Such Sweet Poison

by Anne Mather

  SUCH SWEET

  POISON

  Anne Mather

  'I'm not asking you to go to bed with him. Just to make up a four for a meal.'

  But Catherine was wary. After the failure of her marriage she had pulled the pieces together and somehow carried on, despite her sense of guilt.

  Now she was content with her spinster life and not interested in finding a new man, whatever well-meaning friends thought. Yet there was something in Morgan Lynch which struck a responsive chord. Attractive, articulate, but clearly haunted by his unhappy past, Morgan was a man who challenged and intrigued her. But was Catherine wise to get involved?

  ‘I want to go to bed with you. I’d be a fool if I didn’t. But not to satisfy some belief I have that I’m irresistible to women! I’m just a. regular guy, who finds you very attractive. What’s so unusual about that, for God’s sake?’

  Catherine bent her head. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why me?’ She took an uneven breath. ‘Did-did Denzil put you up to it?’

  Morgan swore softly, and then, as if unable to prevent himself, he bent towards her, his mouth covering hers with uncontrolled intent. , CHAPTER ONE

  ‘LIVE a little, Cat. He’s a friend of Denzil’s and he’s gorgeous! A little-shy, perhaps, but what the hell? What have you got to lose?’

  Catherine Lambert stared at the computer screen in front of her with impatient eyes. ‘Since when have Denzil’s friends been gorgeous?’ she enquired, scowling at the display. ‘Damn, that’s not right.’

  ‘In this case, he is,’ Kay Sawyer assured her swiftly. ‘He’s an old army buddy of Denzil’s. At least, they met while they were both in uniform.

  Denzil didn’t actually see any active service.’

  ‘No.’ Catherine allowed a small smile to tilt her lips.

  ‘Well.’ Kay was defensive now. ‘Denzil’s in US Army intelligence, as you know. Someone has to do the boring jobs. We can’t all be war heroes, can we?’

  Catherine made no comment. Her opinion of Denzil Sawyer was not particularly flattering, but he was Kay’s husband, and because of that she was prepared to be tolerant.

  ‘Anyway,’ Kay persisted, ‘what do you say? You’d be doing me a real favour.’

  Catherine looked at the other woman. ‘Kay, how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t need you to organise my social life.’

  ‘lf I don’t, you’ll spend the next I don’t know how many years going home to that empty house, with only that damn moggy for company,' retorted Kay shortly. ‘You’re a young woman, Cat. Just because-well, just because you made one mistake, you don’t have to spend the rest of your life brooding over it.’

  ‘I’m not brooding over anything,’ Catherine protested, pushing her spectacles up her nose. But it was not precisely true. She always felt a sense of depression whenever she thought about Neil, but she had no intention of admitting that to her friend. ‘And Hector’s not a moggy,’ she added. ‘He’s a black Persian.'

  ‘All right.’ Kay abandoned that tack. ‘But how many men have you been out with in the last six months?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ A faint trace of colour invaded Catherine’s cheeks.

  ‘It matters to me.’ Kay sighed. ‘Cat-’

  ‘Look, I know you mean well.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘But honestly, I’d just as soon. not get involved.’

  ‘What’s involved?’ Kay cast her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Cat, this is a dinner invitation, that’s all. Nothing more; nothing less.’

  Catherine moistened her lips. It was obvious Kay was not going to be put off by prevarication, so she had to think of' something else. ‘Well, who is he?’ she asked. ‘What’s he doing in England? Is he married?’

  Kay glanced quickly round the large office, assuring herself that her conversation was not being observed by a higher authority, and then said confidingly, ‘His name’s Morgan Lynch, and he’s not married.’ She shrugged. ‘He was-once-but, like you, he’s divorced now, and, at present, he’s working in Denzil’s section at the Embassy.’

  ‘l see.’ Catherine bit down on her lower lip. ‘Well, I’m sure if you want to ask him to dinner he’s quite capable of finding his own date.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anybody,’ exclaimed Kay frustratedly. ‘He’s only been in London three weeks! Oh, why can’t you just do this one small thing for me?’

  Catherine pressed her lips together. ‘Does-he--know you’re trying to arrange a partner for him?’

  ‘Who? Denzil?’ Kay pretended to be obtuse, but when that only aroused a look of resignation she straightened away from Catherine’s desk. ‘It’s only a dinner party,’ she said, looking down at her friend with sulky eyes. ‘I’m not asking you to go to bed with him. Just to make up a four for a meal.'

  Catherine expelled her breath wearily. ‘I’d like to help you, Kay, but-’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well-as you say-it’s been months since I went out-with anyone. Don’t you think you ought to ask someone more-sociable?’

  Kay shook her head. ‘It’ll do you good.’

  ‘Will it?’ Catherine was not convinced. ‘I’m not exactly anyone’s idea of a blind date, am I?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Catherine lifted her shoulders. ‘I’m too tall, I’m too fat, and I wear glasses.'

  ‘You’re not fat!’

  Kay latched on to the only one of the three that was remotely arguable.

  Catherine was too tall. At five feet ten, she looked down on most of the men she met. Which was one of the reasons Neil had dumped her, Catherine reflected obliquely. He had never liked feeling at a disadvantage, physically or otherwise. `

  ‘Anyway, I think you should come,’ Kay persisted. ‘The trouble with you is, you’ve had no confidence in yourself since Neil . . .’ She broke off then, as if aware she was invading forbidden territory, and then continued heedlessly, ‘Well, it’s true. And it’s only because I care about you that I say these things. For heaven’s sake, it’s been almost two years! Don’t you think it’s about time you made a new start?’

  Catherine looped one silky strand of night-dark hair behind her ear. ‘By attending your dinner party?’ she enquired wryly, and Kay nodded.

  ‘Why not?’

  Catherine hesitated. ‘Whose idea was it to ask me?’ She couldn’t believe Denzil Sawyer was in favour. Not after the way she had put him down.

  ‘Denzil’s,’ declared Kay, astonishingly. ‘He said-well, he said you were exactly what-who.. .’ She gave a nervous smile. ‘Exactly who we needed.’

  Catherine sighed. She suspected there must be something seriously lacking in Morgan Lynch, if Denzil considered her a suitable companion. But she could hardly tell Kay that. Not without getting into a whole nest of sleeping vipers.

  The appearance of Kay’s boss, Andrew Hollingsworth, one of the senior actuaries, in the office doorway evidently looking for his secretary, made a decision critical. And, although Catherine was sure she was going to regret it later, she decided to accept. After all, Kay was right. Since Neil had walked out on their marriage, she had become virtually a recluse, going from house to office and back again with never a diversion in between.

  ‘All right,’ she said, in a low voice, flashing Andrew Hollingsworth a bright smile, and Kay, ever vigilant of any warning signal, gathered up a handful of papers from Catherine’s desk, as if that had been her intention all along.

  ‘Do you mean it?’ she hissed, as Catherine determinedly rescued the results of the analysis she had been working on, and stared at the now muddled sheets with some frustration.

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ she answered, aware that Kay’s boss was getting more impatient by the minute. ‘Go! I’ll talk to you later.’
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  ‘Great!’ Kay made a circle of her thumb and forefinger, and then, after pulling a face at Catherine, she turned disarmingly towards the door. ‘Oh, Mr Hollingsworth! Were you looking for me?’

  * * *

  Of course, Catherine regretted her impulsive decision, as she had known she would. The idea of going to a dinner party-any dinner party-and spending the evening making small talk filled her with dismay. She had never been particularly good at small talk, and, since Neil’ s defection, she had become increasingly antisocial. Add to that the fact that she knew she had put on weight since the divorce, and that she had nothing suitable to wear, and she had the perfect recipe for depression.

  Why ever had she allowed Kay to persuade her? she wondered that evening, as she let herself into her house in Orchard Road. Not even Hector’s enthusiastic welcome-rubbing himself about her legs, and emitting little sounds of satisfaction-could lighten her mood. Putting down her briefcase on the hall table, she kicked off her shoes before walking into the kitchen. After all, she thought, opening a cupboard and taking down a tin of tuna, all Hector wanted was feeding. He didn’t have any real affection for her. Cats were not like that. Particularly not aristocratic Persians, with more than their fair share of arrogance. He was basically an independent creature; a loner-like herself, she reflected cynically. Only she hadn’t been created that way. In her case, it had been a gradual progression.

  Hector buried his face in the bowl of fish, and Catherine remained where she was for a moment, gazing out of the window at the garden at the back of the house. Orchard Road was a terrace that had been converted by a developer into a row of modern townhouses, and, in consequence, the garden was very narrow. But it was also quite long, and when she and Neil had first bought the house she had spent hours digging up the weeds, and restoring its former beauty. Someone had once cared about it, and the lawn, and herbaceous border, and the little rockery at the bottom, had all been designed by the previous tenant. Of course now, with the first frosts of winter baring the trees and turning the grass a dirty yellow, it didn’t look much as it had looked then. And she didn’t have a lot of interest in it these days. Not when she was the only one who was there to appreciate it.

  She sometimes wondered whether she would have been wiser to sell this house and buy another. It did hold a lot of painful memories, but after the divorce she hadn’t wanted any more changes in her life. Besides, she liked the house, she liked the district, and it was convenient for her job in the City, which meant a lot. Neil hadn’t wanted it. He had been quite willing to allow her to buy his half of the house. He and his new wife had an apartment now, in Cavendish Mews. He had moved on from this Fulham backwater. Onwards and upwards, thought Catherine, trying not to feel bitter. But it wasn’t always easy.

  Leaving Hector to his supper, she walked back along the hall to the stairs.

  The houses were simply designed: two reception rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor; two bedrooms and a bathroom above. In actual. fact, the present kitchen and bathroom owed their existence to the developer. Until the alterations had been made, there had been only two rooms on each floor, with no bathroom, and the only loo at the bottom of the garden.

  Thanking whatever providence had decreed that the latter half of the present century should provide basic plumbing amenities for everyone, Catherine went upstairs, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the taps.

  The bath was another advantage of the house, she reflected, examining the parlour palm which she kept suspended in a wicker planter over the tub.

  The sunken bath was triangular in shape, and generously proportioned, allowing even Catherine to stretch her long legs.

  The main bedroom- her bedroom, she was getting used to calling it-was equally attractive. After Neil had left, she had had the functional units he had fitted pulled out, and in their place she had put William Morris wallpaper and walnut furniture. The dressing-table was swagged with a matching fabric, and the enormous quilt, on the newly acquired four-poster, was the same. It was a feminine room, she decided firmly, but not aggressively so. And at least she had a decent job, so that she could afford these little luxuries. If Neil had had his own way, she’d have been completely dependent on him.

  Which might have saved their marriage. she reflected now. If she had been prepared to be the little housewife and mother he had wanted, they might still have been together. Of course, the fact that she couldn’t have children would have still proved to be a problem. Neil wanted a family. He wanted a son whom he could teach to play golf, and a daughter, to show off to his friends. And when, to add to that, Catherine had obstinately refused to give up her career, the seeds had been sown that had eventually undermined their relationship.

  Sliding off her jacket, Catherine unzipped the skirt of her dark grey business suit, and stepped out of it. Then, unbuttoning her blouse, she took that off too, before peeling off her tights. She walked into the bathroom in her camisole and panties, bending to check the heat of the water, before slipping out of her underwear and stepping into the bath. She sank down into the deliciously warm depths with some satisfaction, resting her head back against the tiles and simply enjoying the relaxation.

  She did her best thinking in the bath, she thought, the almost embryonic envelopment of the water giving her an unnatural feeling of optimism. At times like these, she could almost convince herself she was happy. She had a comfortable home, a good job, and if she didn’t go out a lot that was her fault, not the fault of her friends. There were lots of people far worse off than she was, and she had to stop thinking about the mistakes of the past, and concentrate on the present.

  Not least Kay and Denzil’s dinner party, she reflected ruefully, reaching for the soap. She still wasn’t at all sure how she had been persuaded to accept. Except that Andrew Hollingsworth had been standing in the doorway, and it had seemed politic to bring a swift end to their conversation. But, for heaven’s sake, she wasn’t afraid of Andrew Hollingsworth. He had no authority over her. Nevertheless, Kay was his secretary, and it was common knowledge that he was becoming increasingly impatient with her propensity to stand gossiping when she had work to do. And if Hollingsworth .did fire Kay, she wouldn’t find it easy to get another such lucrative position. '

  And she didn’t want that on her conscience, too, Catherine decided, squeezing the soap between her hands and allowing it to plop down into the water. Even if it meant spending another evening in Denzil Sawyer’s company. Catherine had never understood what her friend had seen in the brash American diplomat. So far as she was concerned, he was crass, and ill-mannered, and unbearably arrogant when it came to women.

  Which was presumably why he and Neil had got along so well, she thought sardonically, searching for the soap again, and beginning to lather her arms. But even Neil would have had' a hard time coping with his resentment if he had known that Denzil had had no compunction about making a pass at Catherine, behind his friend’s-and his wife’s-back. And, what was more, Denzil had initially taken Catherine’s rebuttal as a come-on, never admitting the possibility that she might not find him attractive.

  Of course, when he’d eventually got the message, he had turned nasty. He had used every trick in the book to make Catherine look foolish, but in such a way that, when she complained to Neil, she had appeared prudish.

  Naturally, she hadn’t told Neil the whole truth. Or perhaps not so naturally, she considered now. But she had never really thought that Neil would believe Denzil might find her more attractive than his vivacious wife, and she hadn’t wanted to hurt Kay by breaking up their friendship.

  Since the divorce, however, she had had the perfect excuse for refusing their invitations, and that had suited her very well. She and Kay got together for lunch occasionally, but that was all. Catherine had had no intention of exposing herself to Denzil’s derision, and it was infuriating to realise she had now done exactly that. But why had he invited her? What was wrong with Morgan Lynch, that Denzil had decided she was the ideal counterp
art?

  The following evening, Catherine prepared for her dinner engagement without enthusiasm. She didn’t feel like going out-but then, she never did.

  When she got home from the office, she was quite content to bathe and change into baggy pants or a caftan, and spend the evening loafing round the house. She liked to read, and watch television, and sometimes she brought work home with her, and spent the evening at the computer in the spare bedroom, which, since Neil’s departure, ‘she had turned into an office.

  She knew she ought to go out occasionally. She was living a hermit-like existence, and, for a woman of barely thirty summers, it wasn’t healthy.

  But the trouble was that most of her friends were either married or living with a partner, and she refused to become one of those single women who was every hostess’s nightmare. Besides, she had decided she had had enough of men, and marriage. The truth was, she supposed, she still cared about Neil. Even though it was, as Kay had said, two years since their marriage had broken up, she still thought about him, and the love she had thought they shared.

  A maudlin thought, decided Catherine now, examining the contents of her wardrobe for something suitable to wear. But, even so, she hadn’t expected her first foray into sociability to include spending another evening with the Sawyers. If she had to go out, why couldn’t it have been to a restaurant, or to the theatre, with someone fairly anonymous, who didn’t know her history? Not this unavoidably intimate gathering, which was bound to spark old memories.

  The clothes in the wardrobe were uninspiring, and Catherine sighed. She supposed she should have taken the trouble to go out at lunchtime and buy herself something new and fashionable to wear, but she hadn’t felt interested enough to do so. Now, however, she viewed the at-least-two-years-old dresses with a rueful eye, wishing she had something different to wear, if only to avoid their recognition.

  The telephone rang as she was riffling through her underwear, and, glad of the diversion, Catherine picked up the phone beside the bed. ‘Yes?’ she said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the folds of the silk négligé she was wearing around her.