Dangerous Temptation (12 page)

She was uneasily reminded of the problems she still had to face when they got back to England. How would he react when he discovered they slept in different rooms? His attitude towards her was so unguarded at the moment. For all her reticence at the hospital, he'd made it clear he had no problem with regarding her as his wife.

Needing to say something, anything, to dispel the sudden intimacy that had developed between them, Caitlin chose the first words that came into her head. "It's probably because I wasn't trained to be a counsellor. My father wanted an obedient daughter, but I'm afraid I disappointed him, as well."

"Did I say you'd disappointed me?" Nathan asked, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, and she felt the wave of heat that swept up her throat. "From where I'm sitting, I've got no complaints about your upbringing. I just wish I could remember where we met."

"It was at a party, my birthday party, I told you," said Caitlin hurriedly, feeling the need to loosen the collar of her shirt to get some air. "How—how about you? Don't you remember anything about your childhood? What kind of school you went to? What you did?"

"Mmm…"

He seemed to be considering the question, and she was grateful that his eyes had dropped from her face. But the coolness that brushed her throat alerted her to another explanation. In her haste to cool her face, she'd gone too far.

The realisation that, instead of thinking of an answer, he was seemingly entranced by the swell of her small breasts above the satin camisole horrified her. With shaking fingers, she dragged the two sides of her shirt together and re-fastened the buttons. But not before he had glimpsed her unwilling arousal and the pertness of her nipples against the cloth.

Instead of cooling down, she was now burning with embarrassment. She just hoped Nathan didn't think it had been a deliberate attempt to tease. Dear God, this was proving to be far more arduous than she'd imagined. She must get her emotions under control.

"Don't worry," he said, his words achieving exactly the opposite effect. "No one else could see what I could see. And, believe me, I enjoyed the view."

Which was precisely what she was afraid of, she thought anxiously. He may once have had the right to touch her, but no more. And just because he had aroused her sympathy was no reason to humiliate herself again.

"You were asking about my childhood," he said eventually, perhaps sensing her discomfort, and Caitlin breathed an unsteady sigh of relief. All she needed to do was get things into perspective. She was overreacting and reading things into his behaviour that probably weren't even there.

"Yes," she murmured, grateful for the diversion, and he sighed.

"Unfortunately, I don't remember anything. Except…" He frowned. "You know, I do seem to recall getting a beating. Yeah, my pa used to beat me." He gasped. "How about that?"

His voice had risen as he spoke, and Caitlin put a warning finger to her lips, regarding him with wary eyes. He seemed delighted with his success, but she had the suspicion he wasn't being totally honest. How could he remember a beating and nothing else?

Besides, from what little she knew of Jacob Wolfe, she couldn't imagine him beating his son. He hadn't struck her as being a violent man. He'd seemed far too gentle for that.

"You don't believe me," he said flatly before she could put her thoughts into words, and Caitlin made an awkward gesture.

"I don't disbelieve you," she said, which wasn't what he wanted to hear, and his lips twisted.

"Well, we know where my father is. Why don't we ask him? Better that than you think me a liar. I assure you, I'm not making it up. I distinctly remember him taking his belt to me—on more than one occasion."

"If you say so." Caitlin was noncommittal. "But how can you be so sure? It could be a memory of something you once read about—or saw. Why are you so convinced? Do you have any proof?"

"Not unless I've still got the stripes across my butt," responded Nathan tersely. "Hey, can I help it if you don't like what you hear?"

Caitlin sighed. "But your father seemed such a—a gentle man. He didn't strike me as someone who'd abuse his son."

Nathan shrugged. "And that's proof that he didn't?"

"No. No—but, for heaven's sake! When he found out you'd been injured, he had to come and see that you were all right."

"Correction," retorted Nathan sourly. "The old guy's half-senile. You've got no idea what he used to be like when he was my age."

Caitlin pressed her lips together. "I admit—he did seem confused."

"Didn't he just?"

Caitlin frowned. "I don't really know him well enough to judge."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Caitlin looked perplexed for a moment, and then comprehension dawned. "Oh—well, because that was the first time I'd met him."

Nathan stared at her. "Run that by me again."

"What?"

"That bit about your not knowing my father." He scowled. "Are you kidding me?"

"No." Caitlin sighed. "He—didn't come to our wedding because he wasn't well. Or so you said," she added a little resentfully. "In any case, we never met until I saw him the other day."

"And we've been married how long?"

Caitlin swallowed. "Three years."

"Three years?" He was evidently amazed. "Are you sure about this?" He shook his head. "Are you sure you're my wife?"

Caitlin flushed. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, hell…" Nathan made a frustrated gesture. "You must admit this gets more and more bizarre. I've only your word you are who you say you are, and now you tell me you never even met my family. Why didn't we go to see him after we were married?"

"I don't know." Caitlin had no intention of going into that. "We—just didn't, that's all."

"Any minute now, you're going to tell me that Prescott is a long way from London."

"Well, it is."

"But you didn't think twice about getting on a plane when you found out I'd been injured, did you?"

"No…"

"So, you have to admit, it's pretty strange that you didn't ever meet my father, isn't it?"

"All right." Caitlin spread her hands. "I—I've been negligent, okay? Does it matter?"

Nathan shook his head. "It might. We've only this old guy's word that he was my father, haven't we?"

"No." Caitlin frowned. "I told you. I went to Prescott. I visited his house. The house you grew up in. He—he has pictures of you all over the place."

"Huh." Nathan grunted, but it seemed her explanation had gone some way to reassuring him on that score at least.

However, his next words proved he hadn't totally abandoned the topic. "And, based on what, less than twenty-four hours experience, you're telling me my old man wasn't the kind of man to take his belt to his son?"

"I—I think so."

"So where does that leave me?" She was alarmed to see how drawn his face had become. "Something's not right about this, Kate. I can feel it. I just wish to hell I knew what it was."

He moved then, shifting onto his back again and staring at the roof of the cabin as if he hoped he might find some inspiration there. It was obvious her insistence that Jacob Wolfe was not as he remembered him had driven a rift between them, and conversely now, Caitlin regretted her recalcitrance. After all, as he'd said, what did she really know about his father? Her half-formed impressions were hardly reliable. The whole situation was far too uncertain for that. - And she'd never expected he might question her identity. Yet, when she thought about it, it was exactly the kind of thing he would do. Nothing made sense to him: not her ignorance as to why he should have been visiting the United States without her, nor her reluctance to allow him to get close to her. He wanted answers she either couldn't—or wouldn't—give him, and the future had never looked as bleak as it did at that moment.

The apartment was in Knightsbridge, which he knew—with one of those strange quirks of his condition—was a rather select part of London. It was quite spacious—comfortable, without being overly luxurious. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a large living room, with a tiny dining alcove overlooking the square below. The kitchen was high-tech and spotlessly clean, which indicated that Caitlin employed someone to keep it that way. It was on the top floor of the building, ten levels up from the street, so that any traffic noise was negligible.

He had hoped he would remember their apartment. Caitlin had described it to him during one of their stiff conversations in the hospital, and although he was fairly sure he'd never seen it before, he did know his way around.

But Caitlin had told him a lot of things while he was still confined to bed, none of them arousing any element of recognition in his memory. She might have been a complete stranger were it not for that instantaneous attraction he'd felt towards her. That, he knew, was not imagined, and her insistence in talking about impersonal things had only heightened his desire to breach the very definite barriers she had erected between them.

Well, he reflected somewhat wearily, he was a comparative stranger to her, as well. For all his disturbing attraction to her, he didn't remember her at all. Sometimes, when he was lying sleepless in his bed, he'd tried to remember making love to her. But, although he'd usually gotten hard and frustrated, he had no memory of their lovemaking, either.

He'd blamed it on the fact that she'd remained so aloof from him. Although she'd kissed his cheek when she was leaving, she'd never ever kissed his mouth. It was as if she was afraid of getting too close to him. But, whatever his mental state, he knew his body craved hers.

What had he done to turn her against him? Because he sensed he had done something, no matter what she said. And if she didn't love him, if she wished she hadn't married him, why hadn't they divorced? If it seemed that simple to him, why didn't it seem so to her?

Yet, that thought, coming on top of the conversation they had had on the plane, was definitely depressing. He had thought they were making some progress until she'd told him about his father. It was obvious there was a problem, but she didn't want to discuss it with him. Just as he seemed to be reaching the real Caitlin Wolfe, she pulled away.

And he needed her, he thought, looking bleakly around the strange apartment. He needed her friendship; he needed her trust; he needed her support. If only she'd let him get near her, he felt sure he'd find what he was seeking. She couldn't mean to keep him at arm's length until he remembered who he was, could she?

Once, during their conversations at the hospital, he'd asked her if he could have gone to New York seeking employment. It had seemed to offer a legitimate reason why he might have gone alone. But Caitlin said he worked for her father, and once again he'd been baulked of any success.

"D'you like it?"

Caitlin breezed into the living room behind him with all the impersonal charm of a real-estate broker, and set her suitcase down on the Persian carpet. Nathan had left her downstairs, settling up with the cab driver who had brought them from the airport. After ascertaining which apartment was theirs, he'd come up alone.

He had hoped that seeing the place where he had lived would arouse some familiarity, but in the event, all it had aroused was a feeling of sick dismay. And Caitlin had looked at him strangely when he'd asked for her keys and the number of the apartment. He suspected she still harboured doubts about what he might, or might not, know.