Heather Graham Read Online Free Page B

increased and she set the brush down. Feeling horribly weak-kneed, she hurried to the bed to sit, pressing her temples tightly between thumbs and forefingers.
    Now she just felt ill.
    It’s okay, she tried to assure herself. She had carried it off. She was here; she had been accepted. As she had planned, her story had been excellent, and everything was going exactly as it should be going …
    No, it wasn’t. Not at all. She was in way over her head. So far over her head that she could barely breathe; she could barely think.
    “I need a drink.”
    She whispered the words, heard herself, and bit her lip. She was insane. She had to be—to be here. Grief had made her mad. But could madness last that long? She had planned this trip, planned it all out with terrible bitterness and purpose as soon as the man from Scotland Yard had told her that there simply wasn’t a thing in the world that could be done.
    And isn’t that why you’re here? Because it isn’t fair, it isn’t just, and you can’t accept that verdict?
    Yes, of course, that was all true. But she shouldn’t be here anyway, and if she hadn’t found the newspaper article about El Drago when she had been cleaning the stupid bird cage, she would have never attempted such an absurd stunt.
    Now, in Flynn Colby’s house, she was out of her league. A feeling that had touched her as soon as she had opened her eyes, as soon as she had seen him, really seen him, face to face. Felt him, the power of his body, the economy of his movement. The cast of his eyes, the sound of his voice.
    Oh, God. What if she had to face him? Face him right now, blanched and pale and trembling?
    It would be all right, she promised herself desperately. It would be all right. She could shake now. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Her fingers stubbornly persisted in trembling. If she should have to face Flynn Colby soon, she could surely convince him that she was still suffering from the aftermath of her horrible confrontation with El Drago.
    Think of something else besides panic! she commanded herself.
    She turned around, surveying the beautiful room that had been given her, then closed her eyes to reenvision her first images of the house. Mr. Flynn Colby knew how to live in style. The casa was perfect for the hot sun and breezes of the Costa del Sol. Everything was white or shell peach. Long open breezeways connected around a huge courtyard and atrium on two levels; shutters could be opened to the air or closed against the heat, and within the rooms opening off of the four long corridors, everything was of the highest quality, the zenith of understated elegance. Tile, marble, golden fixtures, stained glass.
    Her room was huge, open and airy. The bed was raised upon a dais in the far center; it was massive and covered with a fur that looked like llama. With its old squared canopy, it looked like something out of a castle.
    Cool Mexican tiles stretched across the floor, the dressers were heavy oak, shining with care. The walls were that shell pink that seemed so prominent here, a color that repelled heat. But they weren’t bare. Even in her room—a guest room—there was nothing left to the ordinary. Two of the paintings on the wall were Picassos. The third was a Dali. She was certain that they were originals.
    The bed faced twin French doors that led to the balcony. The balcony overlooked a rose garden and sparkling fountain with Neptune, king of the sea, standing guard.
    Brittany sighed nervously, walked to the dais, and cast herself onto the bed, staring up at the canopy above it. She started to shake all over again, amazed that she was really here.
    She had to be insane. She would never be able to carry it off, and who was she kidding to think that she could possibly trap a swindler and trick him into returning to England—especially when she didn’t know who the man was?
    Very especially when that man just might be Flynn Colby.
    She closed her eyes tightly and inhaled a deep breath.