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 shrug of one of his shoulders. ‘Just a feeling.’
‘I thought lawyers relied on evidence, not feelings.’
His mouth slanted again. ‘Sometimes a bit of gut instinct doesn’t go astray.’
Kat moved her gaze out of reach of his assessing one. ‘Your place looks like it’s much the same layout as next door. Have you lived here long?’
‘Seven years,’ he said. ‘I have another place in the country.’
Kat mentally rolled her eyes. ‘Only one?’
He gave a low, deep chuckle that did strange things to the base of her spine, making it go all loose and wobbly. ‘I like collecting things. Property is one of them.’
‘Does it make you happy, having all that disgusting wealth to throw around?’
Something at the back of his gaze shifted. ‘It’s satisfying to have something that no one can take away.’
‘Did you grow up with money?’
‘My parents weren’t wealthy by any means but they were comfortable.’
Kat looked at the gorgeous artwork hanging on the walls. None of them were prints. All were originals. One of them was surely a Picasso? ‘They must be very proud of what you’ve achieved.’
He didn’t answer for a moment. ‘They enjoy the benefits of my success.’
She turned to look at him, wondering what