, dark against the beige leather covering on the wheel and the snow white of his tux. A trembling sensation took her unaware as she suddenly remembered being in his arms; feeling those hands at her nape, coursing along her spine …

“Not too large, from what I understand,” Flynn responded, flashing her a white smile. “Juan will be there. You and I, Ian, Mr. and Mrs. St. John, Joshua and his wife and their daughter, and Rose.”

Brittany caught a flying wave of hair and twisted the whole of its length into a knot with her fingers as she turned to him with a laugh. “You’re forgetting I’m new here. Ian is our host, I know. Who are the others? I’m afraid I’m going to be a bit of an outsider.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Flynn assured her, giving her a quick glance that appeared almost sardonic in the play of moon glow and shadow. “I’ve a feeling you’ll be quite the rage of the ball, so to say.” He gave her no chance to protest or comment, but continued, “There’s a bit of a social system here, you see. A number of Britons, a few Americans …” He shrugged. “It seems sometimes—in Spain—that we become one with a common language. Each season, there’s a regular scurry of events. A closed group in a way.” He gave her a wide grin that was ruefully honest. “Edith St. John reigns as queen. She’s from Coventry; Harry, her husband, is an American. He’s a middle-aged man, meek beside our
grande dame
, and yet his witticisms fly right over her busy head. You’ll enjoy them. She’s a whirlwind and a bit of a busybody, but her heart is really one of brilliant silver, if not gold. Josh and his wife are the newcomers; they just took up residence here last Christmas with Elly—Eleanor, their daughter. She’s eighteen, I believe, sometimes sweet, sometimes rebellious but very pretty and nice. The Joneses are thoroughly pleasant—and Edith’s a delight. Carrie Jones is the granddaughter of an earl, you see. Josh has the Midas touch, so they’re also the most fascinatingly affluent of our group.”

Brittany smiled at him as he glanced her way, then turned her gaze to the winding road before them. She had felt a touch of electric warmth when their eyes had met. He liked the people he was talking about; they were his friends. He could comment on their foibles with no rancor, but with a gentle humor, and she felt that he included himself when he wryly mocked the social stratum in which he moved. And she liked that about him; she sensed that she would understand all that he had said when she met these people, and that she would meet his eyes again later that evening and know that he was sending a silent message. “See, I told you that we were all a bit off the wall!”

And she would understand. She would smile because it would be so nice to be on the same wavelength, so nice to share that unspoken communication.

Danger zone, Brittany, she warned herself. It was startling to learn that she was to meet her third quarry that evening—Joshua Jones—as well as Ian Drury. She had been wondering how to approach Jones. A little frown formed between her eyes. Jones was married to the granddaughter of an earl. He had a Midas touch. He didn’t sound like the type of man who would embezzle from little old ladies. But then neither did Flynn. Not Flynn. But Flynn
was
guilty of lying …

“And what is Ian like?”

“Charming I suppose,” Flynn said with a noncommittal shrug. “He throws good parties.”

He wasn’t looking at her, so she couldn’t begin to read his expression. There didn’t seem to be any hostility to his tone, it was pleasant and casual enough … maybe just a shade more tense than it had been before?

Brittany waited a minute, but he wasn’t going to say any more. “And who is Rose?” she prompted at last.

Damn, if he didn’t smile! Slowly, a lazy grin just curling pleasantly into the line of his lips. “Rose,” he murmured, and she sensed his affection for the woman from the warmth of his tone.

“Is she English?” Brittany prompted when it appeared that he had forgotten to answer her, being too absorbed in his own reflections. Brittany was annoyed, then irritated—because she had felt herself becoming so annoyed.

“Rosy?” He queried, glancing her way. “No, Rosy is very much a Spaniard. Young and wild and very impetuous. A lot of fun. You’ll like her.”

Will I?
Brittany wondered. And then she was horrified to realize that jealousy was creeping into her system. Dear Lord, she couldn’t be jealous. She couldn’t allow this man to mean anything to her …

“There’s Ian’s house now. You can just see his
casa
through the trees.”

Brittany caught sight of the sprawling white structure through dark and spidery branches. It was one-storied, with an elaborate and porticoed entryway. If Ian Drury’s
casa
hadn’t been impressive by sheer size, its entry—with the five towering columns and foliaged, sweeping drive—would have earned a gasp of admiration on its own.

“It’s marvelous,” Brittany murmured.

“You like it better than mine?” He was gazing her way, eyes sparkling, deep blue and jet, and a brow raised teasingly.

“Oh, no,” Brittany responded lightly in kind. “Your
casa
has much more character.”

It did. It housed
his
character.

Flynn chuckled softly, enjoying her response. “Let’s hope you still feel that way when the evening’s over,” he murmured.

The car passed by an iron gate; Flynn waved to the guard on duty, and the guard—apparently accustomed to his car—waved in return. They began a slight ascent; the house wasn’t really on a hill, it was just elevated. The drive curved gracefully through a myriad of tall and flowered bushes and then the lighted entryway seemed to burst upon them. Flynn drove beneath the portico. Before he had brought the car to a halt, two men attired in dark suits were at both doors, opening them politely.

“
Buenas noches
, Señor Flynn,” they seemed to chorus.

White-gloved hands helped Brittany to the tiled walk. “
Buenas noches
, Roberto, Alfredo.” He tossed his keys to the dark young man he had addressed as Roberto. “This is Señorita Martin; I’m sure you’ll be seeing her again.”

Pleasant, mumbled Spanish came her way. Brittany murmured something in return, then Flynn was taking her arm to lead her to the house.

The front door was opened. Another man in a black tux was there to greet them. “Señor Colby—it is good to see you. Señor Drury was growing anxious.”

“We are a little late, aren’t we, Oliver?” Flynn smiled and again turned to Brittany. “Brittany, Oliver. Should you ever need anything while at Ian’s home, Oliver is the man to see. Oliver, I would like you to meet Ms. Brittany Martin. I believe—if we’re lucky—she’ll be with us for the summer.”

“Ms. Martin, I am at your service.” Oliver bowed to her. He was an Englishman, very tall and straight, with iron-gray hair.

“Thank you, Oliver,” Brittany said. He nodded and stepped aside.

Flynn led Brittany onward through the foyer. There were plants everywhere, it seemed, vines and flowers, curling around a grillwork that lined the walls. The foyer was larger than her entire house in Florida.

Brittany felt the touch of Flynn’s warm whisper against her ear. “And now, my love, you are about to face the lions.”

She glanced his way quickly. He was smiling, but he was watching her curiously. She returned his smile. “Lions? They’ll be lovely, I’m certain.”

His secretive smile remained curled in place. Brittany heard light, pattering footsteps hurrying up a pair of stairs that seemed to lead to a sunken grand room beyond the grill.

“Flynn! You come up with a mermaid, and we’re all just dying of curiosity to meet her, and you make your appearance late. How rude! But then you never did really stand by ceremony, did you, darling?”

The footsteps—and the soft, sultry voice belonged to one of the most lovely women Brittany had ever seen. She was elegantly tall, elegantly slim—but very curvacious. Her hair was ebony black, free about one shoulder, caught back against the other ear by a blood-red flower. Her gown was not low cut, just slashed to give the advantage to that one bare shoulder. Her eyes, like her hair, appeared to be jet; her face was shaped much like a heart, the lines beautiful, the skin golden and beautifully clear. Her mouth was a bow, generous and full and red, and her smile was deep and genuine.

Flynn was returning her affectionate gaze. Brittany suddenly felt short; she had been confident about her gown and appearance, but now that confidence seemed to be ebbing away.

“Rose … hello.” Flynn took both her hands, and kissed her cheek. They knew each other very well, Brittany decided, withdrawing defensively to a position of objectivity. She was here to watch and to learn … to catch a thief.

Neither of them was rude; they both turned to her immediately. “Rose, I’d like you to meet my mermaid. Miss Brittany—”

“Martin, of the United States,” Rose interrupted and finished, offering Brittany a hand that was long-fingered, longer nailed, and bedecked with a massive sapphire, fine gold bands, and even tiny studs of diamond chips set into each long nail. But her touch was a firm one; the handshake as warm as her smile. “Brittany, I’m Rose Montelbello and it’s a true pleasure to welcome you!”

“Thank you,” Brittany murmured. Rose gave Flynn a wry glance and slipped an arm through Brittany’s, leading her on ahead. “That he pulled you from the sea, how exciting! You must tell me all about it at dinner. I had my own escapade with El Drago, did you know?”

“No—” Brittany began, trying to follow Rose’s quick, softly accented speech. Uneasiness settled over her. Rose had encountered El Drago? Why hadn’t Flynn mentioned it?

And just what was his relationship with Rose? Their ease with one another was disturbing. It was as if they shared a communication. The kind of communication that was exchanged between an attractive man and equally attractive woman … who were lovers.

“We’ll talk at dinner, yes? Now you must meet the rest … oh, you know Juan, don’t you?”

“Yes—”

“But Ian—he is most anxious!”

Well, so far, she hadn’t been called on much for conversation, Brittany decided. Rose managed to carry that ball, delightfully. It was strange—but safe—Brittany decided.

But for how long?

Rose was proceeding down that short flight of stairs; Brittany heard Flynn following quietly behind them. Then they were in the massive grand room, and she was seeing everyone at once—and nervously wondering just where her problems would lie.

“Everyone!” Rose called out gaily. “Flynn has arrived at last—and brought us Ms. Martin. Brittany—that tall handsome hombre by the mantel is our host, Ian Drury. You know Juan, of course. There’s Edith St. John and her husband Harry; the lovely blonde is Elly Jones, and on her left, Joshua and Carrie.”

“Welcome!” Harry St. John said quietly, raising a glass to greet her. Juan was smiling lackadaisically. Elly Jones
was
a pretty blonde who nodded but seemed a bit sullen. Joshua Jones—slender and gray haired—echoed Harry’s welcome, and his wife murmured, “What a pleasure” very sweetly.

Edith and Ian came toward her at the same time; Edith seemed to chug along like a barge on a river. She was endowed with a massive bosom, pure silver hair, and huge, sparkling eyes that took note of the world, refusing to apologize for healthy curiosity.

Ian—a very handsome hombre indeed—moved more with the grace of a cat, accepting indulgently Edith’s charge of affairs, and politely awaiting a chance to greet his guest.

“Ms. Martin!” Edith St. John took both her hands. “An American, how lovely. And you poor dear! You mustn’t worry about a thing at all. If Flynn becomes too mysterious—or chauvinistic!—for your liking, you’re more than welcome to move right in with us. I understand your parents are about Europe somewhere. You’ll have to tell me about them. Harry is an American—we’re quite familiar with some of
the
families.” The inflection was light, but it was there.