curt message that Flynn Killane could go and jump in his own lake, but decided against it. Thrusting her hands in her pockets, she sauntered back to the house, with O’Flaherty in close attendance. Like some prison warder! she thought, seething.
The study was a pleasant room, its walls lined with books, and with a large, old-fashioned desk occupying pride of place. Flynn Killane was standing, looking out of the window. Without turning, he said, ‘Sit down, Miss Beaumont.’
‘I prefer to stand,’ Sandie said, adding sarcastically, ‘Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when the headmaster sends for you?’
‘Well, I’m no teacher of yours, thank God.’ Flynn Killane walked to the desk and sat down casually on its corner. He was wearing close-fitting dark slacks today, and a white shirt, open at the neck, and with the sleeves turned casually back to reveal tanned forearms. ‘I understand that’s Crispin’s role, and you’re the eager pupil seeking enlightenment at the feet of the master.’
Sandie’s lips tightened at the overt sneer. ‘I don’t know why you should find that so extraordinary. I can’t be the first …’
‘You’re the first so-called student he’s had the damnable nerve to bring here,’ he returned tersely. He looked her over. ‘I see last night’s half-naked houri has been replaced by the well-scrubbed, youthful look,’ he commented. ‘Just who do you think you’re fooling, Miss Beaumont?’
‘This happens to be my usual appearance,’ Sandie said icily. ‘As for last night—’ in spite of herself a faint flush rose in her face, ‘—I was not half-naked. I was perfectly decent.’
‘I doubt if you know the meaning of the word.’ The blue eyes were implacable. He leaned forward slightly, and Sandie found herself taking a hasty and involuntary step backwards—a move that she saw with chagrin was not lost on him. ‘Let me give you some advice, Miss Beaumont. Get back where you came from, before any more harm is done.’
‘Give me one good reason why I should.’
‘Because no possible good can come of your remaining a day longer.’
‘But I disagree, Mr Killane.’ Sandie lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Under Cris—Mr Sinclair’s guidance, I intend to fulfil my potential as a pianist, and justify the faith he’s shown in me.’
There was a silence, and Flynn Killane gave a meditative nod. ‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘just how do you assess this—potential of yours?’
Sandie swallowed. ‘I hope, one day, to be good enough to take my place on the concert platform.’
He laughed. ‘And also, no doubt, to find gold at the end of some convenient rainbow.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s so much moonshine, my girl. You’re deceiving yourself.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sandie flung her head back. ‘And what do you know about it anyway?’ she added hotly.
He shrugged. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I heard you play last night.’
‘And you think from that you can judge—you have the presumption—the gall to pass an opinion?’ She was shaking with anger.
He looked faintly amused. ‘I see that you’ve already been told about Flynn the Philistine,’ he commented drily. ‘Come on now, Miss Beaumont, I admit I don’t play any kind of instrument myself. Neither do I lay eggs, but as someone once said, I know a bad one when I come across it.’
Sandie’s lips parted in a gasp of pure fury, and Flynn Killane threw up a hand to stem the indignant torrent of words before she could give them voice.
‘Not that I’d put you quite in that class,’ he added. ‘You play quite well—but you’re not good enough to be a soloist in a million years, and both you, and certainly Crispin, must know that, so let’s forget the cover story of burgeoning genius just waiting to be brought to fruition and get down to brass tacks.’
Sandie drew a quivering breath. ‘You,’ she said, slowly and distinctly, ‘are the most hateful, obnoxious man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You’re utterly wrong about me, and everything about me. But I don’t care about the kind of vile conclusions you’ve drawn. I know I’ve got what it takes, and with Crispin’s help, I’m going to prove it.’ Her voice shook, and she paused to steady it. ‘I’ve come here to work,’ she went on. ‘Work—do you understand? Not—not to flirt with your brother. I have talent and I believe in myself. And nothing you say or do is going to make the slightest difference,’ she added with a little sob.
He looked at her for a long moment, the blue eyes narrowed, then shrugged again. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’m sincerely sorry for you.’
‘And I don’t want your bloody sympathy either!’ she snapped angrily. ‘Oh, why did you have to come back—and spoil everything?’
‘Put it down to natural perversity,’ he said. ‘You fight well, Miss Beaumont, although I enjoyed your struggles last night even more,’ he added with an elliptical grin. ‘But appearances, your own in particular, are against you. It’s best you go back to England without delay, and I intend to make the necessary arrangements. You may not believe it now, but it’s for your own good.’
The door behind them burst open and Magda Sinclair surged into the room. She was wearing a scarlet silk caftan this morning, lavishly embroidered with dragons, but the tartan scarf still protected her throat.
‘Flynn darling,’ she exclaimed, ‘Crispin tells me you’re planning to send this charming child away. But you can’t—you simply can’t!’
Flynn’s expression suggested he was counting to ten very slowly. He said quietly, ‘And why is that, precisely?’
‘Because there’s been some terrible misunderstanding,’ Magda said earnestly. ‘Sandie’s come here for me—to take poor Janet’s place—although why on earth she had to marry that man—but what’s the use?’ She paused. ‘And this dear girl has given up her summer to help me instead. Isn’t that sweet of her?’
‘Sweet,’ drawled Flynn, ‘is not the word. There seems no end to Miss Beaumont’s versatility. But I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for your accompanist, Mother. The young lady is leaving us shortly.’
‘Oh, but that’s quite impossible,’ Magda said swiftly. ‘Why, it might take me weeks—months even—to find someone suitable. And darling Sandie’s right here on the spot, and ideal for the job. I won’t let you take her away from me.’
‘That’s nonsense, and we both know it.’ Flynn was tight-lipped. ‘Miss Beaumont is far from irreplaceable. Whatever Crispin may have claimed, there are better pianists around too.’
‘But I like her.’ Magda spread her hands dramatically. ‘Oh, Flynn darling, sometimes you can be so—unkind—unthinking even. When I remember your beloved father—so sensitive to my every need.’ Her eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘How can I explain to you? I need someone who is sympathique. Someone I can get on with. Rapport between us is essential.’ Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. ‘But what’s the use? You’ve never understood the artistic temperament.’
‘Perhaps not, but sheer bloody-mindedness doesn’t cause me too many problems,’ Flynn said with a kind of weary anger. ‘I don’t need to ask who’s prompted
