Modern Romance May 2016 Books 5-8. Дженнифер Хейворд
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looked. But he wasn’t laughing at her. His expression was serious and concerned. ‘It got away from Monty,’ she said, almost wailing like a little kid. Waa-waa-waa. ‘It—it went under the sofa.’
He gave her freezing hands a warm squeeze. ‘I’ll deal with it, or at least Cricket and I will.’
‘Cricket?’
The little dog at Flynn’s feet yapped and spun around on his back legs as if on cue. He was not the sort of dog she was expecting someone like Flynn to own. She had expected some classy, Crufts-standard, purebred Malamute, a regal Great Dane or a velvet-smooth German pointer. Cricket wasn’t any bigger than a child’s football, was of indeterminate breed and looked like something out of a science fiction movie. His wiry coat was a caramel brown with little flecks of white that stood up at odd angles like they had been stuck on as an afterthought. He had one ear that stood up and one that flopped down, a thin, wiry tail that curled like a question mark over his back and a lower jaw that stuck out a few millimetres like a drawer that hadn’t been shut properly.
‘My right-hand man,’ Flynn said. ‘An expert at rodent-ectomies.’
Kat was almost limp with relief. ‘I’d be ever so grateful.’
‘Do you want to wait at my house while we get the business end of things sorted?’
Another groundswell of relief nearly knocked her off her feet, as if all her bones had been taken out of her body. ‘You wouldn’t mind?’
He smiled and looped her arm through one of his. ‘Come this way.’
Kat was beyond worrying about going all damsel-in-distress with him. She was in distress. She would have happily sat in an axe murderer’s house rather than face that...that creature under the sofa.
Besides, it was a perfect opportunity to have a look around Flynn’s house while he wasn’t there.
He unlocked the door and led her inside, telling her to make herself comfortable and that he’d be back soon. Cricket bounced at Flynn’s feet as if he knew he was in for some blood sport. Eeeww.
Once they were gone Kat had a peep around. It was much the same layout as the Carstairses’ house next door but, while the Carstairses’ was a family home with loads of photos and family memorabilia, there was nothing to show Flynn’s family of origin. There wasn’t a single photo anywhere. There were some quite lovely works of art, however. And some rather gorgeous pieces of antique furniture that suggested he was a bit of a traditionalist, rather than a man with strictly modern taste.
Kat found his study next door to the sitting room, which had a beautiful cedar desk and leather Chesterfield chair. There was a black Chesterfield sofa set in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The titles went from thick law tomes to the classics and history, with a smattering of modern titles, mostly crime and thrillers.
She went back into the sitting room and sat down at the grand piano that was set to one side of the room near the windows. She put her fingers to the keys, but all she could tinkle out was a nursery rhyme or two—but not Three Blind Unmentionables. Not exactly Royal Albert Hall standard, she thought with an embittered pang at what she could have had if her father had provided for her during her childhood. No doubt the Ravensdale siblings were all accomplished musicians. They had gone to fabulous schools and been taken on wonderful holidays with no expense spared.
What had she had?
A big, fat nothing. Which was why it was so hard to get established now. She was years behind her peers. She hadn’t had acting lessons until recently because she couldn’t afford them. She still couldn’t afford a voice coach. A Scottish accent was fine if that was what a play called for. But she needed to be versatile, and that came with training, and training was hideously expensive—at least, the good quality stuff was. She could join some amateur group but she didn’t want to be stuck as an extra in some unknown play in some way-out suburb’s community hall.
She wanted to be at the West End in London.
It had been her goal since she was a kid.
It wasn’t about the fame. Kat didn’t give a toss for the fame. It was about the acting. It had always been about the acting, of getting into character in real time. About being onstage. About being in that electric atmosphere of being engaged with a live audience, seeing their reactions, hearing them gasp in shock, laugh in amusement or cry with heartfelt emotion. It wasn’t the same, acting on a film set. The sequences were shot out of order. The camera had to come to you rather than onstage when you had to project your character to the audience.
That was what she loved. What she lived for, dreamed of, hungered after like a drug.
But there was another side to acting she found therapeutic. Cathartic, even. Stepping into a role was the chance to step away from her background. Her hurt. Her pain. Her shame.
The sound of Flynn’s return made Kat scoot away from the piano and sit on one of the plush sofas, hugging a scatter cushion as if she had been there for the last half-hour.
Cricket came in with a panting smile, looking up at his master as if to say, ‘Aren’t I clever?’
‘All sorted,’ Flynn said.
Kat glanced at the dog’s mouth to see if there was any trace of the murderous act that had gone on next door. ‘Is it dead?’ she asked, looking back at Flynn.
‘Your visitor has gone to the great, big cheese shop in the sky.’
Her shoulders went down in relief. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
Flynn looked at her for a beat. ‘There is one way.’
Kat sprang to her feet. ‘No. No way. You can’t blackmail me into seeing my father. Anyway, you said the wretched thing was dead. You can’t bring it back to life to twist my arm.’
‘It was worth a try, I thought.’ He moved over to a drinks cabinet. ‘Fancy a drink to settle your nerves?’
She wanted to say no but somehow found herself saying yes. ‘Just a wee one.’
He handed her a Scotch whisky. ‘From the home country.’
Kat took the glass from him, touching him for the second time that evening, but this time skin to skin. Something tight unfurled in her belly. ‘Do you live here alone?’ she asked to disguise her reaction to him.
‘Yes.’
‘No current girlfriend?’
His dark eyes glinted. ‘I’m currently in the process of recruiting.’
Kat tried not to look at his mouth but it felt like an industrial-strength magnet was pulling her gaze to that stubble-surrounded sensual curve. ‘How’s that working out for you?’
‘I have high hopes of filling the vacancy soon.’
‘What are your criteria?’ She gave him a pert look. ‘Breathing with a pulse?’
Amusement shone in his gaze. ‘I’m a little more selective than that. How about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Are you dating anyone?’
Kat raised one of her brows in an arc. ‘I thought you knew everything there was to know about me.’
‘Not quite everything,’ he said. ‘But I know you’ve been single for a couple of months.’
How did he know? Or did he think no one would want to date her? Wasn’t she up to his well-heeled standards? What was it about her that made him think she had ‘single’ written all over her? Surely he couldn’t tell she hadn’t had sex in ages. That was just plain impossible. No one could tell that... Could they? Or had he somehow found out about that stupid affair with Charles—the man who had conveniently forgotten to mention he had a wife—which had kicked off her celibacy pact? ‘You know?’ she said. ‘How?’
He gave a light