Miss Prim's Greek Island Fling

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Finn swore in French, and then in Greek for good measure, when he knocked the crystal tumbler from the bench to the kitchen tiles below, making a God-awful racket that reverberated through his head. It served him right for not switching on a light, but he knew Rupert’s house as well as he knew his own, and he’d wanted to try to keep the headache stretching behind his eyes from building into a full-blown migraine.

Blowing out a breath, he dropped his rucksack to the floor and, muttering first in French and then in Greek, clicked on a light and retrieved the dustpan and brush to clean up the mess. For pity’s sake. Not only hadn’t Rupert’s last house guest washed, dried and put away the tumbler—leaving it for him to break—but they hadn’t taken out the garbage either! Whenever he stayed, Finn always made sure to leave the place exactly as he found it—spotlessly clean and tidy. He hated to think of his friend being taken advantage of.

Helping himself to a glass of Rupert’s excellent whisky, Finn lowered himself into an armchair in the living room, more winded than he cared to admit. The cast had come off his arm yesterday and it ached like the blazes now. As did his entire left side and his left knee. Take it easy, the doctor had ordered. But he’d been taking it easy for eight long weeks. And Nice had started to feel like a prison.

Rupert had given him a key to this place a couple of years ago, and had told him to treat it as his own. He’d ring Rupert tomorrow to let him know he was here. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Two thirty-seven a.m. was too late...or early...to call anyone. He rested his head back and closed his eyes, and tried to will the pain coursing through his body away.

He woke with a start to flashing lights, and it took him a moment to realise they weren’t due to a migraine. He blinked, but the armed policemen—two of them and each with a gun trained on him—didn’t disappear. The clock said two forty-eight.

He raised his hands in the universal gesture of non-aggression. ‘My name is Finn Sullivan,’ he said in Greek. ‘I am a friend of Rupert Russel, the owner of this villa.’

‘Where is your accomplice?’

‘Accomplice?’ He stood then, stung by the fuss and suspicion. ‘What accomplice?’

He wished he’d remained seated when he found himself tackled to the floor, pain bursting like red-hot needles all the way down his left side, magnifying the blue-black ache that made him want to roar.

He clamped the howls of pain behind his teeth and nodded towards his backpack as an officer rough-handled him to his feet after handcuffing him. ‘My identification is in there.’

His words seemed to have no effect. One of the officers spoke into a phone. He was frogmarched into the grand foyer. Both policemen looked upwards expectantly, so he did too.

‘Audra!’

Flanked by two more police officers, she pulled to a dead halt halfway down the stairs, her eyes widening—those too cool and very clear blue eyes. ‘Finn?’ Delicate nostrils flared. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

The glass on the sink, the litter in the kitchen bin made sudden sense. ‘You called the police?’

‘Of course I called the police!’

‘Of all the idiotic, overdramatic reactions! How daft can you get?’ He all but yelled the words at her, his physical pain needing an outlet. ‘Why the hell would you overreact like that?’

‘Daft? Daft!’ Her voice rose as she flew down the stairs. ‘And what do you call breaking and entering my brother’s villa at two thirty in the morning?’

It was probably closer to three by now. He didn’t say that out loud. ‘I didn’t break in. I have a key.’

He saw then that she clutched a lacrosse stick. She looked as if she wouldn’t mind cracking him over the head with it. With a force of effort he pulled in a breath. A woman alone in a deserted house...the sound of breaking glass... And after everything she’d been through recently...

He bit back a curse. He’d genuinely frightened her.

The pain in his head intensified. ‘I’m sorry, Squirt.’ The old nickname dropped from his lips. ‘If I’d known you were here I’d have rung to let you know I was coming. In the meantime, can you tell these guys who I am and call them off?’

‘Where’s your friend?’

His shoulder ached like the blazes. He wanted to yell at her to get the police to release him. He bit the angry torrent back. Knowing Audra, she’d make him suffer as long as she could if he yelled at her again.

And he was genuinely sorry he’d frightened her.

‘I came alone.’

‘But I heard two voices—one French, one Greek.’