by Anne Mather
‘I’ll go now,’ Morgan said abruptly, pushing the quilt aside, and putting his feet to the floor. ‘If you could just tell me where my clothes are—’
‘You can’t go like that!’ The words were out before Catherine could prevent them, but, in any case, she didn’t want to retract them. He couldn’t go in that state. He was as much in danger of getting pneumonia now as he had been earlier, and she told herself it was her conscience that insisted on doing the right thing. ‘I—I’ll make some coffee,’ she said, reaching the doorway and looking back at him over her shoulder. ‘Why—why don’t you take another shower? There’s plenty of hot water.’
CHAPTER FOUR
CATHERINE WAS TRYING to estimate the relative advantages of choosing Micro-Bite Electronics over Hereward Industries when Kay stopped beside her desk. The other woman looked vaguely embarrassed, and she offered Catherine a rueful smile, before saying awkwardly, ‘Sorry about last night.’
Realising she was not giving the calculation her full attention in any case, Catherine pushed her spectacles up her nose, and looked at her friend with tired eyes. ‘What?’ she asked, hoping Kay wasn’t about to indulge in a long post-mortem. After approximately four hours of sleep, she was in no mood to be charitable. However, it was not in her nature to be completely ungracious, and, lifting her shoulders, she said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter.’ Kay evidently did want to talk, and, after a swift glance around her, she perched on the edge of Catherine’s desk. ‘I’d never have invited you if I’d known he was going to be so objectionable.’
Catherine sighed. ‘So what’s new?’ she replied drily, surprised that Kay was prepared to criticise her husband so openly. ‘Denzil and I have never—’
‘Not Denzil, silly!’ Kay slid off the desk in her impatience. ‘Morgan, of course. Morgan Lynch. Honestly, the way he spoke to Denzil, I just wanted to die!’
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t think he deserved it?’ she remarked slowly.
‘Who? Denzil?’ And when Catherine’s silence provided her answer, Kay snorted. ‘Of course not. You know what Denzil’s like. He just—teases you, that’s all. There was no need for Morgan to come to your defence like a bull at a gate! For heaven’s sake, the evening was hard enough without him making it any harder!’
Catherine drew her lower lip between her teeth. ‘So—why did you invite him?’ she enquired softly, and saw the way the colour came into the other woman’s cheeks at her words.
‘Oh—as I said the other day, he’s an old army friend of Denzil’s.’
‘Friend?’ Catherine looked sceptical.
‘Well, all right. Not—friend, exactly.’ Kay hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, they’re cousins. Only second cousins,’ she added swiftly. ‘But family is family, isn’t it? You can’t choose your relations.’
‘No.’ Catherine was fairly sure Morgan felt the same.
‘Anyway,’ went on Kay defensively, ‘at least it got you out of your shell for the evening. And you have to admit, Morgan is pretty devastating to look at, isn’t he? It’s just a pity he—’
She broke off abruptly, but there was no mistaking her agitation now, as she ran nervous fingers into the blonde curls at her nape. It was obvious she regretted starting such an ambiguous statement, and, turning her head from side to side, she pretended to be admiring her reflection in the windowed wall that divided the office.
Catherine let her believe she had got away with it for a few moments, and then she said quietly, ‘It’s just a pity he—what? What were you going to say?’
‘What?’ Kay turned to look at her with deceptively innocent eyes.
‘You didn’t finish what you started to say,’ Catherine responded smoothly. ‘About Morgan. Why is it a pity?’
‘Oh…’ Kay licked her lips, playing for time. ‘Did I say that?’
‘You know you did.’ Catherine was terse.
‘Oh, well—I just meant—it was a pity the evening ended as it did,’ declared Kay, her words gathering speed and conviction, as she realised she had found an escape route. ‘I mean, imagine walking home in all that rain! He must be m—stupid. Stupid!’ She uttered an embarrassed little laugh, and looked at the watch on her wrist. ‘Goodness, is that the time? I’d better go. I don’t want to get into Mr Hollingsworth’s black books today. Denzil’s taking me to Paris for the weekend, and I want to ask if I can have Monday off.’ She pulled a face. ‘See you.’
Catherine nodded. ‘Have a nice weekend,’ she said, well aware that Kay was not being completely honest with her. But then, remembering her own dealings with Morgan, she wondered if she wasn’t being silly. She didn’t even have that excuse.
Catherine looked back at her computer, trying to make some sense of the spreadsheet of net present values, but it was just a confusing jumble of figures, the projected balance sheets she had prepared the day before providing no elucidation whatsoever. She was afloat on a sea of corporate information that for some reason refused to clarify itself.
Resting her elbows on the desk, she massaged her temples with long, slim fingers. Her spectacles slipped down her nose, but she didn’t bother to replace them. Her head ached with the effort of trying to concentrate when her mind simply wasn’t on her work. It was a new experience for her, and one she didn’t appreciate in the slightest.
It was Morgan Lynch’s fault, of course, she acknowledged. In spite of her defence of him to Kay, she was in no doubt that he was responsible for her present lack of concentration. And not just because, in one way or another, he had kept her awake half the night.
She wondered what Kay would have said if she had told her that Morgan hadn’t walked home at all. That he had, in fact, spent the night at her house. God, she could imagine the speculation that would have caused! Not least because Kay would never believe nothing had happened. Well, nothing sexual anyway, thought Catherine wryly, tilting her head to rest her chin on her hands. As for what had happened—well, there was no way she could ever tell anyone about that. In fact, looking back on it now, she was half inclined to believe she had imagined the whole thing. But she hadn’t!
She sighed. All the same, the whole incident had acquired the ambience of a bad dream, and she preferred not to think about it. But it wasn’t easy putting it out of her mind when the man himself so persistently occupied her thoughts.
A shiver ran up her spine. Kay had been right about one thing, she thought reflectively. Morgan was just about the most devastating man she had ever seen. She had only to close her eyes to see the long dark lashes that veiled his curiously tawny eyes, the hard planes of his face, beneath the tautly drawn skin that covered his cheekbones. There was nothing soft about his face, and yet at times it was strangely beautiful, his mouth compressing over even white teeth.
She shook her head. She didn’t like the feeling of not having control over her own thoughts. Even when Neil had left her, she had been able to find solace in her work. But just now she was finding it virtually impossible to do what she had to do, and, discovering it was almost lunch-time, she realised that she would probably have to spend her weekend catching up.
Leaving her desk, she walked across to the coffee machine, and punched in her requirements. Then, collecting the polystyrene cup, she carried it to the windows, looking down at the city through troubled eyes. As usual, on a Friday lunchtime, the streets below her were clogged with traffic. Lots of offices closed for the weekend at lunchtime on Fridays, and travel-weary commuters were struggling to make their way home. Thank goodness, she didn’t have that problem, she thought wryly. Besides, the offices of Bracknell Associates, Insurance Consultants, didn’t close until five o’clock, a circumstance she had not really appreciated until today.
And why was that? she asked herself irritably. Why should she want to stay on at the office, when most of the staff couldn’t wait to start their weekend? Why should she want to stay at her desk, when she was fortunate enough to have a comfortable home to go to?
; She sipped her coffee with some impatience. The answer, she knew, involved Morgan Lynch, and it was unbearable that he should be having such a ridiculous effect on her life. But her home, in spite of its earlier association with Neil, had always been her refuge in times of trouble. After Neil had left her, she had made it over to her own design, and, since then, no man had invaded her territory. Morgan had changed all that, and while she could hardly accuse him of invading, he had—temporarily, she hoped—destroyed its peace and tranquillity.
But it wasn’t just the atmosphere of the house that concerned her. After he had left that morning, she had systematically destroyed all trace of Morgan’s occupation, even to the extent of throwing out a perfectly good half-full bottle of an expensive shampoo, simply because she suspected he had used it. She had even stripped the cover from the quilt she had used to cover him, and left a note for the woman who came in twice a week to clean for her to send it to the cleaners. Her desire to rid herself of any re minder of what had happened was almost paranoid, and that was what troubled her most.
And why? she asked herself frustratedly. What had he done, for God’s sake? He hadn’t even touched her.
She expelled her breath unsteadily. He hadn’t had to, she acknowledged bitterly. She hadn’t needed his participation to be aware of him in a way that bore no resemblance to her immature attraction to Neil. Just looking at him, she had suspected how unsatisfactory her relationship with her ex-husband must have been, and the rampant possibilities of that realisation were another part of her depression.
Of course, he didn’t know any of this, she consoled herself firmly. At least, she hoped he didn’t. Surely he could have read nothing sexual into the cup of coffee she had offered after his second shower? A cup of coffee he had declined, she remembered uneasily, recalling his brief but unequivocal refusal. He had come downstairs, a little less immaculately attired than earlier that evening, with the shadow of a night’s growth of beard on his chin, but dressed and ready to leave. And apart from using her phone to call a minicab he had behaved as he had done earlier—he was polite, but curiously remote.
Which was probably why she was thinking about him now, she told herself forcefully. It wasn’t that she had found him so overwhelmingly attractive at all. It was his—unpredictability that disturbed her. She was worried about him, that’s all. Worried that, in some strange way, he wasn’t exactly what he seemed.
What he seemed? Catherine stifled a groan. She really was getting paranoid about this. Morgan Lynch was exactly what he seemed—a good-looking, moderately wealthy man, with a steady if unexciting job at the Embassy. And he was perfectly capable of handling his own life. He didn’t need her to worry about him.
All the same, she couldn’t help associating what Kay had just said—or rather, what she hadn’t said—with what had happened during the night. Had it been a nightmare? He hadn’t actually told her. All he had done was apologise for disturbing her.
Her mother phoned soon after she got in from work that evening. Catherine had hardly taken off her coat and bent to greet Hector before the telephone rang, and she felt an immediate return of tension. Her thoughts leapt instantly to the possible identity of her caller, and it was with some reluctance that she lifted the receiver.
‘Catherine? Is that you, darling? Have you been running?’
‘Yes, and no.’ Catherine endeavoured to regulate her breathing. ‘I’ve just got in, actually. And—the phone startled me.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Mrs Lambert seemed to accept her explanation, but, feeling the need to endorse what she had said, Catherine added, ‘You don’t usually phone at this time.’
‘No.’ Diverted now, her mother was more than willing to explain. ‘I just wanted to confirm what day you’re planning on coming down. Will it be Saturday or Sunday? I mean, as far as I’m concerned, you could come tonight, and spend the whole weekend, but I know you won’t leave that animal of yours, will you?’
Catherine swallowed. She had completely forgotten saying she would go down to Oakley this weekend, and, with the amount of work she had brought home with her, she didn’t really have the time. Besides, the last thing she needed at the moment was a cosy tête-à-tête with her mother.
‘Catherine?’
Her silence had become noticeable, and, taking a deep breath, she said, ‘I—hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘About what? When you’re coming?’
‘No.’ Catherine hesitated. ‘If.’
‘But you said you would!’ Mrs Lambert sounded hurt, and Catherine felt awful. After all, it wasn’t her mother’s fault that she had allowed thoughts of Morgan Lynch to distract her from her work.
‘I’ve…just got such a lot to do,’ she admitted lamely. ‘I promised John I’d have some figures ready for him on Monday morning, and I’m not even halfway through the calculations.’ She paused. ‘I’ve had to bring them home with me.’
Mrs Lambert sucked in her breath. ‘So, you’re going to spend the whole weekend hunched over the computer?’
Catherine sighed. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, I don’t believe you.’ Her mother sounded angry now. ‘You weren’t too busy to have dinner with the Sawyers, were you? I don’t remember you worrying about any figures that evening. No, you were quite happy to oblige your friends, but when it comes to your mother—’
‘All right. All right. I’ll come.’
Catherine broke into the tirade to make her peace, and her mother gave a peevish sniff. ‘You mean it?’
‘Yes, I mean it.’ Catherine considered for a moment. ‘I’ll come on Sunday. For lunch, if that’s OK. That’ll give me at least half the morning to work.’
Mrs Lambert sniffed again. ‘You really are busy, then.’
Catherine suppressed her own irritation. ‘I wasn’t lying, Mother,’ she said, realising it was only half the truth. In normal circumstances what she had to do could have been accomplished in a few hours. But these were not normal circumstances, and she wasn’t absolutely sure how long it would take her.
‘Very well.’ Her mother hesitated for a moment, and Catherine prepared to ring off. But then, as if compelled by forces stronger than herself, Mrs Lambert added, ‘Did—er—did you have a pleasant evening with Kay and Denzil?’
In other words, what was Denzil’s army buddy like? thought Catherine impatiently. Which was probably the real reason her mother had rung. The ploy about which day she planned to visit had backfired, but Mrs Lambert was nothing if not tenacious.
‘It was all right,’ she said now. ‘Kay’s housekeeper made a cream cheese and asparagus mousse, and that was delicious. I’ll have to get the recipe. I’m sure you’d like it.’
‘I’m sure I would.’ Mrs Lambert’s tone was dry. ‘Nothing exciting happened then, I gather.’
Catherine bit down hard on the flesh of her inner lip. ‘No,’ she replied tautly. ‘Nothing exciting.’
‘And—Denzil’s friend? What did you call him? What was he like?’
Catherine’s fingers tightened round the receiver. ‘I’m not seeing him again, if that’s what you mean,’ she said, keeping her voice even with an effort. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday, Mother. Bye!’
She put down the phone before Mrs Lambert could say anything else, but after she had done so she experienced the usual sense of guilt at her lack of patience. After all, her mother was just being—motherly. Like all good parents, she wanted her daughter to be happy. The trouble was, her idea of happiness and her daughter’s were not necessarily compatible.
Catherine spent the evening watching television. She knew there was no point in taxing her brain cells any more that day, and the undemanding procession of game shows, situation comedies, and drama that filled the screen were exactly what she needed to distract her thoughts. Of course, her eyes strayed often to the sofa, where Morgan had lain the night before, and just occasionally she thought she could still detect the aroma of his shaving lotion. But she was sure it was only her i
magination, and she chided Hector when he stalked around the sofa, sniffing assiduously. She didn’t want to be reminded that the cat had been as susceptible to Morgan’s influence as she had herself.
Catherine slept fitfully, and awakened to the daunting realisation that she felt no more like work this morning than she had done the day before. But at least it wasn’t raining, and already a watery sun was filtering through the blind in the kitchen.
After letting Hector into the garden, Catherine made a pot of coffee, and then settled down to read the morning newspaper. She would have her shower and get dressed later, she thought. If she started work at ten o’clock she could guarantee herself at least two hours before lunch. Of course, there was shopping to do. She generally went to the supermarket on Saturdays and stocked up for the week. She would have to do that this afternoon, and by then she would probably be glad of the break.
She was engrossed in a story about a Member of Parliament who had been accused of insider trading on the stock market when her doorbell rang. A glance at the kitchen clock informed her that it was barely nine o’clock, and, guessing it was probably the post, she put down her coffee-cup and went to answer it. She didn’t give much thought to the fact that she wasn’t dressed. She was sure the postman had seen far worse sights than her in the silky dragon-printed kimono which Aunt Agnes had brought her back from Tokyo. It was at least five years old, of course, and not really her sort of thing, but it was soft and comfortable, and she wasn’t expecting any visitors. Unless her mother…
But, when she slid back the bolt and opened the door, it was neither the postman nor her mother who was standing on the step outside. A tall, dark-haired man dressed in faded jeans and a black leather jacket stood on the threshold, his attention momentarily distracted by a pair of motorists, who were having a noisy duel with their horns across the street. However, he had evidently heard the door opening, because he turned his head and looked at her, and Catherine caught her breath as she identified him.
