Read Heather Graham for Free Online Page B

breathe; tremors quaked inside of her and where he touched her, she burned.
    “I’ve been thinking about letting a flat in New York,” he said, adjusting the flower.
    “Apartment,” Brittany murmured.
    “Pardon?”
    “Ah … apartment. In New York, you would call it an apartment.”
    “Oh, yes.”
    Brittany took a step backward, annoyed that the gift of an orchid could make her stutter. She touched the flower herself and smiled. “Thank you—it’s a lovely flower.”
    A small smile played about his lips. “Where do you live, Brittany? Are you familiar with New York? Perhaps you could suggest a suitable … apartment complex.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know much about New York,” Brittany murmured quickly, continuing down the path. She sure as hell didn’t know what to tell a man who owned a castle! She was getting too nervous, she warned herself, but she kept talking anyway. “I live in Florida. West Palm Beach. They’ve a marvelous polo club, and Daddy’s just wild about the game.”
    She moved quickly along the path, barely seeing an array of bougainvillea and another of the delightful, bubbling fountains. Dismay had filled her. What on earth had prompted her to say such a thing? She knew less about polo than she did about the fashionable haunts of New Yorkers. And wasn’t polo one of his hobbies—second only to his racing enthusiasm? Great. Just great! she charged herself.
    “I’ve been there,” Flynn said from behind her, and she felt her heart take a giant downward plunge. “It is a good field.”
    Brittany spun around, smiling broadly. “I’m glad you found it so. To be honest, I rarely go.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Horrible, isn’t it—but I’m afraid of horses.”
    “You don’t ride?”
    “No.”
    “A pity,” he said idly. “I’ve a full stable out back. A wonderful way to see the area.”
    “Perhaps I can learn.”
    “Perhaps. I’d love to teach you.”
    He was next to her again. For some reason, she never saw him move, yet he was always there. Those steel-blue eyes were always on her. That polite, slightly amused curl always seemed to play about his lips—and then it would be gone, as if she had imagined it. He wasn’t touching her, and then he was—taking her arm like the perfect escort, only he wasn’t just an idle escort; not when she felt his touch as if he were energy and fire …
    “I believe we’ve given Donald time enough to find some shoes. Shall we head back to the patio and the table? I must admit, I’m starving.”
    “Of course,” Brittany murmured.
    He didn’t glance her way as they followed the tile path back to the table; she found herself fighting to study his profile.
    “There’s Donald.” At last he gazed at her, grinning. “Seems you’ll no longer have to patter around barefoot.”
    “I hope these will do, Ms. Martin,” Donald offered. He held a pair of gold strap sandals that gave the appearance of being brand new. Brittany accepted the shoes, thanked Donald, then dropped them to the floor to slip her feet inside. Perfect.
    “Well, now that you’re properly shod …” Flynn murmured. She felt his hand, lightly, at the base of her spine, directing her toward the table. She looked around for Donald as Flynn pulled out her chair, but he had silently disappeared.
    “You do drink wine with dinner, Brittany?”
    She murmured an assent, which probably wasn’t necessary since he was already reaching into a wine bucket. He casually—almost imperceptibly—sniffed the aroma as he removed the cork, then glanced her way with his strange brand of small smile before lifting the glasses to pour.
    “It’s a German Riesling—1972. From the Hausfen vineyards. I hope you like it. I think that seventy-two was an excellent year.”
    “I’m sure it will be fine,” Brittany murmured sweetly, sipping her wine.
    It was awful. Dry enough to create a desert. This was supposed to be a good wine?
    She smiled. “Lovely,” she told him.
    “Umm.” He