shaky, but she wasn't ill any more, and there was nothing to prevent
her from returning to the sleeping bag tonight.
But not yet, she thought, swaying slightly as she stood upright. She
would enjoy the undoubted comfort of Flynn's bed while she could.
She visited the bathroom, then made her way over to the
bookshelves, scanning them critically. They contained a motley
collection, spanning a number of years. She spotted some well-loved
children's classics, a couple of her own favourites among them,
alongside John Updike and Saul Bellow. There was poetry, some
history, including Cecil Woodham Smith's account of the Famine,
The Great Hunger,
as well as a selection of tough modern thrillers,
and a number of collections of short stories by Irish writers whom
she wasn't familiar with.
Sandie hesitated over several of these, but finally settled for
Some
Experiences of an Irish R.M.
by Somerville and Ross.
She climbed back into bed, almost thankfully, her legs trembling
under her, and, rather to her own surprise, was soon thoroughly
absorbed in the adventures of Major Yeates and his eccentric
household and neighbours, and was giggling over Philippa's first
experience of fox-hunting when she glanced up, and saw Flynn
leaning in the doorway watching her.
'Oh, hello,' she said defensively, wondering how long he'd been
there.
'It's good to hear you laugh,' he said. 'You don't do it often enough.'
Sandie bit her lip. 'Perhaps I haven't had a great deal to laugh about.'
'Maybe not, at that,' he said. 'What I came to say is that it's lunch'
time, and can you manage an omelette?'
'I think I could,' she confessed in amazement.
'That's grand,' Flynn said laconically, and vanished again.
The omelette, when it came, contained tiny mushrooms, and was
accompanied by a thick, fresh slice of soda bread. Flynn brought his
own food in, and ate it in a chair by the window, but Sandie didn't
allow this to inhibit her. She finished every scrap.
'You're still very pale. How are you feeling?' Flynn asked critically.
'Much better.' She tried to sound casual. 'You'll be able to have your
bed back tonight.'
His grin was sardonic. 'Will I indeed? Well, that's the news I've been
waiting to hear!'
Sandie lifted her chin. 'And I'd like to know when I can go back to
Killane.'
'You're not a very grateful guest. You have every modern
convenience, including room service, and you're still desperate to
leave.' Flynn shook his head in mock sorrow.
'Please don't tease me. When is O'Flaherty coming back?'
'Your guess is as good as mine,' said Flynn, shrugging. 'So relax,
and make the most of the peace here. You can't pretend you found it
restful at Killane, even when ignorance was bliss.'
'I didn't go there for a rest cure. I went genuinely to work.' Sandie
encountered an ironic look and flushed. 'Oh, what's the use? You're
never going to believe me!'
'Then let's talk about something else. Tell me about yourself,
Alexandra Beaumont.'
'What sort of thing do you want to know?'
'Let's start with your family. How many brothers and sisters have
you?'
'None, I'm an only child.'
'Well, that explains the singleness of purpose,' he said. 'Are your
parents musicians?'
Sandie shook her head. 'No, but my grandmother was.' She was half-
way through the history of that other Alexandra when she realised
with dismay the implications Flynn would draw from it, and
stumbled to a halt.
'Go on,' he said.
'If you insist.' She drew a deep breath. 'She was a failure, Mr
Killane, just as you think I'm going to be. Isn't that what you want to
hear?'
He said coolly, 'I'd prefer you to stop calling me Mr Killane in that
idiotic way. Considering we've slept together for one and a half
nights, I think you could use my given name.'
She gasped in indignation. 'But we didn't... At least not in that way.'
'More's the pity,' he mocked her. 'Isn't that what you expect me to
say? Or shall we agree to make no more assumptions about each
other's reactions to any subject whatever?'
Sandie bit her lip.
'Well?' he prompted relentlessly.
'Yes,' she said with a little sigh. 'I—I'm sorry. But it's what my
mother and father think. It's why they never wanted me to take up
the piano.'
'They'd have done better to have chained you to the thing—sickened
you of it.'
'But they wouldn't have,' she protested. 'Music is my life.'
Flynn's brows lifted. 'But you haven't lived that long,' he pointed out
matter-of-factly. 'And people change, Alexandra. They may sigh for
the moon, but when they find they can't have it, they settle for
something more tangible here on earth instead.'
'As you did?' She looked at him uncertainly.
'To an extent,' he said. 'But don't let me give the wrong impression.
I've enjoyed my life. And each bend in the road is an adventure.' He
was silent for a moment. 'So, what's the alternative to the concert
platform?'
'Teaching.' Sandie sighed again. 'They'd be willing for me to study
for some kind of diploma.'
'Wouldn't that be a reasonable compromise?'
'But I didn't want to compromise,' she said in a stifled voice. 'I
wanted to go for gold—the glittering prize, the star at the top of the
tree. Teaching's such- such a comedown.'
'It doesn't have to be. Not if you do it well—communicate your own
love of music to your pupils.' Flynn paused. 'The man who taught
me literature illumined my life. I'll always be grateful to him.'
'Please don't write me off yet,' Sandie said with spirit. 'Before I
make any decision, I'll have to talk to Crispin—discuss it with him.'
'Naturally,' said Flynn pleasantly, and got to his feet. 'I'll relieve you
of that tray.'
As she handed it to him, she said, 'I'm sure I'll be well enough to get
up for supper.'
'Don't rush your fences.' His tone was laconic. 'It's no real hardship
to wait on you.'
She was the one who was finding difficulties in the situation*
Sandie thought, troubled, as she watched his tall figure disappear
into the living-room.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. As she alternately read and
dozed, she could hear Flynn moving about in the other room, but he
rarely intruded on her, and she told herself she was grateful for his
consideration.
As supper time approached, Sandie got up, had her bath, and put on
her own clothes. Her hair looked dull, and her face still lacked
colour, but she felt as if she belonged to herself again, she thought,
draping Flynn's shirt across the end of the bed.
The meal was Irish stew, cooked with neck of lamb and vegetables
in a cast-iron pot on top of the stove. It was so hot it made Sandie
yelp in protest, but Flynn told her that a burnt mouth was part of its
tradition.
After supper he produced an old pack of cards, and they played
Knock-out Whist, and Beggar my Neighbour, and he taught her the
rudiments of poker.
And they talked.
Flynn told her about his boyhood, making her laugh at stories about
the various boarding schools he'd attended as he trailed in the wake
of Magda's career. But although he made it sound amusing, it must
have been a lonely life for a small boy, she realised, recalling how
the twins had talked wistfully about having a permanent home at
Killane.
In turn, she talked about her abortive career in a solicitors' office,
making light of the dull routine of conveyancing and probate,
concentrating instead on the receptionist's mistaken belief that she
was going to be the second Marilyn Monroe, and the senior partner's
predilection for race meetings over appointments with important
clients.
And she spoke about her music, and how much it had meant—about
the hours she'd spent in practice, forgoing the outings to cinemas
and discos and the dates with boys which other girls of her age took
for granted. She told him about the competition, and her parents'
ultimatum, and how Crispin's offer had come as a kind of salvation.
She was almost shocked to realise how late it was getting, and to
discover how much she'd been enjoying herself—and how much
about herself she'd inadvertently given away to the sardonic young
man on the other side of the table. She'd more or less admitted that
she'd seized on Crispin's offer too hastily without considering any of
its wider implications, she realised with dismay. She stifled a small
groan, turning it into a yawn.
'Tired?' Flynn gathered the cards together and stood up. 'Do you
want something to drink—tea, or some warm milk?'
Sandie shook her head, looking down at the table, bewildered by
this sudden awareness of him, and the intimacy they'd been sharing.
'No, thanks,' she said in a subdued voice. 'I—I'll just go to bed.'
'In here?' he said. 'Or with me?'
Her heart leapt uncontrollably in a mature of excitement and panic.
He was standing on the other side of the table, watching her, his face
expressionless. He was making no attempt to touch her, or even
come near her. Telling her, without words, she realised, that the
decision was hers, and hers alone.
But she wasn't ready, she thought, shaken. She lacked the
sophistication needed for such a deliberate choice, as she'd
discovered when she backed away from Crispin.
She tried to force a smile. 'I—don't need a nurse any more.'
Flynn said, quite gently, 'That isn't what I was offering, Alexandra,
and you know it. But no matter. If you need anything at all in the
night, you have only to call me.' He smiled at her. 'Even if it's only
for a drink of water!'
The pressure, if she could call it that, was off, it seemed and she
drew a deep, grateful breath, aware that her heart was pounding
unevenly against her ribcage.
At the doorway to the inner room, Flynn paused. 'Do you need to
borrow another shirt? I rinsed out your nightdress, but it's not dry
yet.'
The alternative, she supposed, was to sleep in the nude, which she'd
never done. And now seemed totally the wrong time for such an
innovation, she thought, feeling a betraying warmth steal into her
face. Flynn's faintly quizzical expression as he waited for her answer
seemed to convey that he was following her train of thought with
fair precision, and her blush deepened.
'Thank you,' she said awkwardly.
He nodded, and pushed the curtain aside, vanishing into the
bedroom. He was back within a minute with a clean shirt, which he
held out to her. 'Here.'
She wanted to say something casual and amusing about her raids on
his wardrobe, but she couldn't think of a thing. All she was
conscious of was the quivering mass of emotional uncertainty within
her.
She walked round the table and took the shirt. Her hand brushed his,
as she did so, and her whole body tingled in response to the fleeting
contact. She drew a small, harsh, incredulous breath as it occurred to
her how little she wanted to spend the night alone. And how much
she needed to be with this man.
She said, 'Flynn—I...' and he laid a swift finger on her parted lips,
silencing her.
He said, 'Go to bed, Alexandra. Go to sleep.'
He turned away, and she managed to return the pleasant 'Goodnight'
he wished her over his shoulder as he went into the inner room, and
the curtain fell into place behind him, closing him off as surely as if
it had been a brick wall. She supposed she should open her bed and
unroll the sleeping bag, but she was shaking too much inside for any
practical purpose, and she sank back on to her chair, staring
sightlessly in front of her.
He'd taken her rejection very calmly, she thought confusedly, and
he'd allowed her to have no second thoughts, although he must have
known what was going through her mind. So he couldn't have
wanted her very fiercely, or he'd have insisted—dismissed her last
lingering doubts and fears—taken her in his arms—kissed her in
that way that made her feel as if she was dissolving inside.
Even thinking about it...
She made a determined effort not to think about it. What she had to
concentrate on, she told herself, was the undoubted fact that Flynn
Killane was a worldly and experienced man. And although he might
have found it entertaining to seduce her, it wouldn't have mattered