Island of the Heart Read Online Free PDF

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