by Anne Mather
‘Only to dry your clothes,’ retorted Catherine shortly, not liking the cynical note in his voice. ‘I’m not interested in you, Mr Lynch, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Only in cementing East-West relations, right?’ he remarked, his eyes sardonically intent. ‘What about this guy—Hector, didn’t you say? Won’t he object to an unwelcome visitor?’
Catherine caught her breath. She wouldn’t have expected him to remember what she had said to Kay. ‘Er—Hector’s my cat,’ she admitted, glad that the visibility in the car did not extend to colour. ‘As your—friend was at pains to tell you, I live alone.’
Morgan’s eyes darkened. ‘OK. If that’s what you want.’
‘It’s not what I want,’ said Catherine brusquely. ‘I’d have preferred you to call your driver from the Sawyers’, and have him take you home, as any sane person would have done on a night like tonight!’
‘So why are you doing this?’ Morgan’s voice was harsh now. He put one hand on the steering-wheel, and she was terrified for a moment that he was going to turn the car into the oncoming traffic. ‘Aren’t you afraid I might prove to be a psycho? I mean, you said yourself that you have doubts about my sanity.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Catherine’s knuckles were white around the leather grip. ‘I just meant it wasn’t…sensible…to walk home on a night like this. You could—take a chill. Pneumonia!’
Morgan released the wheel, and his hand dropped on to his thigh. ‘Your speech sure is littered with pretty words,’ he declared caustically. ‘I guess that’s why old Denny was busting a gut to please you!’
Old Denny? For a moment, Catherine couldn’t think who he was talking about. But then, the penny dropped. Denny—Denzil! Strangely enough, the abbreviation pleased her. She could imagine how Denzil would react to such a disparaging appellation.
‘He said—that is, Kay said—you and he were old friends,’ she ventured. ‘But you’re not. You—don’t like him, do you?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘Do you?’
‘No.’ Catherine moistened her lips. ‘But I asked you the question first.’
Morgan sighed. ‘Denny and I go way back,’ he said, without elaborating. Then, glancing out of the window, ‘How much further is this apartment of yours?’
Catherine hesitated. ‘It’s not an apartment. It’s a house. Just a small one. And—it’s not much further. About half a mile, that’s all.’
‘Good.’
Morgan ran his hand along his damp thigh, and, although she didn’t want to, Catherine couldn’t help observing the action. His long fingers stretched the cloth over the relaxed, yet powerful muscles of his leg, and she felt an unwelcome awareness assault her senses. It was because it was so long since she had been alone with a man, she told herself severely, but it wasn’t entirely the truth. His sexuality disturbed her as no man’s ever had—not even Neil’s.
She decided not to park the car in the garage. It would be easier to park outside her gate, and run the half-dozen yards to her door. Besides, the last thing she wanted was for any of her neighbours to see her coming home with a man who looked as if he’d just got out of bed.
‘This it?’ enquired Morgan, as she drew the car to a halt, and Catherine nodded. Now that they were actually here, she was beginning to realise how reckless she had been. What did she know about this man, after all? Except that he was crazy enough to attempt a strip in her car. The excitement he engendered in her was no excuse for inviting him to her home. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Still, it was a little late now to be having second thoughts, she reflected wryly. They were here, and she was committed to drying his clothes and calling him a taxi, at the very least. On top of which, she was flattering herself if she imagined he had any interest in her. She had brought him here. He had had nothing to do with it.
Pulling the keys out of the ignition, she pushed open her door. Morgan did likewise, standing for a moment in the road, looking up at the narrow frontage of the house. It was still raining, but he didn’t seem to notice how wet it was. Slicking back his soaking hair with a lazy hand, he sauntered round the car, while Catherine fled up the path to the door, in a hasty rush for shelter.
‘Come on,’ she said, turning on the hall light, and hovering on the threshold. ‘Can’t you hurry? You’re getting even wetter.’
‘You can’t get wetter than wet,’ retorted Morgan, in a careless drawl, stepping after her into the hall, and instantly dwarfing it. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been wet before.’
Catherine shook her head as he leaned his shoulders against the door, and pressed it closed behind him. The Yale lock dropped into place, securing her inside, with him, and for the first time she regretted that Hector wasn’t a Dobermann. Protective as he was, Hector was nobody’s idea of a bodyguard.
But, as if the thought was father to the deed, Hector chose that moment to come stalking out of the living-room. He had evidently heard the strange voice, and, with his head held high, and his long fur bristling, he did look aggressive. But although he emitted a few protesting miaows, he confined his resistance to arching his tail.
‘I guess this is Hector, hmm?’ Morgan remarked humorously, dropping his jacket over the banister rail, and squatting down beside him. ‘Hey, there, fella, aren’t you some dude! You want to be friends?’
Hector’s growl was reassuring, and he backed away behind Catherine’s legs, evidently not prepared to be sociable. Indeed, as she bent to pick him up, Catherine could feel his little heart pounding away, and she felt a sense of pride in his loyalty.
Morgan straightened. ‘Suspicious little beast, isn’t he?’ he observed, without rancour. ‘What is he? A Persian?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine was surprised that he knew. She rubbed her cheek against Hector’s fine hair for a moment, and then deposited him in the sitting-room again, and closed the door. ‘I’ve had him for the last two years, and he’s not used to strangers.’
‘No.’ Morgan inclined his head, his wet hair flopping over his forehead. ‘Cats are very territorial. They don’t like other males invading their domain.’
Catherine’s lips tightened. ‘You’re hardly an invader,’ she declared, lifting his wet jacket off the banister, and grimacing as some drops of water fell on to her feet.
‘He doesn’t know that,’ replied Morgan, his smile faintly mocking. ‘So—where do I change my clothes? Would you like me to do it here?’
‘In the hall! Of course not.’ Catherine hesitated a moment, and then, walking quickly along the hall to the kitchen, she dropped the offending jacket on to the stripped pine table.
However, when she turned round, he was right behind her, and her breath caught in her throat as she rammed into his chest. He sucked in his breath, too, and she thought for a moment that a spasm of pain crossed his face. But then he recovered himself swiftly, and stepped back, allowing Catherine the space to move around him.
‘We—we might as well go upstairs,’ she said, brushing past him, supremely conscious of how hard and unyielding his muscled stomach had felt beneath her hands. The thin shirt was hardly a barrier to his taut flesh, but its clammy feel was a sharp reminder of how cold he must be.
‘OK.’
After a brief glance at his jacket, Morgan followed her back along the hall and up the stairs. From the sitting-room, Catherine could hear Hector’s protesting wail, but she determinedly ignored it. Whatever happened, he was not going to be of much use, and he might prove more of a hindrance under her feet. Her bedroom had never looked more feminine than when Morgan halted in the doorway, supporting himself against the whitewood frame. Although she had been married to Neil for almost five years, at that moment she felt decidedly spinsterish. And Morgan probably knew it, she thought impatiently. A little house; a cat; all she needed was a canary.
But all he said was, ‘Nice,’ as Catherine riffled through her wardrobe for something he could wear while his clothes were drying.
‘The—er—bathroom’s there,
’ she said, moving round him again, and pointing to the half open door. ‘You can—take a shower, if you’d like to. In fact, that might be a good idea. To—er—to ward off a chill.’
Morgan’s lips twisted. ‘You’re determined I’m going to catch a cold, aren’t you,’ he remarked, taking the peach-coloured towelling robe she gave him with a wry look. ‘I’m not that fragile, you know. But I may just take you up on that shower. I guess I do feel kind of messy.’
‘Help yourself.’ Catherine turned away from him to slip off her coat, and then started when it was taken from her hands. ‘Oh—thanks.’ She moistened her dry lips. ‘There are plenty of towels on the rack. I’ll—er—I’ll just go and let Hector out.’
Morgan laid her coat on the bed, and looked down at his rain-streaked trousers. ‘What should I do with these?’
Catherine swallowed and adjusted her spectacles. ‘Oh—just bring them down when you’re finished,’ she said, not liking her immediate reaction to his words. ‘I’ll—make some coffee.’
‘Fine.’
He pulled his tie from around his neck, and, half afraid he was going to take his clothes off in the bedroom, Catherine hurried out on to the landing. It was ridiculous, she told herself, as she went down the stairs. It wasn’t as if a man’s naked body was any novelty to her, and yet she was behaving like an outraged virgin. For heaven’s sake, Morgan might be taller, and more powerfully built, but the permutations were the same.
Even so, she couldn’t help images of him taking a shower in her bath from invading her mind. She could see him lathering himself with her jasmine-scented soap, washing his hair with her moisturising shampoo; drying himself on her fluffy cotton towels. They would all have to be washed, of course. She couldn’t run the risk of using a towel he had used, of smelling his distinctively male fragrance…
CHAPTER THREE
HECTOR WAS AWKWARD about going out, and in the end Catherine lost patience, and scooped him up and put him outside. She regretted it immediately. She was allowing her nervousness about Morgan Lynch to influence her dealings with the cat, and she guessed he would be feeling pretty huffy about it when he came back in.
Morgan’s jacket was still lying on the table, and she picked it up to hang over the radiator. It wasn’t the way a jacket of its quality should be dried, she supposed, but she didn’t have much alternative. Besides, Morgan evidently didn’t care that he had risked ruining it by walking in the rain, so why should she worry?
However, the weight of it warned her that the pockets were not empty, and, flipping it open, she discovered a long black wallet in the inside pocket. She hesitated before taking it out, and putting it down on the table. Emptying his pockets smacked of prying, and she didn’t want him to think she had lured him here for any questionable reason.
The jingle of coins warned her that if she turned the jacket sideways, as she had intended to do, they would all spill out on to the floor. She hesitated, briefly, and then plunged her hand inside, and dumped the contents of his other pockets on the table, beside the wallet.
There were several coins, and some notes, as well as keys, a handkerchief, and a small bottle of coloured capsules that looked like medication. The temptation to read the inscription on the bottle was almost irresistible, but she resisted it, and, shaking the coat out, she draped it over the hot radiator.
The kettle had boiled, and the dark liquid was filtering through the grains when she heard Morgan coming downstairs. He was moving silently, but the stairs were inclined to creak. Immediately, her hands felt all thumbs, and she had to steel herself to continue setting out mugs, and a cream jug, and a small basin of dark brown sugar.
As she had expected, he had washed his hair, but, although he had towelled it dry, he had evidently not used her brush or comb. It was a dark tangled mass that somehow managed to give him a look of tumbled sensuality. The towelling robe didn’t look too bad. Although it gaped a little across his chest, exposing the darkly tanned skin beneath, its length reached below his knees. However, his legs and feet were bare, and she tried not to think about the fact that he was carrying the rest of his clothes.
‘Um—let me take those,’ she said, when he halted in the doorway, his eyes going automatically to the small pile of his belongings on the kitchen table. ‘I—er—I hope you don’t mind. I’ve put your jacket over the radiator.’
Morgan’s mouth compressed. ‘Why not?’ he said, though there was a certain tightness in his tone. He handed over his shirt, waistcoat, trousers, socks, and the scrap of grey silk which she guessed was his underpants. ‘Thanks.’
Although the clothes were wet, the scent of his body lingered on them, and Catherine could smell it on her fingers, even after she had hung the trousers and waistcoat beside the jacket, and pushed the other garments into the tumble dryer. She thought of washing her hands, but that would have looked too obvious. Besides, it wasn’t an unpleasant smell. On the contrary, it was disturbingly appealing.
‘We’ll—er—we’ll have our coffee in the living room,’ she said now, filling the mugs and adding them to the other items on a lacquered tray. ‘You know the way,’ she added, as Hector’s voice could be heard, demanding entry at the front door.
‘Do you want I should let him in?’ Morgan asked, as Catherine’s hands were full, and she sighed.
‘I—if you wouldn’t mind,’ she agreed, silently cursing Hector for not staying in the back garden. She just hoped no one was about. It wasn’t late, but hopefully the weather would have deterred people from turning out.
Morgan walked along the hall to the door, and lifted the latch. He moved easily for such a big man, and, to distract herself from her thoughts, Catherine tried to drum up a feeling of resentment at his familiarity. Really, she thought, anyone seeing him would imagine he was staying with her. And, while she was responsible for him being here, she couldn’t help feeling aggrieved. She didn’t want to get involved again, however fleetingly, with anyone. And, although she guessed that a man like Morgan Lynch was unlikely to be attracted to her in the normal way, she had no intention of being used, not even as a sexual stop-gap.
A draught of cold air wafted into the hall as Morgan opened the door. And Hector, after discovering it was not his mistress who had let him in, gave Catherine a disdainful look before padding into the living-room. Of course, he was wet, she thought, guiltily remembering she hadn’t thought of that when she’d put him out. He had probably come round to the front, to shelter under the canopy. Oh, dear, she had probably offended him, too.
Morgan closed the door again, and as he came back along the hall Catherine quickly followed Hector into the living-room. Setting the tray on the low table before the hearth, she switched on a couple of lamps, and carefully positioned herself in an armchair. That way, he could have the sofa to himself, she thought decisively.
Hector was hovering on the hearthrug, his tail still up, and swishing slowly from side to side. He didn’t have a long tail, but he made good use of what he had. He watched Catherine balefully as she sat down in the chintz-covered armchair.
Morgan grinned, all tension leaving his expression, as he seated himself on the sofa, at right angles to her chair. ‘I guess that’s what you call the evil eye,’ he observed, spreading his legs and allowing his hands to hang loosely between.
‘I suppose it is.’
Catherine forced herself to respond, and concentrated on the tray in front of her. But her eyes were drawn to the shadowed length of hairy leg visible in the opening of the bathrobe. He was completely unselfconscious, she thought, angry with herself for noticing. He didn’t seem to care about what constituted a breach of etiquette and what didn’t. He was totally unaware of his body, and she was a fool to be disturbed by it.
After setting his mug of coffee beside him, Catherine eased herself back in the chair, and crossed her legs. Perhaps it would encourage him to do the same, she thought, peevishly, but it didn’t. He merely remained where he was, drinking his coffee, and studying his surroundings
with a lazily interested eye.
His eyes were like Hector’s, she noticed unwillingly. Until now, they had invariably been veiled by his dark lashes, but as he looked up, she saw that they weren’t brown, as she had imagined, but a curious shade of amber. Cat’s eyes, she thought fancifully, considering the comparison. In fact, he was not unlike Hector in the way he moved. They both shared a sinuous grace that lesser mortals coveted. And they both had the same God-given belief in their own supremacy, she reflected dourly, pursing her lips.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ he asked suddenly, and Catherine blinked behind her large lenses.
‘No. Why?’
‘You just looked kind of grim, that’s all,’ he responded, putting down his mug. ‘I guess I didn’t thank you for bringing me here.’
‘You don’t have to thank me.’
Catherine’s voice was crisp, and she knew it. But she couldn’t help it. The truth was, it troubled her to see him looking so at home on her sofa. As if he belonged there, she thought tensely.
He moved then, but, although she automatically stiffened, all he did was settle back against the cushions. And Hector—the traitor, she thought disgustedly—Hector walked delicately across the floor, and jumped up on to the sofa beside him.
Deciding she was allowing her reactions to this man to get completely out of hand, Catherine ran her tongue over her dry lips, and then said, woodenly, ‘I understand you work at the Embassy, too. It must be interesting. Have you—have you worked in other countries?’
Hector was presently employed in settling himself on Morgan’s knee, and Morgan ran his hand along the whole length of the cat’s arching spine before replying. ‘Some,’ he conceded at last, non-committally. Then, ‘You never did tell me what an investment analyst does. Do you work for the stock exchange?’
Catherine’s lips tightened. It was obvious he didn’t like talking about himself. This was the second time he had turned her questions against her, and, in spite of her determination not to get involved with this man, her curiosity was piqued.
