A Matter of Trust

by Maxine Barry

  ‘Oh yes, I remember Father mentioning him,’ Markie said. ‘I’d love to meet him. Who’s that with him?’

  Michael Porter beamed at her, and held out his arm, giving her little other choice but to slip her hand through the loop made by his elbow. ‘Then allow me,’ he said, without answering her question.

  Sir Vivian smiled faintly at the question just asked of him. ‘Well, I am feeling a little disturbed, actually,’ Sir Vivian admitted. He liked and trusted both Callum Fielding and Dr Ngabe, and ever since his invitation to the Dinner had arrived, he’d been dreading this night. Because he knew that Rosemary Naismith would be here, and he simply didn’t want to see her. Consequently, when he’d arrived, he’d quickly consumed a glass of wine for courage. Now he had the feeling that he may have had a second one as well. And now here he was with a third glass. The wine was strong, and he’d never had much of a head for alcohol. He was feeling just a bit light-headed.

  ‘You see, there’s someone here tonight who shouldn’t be here,’ he said, and then blinked. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. But the proof is there. I know it is.’

  Callum shot Julia Ngabe a quick look to see if she was following this, but she looked as nonplussed as he did.

  ‘Someone shouldn’t be here?’ she echoed, watching her colleague with concern. He seemed to be swaying a little on his feet.

  ‘Yes. Actually, they’ve no right to be here at all—in Oxford I mean. Let alone at a Dinner as important as this one.’ He leaned forward towards the small African woman and said quietly, ‘A cheat. A plagiarist.’

  Both of the other two instantly tensed. Such an accusation, coming from such a source, rocked them both.

  ‘What do you mean, Vivian?’ Callum asked sharply, and caught the genuinely distressed and horrified look in his old friend’s eyes.

  ‘I mean what I say,’ Vivian said angriliy, then, appalled at his sudden lack of discretion, clamped his lips shut. Good grief, he’d definitely had too much to drink! This was most certainly not the way he’d meant to broach the subject of what Nesta Aldernay had uncovered.

  ‘I have the evidence . . .’ he began and then jumped as they were smoothly interrupted.

  ‘Hello there, I thought you might like to meet the guest of hon . . .’ Professor Michael Porter chorused cheerfully, and Callum turned quickly to him.

  ‘Not now, Michael,’ he said curtly. What had Sir Vivian been about to say? That he had evidence?

  ‘I must excuse myself,’ Sir Vivian said in dismay. ‘Er . . . bathroom, you know. Had a bit too much to drink, I think,’ he said, flushing painfully.

  ‘Vivian!’ Callum said with sharp concern, his eyes narrowing now on the older man’s sudden pallor. ‘Let me take you home.’ His old friend obviously wanted to discuss a very serious matter, and the middle of a party was hardly the venue for it.

  ‘Oh no, I just need to splash some cold water on my face, that’s all,’ Sir Vivian demurred, pulling himself together with an effort. He turned and saw Markie, and his mouth all but fell open.

  Callum, seeing his stunned look, also turned around and saw Markie Kendall for the first time. The vision hit him like a punch, and he felt his lungs contract in surprise, dragging in a huge breath. Her image seemed to burn itself into his retina, and would remain with him for the rest of his life.

  What he saw was a tall woman dressed in silver-shot emerald green. She must have been nearly six feet tall, because he didn’t have to look far down at her, as he did most women. She had a mass of ebony black hair, held up and around her head in a mass of waves and curls, and shot through with sparkling diamond and emerald hair pins. Her blue eyes were lined with matching green, and her low cut gown, which clung to her curves, shimmered as she moved. A single emerald pendant gleamed at her throat, pointing the way down to the swell of her breasts, which displayed a cleavage that made him blink.

  She smiled, showing a flash of white teeth, and Callum blinked again.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mar . . .’

  Sir Vivian Dalrymple staggered a step backwards, and Callum’s hand shot out to steady him. He knew that he needed to do something fast. Sir Vivian would be hideously embarrassed to make a scene at such a high-profile event as this.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you a seat, old chap,’ he said, with a curt and dismissive glance at Porter, who was looking spitefully pleased. He knew that Porter was the biggest gossip in the university, and spiteful with it. And whilst he had nothing in particular against Sir Vivian, who was universally well-liked, Callum knew he wouldn’t hesitate to spread his bile given the chance.

  The beautiful woman he ignored completely.

  ‘Sir Vivian’s wife is very ill,’ Callum said, who knew about June’s condition. ‘She’s currently in the hospital, and I think the strain is getting to him.’ He said this with a glare at Porter, who had the grace to at least look a little shame-faced.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Vivian said weakly.

  ‘I noticed a bench just outside,’ Markie said firmly, handing her unwanted glass over to Professor Porter, who took it without thinking. ‘Come on, Sir Vivian, how would you like to escort a lady out into the moonlight?’ she asked with a ravishing smile, taking the old man’s arm firmly.

  Markie shot the giant a telling look, and seeing those cool blue eyes turn his way, Callum quickly took the old man’s other arm, and together the two of them walked Sir Vivian gently out into the fresh air.

  Callum, taking most of his weight, steered him to a garden bench near the entrance to Hall, where the rose gardens, still rife with late blooms, scented the air.

  ‘Thank you, Miss . . . er . . . ?’ Callum said briskly. He wanted to get Sir Vivian alone so that he could talk to him properly.

  ‘Markie,’ Markie Kendall said, not liking the dismissive note in his voice. The man sounded as if he positively wanted to get rid of her! And she was definitely not used to men barely noticing her!

  ‘Markie,’ Callum repeated, trying not to notice the way the moonlight was shining down on her, making the silver strands in her dress sparkle and shine. Or the way the fabric clung to her as it did so. Or the way the moonlight caught the jewels in the black velvet of her hair, and reflected the light into her eyes.

  ‘I’m sure your date is missing you,’ he prompted curtly. Trust Michael Porter to come to the Dinner with a stunning woman like this, he thought sourly. The man had no sense of decorum at all.

  ‘My date?’ Markie echoed with a puzzled frown and a dangerous edge to her voice. Anyone who knew her well could have warned Callum Fielding that when she went quiet and succinct in just that way, you needed to watch out.

  ‘Porter,’ Callum said dismissively.

  ‘Professor Porter is not my date,’ Markie said, still in that calm and reasonable voice. ‘I met him less than an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ Callum said, trying to pretend that he didn’t feel his pulse quicken in delight to hear it.

  ‘You should both of you get back to the party,’ Sir Vivian spoke up suddenly. ‘This night air is clearing my head wonderfully, and I don’t need baby sitters. Please, you young people go back and enjoy yourselves. Callum, I insist.’

  Callum, Markie thought. His name is Callum. It suits him, somehow. Unusual and haunting, but sort of macho at the same time. Then she frowned. Wait a minute. Dr Fielding, the winner of the Prize, wasn’t his first name Callum too? Could this be the same man?

  She opened her mouth to ask him, then closed it with a snap again as she saw that he was looking at her with an expression that hovered somewhere between grim and impatient.

  ‘I think you and I need to discuss something, Vivian, don’t you?’ Callum began, then swore very softly under his breath as they were interrupted yet again.

  This time by Porter.

  ‘Come on you lot, they’re calling us in to dinner.’

  ‘You go, I’ll stay out here and get some more air,’ Vivian said firmly. ‘I’ll come along in later.’

  Left with no choic
e but to comply, Callum strode frustratedly ahead, trying not to notice when Michael Porter reached out to take the stunning woman by her elbow. Or that he bent down to whisper something in her ear.

  Markie barely heard what it was, but she noticed with a shaft of savage satisfaction that the blond giant’s shoulders tightened when he saw the gesture. She made herself laugh provocatively. Good. So he wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended.

  With a toss of her beautiful head, Markie let the university Casanova walk her back into St Bede’s under the nose of Callum Fielding.

  * * *

  Nesta walked into her dark and deserted room, and fumbled for the light switch. Walking to the tiny sink, she filled the kettle and made some tea, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

  She hadn’t been sleeping well lately, but something told her that tonight she’d sleep like a log. Perhaps because it had been such a therapeutic evening.

  Her father’s friends had once again taken her out, this time also inviting three others over for dinner who’d known Brian Aldernay, and all of them had talked about him with both fondness and respect. Unfortunately, none of them had known enough about his work to become suspicious when that other, plagiarised work had been published. But if they had been, she was convinced they would have acted.

  She was sure now that everyone who mattered would heartily endorse her pursuit of the truth. And that was the reassurance she’d subconsciously been seeking ever since coming to this city. She was not being vindictive, nor was she being unduly harsh—the two things that had most worried her, when she’d set out to see Sir Vivian. This was not about a vendetta. This was about justice.

  She took her mug of tea and climbed onto the bed, finding that it sagged in the middle and rolled her determinedly into the centre. Giggling and wriggling into a more comfortable position on the wayward mattress, she leaned back against the headboard with a sigh. And found herself, unexpectedly, thinking of Rob.

  Rob Gingridge, a music graduate from her year at Durham. The tall, golden-haired, golden boy. They’d met in their first year at college, and had gone steady ever since. All her friends had envied her, for everyone agreed that Rob was going to be the next Simon Rattle. His good looks, personality and drive had made him stand out from the common herd, and his contacts in the media (his father worked for the BBC) would no doubt stand him in good stead for the future.

  Too bad, really, Nesta mused now, with a wry twist of her lips. With so much going for him, she had always suspected that the time would come when he would cheat on her.

  For Nesta had no illusions about men. Some, a very rare few, might have the ability to be faithful to one woman for the rest of his life, of that she was sure. But she’d never truly believed that Rob was one of them. Not even at the beginning, when everything was all rose-tinted glasses and champagne. Even then, there’d been tiny warning bells in the back of her mind every time she caught him eyeing up a curvaceous figure.

  Nevertheless, when it had been merely a suspicion on her part, she’d been able to live with it. She might, after all, be doing him an injustice, and she’d been determined never to let jealousy, that most destructive of emotions, hold sway over her.

  But actually catching him in bed with a beautiful brunette had been quite another matter. The funny thing was, that although it had hurt at the time, now, barely three months later, she could look back on it and, not laugh, exactly, but at least smile ruefully. It had all been so predictable. Ever so slightly tawdry. And so deeply pathetic.

  Of course, Rob had tried to woo her back. Had spent, in fact, nearly a whole month on the attempt. Flowers, entreaties, rash promises. He’d done the lot. Nesta, though, had simply been too sick at heart to give him a second chance. More because of herself, and her cowardly actions, than because of Rob’s behaviour. If she’d really mistrusted him so much, why hadn’t she ended their relationship before? It was a question that still plagued her to this day. Oh, she’d rationalised it all very well at the time, of course. She wasn’t a psychology graduate for nothing!

  She’d very rationally and logically reminded herself that she had no proof that Rob had been cheating on her, so what could she have done? Hire a private investigator to follow him? Drill her friends for any gossip about him? Drill his friends? Kept on demanding reassurances from him, that she was the only one in his life, thus driving him further and further away?

  What would that have said about her state of mind then?

  Nesta sighed and sipped her tea.

  Instead she’d done nothing, except wait for the other shoe to drop. And was that any better?

  ‘Oh damn,’ Nesta said softly. Why didn’t she just admit it? For it to have hurt her so relatively little, it had to mean that Rob had never meant as much to her as she’d assumed. Or tried to make out? Ruthlessly examining her own psyche, Nesta forced herself to face some very hard facts.

  True, Rob had been her first lover. He’d been surprised (and full of masculine-like smugness) to find her, at eighteen, still untouched. No doubt he’d gone out of his way to make their time together something special. And at first, it had been wonderful. But now, looking back, Nesta was able to acknowledge to herself that she’d probably, like a lot of teenagers, been more in love with the idea of being in love. She’d been so pleased with herself, and her supposed newly found maturity, in taking a lover at last. She’d been so eager to make the leap from childhood to independence that she hadn’t really ever stopped to ask herself, exactly, what she wanted from life.

  Well, from now on, trust was going to be further up on her personal list of ‘must haves’ than ever before. If the debacle of her affair with Rob had taught her one thing, it had taught her that any relationship without trust wasn’t worth a damn.

  Nesta’s lips twisted into a rather bittersweet smile. Well, they say you lived and learned.

  She placed her now empty mug on the rickety bedside table and slipped off her shoes. Within minutes she was undressed and back in bed, shivering slightly beneath the covers. Her mind, however, kept replaying the events of the night, and a small, glad smile curved her lips.

  It had done her good to do something positive for a change.

  * * *

  Markie rose to her feet and smiled around at the table of expectant faces turned her way.

  The evening was now well advanced, and a delicious dinner had been consumed, and the Principal of the college had made his speech. Now it was her moment in the spotlight.

  She was seated at Lord St John’s right, with a lady Professor of Physiological Sciences on her left, and Callum Fielding directly opposite her. To his right was Dr Ngabe, and to his left, Felicity Ollenback, a rather loud but pleasant American woman who’d tried to explain something to her about rats and mazes.

  All night long, she’d been very careful to talk to everyone but Callum Fielding. She’d flirted outrageously with the Principal, who’d told her to call him Sin Jun, just like everyone else did, and both of them had thoroughly enjoyed the game. She’d sparkled for the men in her immediate range, and been friendly with the women.

  To the blond giant, however, she’d said barely a word, something that the others had probably noticed, but been too polite to mention.

  And Callum was now seething.

  It hadn’t taken him long to realise that ‘Markie’ was actually the Kendall family member here to present the Prize, and he was feeling all kinds of a fool for mistaking her for Porter’s latest feminine accessory. Even worse, Sir Vivian had not reappeared to take his place at the Dinner, and he suspected the old man had gone home early, which meant he wouldn’t be able to talk to him about what was obviously troubling him until tomorrow.

  And for the last hour, he’d had to endure the cold shoulder treatment from the high-and-mighty Miss Kendall, who couldn’t make her displeasure more obvious. Much to Michael Porter’s glee.

  And it didn’t help that Callum couldn’t help but feel that he deserved it. He’d been desperate to be left alone with Sir Vivian so
that he could question him more closely, and he was uncomfortably aware that he must have made that plain. For all that the raven-haired beauty had stunned him, he’d wanted her to go. And it was obvious that a woman as rich, as well-connected and beautiful as Markie Kendall, wasn’t used to being dismissed so cavalierly.

  Now as she rose to her feet, and smiled around at them, he tried to pretend that he was immune to the beauty of that smile and the caress of those stunning blue eyes.

  He reached for a glass of wine, which he’d barely touched all evening, and took a sip. What with the shock Sir Vivian had given him, and then the consternation that the arrival of Markie Kendall had stirred in him, he was barely aware that the Prize was about to be awarded. Something that had once been so exciting, now barely seemed to matter.

  If he could just get her alone for a moment, and explain and apologise, he’d feel a whole lot better.

  The Lalique crystal bowl, a traditional gift given with the Prize, sparkled in her hands as Markie lifted it into the air. As she did so, she noticed a blonde woman in the sea of tables in the main body of the room lean forward avidly.

  Rosemary Naismith eyed the crystal bowl with a pang of envy. It was not the intrinsic value of the thing that mattered, of course, although it was beautiful and expensive, and would adorn any room. It was what it represented.

  What she wouldn’t have given to be in line to be awarded it!

  ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ Markie said, with a somewhat wry smile, ‘to award the Kendall Prize to Dr Callum Fielding.’

  She was watching him closely, of course. All night long she’d been punishing him for his boorish behaviour, and now she was intrigued to see how he reacted.

  Callum heard her say his name, and he slowly put down the glass of wine in his hand. His eyes rose to meet hers—mocking blue, meeting shuttered, cautious sea-green.

  Again his breath caught. She was so damned beautiful! He found his thought processes stalling, as if he’d just run into quicksand. For a man who’d always delighted in his quick, astute brain, feeling like a lovesick calf made him feel angry.