A Matter of Trust (18 page)

Callum opened his mouth, realised at once the futility of arguing with her, and closed it again.

Markie smiled sweetly. ‘I'll only be ten minutes.'

Callum smiled wryly. And pigs might fly. He might be a crusty and confirmed bachelor, but even he knew that women and packing and a ten-minute time-frame should never be used in one sentence.

*           *           *

They made good time travelling southwest, but just before they hit the Devon/Cornwall border, Callum's bottle-green Jaguar XJS began to loose power. The engine made a very un-Jaguar-like growl, and he was relieved to see signs to a market town just a mile ahead.

He nursed the car carefully to the nearest garage, which was thankfully open until midnight, and got out to talk to a mechanic. Markie used the time whilst a gaggle of men stood about looking under the hood of the impressive car, to visit the facilities. A quick touch-up of her lipstick and mascara and a quick squirt of perfume was all she needed.

Back outside, it was obvious from the look of disgust on Callum's face that the news wasn't good.

‘It won't be ready until mid-morning tomorrow at the earliest,' he said grimly. ‘The old girl's never let me down before,' he added, giving the car bonnet a brief tap.

‘Well, we'll just have to find a hotel,' Markie said fatalistically. ‘Perhaps he can recommend one,' she added, nodding towards the chief mechanic who was talking on his mobile, and obviously ordering some part for the car from a 24 hour service.

‘
The Three Pigeons
is a nice place,' he informed them helpfully when asked, and gave them directions. It wasn't hard to reach,
and
turned out to be a lovely old 17th Century coaching inn facing a flower-bedecked market square.

Inside, it was all old wood, opulence and atmosphere. ‘What a lovely place,' Markie said, glancing around. ‘I bet it's popular with the tourists,' she predicted.

And alas, so it was. The receptionist, a pretty brunette who was obviously well-impressed with Callum, had to admit that they only had one room left—a double.

‘We'll take it,' Markie said at once, before Callum could say a word. The brunette sighed and offered the register for their signature. Callum debated going off to find another hotel for himself, but realised he would look all kinds of a prude and fool if he did so.

And so, with warning bells ringing in his ears, he signed his name next to that of Markie Kendall in the register.

*           *           *

They dined at the hotel on simple dishes that were well presented and cooked. Markie opted for the Caesar Salad and grilled trout, whilst Callum preferred the Herb and Stilton soup and baked Hake. Both of them declined dessert.

It was barely ten, but Markie said she was tired, and wanted to go up to her room. Her eyes flashed in amusement, as she looked
across
the cleared table at him. ‘And I daresay after all that driving, you're about ready to flake out too,' she said with a distinctly challenging tilt to her delightful chin.

Callum's lips twitched grimly. It was as if the little madam was well aware of how uncomfortable this whole situation was making him, and was laughing up her sleeve at him.

‘Yes,' he said shortly, and got to his feet. They walked in silence up the single flight of stairs, Callum checking their room number on the key. ‘This is us,' he said a moment later, and unlocked the door.

The room was charming—it was, thankfully, not particularly low-ceilinged, but some dark beams had Callum walking below them warily. His head cleared them with only an inch or two to spare. Big diamond-paned windows overlooked the square, and a large four-poster bed dominated the room.

It was also en suite, and Callum gallantly allowed her the use of it first.

Markie, with a cheeky half-curtsy in gratitude, swept up her case and disappeared from view.

Callum used the time to pull the curtains and take off his shoes and socks. He eyed the bed grimly. It was a monster bed all right, and ideal for someone of his size. The only other pieces of furniture in the room consisted of two armchairs and a low coffee table. He could, at a pinch, put the two chairs together,
face
to face, and spend the night in them. But he wouldn't get much sleep.

And suddenly he felt a shaft of anger lance through him. No! He'd be damned if he would! If Miss Marcheta Kendall thought he was going to pussy-foot around her, she could bloody well think again!

He unbuttoned his sports jacket and slung it across one of the chairs, and was unbuttoning his shirt when the bathroom door opened and she walked in.

His heartbeat ratcheted up and his breathing stuttered in his chest.

She was wearing a long, diaphanous white negligee and was barefoot. Her long black hair flowed freely down her back, and her face had been washed and cleansed free of makeup. Her natural beauty made her look younger and more vulnerable.

He swallowed hard.

‘It's all yours,' Markie said brightly, indicating the room behind her. Her eyes, though, were on his hands, and the v-shaped triangle of skin on his bared chest. She could see silver-tinted chest hairs, and the broad, tanned expanse of his well-muscled chest. Her mouth went suddenly dry.

Callum nodded, and wordlessly moved past her.

In the bathroom he spent way too long brushing his teeth and shaving and washing. At last though, he could postpone it no longer,
and
walked back into the bedroom.

All the lights were out, but the street lamps outside shone through the lightweight curtains, bathing the room in an amber glow. From the monster four-poster he heard a slight rustle of movement. So she was already in bed and waiting for him.

He undressed wordlessly, slipping into the pyjama bottoms that were all that he wore in bed.

From the four-poster Markie watched, fascinated, as the huge shape of him loomed over her. He looked like a bronzed Adonis in the amber light, his silver-blond hair gleaming in the darkness. Her heart began to thump like a jack hammer.

What had she been thinking? Over Dinner she'd been able to airily assure him that it was possible for two rational human beings to be able to share a bed and do nothing but sleep. In an emergency, of course, what was wrong with that? She'd sounded insouciant and sophisticated enough then, she thought with a somewhat rueful grin.

But now, when she felt the man's weight and warmth beside her, and felt overwhelmed by the impressive latent power in his well-muscled physique, she felt suddenly, breathlessly, anxious.

She lay, tensed and ready for him to make his move.

Beside her, the psychologist in Callum
Fielding
instantly sensed her sudden tension. And in the darkness he smiled broadly.

So the super-cool Marcheta wasn't quite the woman of the world she pretended to be.

Good.

And feeling infinitely happier, he turned over onto his side, and relaxed into sleep.

CHAPTER NINE

If Markie Kendall lay in bed that night wondering about an indifferent man who didn't seem to respond to her at all, several hours earlier, and back in Oxford, another young woman had exactly the opposite problem.

Namely, wondering how to cope with too much attention from a very forceful man indeed.

*           *           *

Nesta sighed resignedly, and got slowly to her feet from her hiding place beneath Sir Vivian's desk. ‘Hello Lisle,' she said quietly.

Lisle stared at her, gimlet eyed. ‘You've got some nerve,' he said at last, a trace of reluctant respect in his voice. ‘I'll give you that.'

Nesta managed a rather unconvincing smile. ‘Oh. Thanks.'

Lisle
slowly shook his head. He took a further step into the room, turned, and quietly closed the door behind him. There was such an excruciatingly patient control in his every movement that Nesta felt the hairs rise on the back of her own neck.

He was furious.

She swallowed hard.

Just as well he hadn't caught her checking out Sir Vivian's home earlier. He'd really have hit the roof then! She'd gone there a few hours ago, remembering that Sir Vivian had kept a spare key to his back door in his rickety greenhouse. She'd gone whilst it was still dark, mindful of nosy neighbours, glad, for once, of the long, dark winter mornings.

But she had not found a trace of her father's papers at the house in Park End. She'd seen a lot of evidence of police forensic activity, though—the place had been covered with a shiny, black residue of dust that she assumed must have been used in checking for fingerprints. She'd been scrupulously careful to disturb nothing, and had read nothing of Sir Vivian's private papers at all. She'd felt enough like a grubby little spy as it was. Even though she was only trying to recover her property.

But, when the papers hadn't shown up in either Sir Vivian's study, the living room, or his bedside cabinet, she'd decided that either the police now had them, or that they were
somewhere
else. Working on the hypothesis that the police would not be interested in years old ex-students theses, she'd decided to check out his office. Just in case.

But, somehow, watching Lisle Jarvis turn and close the door and then lean against it, folding his arms across his impressive chest and staring at her like a starling inspects a particularly juicy worm, she somehow didn't think that now was the time to tell him what she'd been doing with her morning.

In fact . . .

‘Tell me, Miss Aldernay,' Lisle said silkily, ‘just where were you the night that Sir Vivian was killed?'

Nesta blinked at him. Then slowly smiled.

Did he seriously suspect her?

Yes, she thought, with mingled dismay and anger. He did.

‘I was with friends. To be more accurate, with friends of my father. He was an undergraduate, then a graduate here, many years ago. I looked them up,' she told him, keeping her voice purely business-like and unafraid.

Lisle got out his notebook. ‘Names please. And addresses.'

Nesta sighed wearily. ‘I don't know all of their addresses. But I know the name and address of my father's old room mate. It was at his place where we all met up. And he lived in Wolvercote.'

She
named the small village, right on the outskirts of the city. ‘We met at the Trout, a pub in the village, and had a few drinks then, at closing time, we all moved to his place.'

She supplied the man's name and address, and a list of the rest of her father's friends. ‘I'd called Roger Waring when I first came to Oxford, and told him who I was. He contacted the others, and invited them over. Most stayed in the area. Oxford, it seems, gets in your blood.'

Lisle ignored her more friendly tone. ‘And your father? Did he come down from Durham to join in this little reunion?'

‘My father died, here in Oxford. A traffic accident. He was knocked off his bike when he was 27.'

Lisle's face twisted briefly. ‘I'm sorry. You must have been very young.'

Nesta shrugged. She didn't want to talk about it. Being in Oxford again was bad enough, and she was already about to dredge up the past enough to last her a lifetime.

Providing she could find her father's papers, that is.

For, even though she'd only arrived a few minutes ago, she'd already checked out the cupboards and Sir Vivian's desk, and there was no sign of them. Which meant, surely, that the police had them after all. Unless . . .

She went slightly pale. What if
she
had somehow learned what Sir Vivian was doing,
and
had somehow got possession of them? Perhaps someone at the Bodleian had rung and told her that Sir Vivian, that great and eminent man, was interested in her old thesis. They might think it would thrill her.

But it would only terrify her.

What if she was too late? What if someone else had already got to Sir Vivian's home, or this office, ahead of her?

‘What's wrong?' Lisle said sharply. Her skin was suddenly as pale as milk, her eyes as wide and tragic as an opera.

‘What? Oh . . . nothing,' she said vaguely.

Lisle fought back the urge to walk up to her and give her a good shaking. It was obvious that something was very much wrong, and she seemed hell bent on keeping it from him. It made him want to kiss her stupid.

Aware that his thoughts were fast angling out of control, he forced himself to calm down. And pretend that thoughts of kissing a suspect hadn't even entered his head.

But it was vital he got whatever information from her that she was holding back. But what was he to do? Confront her? The way things kept getting so volatile whenever they met up warned him that he'd have to be careful.

Nesta's own thoughts were whirling.

If Naismith had got her father's and Sir Vivian's papers back in her possession, what could she do about it? Demand her father's papers back? But what good would that do? If
she'd
stolen them, they would have long since been burned by now. And if she didn't have them, she'd only be alerting the enemy that she was onto her. That she was being investigated.

She didn't know it, but her growing distress and dismay was clear on her face, and Lisle had finally had enough. Before she could draw breath, he was striding quickly across the room. And before he knew what he intended doing, he had her by the arms and was half-shaking her. ‘Damn it, woman,' he all but shouted, ‘I can almost hear the wheels turning in your head. Now tell me . . . what are you doing here?'

Nesta dragged in a ragged breath. She'd never been man-handled before. And she shouldn't be liking it, damn it! All her feminine instincts should be outraged. So why did the feel of his strong hands on her arms thrill her? Why did the scent of his aftershave, a clear, fresh, forest-like scent, make her head swim? Why could she feel his body heat through the thick layers of her clothes, setting her own flesh aflame?