A Matter of Trust

by Maxine Barry

  As if aware of the sudden heat and tension in the room, Lisle shrugged off his raincoat. Underneath, she saw that he’d long since discarded his tie, and the shirt was even more disreputable than she’d thought. A coffee stain trailed a biege path down the right hand side of his chest, and had gone unnoticed. Sartorial elegance, she could see, didn’t hold a high place on his list of priorities.

  ‘Now. According to them, you didn’t leave Wolvercote until nearly 1.00 o’clock in the morning.’ Which meant that the old man had been killed long before, and she was now, at last, truly and fully off the suspect list.

  ‘Really?’ Nesta said vaguely. ‘I didn’t think it was as late as that.’

  ‘Well it was!’ Lisle snapped, furious. ‘And if you’d paid more attention, I would have known that you were in the free and clear long before now!’ he almost shouted, goaded to the point of total exasperation.

  Nesta dragged her eyes away from the coffee stain, and the outline of his hard male nipple beneath it, and lifted her eyes to his. There was a puzzled look in them. ‘I’d have thought you wouldn’t be this angry about it,’ she said quietly. ‘Wasn’t I a prime suspect? Aren’t you happy to eliminate one more dead end?’

  ‘Damn you!’ Lisle snarled. ‘Of course I’m happy about it! It gives you an alibi for Sir Vivian’s murder.’

  Sir Vivian had definitely left the party at just before 12.30. Since he had gone not more than a few steps from the door, he must have been killed almost immediately.

  He ran a hand through his hair, a man at the end of his tether, and watched her eyes suddenly widen. The green glow flared into an emerald blaze.

  ‘You were scared,’ she whispered with sudden understanding. Hardly able to believe what her singing heart was screaming at her, she mumbled joyfully, ‘You didn’t want it to be me.’

  Lisle stared at her helplessly. ‘Now where did you get that . . . stupid . . . idea?’ he asked, but all the strength had left his voice now.

  Nesta slowly stood up. ‘Are you married?’ she asked quietly, walking towards him.

  Lisle swallowed hard. ‘I was. Divorced.’

  Nesta kicked off her shoes. ‘Do you have any children?’

  Wordlessly, Lisle shook his head.

  Nesta reached down and grabbed the bottom of her hem. In one fluid movement she lifted the dress over her head. She was wearing only a brief pair of pale pink panties underneath.

  Lisle felt the sweat pop out on the back of his neck. Still, she was walking towards him, stalking him like a beautiful, sleek cheetah. His eyes feasted on the length of her body. Her slim flanks, the tiny waist, the rounded breasts with their cherry-pink tips.

  ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’ Nesta asked, her voice husky.

  ‘Were you and Sir Vivian lovers?’ he croaked, suddenly needing to have it confirmed, in her own words.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who killed him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything at all that could cast a light on his murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘All right?’ she echoed huskily. ‘Are you sure? Is it all better now?’

  Lisle nodded. She was no longer a suspect. She had an alibi. Independent inquiries had failed to connect Nesta Aldernay in any way with the victim, save for that one brief interview. He could now honourably touch her. Kiss her. Make love to her.

  He groaned, and closed his eyes briefly. It was what he’d always wanted to do, from the very first moment. He just hadn’t been able to admit it.

  Nesta felt the sound rumble across the few inches separating them. The sound waves seemed to penetrate her abdomen, vibrating her insides, churning her into a molten mass of desire.

  She reached for him blindly, pressing her palm against that coffee stain. Beneath the rumpled material, she felt his flesh leap at her touch. His eyes shot open.

  ‘Nesta,’ he said shakily.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked faintly, bending down to kiss the bare piece of skin, revealed at his throat as she undid the top two buttons of his shirt.

  He swallowed hard at the touch of her tongue pressing against the pulse that was pumping there.

  ‘I’m still not in the mood for games,’ he warned her grimly.

  ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘You’re so much younger than I am,’ he growled, half pushing her away. They had to restore some sanity. Quickly, before it was too late.

  She immediately pushed back against him. ‘Not that much younger,’ she pointed out. Then, seeing the agony of uncertainty in his eyes, and understanding it at once, not through clever brain-power, but simple, straight forward feminine instinct, she smiled gently. And reassured him. ‘I want a man, Lisle,’ she said softly, listening to herself with wonderment. ‘I want a man that I can marry. A man that I can have children with. A man who can support me for a little while, just until I’m a fully qualified psychologist.’ Always before, that thought had been unthinkable. She was a modern woman. Modern women didn’t need bread winning males. Except, now, she knew that she could depend on him. And neither of them would be diminished. She smiled, gathering in confidence as he continued to look at her, his hazel eyes flooding with hope with every word she said. ‘I want a man who won’t be in competition with me,’ she carried on lovingly. ‘A man who can give me a home, a start in life, a commitment.’

  As she spoke, she knew how much she meant it all. Before, she’d only been playing with love. Playing at life. Suddenly, now, in this room, she realised that life wasn’t a game at all. And her mother’s house in Durham was just that. A house. What she needed, what she wanted, was a home.

  A few days in this bedsit had taught her that!

  And she wanted her children to have a mature and responsible father. She wanted a real man. A man who’d already forged his place in life. A man who had already achieved most of his goals and now needed other goals, goals that she could help him set.

  ‘Oh Lisle,’ she said. ‘I want so much from you. Does it scare you?’

  Lisle found himself looking into eyes that were all too human. Did it? Perhaps—a little. After all, he’d been burned once. This time, he had to get it right. Because Nesta Aldernay, he felt,—no, he knew—had the power to rip him apart.

  ‘I’m not an academic,’ he said huskily.

  ‘Is that a crime?’

  He bent and kissed her hard. ‘I’m a hardworking copper. I’ve worked long and nasty hours. I’ll have to work many more.’

  ‘Is that supposed to scare me?’

  ‘It’s not easy. Being a copper’s wife.’

  Nesta became suddenly still. ‘Are you asking me to marry you?’

  For a second Lisle stared at her. Was he? Good grief, was he?

  ‘I think so,’ he said at last. ‘But . . .’

  Quickly she put a finger to his lips. ‘Let’s have a long engagement,’ she said softly. ‘That way, it’ll give us time. Time to think. To get to know each other. It’ll be . . .’ Safer? Her lips twisted. This was really happening, she thought. Not a dream, although the last few minutes had had a dreamlike quality.

  Then he reached for her, and all sense of fantasy faded. Suddenly they were on fire.

  Her hands dragged his shirt apart, and her lips quickly conquered the territory it gave up. She kissed the ridges of his ribs and nibbled and pulled on the two dark turgid nipples as his own fingers plunged into the back of her panties.

  She felt his palms cup her buttocks and felt her knees weaken and give way. He went down with her, and they collapsed onto the floor. The floorboards were cold to her back, and she made a little mewl of protest.

  Without pausing, and without taking his lips off hers, Lisle lifted her, carrying her to the rickety bed, and laying her down in the centre. His hands pulled off her panties, and for a second he moved away from her. But only so that he could strip himself naked.

  Nesta just had time to catch a brief glimpse of strong legs, with a l
ong jagged scar in one thigh. An old knife wound?

  And then he was with her on the bed.

  She felt the dark soft hairs of his chest move across her sensitive breasts, and gasped. His knees nudged her own apart with an urgency that was not gentle, but not brutal either.

  She felt herself being opened to him, drew in a ragged breath, and then he plunged into her. She bucked, gasped, and then groaned as the long, hot, hard length of him seemed to overwhelm her.

  He made love to her as if he meant it, as if it had been a long time for him. As it had. He made love to her as if he’d lost his mind, as if his life depended on it. Which it did. And when it was over, when they lay together, satiated, stunned, throbbing, a little appalled, a little triumphant, Nesta began to cry.

  He held her, saying nothing, just staring bleakly at the ceiling.

  He knew this had been a mistake. Already she was regretting it . . . As she sobbed in his arms, he began to feel guilty. He should have known better. She was little more than a kid.

  Finally, her tears spent, Nesta gave a little frown of puzzlement, and wondered what she’d cried for. And then she knew that it didn’t have any dire, psychological meaning. She’d cried just because she’d wanted to.

  Life was good. She’d grown up, truly grown up, in just a matter of minutes. And she liked adulthood.

  It was getting dark outside now. For a long while, Lisle held her in his arms and stared at the ceiling. He had to do the right thing. It would kill him to let her go. He was going to pay for those wonderful, agonising, ecstatic moments of bliss. Perhaps he could just pretend that she was really his for a few minutes longer . . .

  Finally, though, he spoke.

  ‘I won’t hold you to it, you know,’ he said, his voice determined and as bleak as the moors in January. ‘What we talked about before. About marriage. We were both acting out of character. We let ourselves get caught up in the moment. You can just get up and walk away and I’ll understand.’ He fumbled for the words, but could only come up with trite clichés. ‘You have a glittering life ahead of you. You’re young and beautiful and you don’t even have to explain . . .’

  ‘Lisle, shut up,’ Nesta said softly.

  She turned and snuggled into his armpit. She kissed his salty flesh and sighed in contentment. ‘What do you think about a Spring wedding?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Markie slowly opened her eyes, aware at once that something was different. She felt warm, and safe and comfortable. And under her ear there was a strange, wonderful drum beat. She blinked, then slowly raised her head, and stared down at an expanse of broad, muscular and very male chest.

  Memory came flooding back. Slowly, cautiously, she began to lever herself away from Callum Fielding. How had she come to be snuggled up against him like this? Hadn’t they just spent the night lying rigidly apart?

  But somewhere in the cold dark early hours, she had snuggled over to his side of the bed, and now she gingerly lifted his arm from her shoulder. He turned on the mattress, muttering sleepily, and his arm tightened instinctively around her.

  Markie froze as she felt her own heart beat drum louder. With a small sigh of satisfied resignation, she let her face back down to press against his naked skin, and contemplated his nipple.

  Idly, she let her fingertip touch it in the most feather-light of caresses.

  Callum Fielding sighed deeply in his sleep, and underneath her fingertip, the button of his flesh began to harden.

  Markie grinned in satisfaction and triumph. His conscious mind might be made of unbending iron, but at least his subconscious mind wasn’t hell-bent on rejecting her!

  She gently let her fingertips march across the expanse of his chest to his other nipple. His skin was slightly golden, retaining the last vestiges of a summer tan, and a few silver-golden hairs tickled the sensitive pads of her fingers as they marched.

  Callum muttered something indistinct and half-lifted his head from the pillow. Her fingers froze, and his leonine head settled back against the pillows once more. Markie gazed at his face, mesmerised. The sharp planes of his cheekbones really made him devastatingly attractive. And with the beginnings of a golden stubble on his chin, he looked almost rakish. Vastly different from the buttoned-up, tightly controlled doctor of psychology that she knew and was beginning to love-hate.

  She played with his nipple again, watching his face closely. His hand beside his face on the pillow jerked reflexively, and she watched it, fascinated.

  Would he wake if she just lowered her head down a little and sucked on . . .

  Callum shot upright in bed, and Markie sprang back feigning a surprised yawn. ‘Good grief, you scared me,’ she said accusingly. ‘Do you always wake up with a leap like that? What time is it anyway?’ she shot the questions at him rapidly.

  Callum shot her a suspicious look in return. Slowly, he eased himself upright to lean against the headboard. He was tingling pleasantly from head to foot and . . . yes. He was hard. He drew up his legs to hide his condition from her and let his forearms rest against his knees, his large sensitive hands dangling down.

  ‘Were you just touching me?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Markie looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. ‘Me? I was asleep, until you scared me half to death by leaping out of your skin like that. Were you having a bad dream?’ she asked guilelessly.

  Callum’s stormy grey-green eyes narrowed on her. ‘Hardly,’ he said flatly. Then glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better get up if you want breakfast. The hotel probably stops serving at ten.’

  Markie give a little yelp. ‘It’s as late as that? I’m nearly always up by seven at the latest.’ And, when she had a photoshoot, she could be up with the larks.

  Callum looked at her sardonically. ‘Yeah, right.’

  Markie, on the verge of wriggling out of the embrace of the monster four-poster, caught his disbelieving tone and turned to look at him.

  ‘Yeah, exactly right, buster,’ she said flatly. ‘A lot of photographers doing an outdoor shoot like the early morning light. You’re like everyone else—you think the life of a model is all wine and roses. We work bloody hard, let me tell you.’

  Callum, somewhat taken aback by her ferocity, found himself apologising.

  Markie left him with a flounce and hogged the bathroom.

  * * *

  The car wasn’t ready until nearly lunchtime, so they decided to have lunch in town before setting off for Sir Vivian’s Cornish hideaway.

  They found a small restaurant in the centre of the little market town, and ordered the day’s special—which wasn’t particularly special, but which was at least well cooked and warming.

  But as they ate, Callum slowly became aware that his companion was attracting attention. It wasn’t anything she did exactly, for she ate and talked with her usual mix of simple pleasure and surprising erudition, but he became aware that more and more people in the restaurant were looking their way. And an excited buzz, like a roused wasps’ nest, began to permeate the atmosphere.

  Eventually, one of the waitresses approached them with trepidation, egged on by a waiter and the manager, who stood on the sidelines, watching avidly.

  ‘Er, excuse me. But you are Marcheta, aren’t you?’ the young girl said tentatively. She was about twenty, with rather too much weight about her middle and a mass of rather badly-dyed blonde hair. Her face was just slightly awe struck.

  Markie smiled at her brightly. ‘Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.’

  The waitress half-laughed and half-gushed at this ingenuous response and held out her order pad. ‘Could I please have your autograph?’

  This, of course, opened the floodgates for all the others, and Callum watched in amused exasperation as she quickly became surrounded by admirers. He let himself be willingly pushed to the sidelines, and watched her work.

  Such attention would have driven him mad within moments, but she dealt with them all kindly, and with patience. One of the older men she even kissed on the chee
k and allowed his almost incoherent daughter to take their picture thus. She flirted with the young men, but never let them get out of hand, and won over the slightly-jealous women with her easygoing friendliness, handling them with an ease that an experienced psychologist could only admire and marvel at.

  After twenty minutes or so, she graciously extracted herself, and they walked out to the car park.

  Callum got behind the wheel and drove out of town. Beside him, Markie Kendall used her compact to artfully repair her make-up. It should have only confirmed her image to him of a bubble-headed shallow woman who earned too much money for doing something utterly ridiculous.

  But it didn’t.

  ‘Tell me about your new perfume,’ he heard himself asking. ‘I heard someone say you were in Oxford to check out the labs who are making it?’

  Markie nodded, and told him about choosing the kind of fragrance she wanted. From that, he skilfully segued into getting her talking about her long-term plans.

  Although he was no genius when it came to finance, as like with most very clever men, he tended to live and breathe only in his own area of expertise, it quickly became apparent to him that this young woman had a remarkable grasp of both reality, finance and business.

  In fact, by the time they came within sight of the sea, and he turned off into the small hamlet where Sir Vivian kept his holiday cottage, Callum Fielding was rapidly revising a lot of his misconceptions about Miss Marcheta Kendall.

  * * *

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, pulling up outside a small, stone-built cottage with a grey slate roof. Beyond it was a panoramic view of the sea, and gulls wheeled noisily overhead.

  ‘Vivian said he always liked this garden,’ he mused.

  Markie looked at the cottage bemused. ‘But it hasn’t got one. It’s just wild flowers and grassland right up to the front door.’

  Callum smiled wryly. ‘Exactly. He said he could escape the tyranny of weeding here.’

  Markie laughed, then quickly sobered. ‘I’m sorry. You really miss him, don’t you?’

  Callum got out of the car and stretched his long legs with a sigh. ‘Let’s just say that I’m really angry about what’s been done to him and leave it at that, shall we?’ he said grimly.