by Anne Mather
"I went to the office," replied Nathan easily, stepping forward so that his wife was obliged to move out of his way. He glanced back reassuringly. "And I've invited Marshall to supper. I hope that isn't a problem."
Caitlin's response was hardly enthusiastic. "I—of course not," she answered eventually, inviting Marshall into the hall. She seemed to be struggling to find her manners. "It's just a casserole, I'm afraid. I—didn't know what was going on."
"It sounds delicious," said Marshall, pushing his glasses up his nose as he did in times of stress. God, he thought, what the hell am I doing here? When Matthew found out, he'd been livid. He'd always done his utmost to keep them apart.
Caitlin closed the door behind them, and then hurried ahead into an attractive living room. "If you'll excuse me," she said, giving her husband a speaking look. "I'm sure everything's going to be overdone."
"No sweat." Nathan was deliberately casual, and Marshall wondered again why he'd brought him here. It wasn't as if he hoped to gain anything by it, and in his experience, Nathan had never done anything without having his own agenda. "Can I offer you a drink?"
Marshall hesitated, then decided it might ease his nerves. "Scotch would be nice," he agreed, forcing himself to relax a little. He looked about him. "What a beautiful room this is."
"You haven't seen it before?"
Nathan sounded surprised now, though looking into those dark eyes, Marshall had the feeling he already knew the answer. "No," he concurred, "I've never had that pleasure." He paused. "You and I weren't exactly—buddies in the past."
"No." Nathan seemed to accept this, though there was no trace of censure in his face. He handed Marshall his Scotch, and then smiled expansively. "Perhaps we can amend that in the present."
There was a table laid for two in a dining alcove, and as Marshall was trying to think of something to say in response, Caitlin reappeared from the kitchen. She was carrying another set of cutlery, and as he watched, she laid another place. But her movements were all sharp and staccato, and he guessed she wasn't pleased at all.
"If it's any inconvenience—" he began, but once again, Nathan forestalled him.
"It's not," he said. "Caitlin was just worried because I've been out all day." He looked at his wife. "Isn't that right, Kate? Did you have a good morning at the antique shop. I'm sorry I couldn't join you for lunch, but I had things to do."
"Like going to the office," suggested Caitlin shortly, her eyes flashing. "Forgive me, but don't they have phones at the office these days? You could have given me a call."
"I could," he agreed, his eyes gentling as they settled on her. "Forgive me, but I was tied up with your—with Mar-shall. I've been trying to get a handle on what's been going on."
Marshall realised that Caitlin accepted her husband's words at face value. The fact that he'd stumbled over Marshall's name meant nothing to her. But he was far too sensitive to the situation to ignore any flaw in the conversation, and Nathan's hesitation jarred his nerves.
Was that why he'd brought him here? Because Nathan had guessed who Matthew's right-hand man really was? Was all this bonhomie just a facade? Was he wrong about Nathan, in spite of everything? Did he intend to expose him to his wife?
"Oh, well…" said Caitlin now, retreating towards the kitchen. "I suppose you know what you're doing." She paused. "What did Daddy say? I suppose it was his idea to try and jog your memory. I told him it wouldn't work, but you know what he's like."
"Mr Webster wasn't there."
"Matt didn't come into the office today."
The two men answered her simultaneously, and Marshall thought it was just as well that a cooker timer began to ring at that moment. It gave him a moment to consider the fact that Nathan had called Matthew Mr Webster—which seemed to confirm his status—and enabled her, he hoped, to think about something else.
Not that he had forgotten Nathan's earlier error, and the look he exchanged with his host at that moment assured him that the other man was aware he'd noticed his faux pas. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. A slip of the tongue. It won't happen again, I promise."
Marshall wondered. "How long have you known?"
Nathan's lips twitched. "Well, not long, obviously," he replied, and Marshall was forced to accept that this must be so. After all, if he'd suspected earlier, Caitlin would have known about it. The Nathan he was used to dealing with would have enjoyed putting Marshall on the spot.
So why was he guarding his tongue now? Marshall pondered frustratedly. It didn't make sense. Hell, none of it made sense, that was the truth. Nathan simply wasn't the man he used to be, and if it wasn't so outrageous, he might doubt that's who he was.
He frowned as he considered the situation. Could Nathan have a double? And what would be the advantage of that? Had he suspected they were onto him? Could he have persuaded someone else to take his place?
But he dismissed that idea almost before it had had time to germinate. To start with, Nathan didn't even have a brother, let alone an identical twin. Matthew had all his details on file. Nathan's father was Jacob Wolfe, and his mother, Iris Wolfe, was dead. She'd died when the boy was young, and Jacob Wolfe had never remarried.
He had to accept that apart from having somewhat thinner features—a result of the accident, no doubt—this man was Nathan. It was crazy to consider anything else. Dear God, Caitlin had accepted him as her husband. She had no doubts about him, so nor must he.
"Just out of interest, why haven't you told Caitlin?" Nathan asked suddenly, and Marshall's eyes widened in dismay.
"I don't think—her father would be very pleased if I did," he replied stiffly, and Nathan looked sardonic.
"He's your father, too, isn't he?" he countered. "You know, it just might be that Caitlin needs a brother. Her parents don't give her much support."
His wife's return with the casserole brought an end to any further private conversation, and Marshall told himself he was relieved. But he couldn't help wondering how Matthew would react when he discovered his son-in-law had found out about their relationship. Until now, he'd considered it a closely guarded secret; though Marshall suspected Daisy Webster wasn't the only one to guess the truth.
"Shall we eat?"
Caitlin's voice, inviting them to join her at the table, put an end to his troubled introspection. It was Matthew's problem, he told himself; Matthew's decision when—or indeed if—Caitlin should be told. But how long could they trust Nathan not to tell her? Particularly if his future was on the line?
Caitlin had prepared a green salad to start the meal, and there was a fine white Sauvignon to accompany it. The casserole that followed was piping hot and delicious, despite her worst fears, and a selection of rich cheeses provided a fitting finale.
Conversation became general as they consumed the food, the wine relaxing each of them in turn. Besides, so long as he could forget his previous dealings with Nathan, Marshall found they had a lot in common, and even Caitlin's attitude seemed to mellow as the evening wore on.
Despite his misgivings, Marshall ate everything that was put in front of him, and he knew that in other circumstances he would have welcomed them as friends. His position at Webster's was so nebulous that he found it difficult to find a niche, and he hoped Caitlin would think more charitably about him from now on.
"It was kind of you to put yourself out on my account," he remarked in a low voice, as he helped her carry the used plates into the kitchen. "I know you were only expecting Nathan, and it must have been a pain to be landed with an unexpected guest. I guess you won't believe me, but I did try to put him off."
Caitlin straightened from stowing some of the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and gave him a strangely quizzical look.
"On the contrary," she said, "I do believe you. I don't suppose you wanted to come here, either."
"That's not true." Marshall spoke instinctively, and then meeting her satirical gaze, he pulled a face. "Okay," he said, "I was apprehensive. I knew we hadn't got along in
the past. But that wasn't truly my fault, was it?"
"No." Caitlin seemed inclined to be generous. "I know I haven't exactly been polite. But you have to remember, Nathan used to share my father's confidence, whereas now you've kind of commandeered that role."
"Hmm." Marshall nodded. He could hardly tell her why her father had changed his allegiance. "Well—maybe we can work something out in future. Nathan seems more inclined to be conciliatory. For a man who's lost his memory, he's amazingly astute."
Caitlin frowned. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything." Marshall held up a cabling hand. "On the contrary," he added in a hushed tone, "I'd be the first to admit that he doesn't remember a thing about the company. I mean—" he coloured slightly "—I'm sure he'd have given himself away if he had." He pulled a face. "He's just so—different. It's as if he's lost that aggressive edge."
"Do you think so?" Caitlin's hand trembled as she closed the dishwasher door.
"Yes." Marshall pretended not to notice her nervousness. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose. "I guess that blow to his head did more than addle his brain cells. What do you think?"
"What do I think?" Caitlin's voice had risen slightly, and Marshall, watching her, sensed there was more to this than even he had thought. "Tell me," she went on, "do you think he'll ever recover his memory? If this flat—and the office—aren't familiar, if I'm not familiar, what can we do?"
"I don't know."
"What don't you know?" Nathan spoke from the doorway behind them, a pair of empty wineglasses dangling from his hands. "You were taking so long in here, I thought I'd better come and help you." He handed the glasses over. "What's going on?"
"Why—nothing," exclaimed Marshall hurriedly, wondering with some misgivings how long the other man had been standing there listening to what was being said. What had been said? he wondered, taxing his brain. Nothing controversial, he was sure, but for all his disability, he still felt as if Nathan held the upper hand.
Excusing himself, he brushed past the other man and gained the comparative safety of the living room with some relief. But as he did so, he heard voices in the kitchen behind him, and although he didn't mean to eavesdrop, he couldn't help overhearing what Nathan said.
"Don't discuss me as if I'm not here," he muttered, and Caitlin made some inaudible denial. "You have no idea what I'm suggesting," he added in a bitter voice.
21
Marshall left at about half past nine.
Caitlin sensed he would have been quite happy to go sooner, but Nathan had kept him talking, making it difficult for him to get away.
They hadn't spoken about relevant things, like Nathan's loss of memory, or how soon he might be able to get back to work. Nathan had seemed more interested in Marshall's background, and they'd spent some time arguing the merits of nurture as opposed to nature.
She'd guessed what Nathan was doing, of course. So long as Marshall was here, they couldn't have a personal conversation. And after talking to Janie that morning, she'd wanted that. She'd been waiting for him to return all afternoon.
In actual fact, waiting was hardly an adequate term. By the time Nathan inserted his key in the lock, she'd been on the verge of calling the police. In all her wild imaginings, she'd never dreamed that he might go to the office. Or if he had, that someone might not inform her. It was the least they could have done.
Still, she could hardly blame Marshall or his secretary. They were not to know that she didn't know where Nathan was. Or that he'd been out since early this morning. According to Mrs Spriggs, he'd left the flat soon after she'd gone to the shop.
Consequently, she'd been in no mood to welcome visitors, particularly not Marshall O'Brien. Although, in the event, he'd proved rather likeable. And Nathan had evidently had second thoughts about him, too. The two men had behaved like old friends, not old enemies, and she'd found herself re-evaluating everything Nathan had said about him.
If it hadn't been for that niggling doubt as to why he should have been visiting a travel agent's, Caitlin thought she might have enjoyed the evening. Even knowing that Nathan was using Marshall to avoid any intimacy with her was not enough to spoil her mood. Her relief at knowing he was safe and well had tempered much of her resentment, and although she was still indignant, it could wait.
Nevertheless, she hadn't been able to prevent herself from watching Nathan across the table. She'd wondered what he was thinking as he picked at his food. Unlike Marshall, her husband had eaten little, and there was a strange kind of tension about his actions that she didn't remember noticing before.
But that didn't dissipate her feelings, or the taut reaction she felt every time he was near. She couldn't understand it, but that didn't make it any the less disturbing. She was falling in love with her husband. So what on earth could be wrong with that?
Still, on the rare occasions when he looked her way, she made sure her eyes were averted. She had no wish for him to see how he affected her until she knew how he really felt. Just because they'd slept together—made love together— was no reason to imagine she had any real claim to his affections. She might be inexperienced in some ways, but she knew sex didn't mean the same to a man.
In consequence, she had welcomed the opportunities she'd had to escape to the kitchen. When her hands were busy, it was easier to distract her mind. But she'd noticed she was trembling as she'd forked the various cheeses onto the board, and Nathan's face was waiting behind her lids when she closed her eyes in an effort to reinforce her will.
Nathan had had some cheese, and once again she'd found herself watching his hands as he'd put the cheese into his mouth. He had nice hands, very attractive hands, she'd thought uneasily, and when he'd opened his mouth, she'd been able to see his tongue. It had appeared to lick a crumb of Caerphilly from his lip, and her stomach had hollowed almost uncontrollably. Was it two nights since he'd pushed his tongue into her mouth? The memory was still potent enough to turn her knees to water.
Which was why she was sitting down when Nathan returned from seeing Marshall to the door. They'd phoned for a taxi to take him back to Fulham, and Nathan had offered to go down with him when the cab driver rang from the foyer. By this time, the two men were on easy terms, and she guessed Marshall must be as confused as herself. However, like her, he seemed prepared to welcome the change and deal with it accordingly.
She sighed. She didn't know why, but there was something reassuring about Marshall noticing the change in her husband. It reinforced her own opinion, made her feel as if she wasn't going mad after all. And, if nothing else, this evening had broken the ice between her and her father's assistant. She had been guilty of judging him by other people's standards. Her mother's fault, perhaps.
The door slammed, and her nerves tensed. As her husband walked back into the living room, it took an enormous effort of will to look as casual as he appeared. Her hair was mussed from where she had been slumped against the cushions, but that was hardly an advantage. And although she'd been determined to confront him with Janie's accusation as soon as they were alone, her mixed emotions had diminished her inner strength.
Meanwhile, Nathan looked infuriatingly confident. He had shed the jacket of his dark suit earlier, and loosened the knot of his tie. Now, with his sleeves rolled back over his forearms, and the waistcoat of the suit providing a contrast to the crisp whiteness of his shirt, he looked almost unwarrantably attractive, and Caitlin's resentment rallied at his obvious lack of remorse.
"Interesting guy," he said by way of an opening, and Caitlin felt her resentment growing at his conceit. Did he think that because he had decided Marshall wasn't such a bad guy, she should follow his lead regardless? What did he think she was? Some kind of clone? Didn't he think she had opinions of her own?
When she didn't answer, he seemed to realise that perhaps he had been rather insensitive, and halting in the middle of the floor, he hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. "I guess you didn't think so," he remarked. "Though
I have to say you seemed to be getting along just fine in the kitchen earlier. What was he saying to you? Was he apologising for arriving unannounced?"
"You tell me," said Caitlin stiffly, realising she might be cutting off her nose to spite her face, but unable to do anything about it. She couldn't let him treat her as if her wishes were of no importance. She'd promised herself that would never happen again.
"What do you mean?" he asked now, and Caitlin pretended to examine her fingernails.
"Well, you were eavesdropping, weren't you?" she countered. "I believe you warned me about talking about you as if you weren't there. In any case, it's none of your business. If you bring people here without asking me first, you can't blame me if I take advantage of the fact."
Her husband's mouth compressed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Caitlin shrugged. "Whatever you like."
He sighed. "All right, I'm sorry if I upset your plans—"
"Upset my plans?" Caitlin came up off the sofa then, stung by the weary tolerance in his voice. "You have no idea how I was feeling when you sauntered in here at seven o'clock. You'd been missing since early this morning. Were you out all day yesterday, as well? Or have you forgotten?"
This last was said with a sweet sarcasm, and he scowled. "Ten o'clock is not early morning," he retorted, and Caitlin arched a quizzical brow.
"It is when you're supposed to be convalescing. Or had you forgotten that, as well? Along with your much-quoted hatred of Marshall O'Brien!"
It was amazing how much stronger she felt, thought Caitlin as she threw the words at him. When Marshall left, she'd felt tired, listless, incapable of conducting an argument with anyone. But suddenly she was alert again—invigorated, ready to take him on. Sparring with Nathan was the next best thing to making love with him, she realised. She enjoyed sparking his interest, even if it was just a mental thing.
Her husband frowned. "Why would—I—hate Marshall?" he asked slowly, and Caitlin was aware that when he looked at her with those dark, expressive eyes, she felt as if every nerve in her body came vibrantly to life. But she couldn't afford to be sympathetic. That wouldn't win her any favours. She had to remember what Janie had said: leopards didn't change their spots.