Read Heather Graham for Free Online Page A

of my guests as my friends.”
    “Flynn,” Brittany murmured, “please, you’re doing so much already. Don’t worry about shoes; it’s quite warm—”
    “I wouldn’t dream of having you run around barefoot. It’s absolutely no problem. I apologize sincerely for such a lack of thought on my behalf.”
    Brittany started to protest again, but Flynn had paused before a wrought-iron door which proved to be an elevator cage. He escorted Brittany in, and as the cage began to lower, muted light rose around them.
    “We’re dining on the terrace,” he told her briefly in explanation.
    The elevator came to a halt. Flynn pushed open the cage door, and once again, escorted Brittany before him.
    The table was set on the patio, surrounded by flowers, foliage, and bubbling fountains. It was a small table, round, covered with a snowy white cloth and set with shimmering silver and crystal. Nearby, fitting in a curve around the rear corridor wall, was a bar. Flynn left her staring at the table and the fountains and flowers to slip behind it.
    “What can I get you?”
    “Rum and Coke, light please.”
    He arched a brow, lifting a bottle to comply with her wishes. “Not the last of the big-time drinkers, I see.”
    “No.”
    Brittany gazed at him as he replaced the rum bottle, squirted Coke into her glass, and fixed himself something amber on the rocks. He smiled at her, then she realized that he was gazing over her shoulder. Donald was there. She hadn’t heard his arrival.
    “Donald,” Flynn said pleasantly, “I seem to have made a major mistake in Ms. Martin’s wardrobe for the evening—I forgot all about shoes. Think we could find a pair somewhere, size 5 ½.”
    “Certainly,” Donald said. He bowed slightly to Brittany, then addressed his next comment to Flynn. “Maria says that dinner can be served whenever you like.”
    “Fine, Donald, fine. If you’ll see about some shoes for our Ms. Martin here, I’ll escort her around the atrium. Then I think we’ll be ready.”
    Donald left them. Flynn came around from behind the bar, handing Brittany her drink, then taking her elbow to guide her along.
    “Well, Brittany, what do you think of my home?” he asked her.
    It was an innocent enough question; she wondered why she felt as if his eyes were boring into her soul.
    She met them with a smile in her own. “It’s lovely,” she answered honestly enough, pausing then to study the intricate little vein lines on what appeared to be a huge philodendron. The atrium was exquisite—almost like a well-planned rain forest. She dropped the leaf, then returned her attention to him with polite interest. “But I’m curious, though—what brings an Englishman to live in the south of Spain?”
    “Scotsman,” he corrected her again with a slight grin. “There is a difference.”
    “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ve spent enough time in London to know that,” Brittany murmured apologetically. “But the question—if it isn’t too rude—still stands.”
    He cocked his head with a grimace and a shrug. “I don’t live here full time. I keep a home here because I like the sun—and the water. The warmth. It’s a beautiful place.”
    “Yes, it is,” Brittany mused. She was looking up at him again, and they were very close. She turned and followed a narrow tile path that led through a maze in the heart of the atrium.
    “Where else do you live?” she asked idly, pausing again to survey a miraculously large and lovely rose.
    “Scotland,” he answered, following behind her. “The old family castle, you know. And London—I keep a flat.”
    “Nothing in the States?” she inquired, running a finger like a breath over a petal of the orchid.
    He was standing beside her again. She could feel the brush of his jacket against her arm as he moved to the plant, snapping the orchid from its stem. Then he looked at her again, his eyes following the path of his hand as he slipped the orchid behind her ear. She felt as if she could barely