Such Sweet Poison Page 10

  Catherine shook her head. ‘You planned all this.'

  ‘Well-not all of it,’ he admitted drily, his eyes holding hers with disconcerting solemnity. ‘Particularly not all that garbage about why I’m seeing you.’ He gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I guess I really blew it, didn’t I? Just now. God, I didn’t mean to get so heavy! You going on about Denny bugged me, I guess.’

  Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I think-I think we should just forget about it,’ she said, realising how prudish that sounded.

  She put a nervous hand up to her spectacles. ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘The picnic?’ Morgan shrugged. ‘I bought it,’ He paused. ‘Are you going to have some?’

  Catherine hesitated. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Sure.’ Morgan was indifferent. ‘I’m hungry. If I can’t have what I really want, I guess eating’s the next best thing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Catherine bent her head, and he sighed. ‘Have I shocked you?’

  ‘Of course not .’ She cupped her jaw with slightly unsteady fingers.

  ‘You-you do deliberately try to shock me though, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not difficult,' he responded, lifting the bottle of Cristal and gently easing out the cork. It hissed enticingly, and he nodded towards the basket.

  ‘Pick up the glasses, and I’ll pour this stuff.’

  The question as to whether or not Catherine would have lunch seemed to have been decided for her, but she didn’t say anything. If she was totally honest, she would admit that Morgan’s idea of having a picnic appealed to her, and, ignoring the dictates of her conscience, she raised her glass to her lips.

  The champagne was cool and sparkling, with an effervescence that went straight to her head. Catherine had always been ambivalent where champagne was concerned, but she realised now that that was because she had never tasted the real thing. The champagne she and Neil had had at their wedding, and which was brought out at office parties, was nothing like this. This was deliciously light, and unknowingly potent, tickling her palate, and loosening her tongue.

  Munching on a delicately thin smoked salmon sandwich, she felt more relaxed than she had ever done in his presence, and, taking another sip of her champagne, she looked at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Why did the Sawyers ask you to dinner?’ she queried, asking the question she had been wanting to ask ever since that evening, and Morgan considered the wine in his glass before replying.

  ‘I-guess because I’ve only been in England a month,’ he said at last. ‘Have another sandwich.’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  Catherine pulled a rueful face, and Morgan arched an enquiring brow.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh-well, because I shouldn’t,’ she declared. ‘I should be losing weight, not trying to put it on.’

  ‘You’re not fat.’ Morgan’s gaze would have disturbed her at any other time. ‘You’re not thin, but you’re not fat.’

  Catherine grimaced. ‘Overweight, then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so.’ Morgan’s mouth twisted. ‘Don’t be so self-conscious. I like you just the way you are.’

  ‘But not enough to-’

  Catherine broke off in confusion, pressing a hand to her mouth as if to silence her runaway tongue, and Morgan’s eyes darkened.

  ‘Not enough for what?’ he asked, holding her gaze, and she felt the heat rising up from her neck.

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter,’ she said, dragging her gaze away to look at the sandwich her fingers were tearing apart.

  ‘Not enough to-try and make it?’ he suggested softly, and the look she darted at him over the tops of her spectacles was answer enough. ‘Hey, I haven’t made it in a car since I was sixteen!’

  Sixteen! Catherine swallowed. When she had been sixteen, she had been more concerned with books than boys. The kind of girls who preferred the latter were not the kind of girls her mother had wanted her to associate with, but she could quite believe Morgan would have had no such qualms.

  On the contrary, if he had looked anything like he looked now at sixteen-and he must have done-she doubted the girls would have given him much choice in the matter.

  She shook her head, and Morgan expelled a heavy breath. ‘You think I didn’t want to?’ he demanded, his voice low and harsh, and she realised she was getting out of her depth. `

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said again, putting down her glass, as the association between her careless words and the heady brew she was drinking coalesced. ‘Er-how long have you worked for-for the Embassy?’

  ‘A month.’

  Catherine’s brows drew together. ‘The-month you’ve been in England.’

  ‘Right.’

  Catherine hesitated. It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about himself, but anything was better than risking another indiscretion, and swallowing another mouthful of her sandwich, she said, ‘And-before that?’

  Morgan’s mouth compressed. ‘Washington.'

  ‘You worked at the Pentagon?’

  ‘No. Not at the Pentagon.’

  Ignoring his increasingly withdrawn expression, Catherine forced herself to go on. ‘Denzil worked at the Pentagon, before he came to London,’ she said.

  ‘Did he?’ Morgan didn’t sound interested.

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine considered for a moment, and then took another sip of her champagne to fortify her. ‘And-you and he were old army buddies, weren’t you?’

  Morgan picked up the champagne bottle. ‘Who told you that?’

  Catherine licked her lips. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’ He was very definite about that.

  ‘Oh-well, then, Kay must have done,’ she declared carelessly. ‘Does it matter? You were in the army, weren’t you?’ Another thought occurred to her. ‘Did they show you how to do what you did to Melvin?’

  Morgan was scowling now, and she knew she was treading the very thin line between advantage and disaster. ‘What did they teach you? Karate?’

  Morgan gave her another daunting look, and then thrust the bottle back into the basket. ‘I guess,’ he answered curtly, and, when she refused anything else to eat, he tossed the wicker basket on to the back seat of the Mercedes. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected the bottle wasn’t empty, and the possibility that he had spilled champagne over the glove-soft leather upholstery caused her head to turn. But she sensed anything she said now would be futile, and she was not surprised when he leant forward and started the engine.

  ‘I guess you’d better buckle up,’ he said, checking the rear-view mirror for traffic, and, before she could empty her glass, they were moving away.

  It was half-past two when he dropped her outside the block of offices, pausing only long enough for her to make a hasty exit from the car.

  ‘Thank you for lunch,’ she said awkwardly, but Morgan only nodded, before setting the tyres spinning. The Mercedes disappeared around the corner of Cannon Square without him giving her so much as a backward glance, and Catherine entered the building with a distinct sense of anticlimax. Not even the lingering taste of the champagne could elevate her mood, and she made her way to her desk feeling totally deflated.

  * * *

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She had hardly settled into 'her seat before Melvin Scott was beside her, and, looking up into his flushed, anxious face, she stifled her own miseries.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a strange ,man-a strange man to her colleagues, at least-to accost her in the street. ‘Surely you weren’t worried about me?’

  ‘Well, of course I was worried,’ exclaimed Melvin tersely. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘I know.’ Catherine tried to keep the edge out of her voice without really succeeding. ‘I-er-well, you know what-restaurants are like. They take ages to serve you.’

  Melvin frowned. ‘That’s where you’ve been? Having lunch in some restaurant?’

  ‘Where else?’
Catherine wondered at her own capacity for lying. ‘I’m sorry if you thought something terrible had happened to me, but, as you can see, I’m still in one piece!

  ‘Hmm,’ Melvin acknowledged the truth of this statement, but he still looked troubled. ‘You-er-you’ve known him some time, huh?’

  Catherine sighed. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not.’ Melvin looked a little sulky now. ‘But I’d look out for myself, if I were you. He can be a nasty customer, when it suits him.’

  Catherine bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry if he hurt you, Mel-’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing.’ Melvin dismissed her apology with some indignation.

  ‘He didn’t hurt me. Well-not really. But you wouldn’t stand much chance with him, if he turned awkward.'

  'I realise that.’ Catherine was getting tired of this conversation. Besides, Melvin’s voice was carrying right round the room, and she doubted any of her fellow operators was in any doubt as to how she had spent her lunch hour.

  ‘Anyway, if you’re sure you know what you’re doing . . .’

  ‘I do.’ Catherine was terse now.

  ‘Well-all right. Oh-by the way. . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘John was looking for you earlier. He wanted some figures you were supposed to have ready for him.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ It was a salutary reminder of what she was supposed to be thinking about. ‘I'll-er-I’ll get them printed right away. Thanks, Melvin.’

  She paused, and then added reluctantly, ‘For everything.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CATHERINE spent the rest of the day anticipating Kay’s appearance, but Mr Hollingsworth must have kept her busy, because her friend did not come around. And, in spite of her prolonged lunch hour, John Humphries made no complaint. ‘It’s not as if it happens every day,’ he remarked, after complimenting her on the. set of figures she had given him. ‘Who is this chap? Anyone I know?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Catherine politely, loading some papers she wanted to take home into her briefcase. ‘Thanks, John. See you in the morning.’

  She thought he would have liked to have continued with the discussion, but Catherine had had enough for one day. There was still the corridor, and the lift, to face, and she was overwhelmingly relieved when she emerged from the building without having to give another account of herself. Really, she thought, men could be as bad as women sometimes. Melvin had acted just as her mother would have done, and even John Humphries had shown he was not indifferent to her activities. She was supposed to be free, and unattached. Yet as soon as another man came on the scene, everyone wanted to get in on the act.

  Only Hector asked no questions, she reminded herself, later that evening, tucked up on her armchair, in front of the television. At least he took her as he found her, making no statements, no generalisations, and definitely no criticisms. Ensconced on her lap, he was quite content to share her space, but never overrun it. They each had their own place, she told herself firmly, and then wondered why that declaration suddenly seemed so hollow.

  Damn Morgan Lynch, she thought painfully, sniffing. It was all his fault.

  Before he had come on the scene, her life had been so uncomplicated. Oh, she had been nursing a misapprehension about her feelings for Neil, but that hadn’t really been important. In fact, it had probably helped her to be more discerning when it came to other relationships.

  But with Morgan there had been no discernment, no choice, just a blind need that grew with every minute she spent in his company. And it was so crazy! She had never been that kind of girl. She had always considered sex as a vastly overrated pastime, and her relationship with Neil had owed more to a simple compatibility with one another than to any great passion on either side. Indeed, she had been firmly convinced she was incapable of feelings of that kind, and it had come as no real surprise to discover that she couldn’t have children. It had hurt, of course. No woman liked to feel she was incapable of accomplishing her primary role in life, but her work had always been ample compensation. Now it wasn’t. Now she found herself wanting other things, and the very idea of having a baby with Morgan filled her with emotions that were insanely distracting.

  Her lips tightened. Not that her deficiency was likely to mean anything to him, she thought bitterly. Morgan was firmly in control of his feelings where she was concerned, and, although he apparently felt some attraction for her, there were limitations on their relationship. It was all right as long as she understood what those limitations were, but if she overstepped some invisible line he had drawn the consequences were obvious.

  Well, to hell with him, she thought tearfully, rubbing the heels of her hands across her eyes. If his fragile ego couldn’t stand a few simple questions it was just too bad. The next time-if there was a next time, she admitted tremulously-he came around, she would tell him to get lost. Her original fears about getting involved with him had been justified, and she might as well get out now, before he really hurt her.

  She had gone into the kitchen to make herself a cup of cocoa when the doorbell rang. Hector miaowed, and Catherine stood, with a saucepan of milk clutched in one hand and a teaspoon in the other, momentarily incapable of thought. Then, setting the saucepan down, she took the breath she had been holding. Morgan, she guessed, running nervous hands down the seams of her sweat pants. He must have had second thoughts after leaving her that afternoon, and come back to apologise. And here she was, looking her worst in the outfit she used to do her aerobics.

  But, so what? she asked herself abruptly. Good heavens, only live minutes ago she had been rehearsing what she would say if he came around again, and she was getting into a panic, just because she didn’t look her best.

  What did it matter? She wasn’t going to let him in. Was she. . .?

  Even so, as she walked along the hall, she couldn’t help noticing how the long-sleeved leotard hugged her full breasts, and how the loose-fitting pants exaggerated the swell of her hips. If only she had had her bath, as she had intended. But she had flopped down into her chair after exercising, and apathy had kept her there, staring mindlessly at the television. But it was too late now, and, summoning all her confidence, she pulled open the door.

  ‘ Neil! ’

  Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to find her ex-husband on her doorstep. Since the divorce, she had seen him only once and then in company with her solicitor. There had been no social contact whatsoever, and for a moment the sense of devastation that gripped her at the realisation that it wasn’t Morgan robbed her face of all colour.

  ‘Catherine.’ Neil acknowledged her stunned use of his name with some concern. Then, misinterpreting her reaction, he added gently, ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ Catherine struggled to regain her composure. She might have had doubts about her ability to handle Morgan, but she had none where her ex-husband was concerned. ‘What do you want, Neil?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Come in?’ She was staggered, and showed it. She looked beyond him.

  ‘Is-er-is Marie with you?’

  ‘No. I’m alone.’ Neil checked his tie with what she recognised was a nervous hand. ‘I-can we talk?’

  Catherine shook her head, but after a moment she stepped aside to allow him into the house. How could she refuse? she thought resignedly, They were not enemies, after all. In fact, they had had an amazingly civilised.

  divorce, and, although it had been due in no small part to her desire for anonymity, Neil had been co-operative when she had wanted to keep the house.

  ‘Oh-this is nice,’ he said now, walking into the sitting-room, and Catherine thought how amazing it was that his presence in the room meant absolutely nothing to her. He could have been a stranger, and, treating him as she would a stranger, she offered him a seat.

  ‘I was just making some co-coffee,’ she said, changing the word at the last minute. What little pride she had would not admit to making cocoa. It smacked o
f hot water bottles, and bed-jackets, and she had no intention of providing him with that kind of ammunition.

  ‘I’d prefer something stronger, if you have it,’ Neil answered now, perching on the edge of the sofa. ‘But if not, coffee will do. It’s damn cold out there.'

  ‘Is it?’ Catherine lifted her shoulders in an indifferent gesture.

  ‘You’d better believe it.’ Neil stretched his neck, as if his collar was too tight, and Catherine remembered how that particular habit of his used to irritate her.

  Turning away, she ran a hand round the back of her neck, under the silky weight of her hair. ‘I’ve got some sherry,’ she said, opening the door of a darkwood cabinet. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Fine.’ Neil nodded. ‘Will you join me?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Catherine glanced thoughtfully towards the kitchen, and then, lifting Hector into her arms, she seated herself in her armchair again.

  ‘I don’t want anything right now.’

  ‘Oh-well, OK.’ Neil swallowed a generous mouthful of the oloroso she had given him, and licked his lips in appreciation. ‘This is good.’

  ‘Good.’ Catherine pushed her spectacles up her nose, and regarded him coolly through the curved lenses. ‘So, what do you want?’

  Neil grimaced. 'That’s not very friendly. Why do I have to want something? Perhaps this is just a social call.’

  ‘Neil-’

  ‘Well, it could be. We are still friends, aren’t we?’ He looked down at his drink. ‘I thought we were.’

  Catherine sighed. ‘Neil,’ she said again, and he looked up at her with curiously defensive eyes.

  ‘You’re looking well, anyway,’ he said, and for once she didn’t wilt beneath his critical appraisal. ‘Really well,’ he added. ‘You always were a good-looking woman.’

  Catherine almost gasped. ‘You didn’t used to think so.’

  ‘Yes, I did.” Neil was indignant. ‘Oh, I know I’ve said some cruel things in my time, but I didn’t always mean them. Haven’t you ever said anything in the heat of the moment, and then regretted it later?’