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sensing a difference that even he didn't quite understand.
    He sat on the foot of the bed and smiled at her. "They're only things," he said softly.
    "But it's so beautiful." She bent to touch the discarded bedspread reverently. His eyes followed her hand and, for a moment, he could almost imagine that he heard laughter and saw Mark winking at him, his eyes almost the same color as the spread. He blinked and the moment was gone.
    "It's beautiful, but it's only a thing. It's all right to admire things but don't ever become obsessed with them." Silence filled the beautiful room for a minute as he looked around, seeing everything the same as it had been all those years ago. "Maybe it's time to make some changes," he murmured softly.
    He shook his head and got to his feet, looking down at his diminutive companion. "Make yourself at home. This is a good room. It used to belong to my brother, but he doesn't need it anymore. Still, the room must remember him," he said whimsically.
    She watched him silently, only speaking when he would have pulled the door shut behind him. "Hey, mister, could you leave the door open?"
    He stuck his head around the door and grinned at her. "You bet, and I'll leave the hall light on, too. My bedroom is two doors down on the right. If you need anything, just come in and poke me. Good night, urchin."
    Flynn walked the few feet to his bedroom, deliberately encouraging the alcoholic fumes to cushion his mind. Once in the room, he collapsed on the wide bed, oblivious to the richly masculine surroundings. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it in the general direction of a chair and then tugged off his shoes, letting them fall where they would.
    He leaned back on the thick pile of pillows and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and seeing his brother's face mirrored there. The features marked them as brothers but the coloring set them apart. Mark had inherited their father's reddish-brown hair and dark eyes, and Flynn was a throwback to his mother's grandfather. With his black hair and bright blue eyes he was altogether too flamboyant to be a staid McCallister. Mark's imagined eyes crinkled with amusement, and Flynn could hear his brother telling him that self-pity never did anyone any good. He blinked and the image was gone.
    He groaned softly. God, he was drunk. He hadn't been this badly smashed in years. Not since he and Mark... No. He didn't want to remember that. Not now. Not when his defenses were at an all-time low.
    The memories faded and were replaced by tiny features capped with a mop of raggedly cut sandy hair. His mouth tilted up. Cute little thing. Who was she? Good Lord, he didn't even know her name! Oh well, in the morning he could find out her name and find her parents and get her back where she belonged.
    The mists of drink and exhaustion gradually thickened, creating swirling pockets of peace in his tired thoughts. The faint lines beside his mouth smoothed out as his breathing deepened and slowed, his long body relaxing into the cozy comfort of the bedspread.
    He stirred once a few minutes later, some half-buried sense telling him that something was different. But he didn't wake even when the door closed quietly behind a tiny figure.
    She froze just inside the door as the man on the bed stirred, and then breathed a silent sigh of relief when he relaxed again. Small bare feet moved quietly across the plush carpet until she stood at the edge of the bed. Moving ever so slowly and quietly, she turned back the corner of the bedspread and eased onto the bed.
    The other room was pretty, but it was awfully big and lonely and, for the moment, this strange man offered safety in an unknown world.
    She curled up against the pillow, one thin arm encircling a battered toy giraffe, the other hand tucked up under her cheek.
    By the time the grandfather clock struck seven, man and child were fast asleep, the arms of Morpheus holding them both safe and secure.

Chapter 2

    F lynn's