Island Of The Heart. Sara Craven

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.

       CHAPTER THREE

      WHEN SANDIE OPENED her eyes the next morning, the sun was shining into her room from a clear sky.

      She sat up, aware of a faint throbbing in her temples, and pushed her hair back from her face. For a moment she felt totally disorientated, then, as the events of the previous twenty-four hours rushed back to confront her in their entirety, she sank back against the pillows with a little moan of dismay.

      She glanced towards the window and the untrammelled blue of the skies, and winced. ‘Hypocrite!’ she muttered.

      She knew an ignominious urge to stay where she was, with the covers pulled over her head, rather than have to get up and face the inevitable repercussions of Flynn Killane’s unexpected return.

      No wonder everyone had reacted as they had to her arrival if he was always as hostile and intolerant to people who were not there at his personal invitation! Yet surely someone of Crispin’s eminence in the world of music did not have to go cap in hand to ask his half-brother’s permission before inviting anyone to Killane.

      Helpless colour flooded her face as she remembered the way Flynn Killane had spoken to her—the unequivocal inferences that he’d drawn from her presence. That had been quite bad enough without the appalling humiliation of that odious kiss.

      It mortified her now to recall her own wistful fantasies about Crispin. It was as if a trail of slime had been laid across them, she thought, shuddering.

      By this time, of course, everyone at Killane would know the owner of the house had returned. Flynn Killane was undoubtedly someone who could make his presence felt.

      Sandie groaned and got reluctantly out of bed. Well, there was little point in delaying the inevitable.

      Half an hour later, dressed casually but comfortably in her usual jeans and T-shirt, her hair twisted into one long braid, she went downstairs. It was essential, she thought, standing in the hall rather irresolutely, to find Crispin, and tell him what had happened.

      As she paused, Steffie, followed by James, emerged from the dining room.

      ‘Hello there,’ Steffie was eating a thick slice of bread and marmalade. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’

      ‘I’m not very hungry,’ Sandie excused herself hastily. The way her stomach was churning, it would be a miracle if she ever ate anything again.

      James gave her a speculative look, then glanced at his twin. ‘We’re away down to the paddock,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’

      Sandie hesitated. ‘I think I’d better stay here.’

      ‘I wouldn’t,’ Steffie said candidly. ‘Flynn and Crispin are having a terrible row in the study, shouting their heads off. You’re best out of it.’

      ‘Crispin’s doing all the shouting,’ James supplied. ‘Flynn’s talking in that quiet, cold voice that I don’t like.’ He turned to Sandie. ‘He wants you packed off back to England,’ he informed her.

      Sandie’s heart sank. ‘Oh, no! But why?’

      Steffie giggled. ‘Because he thinks you’re Crispin’s bit on the side,’ she said airily.

      By rights, Sandie should have administered some well-chosen reproof, but she was too angry.

      ‘Well, he couldn’t be more wrong,’ she said curtly. ‘And what business is it of his, anyway?’

      ‘Oh, everything that happens at Killane is Flynn’s business,’ Steffie said sunnily. ‘After all, it’s his house, and Bridie says we’re only here on—on suffrage,’ she added doubtfully.

      ‘Sufferance,’ Sandie corrected automatically. But the twins were already heading for the front door, and after a moment’s hesitation, she followed.

      What an autocrat! she thought, smouldering. What a petty tryant—king of his rundown castle, and determined to let everyone know it!

      She