Sara Craven - Island Of The Heart

A small choked cry escaped her at last, and she twisted round on the piano stool to face him, her last, absurd hope that it might after all, by some miracle, be Crispin seeking her out killed stone dead.

He took a swift stride forward, his face darkening with furious incredulity as they took their first full look at each other.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded harshly. ‘And what the devil are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same.’ Sandie got to her feet, stumbling over the hem of her cotton housecoat in her haste. ‘Who do you think you are, breaking in here—frightening me like this?’

He was only a few yards away from her now, and far from a reassuring sight. He was taller than Crispin, she realised, and more powerfully built too, with broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips, and long legs encased in faded denims. A thick mane of brown hair waved back from a lean, tough face, dominated by the aggressive thrust of a nose which had clearly been broken at some time, and a strong, uncompromising jaw. His mouth was straight and unsmiling, and his eyes were as coldly blue as the Atlantic Ocean in winter.

‘Tell me who you are,’ he said too quietly. ‘Or do I have to shake it out of you?’

Sandie flung up an alarmed hand. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ she said jerkily. ‘I’m a guest in this house—a friend of the family.’

The wintry gaze went over her comprehensively. She saw his mouth curl with something like distaste.

‘A friend of one member of it, I’ve no doubt,’ he said cuttingly. ‘As for being a guest, my good girl, I have no recollection of inviting you under my roof at any time.’

‘Your roof?’ Sandie echoed faintly. Oh, God, she thought. Not in Tokyo, or a thousand miles away, but right here, and blazingly angry for some reason she couldn’t fathom. She swallowed. ‘I—I think you must be Crispin’s brother.’

‘I have that dubious distinction,’ he agreed curtly. ‘And I’m still waiting for you to identify yourself, my half-dressed beauty.’

Sandie was quaking inwardly, but she managed to lift her chin and return his challenging stare. ‘My name is Alexandra Beaumont,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’m spending the summer here having private piano coaching from Cris—Mr Sinclair.’

‘So that’s the way of it.’ His tone held open derision. ‘As an excuse, it has the virtue of novelty, I suppose.’

‘It happens to be the truth.’

‘And being down here, next door to naked, in the middle of the night, is part of the course, I presume.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid, darling, that your—tuition is hereby cancelled. At any rate, it will have to continue elsewhere.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t worry now. I’ll make the situation clearer than crystal for you at a more civilised hour,’ Flynn Killane told her with dangerous affability. ‘It’s altogether too late to be bandying words right now, so I suggest you take yourself off to whatever room you’ve been given.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you do have a room of your own?’

‘Of course I do.’ Now that she was over her initial fright, anger was starting to build slowly inside Sandie at this cavalier treatment. ‘Look, Mr Killane, I don’t know exactly what you’re getting at, but …’

‘Ah, well,’ he drawled unpleasantly. ‘Brains in addition to those blonde good looks would have been too much to hope for.’ He went to the door and held it open for her. ‘Now, on your way, Miss Beaumont, and try not to get lost in all those confusing passages.’

Sandie took a deep breath and tried to summon what dignity she had left to her rescue. But it was difficult when she was being sent to bed—just like a naughty child—and for nothing. Nothing.

As she walked past him, head high, Flynn Killane put out a hand and ran a finger down the broderie anglaise-trimmed neckline of her housecoat. Incredulously, Sandie felt his hand brush her breast, and recoiled, the breath catching in her throat.

‘You look—very fetching.’ The smile that did not reach his eyes was exactly the insult he intended it to be. ‘You were no doubt hoping for company. What a pity your only visitor turned out to be myself!’

She said chokingly, ‘Please don’t expect a polite contradiction, Mr Killane. What I can’t comprehend is how someone as kind and—and charming as Crispin can possibly be related to someone like you. Perhaps you really are some kind of changeling.’

She saw the lean face darken, and was aware of him taking one threatening step towards her. His hand closed on her arm, anchoring her, making retreat impossible.

He said softly, through his teeth, ‘Now if you really want to make comparisons …’

He pulled her against the hard length of his body and kissed her on the mouth.

After Crispin’s beguiling gentleness, Flynn Killane’s cold-blooded, deliberately sensual exploration of her lips had the shock of an assault. For a moment Sandie was frozen, unable to credit what was happening, then she began to struggle wildly, her body twisting against his as she tried to free herself, and heard him laugh, deep in his throat. His hands slid down her body, moulding her slender contours through the thin fabric of housecoat and nightgown, and her whole being seemed to burn with shame at his touch.

For a long moment he held her, then, totally unhurriedly, he lifted his head and released her, stepping back.

‘Take that to bed with you, darling,’ he said silkily. ‘And while you’re lying there, remember they’re my sheets you’re wrapped in.’ He paused. ‘Sweet dreams!’

She lifted her hand and slapped him as hard as she could across his tanned cheek, then she ducked her head, picked up the trailing skirts of her housecoat, and ran like a hare for the stairs and safety.

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