A Matter of Trust

by Maxine Barry

  Markie, with a cheeky half-curtsy in gratitude, swept up her case and disappeared from view.

  Callum used the time to pull the curtains and take off his shoes and socks. He eyed the bed grimly. It was a monster bed all right, and ideal for someone of his size. The only other pieces of furniture in the room consisted of two armchairs and a low coffee table. He could, at a pinch, put the two chairs together, face to face, and spend the night in them. But he wouldn’t get much sleep.

  And suddenly he felt a shaft of anger lance through him. No! He’d be damned if he would! If Miss Marcheta Kendall thought he was going to pussy-foot around her, she could bloody well think again!

  He unbuttoned his sports jacket and slung it across one of the chairs, and was unbuttoning his shirt when the bathroom door opened and she walked in.

  His heartbeat ratcheted up and his breathing stuttered in his chest.

  She was wearing a long, diaphanous white negligee and was barefoot. Her long black hair flowed freely down her back, and her face had been washed and cleansed free of makeup. Her natural beauty made her look younger and more vulnerable.

  He swallowed hard.

  ‘It’s all yours,’ Markie said brightly, indicating the room behind her. Her eyes, though, were on his hands, and the v-shaped triangle of skin on his bared chest. She could see silver-tinted chest hairs, and the broad, tanned expanse of his well-muscled chest. Her mouth went suddenly dry.

  Callum nodded, and wordlessly moved past her.

  In the bathroom he spent way too long brushing his teeth and shaving and washing. At last though, he could postpone it no longer, and walked back into the bedroom.

  All the lights were out, but the street lamps outside shone through the lightweight curtains, bathing the room in an amber glow. From the monster four-poster he heard a slight rustle of movement. So she was already in bed and waiting for him.

  He undressed wordlessly, slipping into the pyjama bottoms that were all that he wore in bed.

  From the four-poster Markie watched, fascinated, as the huge shape of him loomed over her. He looked like a bronzed Adonis in the amber light, his silver-blond hair gleaming in the darkness. Her heart began to thump like a jack hammer.

  What had she been thinking? Over Dinner she’d been able to airily assure him that it was possible for two rational human beings to be able to share a bed and do nothing but sleep. In an emergency, of course, what was wrong with that? She’d sounded insouciant and sophisticated enough then, she thought with a somewhat rueful grin.

  But now, when she felt the man’s weight and warmth beside her, and felt overwhelmed by the impressive latent power in his well-muscled physique, she felt suddenly, breathlessly, anxious.

  She lay, tensed and ready for him to make his move.

  Beside her, the psychologist in Callum Fielding instantly sensed her sudden tension. And in the darkness he smiled broadly.

  So the super-cool Marcheta wasn’t quite the woman of the world she pretended to be.

  Good.

  And feeling infinitely happier, he turned over onto his side, and relaxed into sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  If Markie Kendall lay in bed that night wondering about an indifferent man who didn’t seem to respond to her at all, several hours earlier, and back in Oxford, another young woman had exactly the opposite problem.

  Namely, wondering how to cope with too much attention from a very forceful man indeed.

  * * *

  Nesta sighed resignedly, and got slowly to her feet from her hiding place beneath Sir Vivian’s desk. ‘Hello Lisle,’ she said quietly.

  Lisle stared at her, gimlet eyed. ‘You’ve got some nerve,’ he said at last, a trace of reluctant respect in his voice. ‘I’ll give you that.’

  Nesta managed a rather unconvincing smile. ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  Lisle slowly shook his head. He took a further step into the room, turned, and quietly closed the door behind him. There was such an excruciatingly patient control in his every movement that Nesta felt the hairs rise on the back of her own neck.

  He was furious.

  She swallowed hard.

  Just as well he hadn’t caught her checking out Sir Vivian’s home earlier. He’d really have hit the roof then! She’d gone there a few hours ago, remembering that Sir Vivian had kept a spare key to his back door in his rickety greenhouse. She’d gone whilst it was still dark, mindful of nosy neighbours, glad, for once, of the long, dark winter mornings.

  But she had not found a trace of her father’s papers at the house in Park End. She’d seen a lot of evidence of police forensic activity, though—the place had been covered with a shiny, black residue of dust that she assumed must have been used in checking for fingerprints. She’d been scrupulously careful to disturb nothing, and had read nothing of Sir Vivian’s private papers at all. She’d felt enough like a grubby little spy as it was. Even though she was only trying to recover her property.

  But, when the papers hadn’t shown up in either Sir Vivian’s study, the living room, or his bedside cabinet, she’d decided that either the police now had them, or that they were somewhere else. Working on the hypothesis that the police would not be interested in years old ex-students theses, she’d decided to check out his office. Just in case.

  But, somehow, watching Lisle Jarvis turn and close the door and then lean against it, folding his arms across his impressive chest and staring at her like a starling inspects a particularly juicy worm, she somehow didn’t think that now was the time to tell him what she’d been doing with her morning.

  In fact . . .

  ‘Tell me, Miss Aldernay,’ Lisle said silkily, ‘just where were you the night that Sir Vivian was killed?’

  Nesta blinked at him. Then slowly smiled.

  Did he seriously suspect her?

  Yes, she thought, with mingled dismay and anger. He did.

  ‘I was with friends. To be more accurate, with friends of my father. He was an undergraduate, then a graduate here, many years ago. I looked them up,’ she told him, keeping her voice purely business-like and unafraid.

  Lisle got out his notebook. ‘Names please. And addresses.’

  Nesta sighed wearily. ‘I don’t know all of their addresses. But I know the name and address of my father’s old room mate. It was at his place where we all met up. And he lived in Wolvercote.’

  She named the small village, right on the outskirts of the city. ‘We met at the Trout, a pub in the village, and had a few drinks then, at closing time, we all moved to his place.’

  She supplied the man’s name and address, and a list of the rest of her father’s friends. ‘I’d called Roger Waring when I first came to Oxford, and told him who I was. He contacted the others, and invited them over. Most stayed in the area. Oxford, it seems, gets in your blood.’

  Lisle ignored her more friendly tone. ‘And your father? Did he come down from Durham to join in this little reunion?’

  ‘My father died, here in Oxford. A traffic accident. He was knocked off his bike when he was 27.’

  Lisle’s face twisted briefly. ‘I’m sorry. You must have been very young.’

  Nesta shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about it. Being in Oxford again was bad enough, and she was already about to dredge up the past enough to last her a lifetime.

  Providing she could find her father’s papers, that is.

  For, even though she’d only arrived a few minutes ago, she’d already checked out the cupboards and Sir Vivian’s desk, and there was no sign of them. Which meant, surely, that the police had them after all. Unless . . .

  She went slightly pale. What if she had somehow learned what Sir Vivian was doing, and had somehow got possession of them? Perhaps someone at the Bodleian had rung and told her that Sir Vivian, that great and eminent man, was interested in her old thesis. They might think it would thrill her.

  But it would only terrify her.

  What if she was too late? What if someone else had already got to Sir Vivian’s home, or t
his office, ahead of her?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lisle said sharply. Her skin was suddenly as pale as milk, her eyes as wide and tragic as an opera.

  ‘What? Oh . . . nothing,’ she said vaguely.

  Lisle fought back the urge to walk up to her and give her a good shaking. It was obvious that something was very much wrong, and she seemed hell bent on keeping it from him. It made him want to kiss her stupid.

  Aware that his thoughts were fast angling out of control, he forced himself to calm down. And pretend that thoughts of kissing a suspect hadn’t even entered his head.

  But it was vital he got whatever information from her that she was holding back. But what was he to do? Confront her? The way things kept getting so volatile whenever they met up warned him that he’d have to be careful.

  Nesta’s own thoughts were whirling.

  If Naismith had got her father’s and Sir Vivian’s papers back in her possession, what could she do about it? Demand her father’s papers back? But what good would that do? If she’d stolen them, they would have long since been burned by now. And if she didn’t have them, she’d only be alerting the enemy that she was onto her. That she was being investigated.

  She didn’t know it, but her growing distress and dismay was clear on her face, and Lisle had finally had enough. Before she could draw breath, he was striding quickly across the room. And before he knew what he intended doing, he had her by the arms and was half-shaking her. ‘Damn it, woman,’ he all but shouted, ‘I can almost hear the wheels turning in your head. Now tell me . . . what are you doing here?’

  Nesta dragged in a ragged breath. She’d never been man-handled before. And she shouldn’t be liking it, damn it! All her feminine instincts should be outraged. So why did the feel of his strong hands on her arms thrill her? Why did the scent of his aftershave, a clear, fresh, forest-like scent, make her head swim? Why could she feel his body heat through the thick layers of her clothes, setting her own flesh aflame?

  She blinked. ‘Let go of me!’ She managed to invest her voice, at least, with a little backbone.

  Lisle blinked, looked down at his own hands on her arms, and suddenly released her. He took a single backward step, and dragged in a huge breath. Hell! What was getting into him?

  Shaken but carefully hiding it, he retreated back to the safety of the door and the familiarity of his police notebook. One look at the almost bare page showed him how unsuccessful he’d been in interrogating his suspect.

  Suspect. She was still a suspect, remember, he reminded himself grimly.

  ‘What time did you leave this Roger Waring’s house?’ he asked, his voice cold but still a little shaken.

  Nesta rubbed her arms. He hadn’t hurt her, she just wanted to capture the feel of his fingers against her flesh for ever and ever.

  ‘I . . . er . . . it was late. Gone midnight. I’m not really sure. You’ll have to ask him,’ she murmured, every inch as shaken as he was. The atmosphere in the room was so fraught with various dangers that it was hard to breathe, let alone think clearly.

  ‘I will, don’t you worry about that,’ Lisle said warningly. But if it was that late, she was in the frame for the Don’s murder. He knew that to get to Wolvercote, she would have driven up the Woodstock Road to the roundabout at the top of it, the Wolvercote turn being the first exit. Which meant she could have stopped the car outside St Bede’s, but the double yellow lines there might have attracted the attention of any late-night traffic wardens, and surely she wouldn’t have risked getting a ticket?

  But she could have parked on St Giles, and walked back easily enough. Carrying a bow and arrow? Even though it was night, there were streetlights. And besides, even that late at night, someone would have been about. Perhaps she’d parked in St Bede’s itself. The postern gate was unlocked.

  But would she have known that?

  Or, perhaps, he was looking at this the wrong way. Could she have seen the killer? Did she know him, or her. Was that why she was all so-fired interested in this case? Was she shielding someone?

  A man.

  Her lover.

  He fought back a sick sensation of despair in the pit of his stomach. Damn it, he couldn’t get personally involved here. He couldn’t. What did it matter to him if Nesta Aldernay had a string of lovers?

  ‘Did you see anyone entering or leaving the gates of St Bede’s when you drove past?’ he asked, trying to be fair, trying to be impartial and failing miserably. She was so lovely. He wanted her so much to be innocent of all this ugliness.

  Nesta cocked her head partly to one side, frowning in thought. ‘No, I don’t think so. But then, I wouldn’t have been looking would I? I didn’t know where Sir Vivian was, or was likely to be, every minute of the day,’ she pointed out, reasonably enough but with a sardonic twist to her tone.

  And if she was being just a little bolshie, well, surely she was entitled. She was, after all, just a little scared too. Just a little worried that she was becoming a prime suspect in a murder case!

  Once again, she wondered if she should just tell him about her father’s papers and get it over with. But if her enemy had them, what good would it do to tell the police? Even if they believed her, what could they do about it? Was it even illegal to steal someone else’s academic work? Somehow, she doubted it.

  Lisle narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re doing it again,’ he growled softly.

  Nesta looked at him quizzically. His hair was damp from the rain outside, and was drying into a slight wave against his scalp. It was such a rich, dark colour, the texture so thick and vibrant that she could almost imagine the feel of it under her fingertips. His nose, which had so obviously been broken at some point, lent his face a devil-may-care, he-man kind of look that, she felt instinctively, was not the whole picture. What secrets did that tough, grim exterior hide? What kind of music turned him on. Was he married? She paled. What a thought.

  Grimly, she tried to drag herself back to reality. To concentrate on the matter in hand.

  ‘Doing what?’ she asked huskily.

  ‘Turning over the cogs in your mind. If you know something about this case, I want to know what it is. If I have to drag you down to the station and keep you there, I can. And I will.’

  ‘You can only keep me 48 hours,’ Nesta guessed. ‘I know my rights,’ she added defiantly. Which was a lie. She’d never even contemplated being arrested before, but she could pretty quickly learn how she stood. ‘And if you do, I’ll squeal for my solicitor so fast, your ears will burn,’ she snapped.

  If she knew any solicitors, that is.

  Lisle’s lips twisted. ‘Even so. You’d still be mine for 48 hours. I’ve got a nice little interview room all picked out for you. A wooden chair. A wooden table. A single light. It’s real cosy.’ His voice was strangely dreamy, almost hypnotic. Instead of being afraid of what he was describing, a vivid picture of the room flashed into her mind. A steel door. A bare and barren room, with just themselves, cocooned inside, the outside world forbidden to enter. He with his jacket off, his top two shirt buttons undone, his cuffs rolled back, revealing strong and hirsute arms. His eyes burning into hers . . .

  She felt her nipples begin to tighten. She tried to drag in a deep breath.

  ‘This is . . . this is . . . terrible,’ she said at last.

  Lisle too, seemed to be having trouble breathing. ‘I agree,’ he said flatly, his voice utterly bleak. ‘So if you’ll just tell me why you broke in past a police seal, and what you’re doing in a murdered man’s office, the better it will be for both of us. Don’t you think?’

  Nesta wanted nothing more than to get out of that room. Get away from this man who seemed able, with the flick of his hazel eyes, to tie all her previously tightly-held principles and beliefs about herself into knots. ‘I . . . I was looking for a pair of earrings,’ she said, as surprised by her own subconscious choice of explanation as the policeman watching her.

  ‘Really?’ Lisle drawled. ‘Do tell. I’m sure I’m going to find this fasc
inating,’ he drawled, settling himself more comfortably, folding his arms ever more tightly against his chest.

  If he only knew what his body language was saying, Nesta mused giddily, he’d have a fit. But if his body was screaming out self-protection, his eyes were openly mocking.

  Nesta flushed. Damn him, did he have to disbelieve her so obviously?

  ‘It might not sound much to you,’ she began huffily, ‘but they belonged to my mother,’ she felt the lie running away with her. ‘She died last year. They were her mother’s before her, and they’re the only family heirloom I have,’ she finished miserably.

  She lifted her chin, fighting a war within herself. One half was ‘Appalled’ and was battling to get her to tell the truth. The opposing side was ‘Resolute’, and was equally demanding that she stick with her original mission. Which was justice for her father. That was what she was there for, after all. And she’d better keep sight of it, or this man would quickly tie her up in knots.

  Lisle was the man who was seeking Justice for Sir Vivian. Which was just as it should be. And it must still be for the best, surely, that she not interfere with that? Especially since she knew nothing that could help him with that.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry Sir Vivian’s dead. Really I am,’ she said softly, earnestly. ‘But I didn’t see any mugger hanging around St Bede’s that night. All right?’

  Lisle grimaced. The papers were still touting the random mugging angle. And for that, he and his men were grateful. It kept the publicity down to a manageable level. He knew Lord St John James was behind that, of course, but for once he didn’t care about the privileges of people who knew other people in high places.

  But he also knew it couldn’t last. Journalists had a way of worming out information. And once the news of the coroner’s report leaked, as it inevitably would, they wouldn’t only be making the front-page news in the local press, but the nationals would pick up on it too.

  But for now he had a breathing space.

  He looked at the woman in front of him. So beautiful and desirable. And so very dangerous.

  He shook his head and ran a harassed hand through his hair. There was no point in telling her that this case was a long way from being a simple mugging. The less she knew, the more he might be able to trip her up.