by Anne Mather
‘Hi,’ said Morgan evenly. His tawny eyes made a disturbing appraisal of her appearance. ‘Did I get you up?’
‘What?’ For a moment, Catherine was too shocked to answer him. Then, ‘Oh—I—no. No. I was in the kitchen.’
‘Right.’ Morgan inclined his head. ‘I guessed you’d be an early riser.’
‘Did you?’ Catherine wasn’t sure she appreciated that comment.
‘Yes.’ Morgan glanced pointedly beyond her. ‘Can I come in?’
Catherine tugged at the stem of her spectacles, which curled behind her right ear. ‘Er—yes. Yes, I suppose so.’ She stepped aside automatically, even though all her instincts were screaming at her to refuse. But she was very much aware of her vulnerability, standing there for anyone to see; and when Mrs Scott, across the road, came out to take in her milk she was glad to step back into the shadows. ‘I—er—I was just having some coffee,’ she added politely, making an effort to behave naturally. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Of your coffee?’ queried Morgan, stepping past her into the hall. He pulled a wry face. ‘Could you make that tea?’
Catherine frowned at him as she closed the door. ‘Is there something wrong with my coffee?’ she enquired coolly, and Morgan’s face split into an irresistible grin.
‘Well, let’s say it—defies description,’ he replied shamelessly, and then spiked any reply she might have felt compelled to make by bending to rub Hector’s ears. The cat had come to see what was going on, and he made no demur when Morgan picked him up. ‘How are you doing, boy? Met any sexy felines lately?’
Catherine’s face suffused with colour as she brushed past him on her way to the kitchen. Just who did he think he was? she thought furiously. Coming here at this hour of the morning, and making sarcastic cracks about her coffee. Not to mention embarrassing her over Hector. They didn’t know one another well enough for him to make personal remarks to her cat!
However, as she filled the kettle she had to admit that once again she was over-reacting. For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t as if Hector was going to be embarrassed. On the contrary, as she turned to plug in the kettle, Morgan paused in the doorway, with Hector purring and arching his back responsively against his hand. The little traitor had betrayed her again, she thought indignantly, jamming the end of the flex into the kettle with more force than intellect. He had never been half so friendly with anyone else.
‘I guess you’re not pleased to see me,’ Morgan remarked after a moment, tipping the cat gently on to the floor, and propping his leather-clad shoulder against the jamb. ‘Do you want me to go?’
Catherine, who had been clattering cups into saucers, and taking the teapot out of the cupboard, turned to give him a startled look. ‘I—didn’t say that,’ she protested, uncomfortably aware of how shrewish she must appear to him. A proper old maid, she thought bitterly, discounting the fact that she had been married. After all, the marriage had broken up, and Neil had left her, not the other way about. If he didn’t actually regard her as a spinster, he probably considered her the next best thing.
‘You didn’t have to,’ Morgan said now, one brow arching with quizzical intent. ‘Don’t bother with the tea. I’m not thirsty. I just came to—well, to thank you, I guess. You don’t have to entertain me. I’ll leave right away.’
‘No, I…’ Catherine put out a hand as he straightened away from the door, and then allowed it to fall again when he turned to look at her. ‘I mean—stay and have some tea. Please. I didn’t mean to be—ungracious.’
She watched as he came back into the room, unable to prevent herself from stiffening as he came to lodge his hips against the table, not a yard away from where she was standing. But, crazy as it seemed, she knew she didn’t want him to go, and her body suffused with heat as his eyes moved over her.
‘Ungracious!’ he said, whistling softly. ‘Now, there’s a word I’ve not heard in many a long year. And certainly never addressed to me. How can I refuse?’
Catherine allowed her breath to escape in shallow little gulps. She was intensely conscious of him lounging there, against her table, arms folded across his chest, his jacket falling open to reveal a faded denim shirt, unfastened at the neck. Her nervous gaze was drawn to the silver buckle that snared the belt that rode low on his hips. It seemed to be a representation of two snakes, wound together in a deathly embrace, but when her eyes drooped to the faded fly of his jeans, which tautly outlined the proof of his gender, she quickly tore her gaze away. Lord, what was wrong with her? she wondered sharply, turning to rest her hot palms on the cool steel of the drainer. Was she suffering some kind of mental aberration, or was this simply a case of premature senility?
‘Who looks after the yard?’ Morgan asked suddenly, and the draught of air against her neck warned her that he had come to stand behind her.
‘The—the yard?’ she echoed, through dry lips, and he made a wry sound.
‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘You call it the garden, don’t you? So, OK, who looks after the garden? You?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine’s voice was clipped, but she couldn’t help it. ‘I—er—there is no one else. It’s not big enough to employ a gardener.’
‘No.’ Morgan agreed with her, but he didn’t move away, and Catherine was aware of him with every nerve in her body. ‘So, you go to work in the City, you do some gardening, and you look after our aristocratic friend here. What else do you do?’
Catherine swallowed, and edged sideways, so that he wasn’t immediately behind her any more. ‘Oh—this and that,’ she replied, wishing the kettle would boil, so that she would have something practical to do. ‘I read; and I watch television. And—I like the theatre.’
‘How about men?’ Morgan gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I guess there’s no man in your life, right?’
Catherine didn’t know why, but she was suddenly furious at his presumption. ‘Why—why should you think that?’ she stuttered, realising she should have put on her shoes before answering the door. It wasn’t usual for her to have to look up at a man, and Morgan was taller to begin with. She caught her breath. ‘I suppose you think Kay and Denzil only invited me to make up a four for dinner, because they felt sorry for me! Is that it?’
Morgan’s brows creased. ‘Do you want to run that by me again?’ he asked, his own expression hardening, but Catherine was too angry to notice his reaction.
‘I am not a lonely old woman!’ she declared, trembling with indignation. ‘If I live alone, it’s because I choose to do so, not because no red-blooded male has asked me to join him. Strange as it may seem, I find my own company quite satisfying, thank you. I don’t need the kind of sexual stimulus most men consider indispensable!’
‘Hey!’ Morgan caught her arm, and swung her round to face him. ‘What did I say, for God’s sake?’ His tawny eyes glittered angrily. ‘Did I suggest you were either old or lonely?’
‘No, but…’
Catherine made one abortive attempt to shake his hand from her arm, and then stood rigidly still. She would not behave like some outraged prude, she thought determinedly. She was a mature, independent woman, and indulging in any kind of physical by-play was alien to her. Besides, she had the sense to know that in any kind of contest of strength he was bound to come out the winner, and she had no intention of struggling with him, just to prove the point.
‘What is it with you?’ demanded Morgan harshly, and she wondered if he realised how painful his grip was. His hard fingers were biting into the soft flesh of her upper arm, and she could feel the muscles around them going numb. ‘I was simply trying to find out if there was someone else—some other man,’ he added, his mouth revealing an expression of contempt now, which could have been against her, or self-derogatory. ‘Why would you assume I was taking a shot at you? You’re a beautiful woman, for God’s sake! And I guess you don’t need me to tell you that either!’
A beautiful woman! Catherine opened her mouth to deny this outrageous statement, and then closed it again. But she knew she
wasn’t a beautiful woman, and he must know it, too. It was just an attempt to disarm her. However, she would not give him the satisfaction of arguing with him. If he chose to make exaggerated observations, then let him. She would show him how little it meant by not even acknowledging the fabrication.
‘Will you let me go?’ she asked instead, her features as frozen as the rest of her, and, as if just realising he was bruising her arm, Morgan’s hand fell to his side.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, in a low voice, watching as she backed away from him, the fingers of her other hand trying to massage some life back into her arm. He raked his scalp with a hand that she couldn’t help noticing was not quite steady, and then walked rather stiffly round the table. ‘I’ll let myself out.’
This time, Catherine made no attempt to detain him, but, after she heard the front door close behind him, she scurried into the sitting-room, and peered rather anxiously through the curtains. She realised now that the sleek grey Mercedes parked at her gate, and which she had paid little attention to earlier, was his. As she watched, Morgan came out of her gate, and crossed the pavement, unlocking the car with a controlled movement, and folding his long length behind the wheel. Cars were often parked at her gate, but seldom a car as powerful as that, she thought grudingly. She drew back as he gave the house a cursory inspection before driving away. Thank goodness, he had gone. And after what had happened, she doubted he’d be back.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FLOWERS WERE waiting for her when she got home from work on Monday afternoon. They must have arrived while Mrs Holland was cleaning, for the daily woman had taken them in and left them in the sink, their stems safely dipped in water.
What Mrs Holland must have thought, Catherine couldn’t imagine. She was not in the habit of receiving extravagant bouquets of flowers, and, bearing in mind the season, and the shortage of locally grown blooms, they were doubly surprising. There must have been at least a hundred pounds’ worth of flowers spilling over the drainer, their perfume filling the house with the freshness of a spring morning.
There was no card. As soon as she had prepared Hector’s evening meal, that was the first thing Catherine looked for, but there was no small square of cardboard to indicate who they had come from. Of course she knew the identity of the sender. That was why she had forced herself to feed the cat before confirming her suspicions. But, once again, Morgan had succeeded in out-manoeuvring her, leaving her almost certain she was right, but not quite.
Still, they were beautiful, she thought, touching the petals of a delicate mauve orchid. Roses and lilies, tulips and carnations, freesias—where on earth had they been cultivated? Not in Fulham, that was for sure.
Leaving Hector licking his paws, Catherine walked back along the hall to the stairs. The sight of the phone on the semi-circular table by the door momentarily distracted her, but she moved past it. She could hardly ring and thank him for flowers she didn’t even know he had sent. Besides, she didn’t know his phone number. Just 1805, Jermyn Gate, which might, or might not, be his address.
In spite of her most immediate problems, it was still a relief to shed her business clothes and high heels. Deciding to take her bath later, she removed her make-up and washed her face, and then dressed in black woolly tights and a sloppy sweatshirt. She was unaware of it, but in the casual clothes, without make-up, and with her hair cupping her chin like an ebony bell, she looked about nineteen, her spectacles only accentuating the youthful transparency of her skin.
However, Catherine felt every one of her thirty years as she went downstairs. It had not been a good day, she thought, returning to the kitchen to confront the daunting array of flowers. Let’s face it, she added silently, it had not been a good weekend. Indeed, things had started badly with Morgan’s arrival on Saturday morning, and had continued going downhill ever since. Even the flowers, beautiful as they undoubtedly were, could not lift the depression that had gripped her, ever since Morgan had walked out of the house. She had wanted him to go—of course she had, she told herself. But the fact remained that his departure had signalled the start of her depression, and it wasn’t over yet.
It certainly hadn’t helped her to concentrate. Saturday morning had been a complete waste of time, and, after doing her shopping, in the early afternoon, she had had to spend the rest of the day battling with the computer. She had made some progress, but not a lot, and being obliged to go to Oakley on Sunday for lunch had successfully ruined that day’s concentration, too.
Her mother hadn’t helped either. Mrs Lambert had been more interested in the evening she had spent at the Sawyers’ than in her work, and when Catherine had mentioned her predicament her mother had swiftly put her straight.
‘I’ve told you before, Catherine,’ she said, taking their pre-packed lunches out of the oven, and setting them on the hob. Mrs Lambert had never enjoyed cooking, and since Catherine had got married she seldom, if ever, prepared a traditional Sunday lunch. ‘You’ve made your work the most important thing in your life, and that’s foolish. Heavens, I enjoy my independence as much as anyone, but I wouldn’t dream of bringing my work home. A place for everything, and everything in its place, as your grandmother used to say. You need a man, Catherine. Whether you choose to admit it or not.’
Catherine could have said that, as a salesperson, Mrs Lambert couldn’t very well bring her work home, even if she had wanted to, but she held her tongue. It was easier not to get involved in arguments of that kind. Besides, there was some truth in what her mother said. It wasn’t necessary for her to work at home. If she chose to do so, that was her problem.
But, at the same time, she couldn’t tell her mother why she needed to work this weekend. If she had been afraid that Kay might speculate over the news that Morgan had spent Thursday night at her house, how could she confide that fact to her mother? Mrs Lambert would read all sorts of interpretations into the reasons why her daughter had brought him home in the first place. It wouldn’t do to simply say that she had given him a lift because it was raining, and that she hadn’t been able to find his address. Her mother would insist on knowing every minute detail of the events of that evening, and she wouldn’t rest until Catherine had been completely de-briefed. On top of that, there were certain things about that night that Catherine didn’t feel she had the right to tell anyone, least of all someone like her mother.
Hoping to change the subject, she got up to take down the plates that had been warming above the oven. ‘This looks interesting,’ she said, indicating the individual foil dishes that appeared to contain a mixture of rice and fish. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s salmon and prawn fricassee,’ retorted her mother shortly, not at all pleased by Catherine’s refusal to discuss her private life. ‘I don’t suppose it will suit you. Nothing I do ever does.’
Catherine sighed. ‘Mother—’
‘Well, it’s true.’ Any hope of avoiding the issue was dispelled as Mrs Lambert launched into her favourite topic. ‘You never listen to anything I say. And when I show a perfectly natural interest in your affairs, you clam up.’
‘I don’t clam up,’ protested Catherine wearily, but her mother was adamant.
‘You do,’ she said. ‘Take last Thursday, for instance. You tell me I can’t come over, because you’re going to the Sawyers’, but when I ask you about the evening all you can say is that Kay’s housekeeper made some fancy mousse or other.’
‘She did.’
‘Yes. Well, don’t you think that’s rather strange? I mean, you spend a whole evening with the Sawyers and this man they’ve invited you to meet—’
‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘And all I hear is what you’ve been eating!’
Catherine sighed. ‘What do you want me to say?’
Her mother snorted. ‘I want to hear about what happened, of course. I’d like to know what this man was like for a start. Why didn’t you like him? Did he like you?’
‘Oh, God!’ Catherine sank down into a chair at the tabl
e, and pushed her fingers into her hair. ‘I’ve told you. It wasn’t that kind of arrangement. Kay needed somone to make up a four for dinner, and I obliged. End of story.’
Mrs Lambert stared at her penetratingly for a few seconds, and Catherine was beginning to wonder guiltily if her mother had added mind-reading to her other talents when she turned away to dish up the food.
‘Well, I think you’re wasting your life,’ she said, her words bringing her daughter some relief. ‘It’s not as if Neil had died, or anything, and you could be excused on the grounds of being grief-stricken. The man walked out on you, Catherine. He’s living it up now, with that bimbo he married, and you’re going around in sackcloth and ashes!’
‘Hardly that.’ Catherine was surprised at how little her mother’s words touched her. A few days ago, she would have expected the reminder of Neil’s infidelity to be painful to her. But it wasn’t. All she felt now was a lingering sense of bitterness, at having wasted the years they spent together. She should have realised sooner how selfish Neil was, how basically insecure their marriage had been.
‘Well, anyway,’ went on her mother, ‘I think you know what I’m getting at. It’s probably why the Sawyers invited you to dinner, whatever you say. Kay must know how you keep to yourself. She no doubt invited this man because she hoped you’d hit it off.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ exclaimed Catherine again, her voice rising in frustration. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mum, men and women have been known to socialise with one another, without feeling the need to fall into bed!’
Of course, that had been the end of the discussion, but not of the argument. Catherine had left, after making a gallant attempt to swallow at least half of her share of the fricassee, knowing that Mrs Lambert was unlikely to be silenced for long. But at least she had avoided any more questions about Morgan. God willing, her mother would have forgotten all about him, when next the subject of Catherine’s single status came up.
Even so, she had not found it any easier to work when she got back home, and this morning John Humphries, her immediate superior, had been less than understanding over her unfinished report. Of course, she had known that part of his ill humour stemmed from the hangover he invariably had on Monday mornings, but nevertheless his attitude hadn’t helped to relieve her own tension.
