Such Sweet Poison/Blind Passion

by Anne Mather

  ‘I bet I can guess what does come high on your list of priorities, old buddy,’ Denzil insinuated slyly, and Catherine wondered how he could be so crass. It was obvious that his kind of humour was not appreciated by either of his guests, yet he persisted in making these asinine remarks.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Morgan replied, regarding him in a way that would have made a more sensitive man shrivel, and Kay, sensing a possible confrontation, rushed in with a comment about the weather. It was becoming increasingly obvious that whatever Denzil and Morgan were to one another, it was not friends, and Catherine was convinced now that that was why she was here tonight.

  Mrs Chivers’s appearance to announce that the meal was ready came as an enormous relief to all of them. Well, to three of them it did, Catherine amended drily. She was not at all certain how Morgan felt. It was impossible to judge what he was feeling behind that guarded façade, and his brief spurt of confidence was not repeated, as they were served the delicious asparagus mousse, rack of lamb with new potatoes, peas, and carrots, then a flaming baked Alaska.

  During the meal, Catherine made an effort to talk to Kay at least, and their inconsequential chatter made it appear that they were enjoying themselves. But when the talk moved to Kay’s job, and her regular disagreements with Andrew Hollingsworth, Morgan looked at Catherine over the rim of his wine glass.

  ‘Are you a secretary, too, Catherine?’ he enquired, arching one dark eyebrow, and, although it was ridiculous, she could feel the colour invading her cheeks at his unexpected involvement.

  ‘Er—no—’ she was beginning awkwardly, when Kay interceded on her behalf.

  ‘Nothing so commonplace,’ she said, and her smile was only slightly waspish. ‘Cat’s an investment analyst. She tells my boss how to spend his money.’

  ‘Hardly that,’ murmured Catherine, giving her friend a dry look, and Denzil chose that moment to make his contribution.

  ‘Cat’s a career woman,’ he said, pouring himself more wine. ‘A real workaholic. She’s not interested in men, are you, Cat? Except as figures on a balance sheet, of course.’

  Catherine never knew how she stopped herself from telling Denzil Sawyer exactly what she thought of his petty efforts to embarrass her. She knew it was another attempt to get back at her for turning him down, and she wished she had the nerve to expose his real character.

  But she couldn’t do that. Not to Kay. So, after a moment, she said, ‘If it makes you happy to think that, why not?’ choosing the line of defence which she knew would infuriate him. She pushed her spectacles up her nose in a decidedly defiant gesture. ‘I think Denzil finds independent women threatening,’ she added, to the table in general. She adopted a sympathetic smile. ‘Poor Denzil. He tries so hard to be progressive. It’s a pity he doesn’t succeed.’

  Denzil’s face was a picture, but, short of being downright rude, there was little he could say. ‘Well, thank heavens, Kay only works because it suits her,’ he declared, through tight lips. ‘Not because it’s the only successful aspect of her life!’

  ‘Denzil!’

  Kay was embarrassed now, and, as Catherine was searching for a response which would not reveal how Denzil’s words had stung her, Morgan chose to intervene.

  ‘What does an investment analyst do?’ he enquired, ignoring Kay’s abortive attempts to silence her husband. ‘I guess it has something to do with the stock market.’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of bull involved, if that’s what you mean,’ Denzil retorted, riding high on his previous success. ‘Bulls, and bears, and a few cows thrown in, for good measure, eh, Cat?’

  ‘Why don’t you just shut your fat mouth?’

  Morgan’s tone was almost silkily pleasant, but his words were clear and unmistakable. Both Kay and Denzil gasped at the unexpectedness of his attack, and even Catherine was astounded by his insolence.

  ‘Now, look here…’ Shaking off his wife’s warning hand, Denzil’s face contorted. ‘You can’t talk to me like that,’ he snarled, getting to his feet and looking down at the other man.

  ‘Can’t I?’

  Matching Denzil’s move, Morgan pushed back his chair and stood up, his superior height automatically signalling a change of status. He rested the tips of his fingers on the table, and regarded the other man steadily. His features were completely expressionless and curiously lacking in emotion.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ muttered Denzil, less convincingly. He met Morgan’s eyes, and then looked away, encountering his wife’s anxious gaze in the process. ‘For God’s sake, man, can’t you take a joke?’ he mumbled, his whole aggressive demeanour crumbling. ‘Cat wasn’t offended, were you, Cat? She knows I don’t mean any harm. Isn’t that right?’

  He was appealing to her now, and, while Catherine would have liked to savour such a moment, she knew it was up to her to rescue the situation. For Kay’s sake, if nothing else.

  ‘Please,’ she said, not prepared to accept Denzil’s grudging apology, but looking up at Morgan with rueful eyes, ‘won’t you sit down again? Denzil’s tongue often runs ahead of his brains. I’m used to it.’

  It wasn’t what Denzil wanted to hear, she knew, and his sulky expression boded ill for her friendship with Kay. But at least Morgan seemed prepared to accept her explanation, and, although he waited until Denzil had resumed his seat before sinking back into his chair, the crisis was averted.

  However, there was little chance for normal conversation after that, and, although Catherine made an effort to talk to Kay, she was glad when the coffee was served, and she could think about leaving. What a dinner party! she thought, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the coffee in her cup. So what if it misted her spectacles? Better that than meeting Denzil’s malevolent stare.

  ‘Well,’ she said, when Mrs Chivers came to ask if anyone wanted any more coffee, ‘I think I ought to be going.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Kay’s protest was genuine, Catherine was sure, but she couldn’t be expected to act as a buffer between the two men any longer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, giving Kay a wry smile. ‘But I do have to be in early tomorrow. Besides, Hector isn’t used to spending the whole evening on his own. And, as Denzil says, you do have to keep your priorities in order.’

  Kay sighed. ‘Well—if you must…’

  ‘Perhaps I can give you a ride home,’ said Morgan abruptly, and Catherine turned to look at him with startled eyes. ‘I just need to phone my driver. If you can hang on for fifteen minutes—’

  ‘I have my own transport, actually.’ Catherine interrupted him, with a nervous gesture of her hand. ‘But, thank you, all the same…’

  ‘Why don’t you give Morgan a lift?’ Kay suggested, the swiftness of her question revealing the urgency with which she wished they would both leave. She flushed a little as Catherine turned to stare at her. ‘Well,’ she murmured, defensively, ‘it’s not much out of your way.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Morgan interposed, getting up from the table with the litheness of movement Catherine was beginning to associate with him. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I’ll walk. I could use the exercise.’

  Now Catherine felt mean. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, exchanging a frustrated look with Kay, as she got to her feet, too. ‘Of course, I’d be happy to give you a lift. Where exactly do you live?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter—’

  ‘Bayswater.’

  Both Morgan and Kay spoke simultaneously, but it was Morgan who had the last word.

  ‘I’d prefer to walk,’ he averred, drawing Catherine’s chair away from the back of her legs, so that she could move towards the door. He looked at Denzil. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘‘Night.’

  Denzil didn’t get up, and Catherine guessed it was his way of showing his defiance. But it was a childish defiance at best, and she thought Kay looked at him a little disgustedly as she led the way downstairs.

  Kay rescued her cashmere coat from the hall closet, but Morgan apparently had no overcoat. Not that he seemed a
t all perturbed. Even when the door was opened, and it was discovered to be raining, he showed no concern. He merely thanked Kay for dinner, and offered them both a polite ‘Goodnight’, before striding off into the darkness. Catherine was left to bid farewell to her friend, in the certain knowledge that nothing between them would ever be the same.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then,’ Kay offered, as Catherine stepped out of the door.

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine cast a rueful look up at the rain, clearly visible in the streetlights. ‘What a filthy night!’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Kay grimaced, and then added swiftly, ‘I’m sorry, Cat. I didn’t know…’ She shrugged, and glanced back over her shoulder. ‘You know.’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Kay bit her lip. ‘But you know Denzil, don’t you? He doesn’t mean what he says. It’s just the wine talking, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Catherine nodded. ‘Well—thanks for dinner, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. You hardly ate anything,’ exclaimed Kay unhappily.

  ‘Well, what I did eat was good,’ Catherine assured her, going down the steps. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. We’ll talk then,’ Kay agreed eagerly, and, the way her eyes darted up the road after Morgan’s departing figure, Catherine could guess what she wanted to talk about. ‘Good-night.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Catherine lifted her hand in farewell, and, turning up her collar against the rain, she started across the road to her car. She was glad Kay closed the door behind her, and didn’t wait to see her extract the Peugeot from between its two bulky neighbours. It would have been hypocritical to behave as if it had been a perfectly normal evening, when it so obviously hadn’t.

  She would have liked to have driven away in the opposite direction to that which Morgan had taken, but her car was pointing the same way, and it was going to be too much trouble to turn it around. Besides, why should she go miles out of her way, just to avoid passing him? she thought defensively. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She had offered him a lift, and he had refused. That was all there was to it. If he chose to walk home on a cold, wet October evening, it wasn’t her concern.

  Even so, she wasn’t happy about it. He had apparently been driven to the Sawyers’ in a chauffeured car, and he had obviously been expected to go home likewise. She didn’t know why he should have warranted a car and a driver. To her knowledge, Denzil had never been granted that privilege. But perhaps they had simply been hired for the evening, from an agency. Whatever, it was foolish to consider walking any distance tonight. With colds and flu to contend with, a person was asking for trouble going out in the rain, without an overcoat.

  As she eased the Peugeot out from the kerb, she thought about the fine wool suit he had been wearing—the suit, which had fitted his lean body so immaculately. It wouldn’t look so immaculate now, she thought impatiently. In this downpour, it would soon resemble a wet rag.

  The Peugeot picked up speed as she moved out into the traffic. She raised her hand in thanks to the driver behind her, who had flashed his headlights to signal her to come out, but her eyes were already searching for a tall, dark pedestrian. It was stupid really, but she felt responsible. If she hadn’t been so churlish over offering him a lift, the idea of walking would probably not have occurred to him.

  She hadn’t gone far when she saw him. Even though he had left the Sawyers’ at a brisk rate, his pace had slowed considerably. Indeed, with his hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket, he might have been taking a summer evening’s stroll. People he was passing, wrapped up in coats and scarves, and carrying umbrellas, turned to stare at him in amazement. They probably thought he was crazy, thought Catherine, gritting her teeth. Possibly he was.

  Even so, she couldn’t pass him by. Ignoring the noisy protest from the driver who, minutes before, had so courteously let her out into the stream of traffic, she braked hard, and pulled over to the kerb. She was in an area where there were several small boutiques and a Chinese restaurant and, aware that she was parking in a no-parking area, she didn’t waste any time.

  ‘Get in,’ she yelled, leaning across the passenger seat, and pushing open the door. ‘You can’t walk to Bayswater in this. Come on. I’ll take you.’

  At first, she thought he was going to refuse. Although he stopped, and looked in her direction, he made no move to get into the little car, and Catherine wanted to scream. However, the cacophony of horns blowing behind her, which drew attention to the fact that she was causing a hold-up, seemed to galvanise him into action. Without saying a word, he crossed the pavement, and folded his long length into the seat beside her, closing the door behind him with a carefully controlled click.

  ‘Seatbelt,’ said Catherine automatically, pressing her foot down hard on the accelerator, and, although he gave her what she could only describe as an unfriendly look, he did as he was told. Nevertheless, he made no attempt to speak to her, and the atmosphere in the car went from cordial to hostile in the space of a few seconds.

  The whole ambience of the car had changed, thought Catherine irritably, half wishing she had not been so impulsive. Where before there had been only the fragrance of her own perfume to invade her nostrils, now all she could smell was the musky odour of wet wool, and the masculine scent of his body.

  Pushing up her spectacles again, as she was inclined to do in situations of stress, she said shortly, ‘Where exactly do you live? I don’t know Bayswater awfully well, so you’ll have to direct me.’

  Morgan turned his head and looked at her before replying. Then, loosening the button of his shirt beneath his tie, and pulling the tie a few inches away from his neck, he said flatly, ‘I don’t know Bayswater either.’

  Catherine cast a disbelieving glance in his direction. In the light from the street lamps outside, she could see that his hair was soaked and dripping down the opened neck of his shirt. His jacket was soaked, too, and she guessed from its appearance that he was probably wet right through to his skin.

  To her annoyance, it gave her a disturbing feeling thinking of Morgan’s skin, and, to hide her disconcertment, she said, more sharply than she would have done, ‘Don’t be silly! You have to know your address.’

  ‘Do I?’ He lifted his shoulders, and she heard the damp sibilation of the cloth against the upholstery.

  ‘Of course.’ She sighed. ‘Look, you’re soaked to the skin. The sooner you get out of those wet clothes, the better.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Morgan inclined his head, and to her astonishment, he tugged off his tie and dropped it on to the floor. His jacket followed, and the satin-lined waistcoat, a couple of the buttons on his shirt pinging against the car windows as he yanked it open to join the rest.

  ‘Hey—stop it!’

  Catherine was horrified now, her hands trembling as they gripped the wheel. She couldn’t believe anyone would do such a thing, and her startled glance took in the silhouette of his leanly muscled chest with some disbelief. He couldn’t be doing this, she told herself fiercely, but already his hands were moving to the belt that held up his trousers, and she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, giving her a sidelong glance. ‘I thought you said the sooner I got out of these wet clothes, the better.’

  ‘You knew what I meant by that,’ retorted Catherine tensely. ‘Please—people can see you!’

  ‘Can they?’ He cast his eyes towards the misted windows. ‘I doubt it. But even if they can, so what?’

  Catherine gasped. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I guess.’

  It was not the answer she had expected, and Catherine almost ran into the car in front of her as she turned wide eyes in his direction. ‘Don’t joke about things like that,’ she exclaimed, when she had recovered from the shock of almost causing an accident.

  ‘Who’s joking?’ he responded, and she saw the convulsive shudder that ran over him as the still-cool air in the
car attacked his naked flesh.

  Catherine shook her head, trying to concentrate on the road ahead. But she didn’t know what to do, what to say. In retrospect, the rest of the evening seemed like a sinecure compared to this. What was he trying to prove?

  ‘1805, Jermyn Gate,’ said Morgan abruptly, dragging the sleeves of his shirt out of the sleeves of his waistcoat, and putting the shirt back on.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Catherine had been so wrapped up with her own thoughts that she didn’t immediately comprehend what he was saying, and Morgan regarded her quizzically for a moment, before saying again, ‘1805, Jermyn Gate. That’s my address.’

  Catherine blinked behind her spectacles. ‘Well—where’s that?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ declared her passenger, shivering again as the damp silk of his shirt touched his flesh. ‘Somewhere off the Bayswater Road. I guess I could find it in daylight, but tonight…’ He shrugged expressively. ‘Just drop me here. I’ll pick up a cab.’

  Here was at the junction of St John’s Wood Road and Edgware Road, but, although there were plenty of people, as well as traffic, about, Catherine didn’t stop the car. She couldn’t put him out here, she thought, imagining what a taxi driver would think if he saw a man in his shirt sleeves, in the pouring rain, thumbing a ride. Heavens, he could get arrested! She knew he hadn’t drunk much during the course of the evening, but would anyone else believe it?

  Coming to what she hoped would not prove to be a reckless decision, Catherine shook her head, abandoning that idea, and took the next turning for Kensington. It would be easier to use the bypass, she thought, mentally calculating the advantages of staying out of central London. She could double back to Shepherd’s Bush when she reached Wood Lane.

  ‘It depends where you’re going, I suppose,’ she said, her hands tightening on the wheel. ‘You can’t get a taxi in that state.’

  Morgan’s dark brows drew together. ‘So where are we going? To your place?’