Marriage Under Suspicion (8 page)

And waited for him to roll on to his back, and pull her down to him, sheathing himself in

the moist darkness of her body with a groan of satisfaction.

Only he didn't move. And his breath wasn't ragged with newly kindled desire, but smooth

and even.

My God, Kate thought, torn between anger and sheer physical frustration. I don't believe

it. I've sent him to sleep.

I was a damn sight kinder to him than I was to myself, she thought now, staring at the

screen of her computer. As it was she'd tossed and turned for most of the night, furiously

aware of Ryan's untroubled slumber beside her.

She'd slept eventually, only to be awoken by the sound of the shower, and Ryan's

cheerful whistling from the bathroom. As if, she thought vengefully, he didn't have a care

in the world.

In the past, a back massage had always been a big turn-on for him. He'd never before

failed to respond to her ministrations.

A pattern seemed to be emerging in their relationship that she did not even dare to

contemplate.

He'd emerged from the bathroom, towelling his hair dry, his only covering another towel

draped loosely round his hips.

'Morning, Katie.' His grin had been as casual as his greeting. 'Sleep well?'

'You clearly did.' She couldn't hide the note of acid in her voice, but Ryan had appeared

not to notice. 'I told you I was bushed.' He'd combed his damp hair into place, then

dropped the towel he was wearing to the floor as he reached for a pair of the brief black

underpants he favoured, 'And you have healing hands, my love.

Not sexy hands. Not arousing hands, but healing hands. Good old Nurse Katie, she

thought furiously. She sounded like some lovable character from a daytime soap.

She'd said coolly, 'Thank you—I think,' then had tossed back the covers and got out of

bed. She'd never been self-conscious about being naked in front of Ryan in the past, but

as she'd walked past him to the bathroom today every inch of her had seemed to be

burning up.

But that was what a man's indifference did to you, she thought wretchedly, re-living

every step. You felt you had to cover up, and tiptoe.

But how long could she go on like this? At midday, she telephoned the apartment, to sug-

gest that Ryan meet her somewhere for lunch, but the answering machine was on, and she

rang off without leaving a message.

He might be working, and not wish to be disturbed. Or he might be out somewhere

with—someone. And, somehow, she didn't want to know.

In spite of her heavy thoughts, she managed to get through her day's work, although she

knew that, for once, she hadn't given it her best shot.

She was just finishing a quote for a silver wedding, when Louie came breezing in. 'Know

any authentic Greek restaurants? Guy wants to take his wife out for an anniversary dinner

as near to their honeymoon on Corfu as he can get. All retsina, smashing plates and

lukewarm chips.'

‘Why doesn't he just take her back to Corfu?' Kate said dourly.

'That's not the attitude,' Louie reproved. 'We're Special Occasions, remember?'

Kate sighed. 'I know—and I'm sorry. I'll give it some thought tonight.'

Louie gave her a long look. 'Why not let tonight start now?' she suggested. 'You've been

really quiet all day. It might do you good to go home early. Devote some time to Ryan.

Hell, have your very own Special Occasion.'

'Perhaps,' Kate said slowly, 'that's not such a bad idea.'

She'd play it cool, she told herself on the way home. No more heavy-handed attempts at

seduction, which only ended in her own humiliation and frustration. Instead, she'd try and

re-open the lines of communication. Find out if there was anything left.

And if there wasn't? she asked herself, desperately. What then? What could she do—how

could she survive?

She shook her head in disbelief. Only forty-eight hours ago, she'd been totally in control.

I was the business, she thought. But now I'm running round like a headless chicken. And

it can't go on, whatever the consequences.

The apartment was quiet when she let herself in, but Ryan's office door was shut,

indicating that he was in there working.

Normally, she wouldn't have interrupted him, but there was nothing normal about the

present circumstances, she thought wryly as she reached for the door handle, only to

pause as she heard him speak.

He was obviously talking on the telephone, not loudly, but the door's panels were thin,

and she was standing too close to avoid overhearing what he was saying.

'No.' His voice was clear, reassuring. 'She has no idea, I swear it.' A brief silence, then,

'Yes, of course it's only a matter of time before she realises, but we'll deal with that when

we need to. And you mustn't worry about it. It's my problem. Bye, sweetheart.' And the

phone went down.

Kate stood, her hand still extended towards the door handle, as if she'd been turned to

stone. Eavesdroppers, she thought numbly. What was that old saying about

eavesdroppers? That they never heard anything to their own advantage. And, like so

many cliches, it held a hard and bitter kernel of truth.

She wanted to tear down the door with her nails. She wanted to scream and rave, and

batter him with her fists. Ryan, her husband—her betrayer.

But she did none of those things. Instead of opening the door and walking straight in, she

knocked quietly, and waited.

The door was flung open, and Ryan looked her over, his brows caught together in a faint

frown.

He said courteously, but coldly, 'I hope this is important.'

She wanted to say, You mean as important as the conversation you've just been having?

But panic held her mute. She swallowed, searching for the right words, and was suddenly

aware of an intense feeling of nausea.

'Kate.' There was a thinly veiled note of impatience in his voice. 'What is it?' His frown

deepened as he surveyed her. 'Is something wrong?'

That was the moment, of course. The moment to say, Yes, I know that you're in love with

someone else, and it's crucifying me.

Instead, she said hoarsely, 'I—I think I'm going to be sick.'

She gagged, then covered her mouth, and ran, half stumbling, up to the bathroom.

The ten minutes which followed were painful and unpleasant, and left her totally drained,

her head swimming.

She hadn't even realised that Ryan had followed her, until he came to kneel beside her,

cradling her head against his shoulder, and wiping her face with a wet cloth.

'Thank you,' she managed.

'Hush,' he said quietly. 'There's no need to say anything.' He helped her to her feet, and

out of the bathroom.

He sat her down on the edge of the bed, removed her shoes, then began to unbutton her

shirt. His fingers were gentle but totally impersonal, and that, Kate realised, feeling the

first scalding tear on her cheek, was somehow the worst thing of all. The ultimate confir-

mation of the nightmare.

'I can manage.' Some remnant of pride forced the words from her in an agonised croak.

'I'm sure you can,' he agreed levelly. 'But I intend to help, just the same.'

He undressed her as if she were a child, slipped the ivory nightgown over her head, then

turned back the covers and lifted her into bed.

He said, 'And there's no need to cry, either.'

She thought, Isn't there? Isn't there?

Aloud, she said, 'I know.' She reached for a box of tissues. 'I just hate being sick, that's

all.'

'I see.' He was silent for a moment then said, 'I'd better ring my mother—find out if

anyone else has been ill.'

'Oh, no.' She caught at his sleeve. 'I—I'm sure it was nothing I ate. I mean—you're

obviously fine and I—well, I haven't really been feeling well all day.'

His brows lifted. 'I see. Is that why you came home early?'

Kate touched the scalloped edge of the sheet, avoiding his gaze. 'One of the reasons.'

'It was quite a surprise,' he said drily.

And for me, she thought. And for me. My life has been teeming with them just lately.

She said, 'I—I wish it had been a more pleasant surprise.' She drew a breath. 'For both of

us.'

There was another taut silence, then he said, 'Would you like some brandy?'

She shook her head. 'Just a glass of spring water, please. There's some in the fridge.'

She watched him go downstairs, then reached across to her night table for a handmirror.

She winced when she saw herself—white-faced, hollow-eyed with her hair hanging in

damp, lank strands.

What a pitiful-looking object, she thought with self-disgust.

If she asked Ryan for the truth now, he might hedge, because he felt sorry for her, and

wanted to spare her. To let her down lightly, if that was possible under the present

circumstances.

And I don't need sympathy, she told herself, putting the mirror back in the drawer. I need

to know. But I also want to be on my feet, and strong, able to fight my corner.

Unless the prospect of losing him was always going to have the same dire physical affect

on her, she thought wryly. She now knew the meaning of the words 'sick with fright'.

When Ryan returned with her water, she thanked him stiltedly, and sipped it, aware of his

scrutiny.

He said abruptly, 'You were ill a few weeks ago, as well. I think you should see a doctor.'

'I'm sure there's no need,' Kate said quickly. 'It was just a tummy bug, last time. Louie got

it as well.'

'And this time?'

'Probably the same kind of thing,' she dismissed. 'Anyway, I feel much better now. Fine,

in fact.'

His smile held a faint grimness. 'You look like a ghost. I suggest you get some sleep.'

She said quietly, 'You're probably right.' She drank some more water. 'Are you—going

back to work?'

'I have to.' He didn't sound particularly regretful. 'But I'll try not to wake you when I

come up. And if you start to feel ill again, call me.'

As he turned away, she thought frantically, Don't leave me. Don't go.

She said, 'Ryan,' her voice breathless, and he paused at the head of the stairs, his brows

lifting enquiringly.

'Is something wrong?'

Kate's courage failed her. She said, 'I just wanted to say—thanks for looking after me.'

She saw a glimpse of his crooked smile. 'It's part of the marriage service, isn't it?' He

quoted softly, ‘For better for worse... In sickness and in health...'

She shook her head, forcing a smile that was more like a grimace. 'I don't think they

included that—at the registry office.'

He said quietly, 'Perhaps they should have done.' And went downstairs.

Kate lay back against her pillows and closed her eyes, staring into a deeper darkness than

she had ever experienced.

And what about 'till death us do part'? she wondered bleakly, her throat tightening. Had

that been a deliberate omission?

She supposed the proud, brave thing to do would be to offer Ryan his freedom, but she

didn't feel proud, or brave.

She felt frightened, and confused, and—yes—incredulous. Was it possible that she'd

simply allowed their brief marriage to wither and die, totally unaware? That Ryan had

ceased, at some point, to be her lover, her friend, her companion, and she hadn't noticed?

What she did know was that she was not prepared to hand him over to some unknown

woman. Not without a fight.

Know your enemy, she thought. That was what she needed to do. To somehow find out

her rival's identity, see what she was up against, and then go to work.

The anonymous letter must have come from the other woman. There was no other

explanation, and if 'X' was prepared to take that kind of risk maybe she wasn't too sure of

her own position. Perhaps this was her way of forcing the issue. And, of course, she'd

been keen to know Kate's reaction, wanting, no doubt, to hear about murder, mayhem,

banged doors and divorce proceedings.

Ryan's reassurances, just now, must have been really bad news for her. She'd be on

tenterhooks, wondering now if Kate had even got the letter.

And she can stay there too, Kate thought vengefully. Let her worry, and walk the floor.

Sending that letter could have been a really stupid move, because it s put me on her trail.

And if she wants mayhem I m quite prepared to give it to her. When I find her.' And, with

that, she turned on her side, and to her own surprise fell deeply and dreamlessly asleep.

When she awoke, it was morning, but there was nothing about the way the light fell

across the bedroom floor which told her it was much later than usual. A glance at her

clock confirmed this.

'Oh, God.' She pushed back the covers, and almost fell out of bed, grabbing her robe. She

launched herself down the stairs.

Ryan was standing by one of the living-room windows, coffee mug in hand. He turned as

she hurtled into view, his brows lifting.