Such Sweet Poison Read online

  Hector was presently employed in settling himself on Morgan’s knee, and Morgan ran his hand along the whole length of the cat’s arching spine before replying. ‘Some,’ he conceded at last, non-committally. Then, ‘You never did tell me what an investment analyst does. Do you work for the stock exchange?’

  Catherine’s lips tightened. It was obvious he didn’t like talking about himself. This was the second time he had turned her questions against her, and, in spite of her determination not to get involved with this man, her curiosity was piqued.

  ‘I’m employed by an insurance company,’ she said now. ‘I study the economy, and make recommendations about investments. I’m sure you’d find it very boring.’ She paused. ‘Not at all glamorous, like the diplomatic service.’

  Morgan’s hand paused midway along Hector’s back. ‘I’m not a diplomat,’

  he said flatly. He drew a considering breath, and then continued, ‘I guess you compare the performances of different industries, don’t you? So that pension schemes give good returns, that sort of thing.'

  She was surprised at his understanding of her job, but she refused to let him divert her. ‘That’s right,’ she said, dismissing the topic. ‘So-if you’re not a diplomat, what do you do? I thought Kay said you worked in Denzil's section.’

  ‘I do.’ Morgan expelled a heavy breath, watching how Hector’s fur rose between his fingers as his hand moved along the animal’s spine. ‘I guess you could say I’m a general dogsbody,’ he added, and when his eyes lifted to Catherine’s face, she felt impaled by their chilling penetration. ‘Does that satisfy you? Or would you like to know exactly how I spend my days?’

  Catherine felt a wave of heat envelop her. ‘I wasn’t-that is-I’m sorry if you think I was-prying. I’m-interested, that’s all.’ She took a steadying breath.

  ‘You didn’t have to answer me.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’ A little of the coldness left his face, but his mouth took on a half-contemptuous slant. ‘And if I hadn’t answered you, you’d have left it there, right?’

  Catherine’s free hand moved nervously to the silky black hair at the back of her neck. Her hair was straight, unflatteringly so, she sometimes thought, but it was decently cut, and tilted under slightly where it brushed her shoulders. Just now, it provided a suitable support to hold on to, and she met his sardonic stare with some defiance.

  ‘You can ask questions about me, but I can’t ask questions about you, is that right?’ she asked, amazed at her own audacity, and he held her gaze for only a moment longer, before giving a rueful snort.

  ‘Something like that,’ he agreed, and now she sensed that his contempt was directed towards himself. ‘Let’s just say I’m a man of mystery, hmm?’

  ‘Like Houdini?’ suggested Catherine quickly, her voice a little unsteady with relief, but Morgan shook his head.

  ‘More like the Phantom of the Opera,’ he remarked, wincing as Hector tried his claws against his bare leg. He studied the cat for a while, and then said quietly, ‘Do you ever go to the theatre?’

  Catherine leant forward to put her coffee mug back on the tray.

  ‘Not-usually,’ she admitted, wondering what he would think if she told him how insular she had become since Neil walked out. ‘I-don’t go out a lot.’ Which had to be the understatement of the year!

  ‘Would you? If I invited you?’ he asked, still looking at Hector, and Catherine caught her breath.

  ‘What?’ she mumbled, playing for time. ‘Go-to the theatre with you?’ She shook her head foolishly. ‘When?’

  Morgan looked up then, his tawny eyes strangely wary. ‘Whenever,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘Would you?’

  Catherine swallowed. She was not prepared for this. The last thing she had expected was for Morgan Lynch to invite her out. She wasn’t his type. She wasn’t anyone’s type, let’s face it, she thought bitterly. Particularly not a man who, for all his claims of being a dogsbody, wore expensive suits, and looked like every woman’s sexual fantasy. He wasn’t interested in her. Not really, If she hadn’t practically kidnapped him and brought him here, she doubted they would have even seen one another again, let alone made a date. For some reason, he must feel he owed her something. Maybe he felt obliged to make some kind of offer, because, whether he had wanted it or not, she had rescued him from the rain. Yes, that had to be it. He probably felt sorry for her. Well, she didn’t need his sympathy. She was quite capable of finding someone to take her out, if she ever felt the need to do so.

  Now, uncrossing her legs, she linked her hands together on her knees. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she began, choosing her words with care, ‘but--’

  ‘You’ll take a raincheck, right?’ Morgan finished the sentence for her, his tone ironic, and, although they weren’t quite the words she would have used, Catherine nodded.

  ‘I-er-I’d better go and see how your clothes are getting on,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘You-you finish your coffee. I won’t be a minute.’

  In actual fact, she was several minutes. By the time she had let herself out of the sitting-room and walked the few yards to the kitchen, Catherine was shaking quite badly, and she took quite a while to gather her composure. It had taken some courage to turn him down, not least because she really hadn’t wanted to do it. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that the idea of going out with Morgan was compulsively appealing. And it wasn’t just because she thought he might be feeling sorry for her that she had turned him down. It was because she sensed how dangerous it would be for her to get involved with a man like him-a man who looked like an angel, but who was probably a devil in disguise. She was attracted to him.

  There was no denying that. But something told her the risks were too great; that Morgan Lynch could hurt her far more than Neil had ever done.

  When she eventually pulled herself together sufficiently to remember why she had come out to the kitchen in the first place, Catherine drew a breath, and moved over to the radiator to examine his coat and waistcoat and trousers. Lifting the trousers off the radiator, she discovered that they at least were virtually dry, but the shoulders of his jacket were still damp. But not damp enough to prevent him wearing it, she thought, hardening her heart. And, as the dryer had already switched itself off, his shirt, socks and underpants had to be dry, too.

  And they were, the shirt sliding silkily between her fingers, so that she was made inescapably aware of its quality. On impulse, she brought the soft fabric to her cheek, rubbing it against her skin. It was deliciously sensuous, and it was only when she felt her lips turning against its smoothness that she thrust it away from her. God in heaven, what was she doing? she asked herself disgustedly. It was only a shirt, after all. She had silk shirts of her own.

  Deciding the jacket might as well stay on the radiator as long as possible, she folded the other garments over her arm, and walked back to the sitting-room. A glance at her watch had alerted her to the fact that it was already half-past eleven. Late enough for someone who had to be up at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Indeed, it was at least an hour later than she usually went to bed-though she had no intention of telling him that.

  However, when she opened the sitting-room door, she realised that telling Morgan anything would be purely academic. In her absence, he had shifted his position, and now he was stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep. Asleep, she thought frustratedly, with Hector curled confidingly into the curve of his hip.

  Her first impulse was to slam the door and wake him up. But she was not naturally a spiteful person, and a closer inspection of his supine form revealed the unexpected evidence of exhaustion in his face. There were dark hollows beneath the silky fringe of his lashes, she saw now, and a certain weariness to his expression that wasn’t entirely erased, even in sleep. He looked. .. She sought for a word to describe him, and could only come up with one-vulnerable.

  But that was ridiculous, she chided herself impatiently. There was nothing remotely vulnerable about Morgan Lynch. It was just her i
magination working overtime, as usual. And yet, that world-weary tiredness was not faked. It couldn’t be. Not when he was unconscious. So, for some reason, he must find it difficult to sleep in his own bed.

  It wasn’t until she had shooed Hector out of the room, and covered her unwanted houseguest with a warm quilt before seeking the sanctuary of her own bed, that Catherine thought of an alternative solution. Curling her toes into the cuffs of her satin pyjamas, she reflected that it was quite possible he had been burning the candle fairly continuously since he came to London. A man alone, with no wife or girlfriend to curtail his activities, he probably slept in a different bed every night.

  She found this thought so unpalatable that it was at least another hour before she got to sleep herself. And when, in the early hours of the morning, Hector came to warm her toes, she unkindly kicked him off.

  After all, he hadn’t proved himself to be much of a judge of character, she thought uncharitably. He had been quite prepared to switch his affections when it had suited him.

  It was still dark, though not as dark as it had been, when Hector started to howl. At first, Catherine thought he was protesting because she had kicked him off the bed, but then she discovered he was still on the bed, though not in his usual position. Instead, she could see his outline at the foot of the mattress, tail up, back arched, in his most aggressive stance, and her spine tingled at the thought of what might have caused his agitation.

  ‘Ssh,’ she said, rolling over and reaching for her spectacles. Sliding them on to her nose, she struggled to sit up. She had been sound asleep and it wasn’t easy to pull herself together. She couldn’t imagine what could be the cause of his distress, and, while she tried to convince herself that she couldn’t have an intruder at five o’clock in the morning, Hector’s howls were not abating.

  She was wondering whether she should switch on a light when she heard it.

  Over and above the cat’s squalling, she could hear another sound, one equally as nerve-tingling, and her blood froze. It was a man’s voice, of that she was fairly certain. But the unearthly sounds it was making were barely human.

  And then she remembered who was occupying her sofa downstairs.

  Morgan Lynch. Swallowing, she reached for the lamp, and turned it on.

  Was it possible that he was making that noise? Dear God! She shivered uncontrollably. What kind of man was he? Was he really mad, after all?

  She thought of hammering on the wall for help, but the Tollands on one side of her were away, and she wasn’t keen on waking up the Randalls.

  She hardly knew them anyway, and what she did know was not encouraging. Mrs Randall was the kind of woman who subjugated her needs to those of her husband, and pretended she wouldn’t have it any other way. And, although Mr Randall didn’t actually beat his wife-at least, Catherine had never heard him doing so-he did treat her with a certain amount of contempt. He was not somebody Catherine would choose to run to in a situation like this, and, realising she couldn’t just sit there and let Morgan wake the whole neighbourhood, she swung her legs reluctantly over the side of the bed.

  Hector leapt off the bed and accompanied her, as she opened the bedroom door and padded to the top of the stairs. His bristling presence was not exactly supportive, but at least 'he had stopped his noisy protest. However, it meant that the sounds from downstairs were that much louder now, and, not knowing what to expect, Catherine started down.

  Hector ran ahead of her as they reached the bottom, but Catherine’s legs were not so steady. Indeed, they were decidedly unsteady, and belatedly she remembered that she hadn't put on her dressing-gown. Not that she was cold. On the contrary, she was perspiring quite freely. But still...

  At least the sitting-room door was closed, she saw as Hector paced angrily before it. She had half expected Morgan to be systematically laying Waste to the house, and, now that she was downstairs, the front door was infinitely more appealing. She could just grab a coat and rush out into the street, she thought. There were people who would help her not a dozen yards away. The Scotts, for example. Oh, Mrs Scott was inclined to be nosy, but what did that matter, if the choice was between life and death?

  Would she rather be embarrassed and alive, or a conservative corpse?

  The harrowing sounds went on, and she drew a trembling breath. It was like some sort of ritual keening, she thought, trying to be rational about it.

  The rise and fall of cadence had all the anguish of a lament, and yet there was a harshness to its tone that was more savage than mournful. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of her, and, for the first time in her life, she wished she had a weapon of some sort to defend herself.

  And then the noise stopped. Abruptly, without any warning, the sounds were cut off, and their place was taken by an eerie silence. Catherine swallowed, and she heard its echo with almost deafening resonance. Even Hector stopped his pacing to stare at her with accusing yellow eyes, and she shook her head in a gesture of helpless indignation.

  But what now? What should she do? Go back upstairs to bed, and pretend she hadn’t heard anything? Was that what Morgan would expect her to do?

  Perhaps he had heard her coming down the stairs, although how he could have done in the circumstances was beyond her. Whatever, she would probably be well-advised to do just that. There was no point in courting trouble-or danger either, for that matter.

  But she didn’t. No matter how sensible it might seem to avoid a confrontation, she couldn’t go back upstairs without finding out exactly what had been going on. This was her house, after all, she told herself defensively. He had no right to behave as if it was a lunatic asylum.

  Besides, she was very much afraid that if she went back upstairs now the noise might start all over again. And she didn’t think she would have the courage to come downstairs a second time.

  Acknowledging Hector’s impatient stance, she trod along the hall to the sitting-room door and halted. Should she knock, she wondered, or was that just another attempt on the part of her subconscious to delay the evil moment? It did seem ridiculous to think about knocking, when for the past goodness knew how long Morgan had shown absolutely no consideration for her feelings whatsoever.

  Taking every bit of courage she had in her hands, she put her fingers on the handle of the door and turned it. Darkness. Beyond the door, no flicker of light was visible, and, with trembling fingers, she reached for the hall light switch and turned it on.

  Immediately, the interior of the sitting-room was dimly illuminated, and as her eyes adjusted themselves to the light she saw that Morgan was, amazingly, where she had left him. The only difference was that the quilt she had thrown over him was now on the floor, but otherwise he didn’t appear to have moved.

  She licked her dry lips, her thoughts racing. Was it possible that what she had heard was his reaction to a nightmare? Was it conceivable that he had been unaware of what he was doing?

  She could hardly believe it. But what other solution was there? He certainly seemed to be asleep now, and her heartbeats steadied at the thought that there could be some reasonable explanation for all this.

  Hector had slipped into the room when she opened the door, and, although he hadn’t resumed his previous position on the sofa, Catherine knew she couldn’t leave him in there. It was possible that Morgan had awakened earlier, and he would know Hector hadn’t been in there then. So perhaps it was unwise to pose the question now as to how he had returned.

  Her bare toes curling into the soft carpet, Catherine tiptoed across the floor to where Hector was standing on the tumbled quilt. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, overpoweringly aware of the sound of Morgan’s harsh breathing, as she tipped the cat off the quilt and picked it up. But when she moved to cover the man on the couch with the quilt, her attention was caught by the sight of Morgan’s face. Even in the diffused light from the hall, it was impossible not to notice the beads of sweat standing on his forehead, or the moist strands of hair that lay against his neck. Although his skin was dar
k, it was oddly pale, and even the skin of his chest, bared by the parting lapels of the bathrobe, was obviously damp.

  Catherine only hesitated a moment before putting out her hand and touching his brow. It was cold, and clammy, and she looked around the room in dismay. But it wasn’t cold. Certainly not cold enough to induce symptoms of this sort, and she was nervously fingering her spectacles when he spoke.

  ‘What time is it?'

  Catherine jumped, and even Hector gave an indignant growl. After the horrifying sounds of the last fifteen minutes, to hear Morgan speak in a perfectly normal voice was almost unnerving in itself, and Catherine could only stare at him in mute consternation.

  Morgan stared at her, too, uncomprehendingly at first, and then with slow recognition. Levering himself up on one elbow, he ran the palm of his other hand down his cheek. It came away soaked with his own sweat, and he uttered a groan before sinking back against the cushions.

  ‘God, I guess I went to sleep, right?’

  Catherine nodded. Pushing the silky black hair that brushed the collar of her pyjamas behind her ears, she took a hasty look at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It-it’s half-past five,’ she said, holding the quilt in front of her, as if it was a shield. She moistened her lips. ‘Are-are you all right?’

  Morgan drew a deep breath, before looking up at her through the thick veil of his lashes. ‘Did I wake you?’ he asked, without answering her.

  ‘Er-I think so,’ she admitted awkwardly, and, when he made another sound of protest, and drew up one leg so that the bathrobe fell apart across his thighs, she quickly thrust the quilt down on top of him. But not quickly enough, she acknowledged, the memory of hair-roughened limbs indelibly imprinted on her mind.

  Morgan’s features twisted. ‘What did I do? What did you hear?’

  Catherine, bereft of the quilt, felt unbearably exposed. ‘Er-oh, nothing much,’ she lied, unable to tell him the truth. Not now. ‘I-er-Hector woke me, actually. He-he hears everything. Any-any small sound.’

  ‘Or any loud one, right?’ Morgan continued drily. He groaned again, and raked the nails of both hands across his scalp. ‘Hell, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here. Why didn’t you just wake me up and send me on my way?’