Dangerous Temptation (18 page)

"I don't think so."

He tried to sound regretful, but he could tell by her expression that she knew she was being given the brush-off. "Suit yourself," she said, and tossing her head, she sashayed back to the bar. Bending forward, she exchanged a few words with the burly proprietor, and when they both turned and looked in his direction, he decided it was time to call it a day.

Tossing a couple of dollar bills onto the table, he picked up his bag and hurried out into the parking lot. It was getting dark, the overcast sky bringing a premature twilight in its wake. It was time he got back to his hotel. He had no desire to be mugged on top of everything else.

He climbed into the rental car, stowing the bag beside him, but he didn't immediately start the engine. He was in no hurry to get back to the dump where he was staying. That was why he'd been spending time in the diner—because the room he was occupying was such a wreck. He'd never stayed in such a fleapit, but it was cheap and convenient, even if he had slept on the only armchair rather than climb between those grubby sheets.

He sighed. If only he knew what was going on in New York. Okay, his brother was in the hospital, but what had he told them about himself? What might he have told Carl Walker's henchmen, for God's sake? Had the other guy sent someone over to check out he was really there?

Yet why should he? he argued, trying to convince himself. The crash had been public enough, and no one could doubt that the plane had gone up in smoke. And all the baggage with it, he reminded himself grimly. Whatever happened, Carl must believe the cocaine had been destroyed.

He licked lips that had suddenly dried. He couldn't dismiss the thought that Carl was too clever to let him get away with it. What if he'd already been to see his brother and found out from him that he had been going to double-cross him? He caught his breath. What if they were waiting for him when he tried to cross the border? God, it might be simpler to go back and face the music.

And face going to prison, he amended bitterly. Whatever happened, Matthew Webster would demand his pound of flesh. Even if Carl was mollified by getting his property back—which he doubted—there was still the problem of the South American contract. He could expect no help from Carl. He'd tried to defraud the man, and Carl Walker didn't forgive that sort of thing. If he got away with his life, he'd consider himself lucky. A life sentence was probably more than he deserved.

So, was he committed to going on with this? He shook his head. What alternatives did he have? If only he knew what his brother was saying. There was only one person who might help him find out.

They left for Fairings on Friday afternoon.

Caitlin was driving—her own hatchback, not the flashy Cosworth that Nathan had left parked in the underground garage. She'd half expected him to object when she drove the Corrado out into the watery autumn sunshine, but of course he didn't know what he usually drove.

Besides, they were hardly speaking to one another. Since he'd arrived back at the flat on Wednesday afternoon, their relationship seemed to have gone from bad to worse. But Caitlin had been nearly out of her mind with worry, and it didn't help when Nathan behaved as if nothing was wrong.

When he hadn't returned by three o'clock, she'd even considered contacting her father again and asking him if he thought she should call the police. After all, Nathan was missing. And he probably shouldn't have been allowed to go out on his own in the first place.

But the knowledge that her father would blame her for Nathan's disappearance had prevented her from asking for his help. And, in the event, her husband had arrived back, apparently none the worse for wear. He'd merely offered an excuse about forgetting the time, and his assertion that he remembered the city was little compensation in the circumstances.

Consequently, she hadn't been entirely able to prevent her anger at his thoughtlessness from showing, and their stilted exchange had swiftly deteriorated into an uneasy silence. She'd justified her anxiety by the fact that Nathan was still on medication, and as far as she knew, he'd had nothing to eat all day.

She couldn't help it if he had been disappointed when she'd dashed his hopes about the army. It wasn't her fault that he'd got it wrong. For heaven's sake, if he didn't want to hear the truth, he shouldn't ask her. It was no use telling him lies just to make him feel good.

An uneasy supper had followed. Mrs Spriggs had prepared a chicken casserole before she left, and Caitlin had served it with pasta. But Nathan had only picked at his food, despite her careful admonitions, and he'd eventually admitted he'd bought a burger with a ten-pound note he'd found in his jacket pocket.

The news had infuriated Caitlin. The knowledge that while she had been frantic with worry, he'd been sitting in some fast-food restaurant, stuffing himself with cholesterol, brought a resentful lump to her throat. Though why had she expected anything different? she wondered, digging her fork with some fury into her food. Nathan had never considered her feelings. Ever. Losing his memory was unlikely to alter that.

He left her alone after supper. He made some remark about needing the bathroom, and Caitlin spent another fretful couple of hours waiting for him to come back. When he didn't return, and despite her better judgment, she felt obliged to go and check on him, she discovered he was fast asleep on his bed, still fully clothed.

Exhaustion had evidently got the better of him, and she'd stood there for some time, wondering if she ought to try and take off his clothes. But the fear that he might awake while she was doing it made her cautious. Although she couldn't deny the unwilling tug of compassion he aroused in her, she had no desire for him to get the wrong idea.

She contented herself with removing his shoes and throwing a blanket over him. At least she could be sure he wouldn't take a chill. He didn't stir; he seemed to be sleeping like a baby. And in spite of everything that had gone before, she was relieved.

On Thursday morning, Caitlin received a phone call from a neurologist whom her father had apparently asked to take over Nathan's treatment. He wanted to arrange an appointment for her husband at his clinic, and although her father had said nothing about it to her, Caitlin made a provisional booking for the following week.

But she resented the fact that once again her father should have chosen to interfere in her life. All right, so Henrik Neilson was a friend of his, and the man had contacted her himself instead of leaving his secretary to do it; nevertheless, it was an intrusion. Her father had no right to try and run their lives. Besides, Nathan had his own doctor. And as he apparently didn't need any further treatment, what did Neilson hope to do?

Nathan himself hadn't been around when she took the call. It was still fairly early, and so far as she knew, he was still in bed. She got something of a shock, therefore, when she heard someone coming into the flat. It was too early for Mrs Spriggs, and the sight of her husband in a dark blue jogging outfit brought an unwelcome awareness to her bones. His dark hair was damp and sweaty, and he exuded a distinctive aroma of cool air, heated skin and raw masculinity. A cocktail she was not as capable of dismissing as she should, she thought tensely.

In consequence, her voice was sharp as she challenged him. "Where have you been?" she demanded, forgetting that the night before she had determined not to get involved in what he did. He obviously didn't need her concern, and she could do without the hassle. If he chose to take risks with his health, it was nothing to do with her.

"Running," he replied after a moment, and she guessed he'd been tempted to mock her words. "Do I need your permission to leave the apartment? I borrowed your keys and locked the door. You'd left them lying on the table."

Caitlin didn't trust herself to answer him. Right now, he seemed too aggressive to provoke. But she couldn't help wondering when he'd decided to take up physical exercise. Was that why she'd thought he'd lost some weight?

He said nothing about her entering his room the night before, and neither did she. Instead, he went to take a shower, and Caitlin went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She was glad now that she'd chosen to dress before leaving her room. She didn't know why, but she suddenly felt vulnerable when Nathan was around.

It was over breakfast that she mentioned Henrik Neil-son's phone call. She had been reluctant to do so, but in the event, Nathan seemed undisturbed. "I guess your old man doesn't trust me, either," he remarked, helping himself to another cup of coffee. "What's the old guy afraid of? Does he think I might make off with his hard-earned loot?"

"Of course not." Caitlin didn't like remarks like that, even if they were justified. "Dr Harper himself said you should check in with a doctor."

"He said he'd send all my medical records to my own doctor," Nathan corrected her drily. "He didn't say anything about needing a specialist on my case." He shrugged. "Hey—if that's what your old man wants, then so be it. If anyone can do anything to help me, then I'm game."

Caitlin pressed her lips together. "My father is very-protective."

"Yeah. Right." Nathan regarded her with a studied gaze. "Did he tell you not to go to bed with me until he'd checked me out?"

"No." Caitlin was horrified, and she looked it. "I— think—we just need—"

"Some more time," finished Nathan sardonically. "Yeah, I've heard that one before. I just wish you'd tell me what's going on."

There was no answer to that, and Caitlin made an excuse of going to refill the coffeepot to leave the table. The trouble was, she was having difficulty in dealing with the present situation herself. Despite all that she knew of him, she was attracted to him. She was afraid of herself, afraid it would be fatally easy to succumb.

The morning had passed fairly uneventfully, with Mrs Spriggs providing a welcome buffer between them. It wasn't .until Caitlin's father rang in the early afternoon that she remembered she hadn't given Nathan his message, and by then, her husband was resting on his bed.

"You'll see him tomorrow, Daddy," she protested when Matthew Webster exhorted her to go and wake him up. "Besides, I don't know what you expect him to say to you. So far as he's concerned, he doesn't even remember your name."

"We'll see," responded her father enigmatically, revealing that Nathan hadn't been far wrong in his estimate of why the older man had chosen to contact the Harley Street physician. But at least it had enabled her to turn the tables on him. He'd rung off with her resentment ringing in his ears.

This morning, she'd made sure Nathan was still in bed when she'd left the flat. Deciding there was no point in trying to wet-nurse him, she'd left a message for Mrs Spriggs that she had gone to the shop. It was running away, and she knew it, but she needed an objective viewpoint. At least Janie understood what was going on.

And it was so good to see her friend again. After exchanging hugs, the two young women had sat down to share a mug of coffee together, Janie turning the sign on the door to Closed so they wouldn't be disturbed.

"So—what's happening?" she asked when Caitlin showed no inclination to offer an explanation. "Aren't you going to Fairings for the weekend after all?"