by Anne Mather
But that begged the question of what might happen if— when—his memory returned. It followed, surely, that if he regained all his faculties, he would regain his previous character, also. She couldn't bear the thought of that happening. She had begun to care for the man he'd become.
Nevertheless, if she was honest, she would have to admit that Nathan had changed again. Not substantially, perhaps, but there was no doubt that since he'd made love to her, he had become far more silent and withdrawn.
She'd tried to make excuses for it, but since Sunday night, she'd begun to have doubts about his feelings for her. On Sunday morning, she had been so bemused by what had happened, she hadn't considered that he might not feel the same way about her, but subsequent events had forced her to take another look at his behaviour.
There was no doubt that she could arouse him. She'd known that right from the first time she went to see him in the hospital. He'd made no secret of his attraction for her, and it had been that, as much as anything, that had erased her fears towards him.
But since Sunday—or perhaps even Saturday night—their relationship had subtly altered. Now she was in the position of wanting his attention, while he…
She moistened her lips. What did he want? The trouble was, she didn't really know. She'd thought he wanted her, but after making love to her on Saturday night, he had allowed her to make all the running.
Such running as there'd been, she amended wryly. After the way he'd behaved on Sunday night after their lovemaking in the shower, she hadn't had the confidence or the courage to approach him again, and far from sharing her bed, he'd slept in his own bedroom for the past two nights.
It might have been easier if she could have consoled herself with the thought that it was what Nathan—the old Na-than—would have done. It wasn't. The Nathan she had known before the accident would have ravaged her body whenever he chose to do so. And he'd never really known her. He'd touched her body, but not her soul.
And that was the real reason she'd come back to work. She couldn't bear to stay in the flat with him. If he didn't say something soon, she was very much afraid she'd dissolve into tears.
She sighed, and deciding she couldn't remain closeted in the storeroom all day, she washed up the coffee cups and left them on the drainer to dry. Then, squaring her shoulders, she went out into the sales area, exchanging a tentative smile with her friend.
"Will you be leaving at lunchtime as usual?" asked Janie, adjusting the pointers on a rather beautiful grandmother clock that was inclined to lose several minutes every day, and Caitlin drew a shaky breath. She'd forgotten it was Tuesday. She only worked half days on Tuesdays. It wouldn't do to arouse Janie's suspicions again by saying no.
"If that's all right," she said, "although as I've been off so much lately—"
"Think nothing of it." Janie was offhand. "I was surprised you stayed all day yesterday. Weren't you worried about leaving him alone?"
Caitlin acknowledged the reproof. "He's not a child, Janie."
"Isn't he?" Janie didn't sound convinced. "Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a little free time myself this morning. I want to go to the bank. Will you be all right on your own?"
"Of course." Caitlin tried not to sound defensive. "And—well, I'm sorry if you think I'm making a muddle of my life. But it is my life, and I have to live it the way I see fit. It may not work out. It probably won't. But I have to give it a chance, don't you see?"
"I see that you don't want to face the realities of the situation," replied Janie flatly. "But, as you say, it's nothing to do with me. I just hope you won't live to regret it."
"So do I."
Caitlin forced a smile, but after Janie had left, she admitted how unlikely it was. She was probably just tilting at windmills, with something less than providence on her side.
The morning passed fairly quickly, and although Caitlin was busy, she still found plenty of time to think. Too much time, she reflected unhappily. And her thoughts didn't soothe her anxieties at all.
Had she instigated everything that had happened?
That was her greatest fear.
She knew she'd instigated what had happened on Sunday evening when they got back to the flat, but what about Saturday night, as well?
After all, she had known the dangers of confronting him in the bedroom. She'd known there was every chance he might get the wrong signal from her actions, and yet she'd stayed there long after any sane individual would have gone to bed.
She had been angry, of course. That was her only real defence. She'd been furious that Lisa Abbott should have felt confident enough to ring him at Fairings, and desperate to expunge some of that rage and frustration before trying to sleep.
Or was that just an excuse?
In any event, his weakness had neutralised her anger.
She supposed the real truth was, she'd been jealous. Bund jealous, or she'd never have had the nerve to go to his room. But did that mean she was to blame for everything that had happened? And if not, why was Nathan so distant now?
A customer came into the shop to price a pair of Meissen vases Janie had set on a Queen Anne writing desk in the window, and Caitlin took the opportunity to escape her fears with real enthusiasm. So much so, that the customer, an elderly gentleman, was persuaded the vases were a bargain, and she was putting his cheque away in the drawer when her friend returned.
Janie's attitude didn't appear to have changed in her absence, and afraid she was about to launch another attack on Nathan, Caitlin hurried into speech. "I've sold those two vases," she said. "The Meissen ones that represented autumn and winter." She smiled rather triumphantly. The vases had been around for some considerable time.
"Great." Janie's tone was hardly enthusiastic, and Caitlin stifled a sigh.
"Isn't it?" she said, refusing to be daunted. "I don't know how you've managed to keep going without me."
"Nor do I," averred Janie wryly, but she didn't return her smile. Then, "What did you say Nathan was doing this morning? Do you trust him on his own?"
"Of course."
Caitlin couldn't sustain her good humour any longer, and turning away, she went into the back room to plug in the electric kettle. It was nearly eleven, she saw ruefully. Another hour and a half to go. If Janie continued to criticise her behaviour, she might have to reconsider her involvement in the partnership.
"So where is he right now?" Janie inquired from the open doorway, and Caitlin didn't pretend not to understand whom she meant.
"At home. I suppose," she said. "Mrs Spriggs was coming this morning. As far as I know, he had no plans to go out."
"So how come I've just seen him in Regent Street?" asked the other woman tautly, and Caitlin turned to her, anxiety filling her face.
"Nathan?" she breathed, not wanting to believe it. And at Janie's nod, "Was he—running? I told you, he's become very health conscious all of a sudden."
"He wasn't running." Janie's tone was flat. "He was coming out of a travel agent's, actually. I walked right past him, and he cut me dead."
Caitlin moistened her lips. "Well, that's not surprising, is it?" she exclaimed, feeling some small measure of relief. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you, but he really doesn't remember a thing. Certainly not people he used to associate with. Even Daddy and Marshall have accepted that."
Janie's lips drew in. "So you say." It was obvious she was determined to remain sceptical. "But why do you think he's been visiting a travel agent? If what you say is true, where would he be planning to go?"
Caitlin turned back to the kettle. "I don't suppose he's planning to go anywhere," she said firmly. "Can't you try and be a little charitable, Janie? He feels—lost—without identity. Isn't it possible he was just looking at the travel brochures? Maybe he was hoping they would strike a chord."
"You really believe him, don't you?"
"Yes, I do." Caitlin spooned coffee into two mugs and added the boiling water. "For goodness' sake, Janie, he's not lying. Do you think
I wouldn't know if he was?"
Janie shrugged and came forward to take her cup. "I don't know," she admitted ruefully. "You say Marshall and your father are convinced?"
"Yes." Though whether that was strictly true, Caitlin didn't choose to hazard. She had the feeling her father's second in command still had his doubts. But whether they were the simple ones about Nathan's condition, or the more troublesome variety concerning his identity, Caitlin preferred not to speculate. Yet the fact remained, Nathan had never been so friendly towards Marshall in the past.
But that exhumed all her own doubts yet again, and she couldn't allow that. Certainly not here, with Janie watching her like a hawk for any sign of weakness. And she still had to cope with what her friend had told her. What had Nathan been doing in the travel agency? Although she might appear untroubled by Janie's revelations, deep inside she could feel that increasingly familiar fear.
"Oh, well…"
At last, Janie seemed prepared to leave it, but her acquiescence had the opposite effect on Caitlin. Instead of relief, a tight feeling of tension was gripping her temples, and if it hadn't been for the risk of rekindling the other woman's suspicions, she would have begged the rest of the morning off and gone home.
But, having achieved her objective, she had no intention of rescinding it. So instead, when Janie wasn't looking, she popped a couple of aspirin into her mouth. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Nathan's actions, she told herself. As soon as she got back to the flat, she'd ask him what it was.
20
Marshall had never been to Caitlin's flat before.
He had never been given the opportunity and, even now, he was unsure how she would react to his appearance. Just because Nathan himself had invited him was no reason to expect Caitlin to welcome him with open arms. If the previous weekend was anything to go by, she still resented him bitterly for usurping her husband's position.
But what could he have said?
When Nathan had arrived in reception that afternoon, he had been hard-pressed to remember his own instructions. On no account was the other man to suspect that anything was amiss, Matthew had warned him. Until Nathan recovered his memory, they were to behave as if it was an unhappy accident, and nothing more. Which meant Marshall had had to spend the rest of the day pretending he had nothing to hide, discovering that, for all his amnesia, Nathan was suddenly disconcertingly astute.
Even so, this invitation to accompany him home for supper had caught Marshall unprepared. For the past two years, he had become accustomed to Nathan's snide comments, his sly innuendoes, his unveiled antagonism. In his place, Marshall had suspected he might possibly have felt the same—though he knew he wouldn't have attempted to defraud the company. He had far too many scruples for that.
Nevertheless, his position now was no more tenable. Either he'd accepted Nathan's invitation or he'd run the risk of his suspecting there was something going on. It had been an uneasy dilemma, and in the end, he'd taken the coward's way out.
He cast his eyes sideways, towards the man occupying the other half of the cab seat. If he didn't know better, he'd have said that Nathan was apprehensive, too. Was he having second thoughts about his invitation?
Marshall's lips tightened. It wasn't as if he'd wanted to accept the position Matthew Webster offered him, he reflected ruefully. After the way the old man had treated him and his mother in the past, his initial impulse had been to tell Matthew what he could do with his job. After all, he was already working for another company; he was secure, and he no longer needed assistance from anyone. Least of all from Matthew Webster, who had treated him so dismissively before.
It was his mother who had persuaded him otherwise. He was entitled, she said. Whatever Matthew had done previously, he was ready to make amends now, and Marshall should take advantage of it. She didn't ask him to be grateful; she didn't ask anything of him but that he should take this chance to assume his rightful place. Matthew Webster was his father; he couldn't afford to have scruples now.
And, despite his fears, he couldn't honestly say he had regretted the move. For all his assumed hostility towards the man who had got his mother pregnant and then refused to divorce his wife and marry her, he had eventually come to recognise the difficulties Matthew had faced. Caitlin had still been so young at that time, and for all his infidelity, he still loved his wife. Besides, Daisy Webster could not have managed without him, whereas Mary O'Brien had always been a survivor.
Of course, Matthew had supported them financially, and if Marshall's mother had chosen to put the money he'd given her into a bank and continued to work as a shop assistant, that was hardly his fault. The cash had mounted up, saved for the day when her son would go to college. She was determined he would have a better chance in life than she'd had. She hadn't really trusted Matthew to continue to pay his dues.
The fact that he had had proved irrelevant.
Marshall remembered he had been eighteen when his mother had told him who his father was. Until then, she'd let him believe he'd been the result of some casual alliance with a man who'd seduced her, and then refused to make an honest woman of her. His lips twisted now at the old-fashioned sentiment. As if a wedding ring proved a person's integrity. Nathan was married, and he showed no integrity at all.
At least, he hadn't…
Finding his previous thoughts less disturbing, Marshall returned to the past, recalling with some loathing his own behaviour when he'd discovered who his father was. He remembered he'd actually accused his mother of keeping Matthew's identity from him; of protecting her secret because he could do so much more for his son than she could.
He cringed now at the thought of that first interview with his father. Far from welcoming his son, Matthew had been polite, but nothing else. He'd assumed Marshall was looking for a hand-out, and when he explained that all he really wanted was a job, he'd told him to go away and finish his education.
He'd never gone back. Even though he'd used his father's money to go to university and graduated with a double first in maths and economics, he'd never approached Matthew Webster again. So far as he was concerned, he didn't have a father. And he'd done his best to give his mother a better life.
Then the old man had sent for him—a sick old man now, much different from the arrogant man who had turned him away all those years ago. And with his mother's encouragement, he'd accepted the job he'd offered him. He knew she felt a vicarious kind of satisfaction that he was working for his father at last. But he still had no illusions that one day he would step into his father's shoes. At no time had Matthew promised him that.
"Do you live in town?"
Nathan was speaking to him, and abandoning his introspection, Marshall nodded his head. "I—live in Fulham," he admitted, glancing out the window of the cab and guessing they were only a few minutes from their destination. Then, "Are you sure your wife won't mind me turning up like this, uninvited? I mean, you could have rung and warned her before we left."
"I could," agreed Nathan with a wry smile, and Marshall wondered why he had never noticed the humour in the other man's face before. He had always found Nathan completely humourless, and it was another point of contradiction to be stored away.
He sighed. In the past two years he had, reluctantly, come to respect his father's dedication to the business, and he shared Matthew's bitterness at Nathan's betrayal. Only the accident had saved him from certain prosecution. For the first time since she'd married Nathan, Matthew wasn't taking Caitlin's feelings into account.
But if there was one thing Matthew loved—more than either of his two children, Marshall acknowledged with some regret—it was the company and the integrity on which it was founded. Nathan had jeopardised that, therefore Nathan must be punished. But what could you do with a man who didn't remember who he was?
"How well do you know—my wife?" Nathan asked suddenly, and Marshall was once again compelled to look the other man's way.
"Not—well," he conceded, acknowledging the und
erstatement. If it was up to Caitlin, he probably wouldn't have known her at all.
"You're not married?"
Marshall hesitated. He was supposed to be the one asking the questions, he thought ruefully, but it was easier to answer than demur. "No," he agreed. "I—share a house with my mother. It's convenient for both of us, and she'd miss me if I moved away."
"I'm sure."
Once again, Nathan absorbed what he had told him, and Marshall wondered what he was thinking now that the journey was almost over. He still didn't really know why Nathan had come to the office. According to Matthew, he had an appointment with a neurologist later in the week, and it would seem unwise to do anything without his approval.
Nevertheless, it was becoming harder and harder to dislike Nathan. He'd discovered that during the weekend at Fairings, and his opinion hadn't changed today. The man who had been shown into his office that afternoon had seemed almost diffident—and he'd demonstrated an unnerving ability to learn.
The cab braked, and glancing through the window again, Marshall saw the block of luxury flats towering above them. Wellsley Square was also the home of several media stars, and at least one Member of Parliament. In consequence, the security was efficient, but not noticeably overt.
Nathan paid the cab driver, and then the two men walked into the glass-walled foyer. Obviously, Nathan was known here, and no one questioned their progress as they walked towards the lifts. Then, in no time at all, they were at the door of the flat, and before Nathan could insert his key in the lock, it opened.
To say Caitlin looked surprised to see Marshall would have been an understatement. Shocked, perhaps; anxious, certainly. Her expression mirrored a wealth of emotion as she forced her gaze back to her husband's face.
"You're late," she said, her words clipped, her tone verging on the accusatory. "Where the—where have you been?"
