now...'
'Then I'll postpone the question until later. But not much later.' He
took her hands, lifting first one, then the other to his lips, then
turned and walked away towards the drawing-room. Before the door
closed behind him, Sandie heard Magda's voice raised in greeting
and welcome.
As Sandie began to climb the stairs, she was aware that her legs
were trembling. She felt torn apart by indecision. Her head might be
advising caution, but her heart was thudding with nervous
excitement. Crispin Sinclair wanted her—wanted to make love, to
her. Crispin, the rich, the famous, the supremely talented, actually
needed her—Sandie Beaumont. Little Miss Nobody. She gripped
the smoothly polished wood of the banister rail to convince herself
that she wasn't dreaming, and paused for a moment to steady her
breathing.
He had said they had both known from the first, but was that really
true? She couldn't be sure. Yes, she'd been attracted to him, and
flattered by his interest in her, she'd even thought in terms of falling
in love, but had she ever anticipated a full-blown sexual affair with
him?
I don't think it ever crossed my mind, she thought.
But there was so much else to take into consideration, she warned
herself tremulously. For instance, she wondered if Crispin had
paused to contemplate his mother's possible reaction to this
fundamental change in their master-pupil relationship. Because she
could not, in honesty, imagine Magda being particularly delighted
with the news.
She still hasn't really accepted me as her accompanist yet, Sandie
told herself, biting her lip. I still have a hell of a lot to prove. And I
did come here to work.
As she reached the shadows at the top of the stairs, the landing light
suddenly came on, and she recoiled with a faint gasp, blinking her
eyes against the unexpected illumination.
'Well, he wastes no time, I'll give him that,' said Flynn. 'But before
you become too flattered by his impatience, I should warn you it can
work both ways. If you intend to test your power by stringing him
along, you may well find yourself supplanted by a more willing
lady, and to hell with the artistic rapport.'
He must have been standing there in the shadows- watching them,
listening to every word, Sandie realised with blank horror.
She said chokingly, 'How dare you! Eavesdropping's a filthy trick!'
'But instructive, nevertheless. I'd never have thought of getting a girl
into bed by telling her it would improve her piano playing.'
His tone was light, but its barely concealed note of contempt seared
across her nerve endings.
'You're vile,' Sandie said tautly. 'And you couldn't possibly
understand. ..'
'Of course not. A peasant from the bogs like myself shouldn't aspire
to comprehend the tumultuous passions of genuine artists—even
when they're just a thin disguise for old-fashioned lust.'
She bit her lip. 'I—I don't have to talk to you. It's none of your
business anyway.'
'Oh, everything that happens at Killane is my business, as I've
already told you,' he said softly. 'Even trying to talk some sense into
a star-struck little idiot with her brains in her knickers.'
As her hand, instinctively, swept up, Flynn's fingers closed like a
vice round her wrist.
'You don't play the same trick twice, darling.' His voice hardened.
'Not unless you want to invite the kind of retribution you'd least care
for.'
'Let go of me at once!' She tried unavailingly to pull free.
'When I'm good and ready, and when you've listened to what I have
to say.'
'Then say it and go to hell!' she flared.
'All right.' He paused briefly. 'If I thought there was a chance that
Crispin would make you happy, then I'd stand back and let nature
take its course. But he can't and he won't, and if you think you have
a future with him, then you're fooling yourself because there's one
woman in his life, and one only.' He released his grip on her so
abruptly that she almost stumbled.
'Is that it?' Sandie rubbed her tingling flesh, glaring at him.
'It's enough to be going on with. If you want it more plainly, I'm
telling you that Crispin's a married man.'
She said unevenly, 'I already know that. And I know all about
Francesca too. Crispin has been perfectly frank with me—and I'm
prepared to wait while it all gets sorted out.'
'Are you, now?' Flynn said derisively. 'Well, I doubt that he is.' He
reached out and wound a strand of blonde hair round his- finger,
staring down at it with a faint grim smile. 'You have so many—
irresistible attributes, Miss Beaumont.'
'You're—hurting me!'
'I'm trying to stop you from getting hurt, you little idiot.' He
shrugged. 'But if you won't listen...' He smoothed the lock of hair
back behind her ear and grinned down into her outraged face. 'In the
circumstances, it would be tactless to hope that you sleep well, so
I'll just wish you a pleasant night.'
'You're revolting!' she said stormily. 'You don't understand. You'd
never understand anyone like Crispin.'
'I'll take that as a compliment,' said Flynn Killane. 'But I
comprehend well enough what's going on in your head, my little
frightened virgin. Because you are scaled of this—step into the
unknown, aren't you, darling? And although you're dazzled by all
the fine words, you're still not sure whether Crispin's the man you
want to take the step with. Whether he's capable of rousing you,
until everything else in heaven and earth slips away. And you're
right to have doubts. You deserve better.'
He was standing close to her—much too close, she realised, with a
swift unwelcome thud of her pulses.
She said thickly, 'I suppose you mean yourself. Your conceit—your
arrogance is disgusting!'
'Is it now?' said Flynn Killane. He bent his head, and his mouth
brushed hers with swift, devastating sensuousness. As a kiss it could
only have lasted a couple of seconds, no more, but she felt it in
every fibre of her being.
Oh God, he wasn't even holding her, yet it was suddenly impossible
to breathe—impossible to think. As he straightened, she found her
lips forming his name, but whether in protest or plea, she was
incapable of deciding.
He said softly and distinctly, 'Yes,' as if answering some unspoken
question.
Then he turned on his heel and walked away from her, leaving her
staring dazedly after him.
When Sandie reached her room, she was breathing as swiftly and
painfully as if she'd taken part in some marathon. She slammed the
door and leaned back against the heavy panels, trying to collect her
thoughts and emotions.
She felt mortified to her very soul. She'd allowed Flynn to kiss
her—although she couldn't see very well how she could have
avoided it—and, although he'd barely touched her, she now had to
admit that the caress had stirred her blood to tumult.
She shook her head slowly, staring unseeingly into space, rejecting
the very notion. Flynn had just capitalised on a situation which
Crispin had created. It was Crispin's words, Crispin's kiss which had
aroused her, that was all.
She shivered suddenly. 'Stealing and snatching.' The twins' words
returned to torment her. Flynn was simply trying to revive the old
malicious sexual rivalry between his brother and himself, and she
wanted no part of it. She dared not get involved, she realised.
He might be an unfeeling brute, but there was no doubt that Flynn
Killane possessed a powerful sensual charisma, and knew how to
use it. She wrapped her arms across her body in an unconsciously
defensive gesture.
Well, in future she would be on her guard, and Flynn would be no
further danger to her.
And in the meantime, there was Crispin...
She took a slow, deep breath, her eyes going almost distractedly to
the big bed. He was going to come to her room later, she was sure of
it, and then she would have to make one of the major decisions of
her life so far.
She tried to imagine herself, undressed, lying in the bed in Crispin's
arms, letting him kiss her—touch her—take her—and failed utterly.
She wondered rather desperately if Crispin really appreciated how
totally inexperienced she was. He'd talked indulgently about her
innocence, of course, but at the same time she couldn't help
remembering, incongruously, how impatient he became when she
struck discords on the piano.
She set her teeth. Now she was just being silly. She tried to
concentrate on practicalities. She hunted out the prettiest of her
clean nightdresses and crept along to the bathroom for yet another
quick bath. She sprayed herself with scent and brushed her long hair
until her arm ached with the effort, all the time keeping a wary eye
on her door, waiting for it to open, and Crispin to come to her.
She wondered if she ought to put on some lipstick. She applied
some, then with a grimace, wiped it off with a tissue. But the stain
of it still remained on her lips, and she supposed she should really
have another wash. She was half-way to the door when she stopped
suddenly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
What the hell was she doing? She was running in fruitless circles,
like a hamster on a wheel, just trying to stop herself from thinking—
from considering too deeply what she was doing.
She had been listening, she realised, for the telltale footstep in the
passage outside not with eagerness but with dread. Because,
although it galled her to admit it, Flynn Killane had been right about
one thing. She wasn't sure. In fact, she was a mass of seething doubt.
She had more or less allowed Crispin to talk her into something she
just wasn't ready for. She couldn't take this giant leap in the dark—
surrender herself without commitment, especially in this house
where all his family lived.
It's impossible, she thought, pressing her hands frantically to her
face. What could he have been thinking of? And why did I give him
even the slightest idea that I would be willing?
She half stumbled to the door, and using both hands, turned its big
old-fashioned key, screeching in protest, in the lock.
She turned off the light and got into bed, pulling the covers up to her
chin, hoping desperately that when Crispin came knocking at her
door, he would simply think she was asleep, and go away again. She
prayed he wouldn't actually try the door, and discover the reality of
her rejection of him.
It would be awful trying to explain it to him, trying to justify her
change of heart, if that was what it was. Whereas tomorrow she
could talk to him rationally, explain her misgivings—his own word.
But it was deeper than that. She'd experienced something close to
panic. She needed more time, and more reassurance. Surely—surely
she could make him understand.
She lay still, staring through the darkness at the door, as the minutes
became hours, and until, eventually, weariness overcame her, and
she fell deeply asleep.
SANDIE slept late the next morning. When she finally woke, a glance
at her watch had her frantically scrambling into her clothes. When
she arrived downstairs, out of breath, and a little embarrassed, the
house seemed curiously quiet.
'So there you are,' Bridie appeared from the kitchen regions. 'I
suppose you'll be wanting coffee.'
Sandie hesitated. 'I'm not sure I'll have time. Mrs Sinclair will be
wanting me.' _
'She's gone into Galway with the young ones. They'll not be back
until teatime.'
In a way it was a relief. Sandie felt as if her head was stuffed with
rather painful cotton wool, and not at all in any state to cope with
Magda's strictures.
She nerved herself. 'Do you know where Mr Crispin is?'
If he'd come to her room last night, she would been totally oblivious
to the fact. But whatever had happened, they had to have a serious
talk.
Bridie laughed. 'Mr Crispin, is it? You'll not be seeing him before
noon, with the head that he'll have on him! I'll get your coffee. Will
you take a rasher with it?'
Sandie shook her head. 'Just some toast would be fine.'
'Toast!' Bridie scoffed. 'Why, a puff of wind would blow you away