by Anne Mather
"Get real, Nathan." His father regarded him contemptuously. "You're not only corrupt, you're stupid with it. Do I have to remind you, the plane crashed? Hasn't it occurred to you that Jake might be badly injured?"
His son grimaced. "He's not."
"How do you know?" Jacob's hands clenched. "Oh—I suppose you phoned the hospital to find out." He slammed his fist against the chair arm and his son jumped; he couldn't stop himself. It was obvious Jacob wished it was his head.
"Are you saying that's why he hasn't been in touch with me?" the younger man demanded. "Why he's letting my own wife believe he's me? You can't answer that one, can you? Admit it, he's just as corrupt as I am."
Jacob arched a scathing brow. "You wish."
"What do you mean?" His son stared at him. "What haven't you told me?"
Jacob shrugged. "The resemblance is uncanny," he remarked obliquely, and his son gave him a frustrated look. "He's not as—well-fed as you are, and his hair's a bit longer, but the features are identical. His accent's slightly different, but if you weren't looking for any differences, I doubt you'd notice it. It's no wonder Caitlin was deceived. I almost was myself."
"What are you saying?" For all it should be what he wanted to hear, the other man felt strangely bereft. "Do you accept the fact that Jake has stolen my identity? For God's sake, Pa, what are you trying to do?"
"Jake hasn't stolen anything," said Jacob flatly.
"Then he's a liar. You can't deny that."
"I can. I do." His father regarded him contemptuously. "Jake's not lying, boy. He really thinks he's you." He paused. "He's got amnesia. That's why he and Caitlin have gone back to England. For the present, he's incapable of deceit."
13
"Why don't you take Nathan for a walk this afternoon, darling?" Mrs Webster suggested pleasantly, apparently prepared to overlook the fact that her daughter was pacing rather restlessly about the room. "You never know, he may find something familiar to strike a chord in his memory." She poured herself another cup of coffee and pushed Caitlin's untouched cup and saucer to the edge of the table. "If this weather improves, of course," she added. Then, "Drink this up, dear. I'm sure it must be getting cold."
Caitlin turned, pushing her hands into the pockets of her baggy cardigan, causing it to dip to mid-thigh. Worn with black leggings, the amber-coloured jacket was supposed to disguise what shape she had, and she could tell from the wince her mother gave that she considered the outfit fatally flawed. Her own neatly pleated skirt and cream silk blouse were in the best of taste, impeccably tailored to match her svelte appearance.
Picking up the cup of coffee, Caitlin carried it back to the long windows. Beyond the wood-framed conservatory, the formal gardens that surrounded the house were draped with mist. Although the forecast had been good, the dampness was lingering, its vague oppressiveness reflecting Caitlin's mood.
"I hope your father and Nathan won't be much longer," her mother continued, determined to behave as if nothing untoward had happened. "And Marshall, too, of course," she appended, her lips tightening. "That young man is becoming quite a fixture."
Caitlin leant her shoulder against the window frame and looked back at Daisy Webster. It was easier to consider her mother's problems than to contemplate her own. After what had happened that morning, she'd just as soon not think about Nathan at all, and Marshall was the ideal target for her frustrations.
"So why did you invite him?" she asked, arching a brow interrogatively. "I'm sure if Daddy knew you didn't care for him, he'd confine their consultations to the office."
"I wouldn't bank on it." Her mother was uncharacteristically terse. And then, as if like Caitlin she'd rather not dwell on her own difficulties, she went on, "You didn't mind sharing a room with Nathan, did you? I'm afraid you caught us unprepared."
Caitlin looked down into her cup, where the cream her mother had added to the coffee was congealing round the rim. "I suppose not," she conceded, trying to sound indifferent. "Um—Daddy's invitation was unexpected for us, too."
Mrs Webster frowned. "Your father invited you?"
Caitlin nodded. "Yes. Didn't you know?"
"No." Her mother pulled a face, and then moved her shoulders impatiently. "He just said you and Nathan were coming down for the weekend, and I'm afraid I assumed it had been your idea."
Caitlin expelled her breath a little quickly. Her idea, she thought ironically. To invite herself and Nathan here, where it was obviously going to be harder to maintain the fiction of their relationship? Hardly. Though even she had had no idea how dangerous it might prove.
"I'm sorry," she said now. "I'm afraid I thought it had actually been your idea. In recent months—well, Nathan and Daddy haven't exactly been—close, have they? Since Marshall joined the company, the gulf between them seems to be getting wider by the day."
"I know." Her mother grimaced. "I knew it would happen as soon as Marshall became his second in command. But your father says he isn't ready yet to surrender the reins of the company, and I suppose he believes that Marshall doesn't have an axe to grind."
"But why not?" Caitlin stared at her mother curiously. "Why should he trust Marshall when he doesn't trust anyone else?" She paused, and then continued carefully, "You know, I've sometimes wondered, how did Daddy find Marshall in the first place? I mean, he hadn't worked for Webster's or anything. And it's such a confidential position."
She thought she saw a faint trace of colour enter her mother's cheeks at her words, but it disappeared again so rapidly that she decided she must have been mistaken. Nevertheless, when Mrs Webster spoke again, there was a thread of anxiety in her voice.
"I believe—I believe he knew the boy's mother many years ago," she declared, putting her cup back onto the tray. "Oh, look. The mist appears to be clearing. You'll be able to take Nathan out for some air."
"He's not a dog, Mummy," observed Caitlin drily, aware that she had been deliberately diverted from asking any more awkward questions. "Besides, he doesn't like walking. Surely you remember that?"
Daisy Webster shrugged. "At this moment, I doubt if he remembers what he likes or dislikes," she declared rather callously. "Oh, thank goodness, here they come. You'll be able to ask him yourself."
Caitlin turned back to the window as the three men came into the conservatory. She needed a moment to compose herself before she met her husband's knowing gaze again. Just because she had awakened in time to prevent him from taking any further liberties with her body, the memory of the incident still caused her pulse to race.
God, she thought incredulously, what would have happened if she hadn't opened her eyes at that moment? How much further would he have been prepared to go? What more could he have done, short of actually invading her body, for God's sake? He'd been suckling her breasts. They were still throbbing from the hungry tug of his teeth.
She shivered. She'd been vaguely aware of what was happening before she acknowledged it. But in that mindless state between sleeping and waking, she'd welcomed his touch. It had been like a dream; she hadn't been in control of her emotions. The sensual response her body had offered was an instinctive reaction to her psychological state.
It was disturbing all the same, because Nathan had never been so considerate of her before. When he'd bitten her breasts while they were on their honeymoon, he'd hurt her badly. But this time, she'd been totally relaxed, totally uninhibited. Her body had been pleasured, and she'd wanted the experience to go on…
"Missed me?"
Nathan's lips against the side of her neck were unbearably seductive. Lost in the blind world of introspection, she'd been totally unaware of his approach. But now, his mocking salutation brought her swiftly to her senses. She must not allow him to see how vulnerable she'd become.
All the same, her initial response had been to turn her head and let those knowing lips consume her. But the awareness of where she was—and who was watching—prevented her from making that mistake. Nevertheless, it took all her self-control to resist him, and
the knowledge that he was aware of it, too, sent her backing out of his reach.
Straight into the coffee table.
"Careful, darling!"
Her mother's anxious cry saved the day, but not before Caitlin had been made to feel a fool for the second time that morning. Her reaction had been warranted, she defended herself, conscious of being the cynosure of all eyes. But she had drawn attention to herself—unwillingly—and even Marshall O'Brien was giving her a curious look.
"Oops," she said, pretending it had been a genuine mistake, and turning, she set her cup down on the tray. But she sensed no one was deceived by her play-acting. Least of all her husband, she realised in some dismay.
Her father, too, was watching her rather suspiciously. But what could he deduce from such an obvious non-event? And, judging by his expression, he wasn't altogether happy with the situation, either. They were all being compelled to deal with a virtual stranger in their midst.
Nathan had now assumed her position, propping his shoulder against the hardwood frame of the window and gazing out at the view. What was he thinking? she wondered. Did amnesiacs experience normal thought processes? There was so much she wanted to ask, but she didn't know how.
As if becoming aware of her scrutiny, he turned now to look at them all with a sardonic gaze. In cream trousers, a navy shirt, and a linen waistcoat, his clothes looked more familiar this morning. But his lazy gaze impaled her and left her feeling weak.
"Sit down—all of you," exclaimed her mother with determined brightness, and as her husband's assistant took the chair nearest to her, she made an effort to be polite. "Did you sleep well, Marshall?" she inquired, handing him a cup of coffee. "I know it isn't always easy when you're in a strange bed."
"I slept very well, thank you, Mrs Webster," he responded, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses farther up his rather prominent nose.
Caitlin frowned suddenly as his profile seemed unexpectedly familiar. But then, he spoke again, and the feeling slipped away.
"I want to thank you once again for inviting me," he continued. "It's been quite an experience visiting—Matthew—in his home. I know it must be quite an imposition while you're entertaining your family. I hope you'll tell me if I get in your way."
"I'm sure you couldn't do that, my dear," replied Mrs Webster crisply. And Caitlin, meeting her husband's eyes, realised she wasn't the only one who had noticed the hidden barb. All the same, her smiling courtesy was in direct contrast with the way she had spoken earlier, and her daughter could only assume she'd decided to bite the bullet.
Waiting until Nathan had hooked a tall, rattan stool and straddled it before choosing her position, Caitlin sank gratefully onto the sofa beside her father. There was no way Nathan could take advantage of her there, she assured herself. Though his constant observation was unnerving all the same.
Mrs Webster handed Nathan and her husband each a cup of coffee, refilling the jug from a Thermos off the tray. Then she turned to the older man with a brittle air of inquiry. "So—don't keep us in suspense. Was Nathan any help in your urgent consultations?"
Matthew was still considering his response when his son-in-law broke in. "I'm afraid not," he answered disarmingly. "I was a complete waste of time. I don't even remember the countries we deal with."
Caitlin, obliged to look in his direction while he was talking, found herself watching his hands. Unlike Marshall, who used the handle of his cup to drink with, Nathan's palm practically encased the cup. The fine china almost disappeared within the embrace of his long brown fingers, and the realisation that earlier that morning that same hand had been cupping her breast sent a fiery tingle of awareness along her veins.
She tried to distract herself by summoning her memory in an effort to recall if she'd seen Nathan hold a cup that way before, but it was difficult to concentrate with the images before her, and for once she was relieved when her father spoke.
"I suppose the question you should have asked was whether we had been of any help to him," Matthew remarked satirically, though he was showing more tolerance than she'd been led to expect. And with some relief, she abandoned her attempt to ignore her husband, hoping her father would attribute her quickened breathing to the humour in his words.
"And did you?" she asked, more to prolong the conversation than anything else, but unfortunately, her father shook his head.
"I think not," he said ruefully. "Nathan has no knowledge of me or Marshall. He has no conception of his life before the crash."
"No."
It was the expected response, and because the magnetism was still there, she looked at Nathan again. But now his eyes were guarded, and she guessed that for all his air of inconsequence, the restrictions of his condition were a constant drain.
"I have to admit, Nathan," her father remarked suddenly, "that until we talked, I had had my doubts about your—well—amnesia. I'd never met anyone who'd actually lost their memory before, and it just seemed a—convenient way to—to escape—your problems."
Nathan frowned. "Any problem in particular?" he inquired, his eyes narrowing, and Caitlin saw how Matthew Webster was struggling to find a response. Whatever her father had on his mind, he'd overstepped his brief, and it was left to his assistant to repair the damage.
"What Matthew means is, we're experiencing some confusion over a contract that was placed in Colombia," said Marshall evenly. "I know Matthew was hoping you might be able to help us out." He made a dismissive gesture. "It's not important. I can handle it. It just might take a little longer than we thought."
Nathan stared at him. "This—contract. It was for a job?"
Marshall moved a little uncomfortably, as if he, too, realised he was in danger of saying too much. "For a dam, actually," he conceded with an almost imperceptible shrug towards her father. "As I say, it's not important. We can cope."
Nathan didn't let him off the hook. "A dam," he echoed. "That sounds fairly important to me."
"But not insuperable," Marshall assured him with a thin smile, and Daisy Webster gave an impatient flap of her hand.
"Really, Matt," she said, though Caitlin knew very well her complaint was addressed more accurately to his assistant, "must we discuss business matters morning, noon, and night? It's Saturday, and I shouldn't have to remind you that Nathan has just left hospital. I wasn't happy with you cornering him the minute he came down this morning, and I wish you'd consider other people's feelings sometimes, as well as your own."
"It's all right, Mrs Webster."
Nathan was quick to defend his superior, and Caitlin wondered rather uneasily what had been going on. If Marshall hadn't been around, she might have persuaded her father to take her into his confidence, but in the present circumstances, she didn't stand a chance.
"It's not all right, Nathan." Caitlin remembered her mother used to have quite a soft spot for him years ago. It hadn't been so evident recently. But then, Nathan seldom came to Fairings these days. "And you used to call me Daisy," Mrs Webster added, dimpling almost girlishly. "And you were not invited here to undergo an interrogation. You must forgive Caitlin's father. He thinks of nothing but work."
Nathan smiled, but Caitlin sensed it was a thin veneer, put on for her mother's benefit. "I'm sure—your husband is just frustrated—Daisy," he assured her gently. Then, with a rueful glance at Caitlin, "Have we kept you waiting long?"
Not long enough, thought Caitlin tensely, but her mother had turned to Matthew now and was continuing her tirade. "I suggest you and—your assistant—confine your discussions to the office in future. Caitlin wants to take Nathan for a walk this afternoon, don't you, darling? And she doesn't want to spend the time worrying about what you're going to do when they get back."
Caitlin's jaw dropped, and Nathan, who had obviously still been considering what Marshall and her father had said, now gave her a mocking look. "What a good idea," he said, seizing the opportunity as she'd been afraid he would. "I could do with some exercise. I'm used to working out at least a couple of times a we
ek."
"Working out?"
"Where do you work out?"
Caitlin and her father spoke simultaneously, and Nathan's brow darkened with the effort he was making to answer them. Then, "I don't know," he groaned at last. "I just—feel that's what I used to do." He frowned. "I know I enjoy running, but did I belong to a gym, as well? Surely you can tell me that, Kate."
His diminutive of her name did not go unnoticed, but Caitlin was too busy trying to think of a way of answering him to care what the others might think. And, in the event, her father took the initiative from her.
"You may have belonged to a health club," he conceded, using his own interpretation of the question. "Many of your colleagues do." He exchanged a look with Marshall. "Though I have to say you never mentioned it to me."
"Nor to me," added Marshall with infuriating candour, and Caitlin wondered anew what role he really fulfilled in her father's organisation. After all, he and Nathan had never been friends. Quite the opposite. So why would her father expect him to offer any insight into her husband's life?
Feeling compelled to say something positive, however small, she took a steadying breath. "I'm sure Marshall doesn't—didn't—follow Nathan around, Daddy. And you know, I think he did belong to a sports club. I remember him playing squash on occasion."
Nathan gave her a grateful look, but Caitlin didn't want his thanks. She could have added that, as far as she'd been aware—until this week—he'd never enjoyed exercise for its own sake. He had played squash in the early days of their marriage—or said he had anyway—but she suspected it had just been a front for the affair he was having with Lisa Abbott.
And at least her mother welcomed her explanation. "There you are, Matt," she said impatiently. "It's obvious it's only going to be a matter of time before Nathan remembers everything. I suggest you learn a little tolerance. It wouldn't hurt you to feel some sympathy sometimes, instead of always thinking about yourself. You're beginning to allow that damn company to mean more than your own family!"