Dangerous Temptation (13 page)

"It's very—comfortable," he replied now, the words as inadequate as the way he was feeling at present. And looking at her, he sensed she was just as apprehensive. She'd been getting increasingly more agitated all the way from Heathrow. "Do we—own it? Or is it on a lease?"

"My father bought it for us," Caitlin responded quickly. "It was his wedding present to us." She glanced around. "I expect you're tired."

"No," he denied, although in truth he was feeling incredibly weary. But he resented her making him feel like an invalid. He'd lost his memory, for God's sake! He wasn't recovering from the plague!

"Oh, well…" She licked her lips, looking at him as if he were a rather irritating child she'd been left in charge of. "It's probably just as well. Mrs Spriggs will be here directly."

"Mrs Spriggs?"

"My—
our
housekeeper. She usually arrives about half past nine, and it's almost that now."

"Ah." Nathan was relieved to find he'd been right about something.

"She's a daily woman, actually," went on Caitlin, clearly glad of the distraction. "Mrs Spriggs comes in every morning while I'm at the shop. She's very nice. She keeps the place beautifully, and she generally prepares an evening meal for—"

"The shop?" he interrupted her abruptly. "You work in a shop?" It didn't seem to fit the image somehow.

"The antique shop," Caitlin reminded him pleasantly. "I believe I told you about it while you were in hospital. I share the running of it with a friend, Janie Spencer. You must remember. We've had the shop for over two years."

"I don't remember anything," he reminded her bitterly, wishing she would stop treating him like some mentally retarded child. Then, realising she was probably finding this as difficult as he was, he relented. "Is there any chance of having a shower?" He ran his hand over his roughening jawline. "I could do with a shave."

"Of course."

She was almost too eager to accommodate him, and he guessed she'd be glad to be rid of him for a while. It couldn't be easy coping with his moods and attitudes. He should stop feeling so sorry for himself and think about her instead.

The trouble was, that was all he thought about, he chided himself tersely. Either they normally had a very active sex life, or the two weeks he'd spent in the hospital in New York had left him desperate for a fuck. Just looking at her, he could feel himself hardening. He wondered what she'd say if he invited her to join him.

"Where—where is our room?" he asked, eager to dispel such feelings, and was inordinately pleased with himself when he guessed which door led into the inner hallway of the apartment. Then, confronted with several more doors, he conceded the choice to her, following her into a bedroom that seemed far too luxurious to be his.

"Um—this is your room," she said, emphasising the personal pronoun. And then, before he could object, she hurried across the room and opened another door. "And this is your dressing room through here, with your bathroom beyond it. You'll find all your clothes in the closets, and your socks and underwear are in the drawers—"

"Wait a minute." He didn't let her go any further, closing the bedroom door behind him and leaning purposefully back against it. Then, ignoring her alarmed expression, he folded his arms and regarded her coldly. "Are you saying we don't share a bedroom?" He glanced distastefully about him. "That this—room—is all mine?"

She licked her lips. "Of course."

"Why 'of course'?"

"Well, because it is."

"So I ask again, why?"

She was obviously disconcerted now. "It—it seemed the most—sensible arrangement at the time."

"At what time?" His dark eyes bored into her. "When we got married? When we had our first fight? When I
beat
you? Goddammit, Kate, I want to know."

"I—well—you didn't beat me," she mumbled, and he was amazed at how relieved he felt.

"Okay. So what did I do?"

Her eyes darted anxiously about her, and he guessed she was desperate to escape. But so long as he was blocking the door, that way was closed to her. and he was determined to have an answer, however painful it might prove. "I don't remember," she said at last, falling back on the oldest excuse in the book, and he regarded her disbelievingly. "I don't," she persisted doggedly. And then, "You've never complained before."

He winced at the deliberate reminder. But he refused to let her get the better of him now. "Tell me what I've done," he said, his expression hard and accusing. "You've been keeping me at arm's length ever since you came to the hospital. There must be a reason for that and for why we chose to sleep apart."

"I—you—" Caitlin faltered. "You haven't done anything," she protested, but her voice was sadly lacking in conviction. Then, before he could press her further, the doorbell rang. "Oh—that must be Mrs Spriggs," she exclaimed with the air of one being given a reprieve. "I'd better let her in. She must have forgotten her key."

Her relief as she came across the thickly piled carpet towards him was almost palpable. Though the tension still showed in her face as she waited for him to step aside. He was tempted to detain her; to let the housekeeper wait until he was good and ready to admit her. But the doorbell pealed again, and he reluctantly moved away.

The door slammed behind her, deliberately, he thought, signalling her resentment at his audacity. But dammit, she was his wife; and he deserved to have his questions answered. If she hated him so much, why did she stay with him?

Putting such negative thoughts aside, he forced himself to examine the bedroom more closely. Not that by doing so he felt any more strongly that it was his. The opulent four-poster, the heavy satin drapes at the windows that matched the fringed bedspread, were curiously repulsive. It reminded him of a brothel. Yet he didn't even know if he'd ever visited one.

It occurred to him that perhaps their sleeping in separate rooms had been a recent innovation, which resurrected the question of whether he had done something for which Caitlin couldn't forgive him. But what? Could there conceivably have been another woman? He didn't think so, but what did he know? Just because he had a hard-on every time Caitlin came near him didn't mean he was necessarily immune to the rest of her sex.

But it did seem unlikely, he had to admit. And it was always possible he was exaggerating the reason for their separation. Perhaps Caitlin didn't want to get into bed with a man who didn't even recognise her. Perhaps she'd rung this Mrs Spriggs and had her make up the spare bed. It would be easier to accept than believing he had had anything to do with decorating this revolting room.

He wished she hadn't done it just the same. He only felt half-sane when she was in his vicinity, but it was better than the panic he experienced when she wasn't around. He needed her—more with every day that passed—and he wondered again if it was only her fear of the unknown that was keeping them apart.

The bedroom windows were set high in the wall to allow for complete privacy. There was no possibility here of being overlooked from any angle. A person could walk around nude, without fear of observation. Something he could appreciate after a spell in a public hospital.

And because he'd told Caitlin he wanted a shower, he decided to take advantage of the fact. He had no fears that she might return and find him in a state of undress, however appealing that image might be to him. She would stay with the daily woman until he emerged, confident that he wouldn't do anything to embarrass her in someone else's presence.

The room seemed suddenly gloomy, and abandoning any further introspection, he switched on the stylish lamps beside the bed. Of all the furnishings in the room, he thought the lamps looked the least tacky, and their bronze shades cast a warm glow over furniture and drapes alike. Then, ignoring any lingering sense of alienation, he sauntered into the dressing room.

The clothes he found in the long wall of closets seemed reasonably normal, but had he really bought so many suits and pants and jackets? His growing awareness of the affluence around him was beginning to disturb him. It was something else he hadn't expected to have to deal with.

He supposed he should have guessed their financial situation sooner. After all, they had travelled back from New York in the first-class cabin of the plane, and his previous assumption that it had been arranged for his comfort seemed rather hollow now. He was obviously used to spending money without any apparent restraint.

Which led, naturally enough, to thoughts of his employment. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of working for Caitlin's father, but obviously that was something he wouldn't have to deal with immediately. Dr Harper had advised him not to rush into situations he wouldn't be able to handle, and right now, the idea of sitting at a desk all day struck him as being totally unappealing.

He sighed, wishing these first few days were over. Surely, when he'd had the time to familiarise himself with his surroundings, he'd begin to feel more optimistic. Things could only get better. He had to remember that. And sooner or later, something—some small thing—would trigger his memory.

Recalling his intention to take a shower, he tossed off his shirt and jacket, and peeled his jeans down his legs. Even these things were unfamiliar to him, he reflected, once again fighting the panic that overtook him. Caitlin had bought them, on his instructions, in New York, and he was not unaware of their dissimilarity to the expensive clothes hanging in the closets.

But he wouldn't think of that now, he determined, running exploring fingers over the roughened skin of his jaw-line. He needed a shave. That was his first priority. He wouldn't think about how anonymous his face still looked to him. That way lay danger, and he'd had just about as much of that as he could take.

Pulling on the white towelling bathrobe he found hanging on the back of the bathroom door, he surveyed the remainder of his domain with a positive eye. At least the bathroom was familiar, although creamy white marble tiles and a wall of mirrors took some getting used to. The sunken bath was big enough for half a dozen people, and all the taps were gold-plated and shining. There was a separate shower cubicle, also big enough for more than one person, and twin washbasins set into a marble console.

None of it struck a personal chord, but he refused to be downhearted. At least he knew who he was, he reminded himself again. If he hadn't been carrying some identity, it might have been a different story, and he'd had no desire to stay in the hospital any longer than was absolutely necessary.

All the same, he couldn't help wondering if he'd have felt any better about himself if Caitlin had had to identify him. There had been something so impersonal about Dr Harper reading his name out of his passport. Like when he was a soldier and he'd been identified by his dog tags…

He expelled an uneven breath. Now where the hell had that come from? he wondered, his mouth drying at the thought that it might be a genuine memory. Had he been in the army? Caitlin would know, and he wanted to rush right out and ask her. But the daily woman would be there, and he had no desire to arouse her curiosity, as well. It would wait, he told himself, controlling his impatience. There'd be plenty of time when she'd gone.

He felt a lot better after his shower. Even the unsettling sight of his own features as he shaved wasn't enough to daunt his rising spirits, and he determined to be more positive about the future. Believing that he had been in the army was just the start. Pretty soon, he'd remember everything, and when he did, he'd know why the hell Caitlin was so determined to keep him out of her life.

Later, dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a black knit shirt, he surveyed himself in the mirror. The waistband of the pants was a little loose, even with the belt on its final hole, but the shirt didn't look at all bad. He'd probably lost weight while he was in the hospital, though that didn't account for the fact that his loafers felt way too tight.

He heard the sound of a vacuum as he emerged from the bedroom. It was coming from the living room, and he guessed Mrs Spriggs was earning her keep. Deciding he might as well get the encounter over with, he opened the door. A woman of middle years, with greying blonde hair, Mrs Spriggs started in some surprise when she saw him, and immediately turned the cleaner off.

"Hi," he greeted her lightly, and then converted it to "Good morning." Dammit, he wondered, why was she looking at him so anxiously? Did he terrify every woman he came into contact with?

Mrs Spriggs gathered herself. "Er—good morning, Mr Wolfe," she stammered hurriedly. "I—er—I'll be finished in here in just a minute, if that's all right."

"Take your time," he said, wondering what Caitlin had told her about him. Either his condition had made him psychotic, or Mrs Spriggs really was nervous of him.

"How—how are you?"

The woman had evidently decided it was politic to show some concern about his health now, and he managed a creditable smile. "I'm much better, thanks," he assured her, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. "Um—where's my wife? I'd like to speak to her."

"Oh—she's gone to Harrods," exclaimed the woman quickly, which he thought might explain her nervousness with him. "That's the department store, you know. Mrs Wolfe likes their food hall." She hesitated. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

His expression relaxed. "I have heard of Harrods, Mrs Spriggs," he remarked drily. "So—do you know when she'll be back?"

"She won't be long," the woman replied with rather more confidence. "It's just round the corner. She said she needed one or two things."

He nodded, and then realising the daily woman was waiting to start vacuuming again, he walked out of the living room and into the kitchen. He decided he might as well familiarise himself with its contents before Caitlin got back. But he soon found why she'd gone dashing out for food. There were only tins and packets in the cupboards, and the fridge was almost empty.

Yet he felt strangely at ease in the kitchen. He had the distinct feeling he had cooked here at some other time. Or was it just the kitchen and its appliances that were familiar? No, he must believe he remembered something that couldn't be explained away.