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ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Dangerous Temptation
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

1955

The afternoon was hot and sultry. A storm had been threatening earlier, but it had moved away, leaving overcast skies and air as thick as cotton wool. It was an effort even to breathe, and most people were taking it easy until the heat of the day had passed.

In the small hospital the maternity ward was quiet now. The babies had been fed and changed, and put down for their rest, and the new mothers were taking a well-earned break, relaxing on their beds. Most of them were dozing, catching up on their sleep, although the heat in the narrow ward was stifling even with all the windows open. But in Blackwater Fork, North Carolina, air-conditioning was still a luxury.

In the end bed, nearest the swing doors, Alice Connor shifted restlessly. Unlike the other mothers, she was not enjoying the chance to get some rest. Being able to rest meant she was able to think, too, and right at this moment Alice didn’t want to think at all.

Beside her, in twin bassinets, her two sons slumbered peacefully. Alike as two peas in a pod, the babies knew nothing of their mother’s turmoil. They’d been fed, their diapers were clean, and they were content. In their world, they had no worries, not even where their next meal was coming from.

But for Alice, life was not so simple. Having another baby at all was going to mean the rest of them would have to make sacrifices; having twins was an eventuality she’d never even considered.

What Fletch would say when he came back from his trip, God alone knew. Persuading him that the child was his had not been easy. Imagining what he’d say when he found out about the twins didn’t bear thinking about. He was suspicious of her already, putting the hex on any man he thought might look at her twice. If he ever found out about Jacob—

Her breath caught in her throat, and turning it into a cough, so as not to alert the other women in the ward of her uneasiness, she rolled onto her side. Now she could see her babies, small and vulnerable in the well-worn gowns the hospital had provided. But she’d come into the hospital to deliver one baby. The gowns she’d brought for just one baby hadn’t been nearly enough for two.

It was just as well Fletch was away, she thought gratefully, delivering another load of lumber to New Mexico. It gave her a few days to come to terms with the situation, even if she still had no idea what was going to happen to them all.

At least the babies didn’t look like Jacob. Oh, they were dark-haired, of course, just like him, but their small, pouty features were exactly like the other four babies she had birthed. Unfortunately, as far as she knew, there were no twins in the Connor family tree. No twins in the Hickory family tree, either, she thought, wincing at the pun. Whereas Jacob had told her he’d had a twin brother, who’d died just a few days after they were born.

The thought seeded—and was quickly suppressed—that it might have been easier for her if one of her babies had died. She’d have been upset, of course, but that might have made things easier with Fletch. There was no chance that she could have kept it a secret, though. In a little place like the Fork, there was no way to keep a secret like that.

But at least Fletch wouldn’t have had to feed it. And there was always the possibility that he might have become attached to the one that remained. After all, he didn’t have any sons, only four daughters. She caught her breath. Which was just another reason why she was so on edge.

It was eight years since Joanne, her youngest daughter, had been born, and she and Fletch had agreed then that they couldn’t afford any more children. That was why he’d been so furious when she’d told him she was pregnant; so suspicious, too, that the baby wasn’t his.

But, somehow, she’d convinced him that it was, even if she had got a beating for her pains. But that was nothing new. Fletch often beat her when he’d had too much to drink. And at least the fact that he drank too much had given her an excuse. She doubted he knew exactly what he did when he’d swallowed more than a quart of whisky.

Things had gotten harder after she’d had to give up her job at the diner. By the time she was six months pregnant, Ben Garrett had decided she was no longer an asset to his business. The timber bosses and travellers who used the diner wanted a pretty woman to serve their needs. Not one boasting a stomach that stretched the buttons of her overall.

These past three months had been bleak. Fletch grumbled all the time about how they were going to continue paying the rent, and he stayed out later and later, drinking and playing cards with his cronies. The girls were needing new shoes for the coming winter, and the eldest, Lisa, was desperate to go to college. But how could they afford that, Alice fretted, when they barely had enough to eat? How were they going to feed one baby let alone two?

One of the babies stirred, small lips sucking at some non-existent teat, one star-shaped hand unfolding to expose a milky palm. Oh, God, they were so beautiful, she thought, stretching out her hand to touch a downy head. Dark hair clung to her fingers; a soft scalp shaped itself to her palm.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Alice?”

She started violently, turning to face the man behind her with wide, unguarded eyes. “Jacob!” Her mouth was dry, and she looked anxiously over his shoulder. “Oh, God, Jacob, what are you doing here? Do you want to get me hanged?”

“I just heard.” Jacob Wolfe’s voice was soft and soothing, his eyes moving beyond her stiffening form to where the two babies lay together, their cribs side by side. “Oh, Alice, they’re amazing! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to have twins?”

Alice looked around the ward with panic-stricken eyes. But thankfully, most of the women appeared to be asleep. Those she knew, or knew her anyway. The others couldn’t know that Jacob wasn’t her husband. Or at least she prayed they didn’t. But that didn’t mean that he could stay.

“You’ve got to go,” she said, her voice low and anguished. “You shouldn’t be here. If anyone sees you, if anyone recognises you—”

“They won’t.” Ignoring her fears, the babies’ father hooked his hip onto the bed. He took her resisting hands in his. “How are you? They told me at the diner that you’d been admitted last night.”

“At the diner?” Alice was horrified. “Oh, Jacob, you didn’t—”

“Hey, there aren’t that many twins born around here,” he declared softly. “Of course, it’s a talking point.” He smoothed his thumbs over her knuckles. “I didn’t ask any questions. Nobody suspects.”

“Fletch will,” said Alice unsteadily, drawing her hands out of his grasp. “There are no twins in his family. Mine neither, come to that.”

“No.” Jacob turned his head and looked almost enviously at the two sons he could never claim as his own. “Are they both strong? Are they healthy?”

Alice stifled a resentful retort, and nodded. “It looks like it,” she said, trying not to feel bitter. It was six months since she had laid eyes on him, and she’d hoped she’d never see him again. It wasn’t fair, she thought. A man could flirt with a woman indiscriminately; he could tease her and flatter her, and make her feel so good, she didn’t know if she was on her head or her heels. Particularly a man like Jacob Wolfe, with his dark good looks and tall, lean figure, and a bankroll to match the flashy car he drove.

He’d come into the diner one day last fall, and from the very beginning he’d let her know he found her attractive. And what the hell, she had been attractive, thought Alice grimly, aware that in a place like Blackwater Fork her red-blond hair and shapely figure had always marked her for attention. It was why Ben Garrett had hired her, for God’s sake. He could have had any number of teenage girls to serve his customers coffee and the juicy steaks and luscious cheesecakes his wife cooked up in the kitchen of the diner, but he’d chosen Alice. She might be in her thirties; she might have four children, three of whom were already on the way to growing up. But she was still the best-looking woman he had ever employed, and the increase in his takings since he took her on had justified his confidence in his decision.

Jacob Wolfe was something else. Alice had known that from the start. For all he dressed like the other men in casual shirts and jeans, he was no salesman. Not a trucker like Fletch, either, with dirty fingernails and calluses on his palms. No, he was a gentleman, she’d known that right away. Which was why she’d been so flustered when he’d shown so much interest in her.

She’d been a fool, she knew it. She’d never been a pushover for any man until Jacob came along. Apart from anything else, she’d known what Fletch would do to her if he ever found her messing with anyone else. And for all her faults, she’d always been a good mother. She loved her kids, and she’d do nothing to threaten their future.

But Jacob had gotten under her skin, and although Ben had told her he owned a mill up north and that he’d only come down here looking for timber, she’d found herself watching for him every time someone opened the diner door.

She hadn’t really expected him to come back. After that first time, when he’d taken her home after dark in his fancy car, she’d been sure that was the last she’d see of him. He’d gotten what he wanted. He’d made mad, passionate love to her in the rear seat of his car, parked in the back of Dillon’s Grocery, with the fear of Sheriff Peyton finding them and reporting them to Fletch.

But he had come back. All through that winter, when the roads were frozen and treacherous, and anyone with a lick of sense would have stayed home in New Jersey, he’d made the trek to Blackwater Fork. Luckily, he’d been able to strike some deal with Abe Henry out at the lumber yard, giving him a legitimate excuse to stay around. And if Ben had had his suspicions, he wasn’t saying anything to Fletch. He’d heard that old story about the king shooting the messenger.

Alice supposed she had been naíve thinking she could get away with it. But the times she was with Jacob were the best times of her life. Fletch had never made her feel like Jacob made her feel. She’d wanted him with an urgency that had defied all reason.

She didn’t know what she’d expected would come of it. She never asked Jacob about himself, about his life away from Blackwater Fork, and he never volunteered it. It was as if they were both fooling themselves that this was the only life they knew.

Finding herself pregnant had not been part of the equation. She’d had a coil fitted after Joanne was born, and Jacob always used a rubber. She’d thought she was safe—from that eventuality at least. But accidents happened, and she’d found herself just another victim….

“You knew I’d come,” he said now, aware of the wounded censure in her eyes. “I want to help you, Alice. That’s why I’m here. I heard Fletch was away and we need to talk.”

“Won’t your wife wonder where you are?” Alice inquired acidly, the resentment jelling into anger and expelling the initial weakness she had felt upon seeing him again. But God, she hadn’t even known he had a wife until she’d told him she was expecting his baby. Then, he’d confessed the truth fast enough, before abandoning her to face her shame alone.

“Iris has nothing to do with us,” he told her now, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “And before you berate me for leaving you alone all these months, think what would have happened if I’d stayed.”

Alice swallowed the bile in her throat. “Don’t tell me you stayed away for my sake!”

“No.” His eyes darkened. “I admit, I had my reasons. But don’t envy Iris, for Christ’s sake. I never loved her, and you know it.”

“Liar!”

Alice turned her face away from him, but he caught her chin and turned it back. “I mean it,” he said. “But I’ll never leave her. She gave me what I wanted, and I owe her for that.”

“A sawmill,” said Alice scathingly, tears stinging her eyes as she remembered at least part of what he’d told her six months ago. He’d married Iris to gain control of her late father’s sawmill. However successful he said he’d been, she could despise him for that.

“That was part of it,” he agreed. “I’m not proud of it, but I’ve made her a rich woman. It’s a shame we’ve got no son of our own to leave it to.” He looked at the cribs. “Whereas you’ve got two—” he looked at her again “—that you don’t want.”

Alice’s eyes widened in horror. “No!”

“Why not?” Jacob was gaining confidence now. “You’ve no money. You can’t afford two more mouths to feed. Talk is, Fletch beat the living daylights out of you when he found you were pregnant.” His fingers dug into her jaw suddenly. “If I’d been here, I’d have killed him for that.”

“But you weren’t here, were you?” Alice snatched her chin away and rubbed the mark his fingers had made with the back of one shaking hand. “How dare you come here now and suggest I hand my babies over to you?” She took a breath, and then went on defiantly. “They’re not your babies anyway. They’re mine—mine and Fletch’s, do you hear? And there’s nothing—nothing—you can do about it.”

“Hey, calm down.” Alice’s voice had risen as she spoke, and for the first time Jacob seemed to become aware that there were other people in the ward. “I’m not suggesting you hand both babies over. For God’s sake, Alice, what kind of a brute do you think I am?”

Alice sniffed. “But you said—”

“Whatever it was, I said it badly,” declared Jacob tersely, realising he was in danger of alienating her altogether. “I just thought we might come to some agreement. It’s in everyone’s interest to do the best we can.”

Alice regarded him suspiciously. “So what do you want?”

Jacob hesitated only briefly. “I think you know.”

Alice gasped. “You’re mad!”

“They’re my sons, Alice.” Jacob looked at her unblinkingly. “You know it, and I know it. Why shouldn’t I want to help them?”

“Help them?” Alice almost choked on the words. “Like you helped me, you mean?” Her face contorted. “Get out of here, Jacob, before I call a nurse and have you thrown out!”

Jacob didn’t move. “Go ahead,” he said. “Call a nurse. Call the administrator if you want to. But don’t forget, I have some influence around here, too. One word to Abe Henry about that quart of moonshine Fletch keeps in his cab, and he’d be out of a job.”

Alice’s jaw sagged. “You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” said Jacob, which wasn’t quite the same thing. “For Christ’s sake, Alice, I care about you. D’you think I want to make life difficult for you with that big ape?”

“Fletch would kill you,” said Alice suddenly. “If he ever found out about you and me, he’d kill you.” Her lips twisted. “Then he’d kill me.”

Jacob sighed. “He’s not going to find out about you and me,” he assured her. “If you show a little sense.”

“And give you one of my babies? What d’you think Fletch is going to think about that?”

“Not—give—me one of the babies,” amended Jacob steadily. “Let me adopt one.” He paused. “Iris—Iris can’t have children. We tried—everything we could, but it was just no good. And—adoption isn’t easy, even for people like us. We’re too old now. We waited too long.” He lifted his shoulders dismissively. “I’d make it worth your while.”

Alice’s mouth curled. “You want to—buy—your own son.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Alice held up her head. “Fletch won’t let you do it,” she said bravely, but she suspected he would. Jacob had fastened onto the one aspect of Fletch’s character she couldn’t change. For years, she’d been telling herself he loved his daughters, and perhaps he did, in his own way. But she’d always known, deep down inside her, that he’d marry them off to the devil himself if he made it sufficiently worth his while. And as for these two…

“I’ll have to ask him, won’t I?” Jacob remarked now, getting up to circle the bed and look down at the twins in their cribs. “My God, they are alike, aren’t they? My mother once told me my brother and I were identical when we were born, too.”

“Then it’s a pity it wasn’t you who died instead of your brother,” exclaimed Alice recklessly. She flinched at the sudden anger in his eyes, but she pressed on regardless. “I wonder, if he’d lived, would he have married Iris for her money?” She gazed at him contemptuously. “At least Fletch married me because he loved me. And whatever else you say about him, I know he doesn’t cheat on his wife!”

She thought he might hit her then. Alice was used to being hit if she voiced her opinion. But she should have known Jacob was far too civilised to do something like that. “I’ll overlook your ignorance,” he said coldly, “because I know you must be tired. But, please, don’t insult my intelligence by pretending the Neanderthal you call a husband has any scruples. I doubt there’s anything I couldn’t buy from him including you. So I suggest you stop fighting me and take the opportunity I’m offering.”

Alice gulped. “Go to hell!”

“I very probably will.” Jacob was philosophic. “But before I do, I want to know there’s someone I can leave to take my place. A son,” he said, looking down at the cribs, a muscle jerking spasmodically in his jaw. “My own son.” He lifted his head and looked at her. “Is that really so much to ask?”

1

1997

Jake saw the rental car at once. It was the only half-decent vehicle parked outside Casey’s bar at this hour of the afternoon. Which meant Nathan was already inside, waiting for him. Jake grimaced. It must be something serious to bring his brother here. It wasn’t as if they were friends. God Almighty, when he’d first found out he had a twin brother, he’d been desperate to see him. But Nathan wasn’t like that. Jake was reluctant to admit it, but Nathan always thought first about himself.

When he’d got back to his office, after taking a deposition at the courthouse, Loretta had told him Fletch had been trying to get in touch with him—which was nothing new. Since his mother died, and Fletch had lost his job hauling lumber, he was often on the phone to the man he’d raised as his son. Most times he’d had too much to drink and he’d wanted a sympathetic ear for his troubles. Because he drank so much, his own daughters had given up on him long ago.

But this time Fletch was ringing to complain about the fact that Nathan had come to the house on Jackson Street looking for his brother. “He wants to see you, boy,” he wheezed, his gravelly voice revealing the resentment he felt that Jacob Wolfe’s son should have come to his house. “I told him you don’t live here no more. That you’d got yourself a place out at Pine Bay, but he don’t want to come to your office. He says can you meet him in town. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

Jake could hear Nathan’s voice in the background, but he didn’t bother asking to speak to him then. On the rare occasions that Fletch and Nathan had met, their mutual dislike had always coloured the proceedings. Fletch despised Nathan because of his parentage; Nathan thought Fletch was an ignorant old bastard.

Which was ironic really, Jake reflected now, as he got out of the Blazer and locked the door. If anyone was a bastard around here, it was him or Nathan. Only his brother preferred to forget who his real mother had been.

It was dark in the bar, but as his eyes adjusted to the light, Jake saw Nathan slumped in a booth at the far side of the room. There were already a couple of empty bottles in front of him, and Jake reflected that Nathan and Fletch weren’t as different from each other as they’d both like to think.

Nathan saw him, and getting to his feet, he gestured for Jake to join him. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded with his usual lack of restraint. “I’ve been sitting here for God knows how long. I thought you said you were coming right down.”

“Some of us have work to do,” remarked Jake mildly, sliding into the booth across from the other man. “In any case—” he indicated the empty bottles “—you look as if you’ve been busy. You won’t forget you’re driving a motor vehicle, will you?”

Nathan scowled. “Don’t start shitting me, Jake. I didn’t come here for one of your lectures. Okay, I’ve had a couple of beers, but I’m still sober. Don’t treat me like you treat your old man.”

“Fletch isn’t my old man,” Jake corrected him tautly, his fingers flexing on the table between them. The trouble was, he didn’t feel as if Jacob Wolfe was his father, either. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost out on both counts.

“Well, okay.” Nathan seemed to realise that whatever had brought him here wasn’t going to be helped by starting an argument. “But I honestly don’t know how you put up with him. It’s not as if he ever cared about you. He’d have thrown you out years ago if he could.”

Jake arched a dark brow. It was true enough, he supposed. From the moment Fletch had realized that he wasn’t the boy’s father, Jake’s life hadn’t been worth living. Not that it had been worth that much before, he reflected ruefully. A man who thought little of beating up on his wife thought less than nothing of beating up on his son.

But, from the time he was old enough to wield a yard brush, Jake had done everything he could to defend his mother. He’d had more than his share of grief, and occasionally the teachers from school formed a delegation to protest about the bruises that regularly appeared on his body. Mostly however, they stayed away. It was well known in Blackwater Fork that Fletch Connor had no respect for authority, and only his friendship with Sheriff Andy Peyton had saved him from certain prosecution.

Yet Jake had known from an early age that Fletch was proud of him in his own strange way. He used to say the boy reminded him of himself at that age, and although it didn’t save him, Jake sensed Fletch admired his spirit.

Fletch’s attitude had changed when Jake was eleven years old. He’d gashed his knee playing football, severing the main artery, and neither Fletch nor his mother had been able to give him the blood transfusion he needed.

There’d been one hell of a scene, he remembered. His mother had turned up the next day wearing a black eye, and Jake had been as stunned as Fletch to learn that they were not actual father and son. And then to learn that he had a twin brother…

Jake supposed he’d guessed even then there had to be more to it than they told him. Fletch wasn’t the type to be philanthropic, and money had to have changed hands for his twin to have been adopted by someone else.

It was only later that his mother had explained that the man who had taken his brother was his real father. And by then, he’d had to come to terms with the fact that his relationship with Fletch could never be the same. Indeed, if it had been left to Fletch, he’d never have come back to the house in Jackson Street. But for once, his mother had put her foot down: either her husband accepted the situation as it was, or she’d take her son and go.

“He’s old,” said Jake now, as if that explained everything. “So what is it you want to talk about? The last I heard, things were pretty much going your way. Don’t tell me you’re having marital problems already.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Nathan was evidently trying to be sociable. “This humidity is something,” he added, changing the subject. “I don’t know how you stand it for months on end.”

“I was born here,” replied Jake drily. “And so were you, little brother. You’ve gotten too used to being pampered. Juggling figures instead of people has made you soft.”

Nathan scowled. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t born with a yen to save the world,” he remarked shortly. “It’s no wonder you’re still stuck in this hell-hole. Why don’t you give yourself a break and find a decent job?”

“I have a decent job,” declared Jake evenly. “Everyone has the right to a defence.”

“Even crackheads and losers?” asked Nathan disparagingly, but he offered a conciliatory smile when his brother didn’t respond.

Wiping his damp forehead then with a slightly unsteady hand, he unwittingly drew Jake’s attention to his flushed face. A face that was amazingly like his own, Jake reflected as he had on many other occasions. How could two men who looked so alike be so different? Even at forty-two, their likeness to one another was still unique.

There were subtle differences, of course, he acknowledged as Nathan pulled out a handkerchief to mop his sweating brow. He guessed his brother was perhaps twenty pounds heavier, and his hair had been cut by an expert hand. It didn’t hang straight or show the after-effects of his nails like Jake’s did when he had been raking his scalp.

“So—how’s Caitlin?” he asked at last, deciding it might be easier if he began the conversation. He’d never met his brother’s wife, but he had seen her picture. She’d seemed strangely subdued for a man like Nathan. He’d have expected his brother to want a fashion model for a wife. But, of course, she had had money….

“She’s okay,” said Nathan offhandedly now, making a careless gesture. “She lives her own life. I live mine. We don’t see an awful lot of one another.”

Jake stared at him. “Are you kidding?”

“No.” Nathan looked resentful. “Anyway, that’s another story. D’you want a beer?”

Jake hesitated. “A beer would be fine,” he agreed, and his brother left the booth to go and get it. Jake had the feeling he was glad to put off admitting the reasons why he’d come to North Carolina. But unlike Nathan, he didn’t have time to waste.

Nathan came back with the two beers and took some time taking a drink before he got to the point. Even then, Jake had to prompt him, and Nathan scowled at his brother for a moment before starting to speak.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said grudgingly. “It’s a long time since we talked with one another, man to man.” He hunched his shoulders. “How have you been? How’s the new apartment? Fletch said it overlooked the ocean, out at Pine Bay.”

“You didn’t come here to talk about me or my apartment,” said Jake quietly. “And I don’t know about you, but I’ve got work to do.”

“And you’d rather do that than talk to your own brother,” said Nathan peevishly. “It doesn’t occur to you that I might need your help.”

“And do you?”

“Damn right.” Nathan rested his forearms on the table. “Like I said, I need to talk to you. I just—don’t know where to begin.”

Jake’s nostrils flared. “Try the beginning,” he suggested drily, and Nathan pursed his mouth.

“I’m in trouble.” He expelled a heavy breath. “Deep trouble.” He gave an uneasy snort. “Hell, I’ll probably end up in jail, if I live that long.”

Jake looked disbelieving. “Who?” he said. “Who’s going to send you to jail?”

“A guy I know,” said Nathan in a low voice, his eyes dark with bitterness. “If I don’t do as he says, he’ll probably kill me.”

Jake frowned and backtracked. “Who is this guy?” he asked crisply, and Nathan shook his head.

“He’s someone I owe,” he said heavily. “I owe him and he has to be paid.” He took another drink of his beer. “One way or the other.”

“In blood?” Jake couldn’t keep the sardonic note out of his voice, and Nathan gazed at him with angry eyes.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I knew you’d find it amusing. But it’s my life that’s on the line here. And there’s nothing amusing about it.”

Jake sobered. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” Nathan gazed at him with accusing eyes. “You may think you’re tough because you deal with criminals every day, but Carl Walker is a serious menace. He plays for keeps.”

“I don’t think I’m tough.” Jake defended himself mildly. Then, taking a reluctant swallow of his beer, “I take it you owe this Walker some money, am I right?”

“Haven’t I just said so?” Nathan’s tone was peevish. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He says if I don’t do as he wants, he’ll tell Cat’s father, Webster, what’s been going on.”

Jake was growing impatient in spite of himself. “For Christ’s sake, Nate, stop talking in clichés. Get a hold of yourself. And why are you short of money? You married a rich woman. Or was that an exaggeration, as well?”

“No!” Nathan was indignant. “She was. She is. Her father is anyway. But I can’t ask her for money. I can’t tell her what I’ve done. Don’t you understand, that’s why Walker’s got me by the balls. If Cat ever found out about—well, the situation, our marriage would be over.”

“And that matters to you?”

“Of course it matters to me.” Nathan gave him a resentful look. And then, his expression becoming wary. “What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean, you said you and your wife lived separate lives,” Jake reminded him quietly. “It was an innocent question. Do you love your wife, or don’t you?”

“What does it matter whether I love my wife or not?” Nathan sounded incredulous. “For Christ’s sake, Jake, what’s this with the hearts and flowers? I tell you my skin is on the line, and you ask me if I love my wife!”

“I just wondered what we’re supposed to be protecting here,” remarked Jake idly. “Your marriage—or her money.”

Nathan started to speak and then seemed to think better of it. Or perhaps he realised he was in danger of incriminating himself still further. There was silence for a while as he searched for answers in his beer. Then, lifting his eyes, he said passionately, “Of course I love her, dammit. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I thought you were here because this man, Walker, is after your ass,” Jake said flatly. “What has Caitlin got to do with it?”

Nathan hesitated. “It’s me he’s after. I’m not denying that. But don’t think Cat’ll be safe if I don’t do what he says.”

Jake sighed. “You still haven’t told me what he wants you to do,” he pointed out in exasperation. “You say you owe him money. So—what kind of money are we talking about?”

Nathan hesitated. “Half a million—give or take.”

“Dollars?”

Nathan grimaced. “Pounds.”

“Pounds?” Jake whistled. “You owe this guy half a million pounds? For God’s sake, Nate, what have you been buying? Coke?”

Nathan started at his brother’s words, and the line of red crept slowly up his cheeks. But when he spoke, his answer was resentful. “I don’t do drugs,” he retorted. “What do you take me for? I’d have thought one dopehead in the family was enough.”

Jake coloured now. He could feel the heat in his face, feel it deepening his tan. It was typical of Nathan to throw that at him, typical of him to use any weapon when he was in a corner.

“If you want my help, you’ll have to do better than that,” he said at last, and even Nathan had the grace to look ashamed.

“Just don’t bug me, Jake,” he muttered, swallowing a mouthful of his beer. “We’re neither of us perfect. We take after our old man.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

“Okay.” Jake heaved a sigh. “So, how come you owe this guy half a million?”

“Well…” Nathan expelled his breath noisily. “Look, Jake, are you going to help me or not? I need to know if I’m wasting my time.”

“I don’t know what you want yet,” Jake declared evenly. “It sounds like you’ve been embezzling money from the company. I guess that might explain why you can’t ask Caitlin for help.”

His brother’s expression was almost comic. Or it would have been if it hadn’t been so serious. “How the hell did you find out?” he demanded jerkily. “Are you psychic or something? How long have you known? Have you told the old man?”

Jake blinked, too stunned for a moment to work out what he meant. “What old man?” he asked blankly, and Nathan gazed at him with suspicious eyes.

“My old man—our old man,” he exclaimed irritably, and Jake suspected his brother had had more to drink than just a few beers. How the hell could he have told their father anything? He hadn’t known there was anything to tell.

“I haven’t told Jacob Wolfe a thing,” Jake assured him flatly. “How could I? I still don’t know what’s going on.” He took a steadying breath. “For Christ’s sake, Nate, what have you done?”

Nathan’s hand was gripping his beer so tightly, Jake was amazed the bottle didn’t shatter. “I’m trying to tell you, aren’t I?” he snarled. “It’s all that old man’s fault. He should be dead!”

At Jake’s look of surprise, Nathan explained, “Matt—Matthew—Matthew Webster. The lying bastard! He’s been supposed to be dying for years.”

Jake watched him. “You’re talking about Caitlin’s father? The man you hoped would make you a director of his company when you married his daughter?” He paused. “What happened? Did he change his mind?”

“Hell, yes.” Nathan jerked back. “That is, no—no. I am a director. And I deserve it, believe me, after what I’ve gone through. I’ve spent the past three years sucking up to that old devil. And what have I got to show for it?” His mouth twisted. “Fuck all!”

Jake shook his head. “What did you expect?”

“I expected to be running the company by now,” said Nathan, chewing the inside of his lower lip. “Like I said, the old guy was supposed to be dying. I was supposed to be his successor.” His lips curled contemptuously. “Me. Nathan. The son he never had.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Nothing.” Nathan grunted. “Everything.” His fists clenched again, and Jake wondered if he was imagining they were around Matthew Webster’s neck. “I’m still no nearer to taking control of the company than I ever was. He’s taken on someone else to do the job I was supposed to do.”

Jake frowned. “So—you decided he owed you, hmm?”

“I needed the money,” said Nathan defensively. “Webster barely pays me enough to live on as it is. Can I help it if I get into difficulties?”

Jake took a deep breath. “How the hell did you get your hands on half a million in the first place?”

“It’s a long story.” Nathan was evasive. “And I’d have gotten away with it, too, but that bastard’s not going to let me.”

“Walker?” Jake tried to be patient. “But how does he know?” He paused. “Did you tell him about it?”

“Don’t be stupid!” Nathan gave him an aggravated look. “It was his idea, wasn’t it? I couldn’t have done it at all without his help.”

“I thought you said you owed him.”

“I did. I do.” Nathan emptied his bottle. “Okay. Okay. I was gambling, right? I—got in too deep, and Carl fished me out.”

Jake groaned. “A loan shark.”

“Sort of.”

Jake grunted. “So—okay,” he said. “This guy’s got you over a barrel. Why don’t you do what he says and quit feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?” Jake stiffened. “What does he want you to do?”

Nathan sighed. “They want me to carry an extra suitcase back from New York.”

“Are you crazy?”

Jake’s gut was churning now at the sudden realisation of where this was leading. He didn’t have to ask what would be in the suitcase; he thought he knew.

“Keep your voice down,” said Nathan hastily. “For God’s sake, Jake, do you want to see me in jail?”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “Maybe I don’t care,” he said. “If you’re even considering smuggling drugs, maybe that’s where you belong.”

“You sanctimonious bastard!”

Nathan glared at him furiously, and feeling in need of some fresh air, Jake got abruptly to his feet. “Thanks for the character reference,” he said. “But I’m not the one who’s screwed up my life.” He was tempted to shove one of the empty beer bottles down his brother’s throat. “Get real, Nate. You’re in deep trouble. And you can’t blame anyone but yourself.”

“I know that.” As if realising he had spoken recklessly, Nathan got unsteadily to his feet. “Jake—” he caught his twin’s arm “—I’m sorry. But you’ve got to help me. I’m desperate. If you don’t, I’m afraid of what they’ll do to Cat.”

Jake jerked his arm out of Nathan’s grasp, but he didn’t move away. Even though all his instincts were urging him to get out of there, some innate sense of loyalty kept him where he was. Maybe it was the memory of that picture of Caitlin that caused him to hesitate. The realisation that whoever she was, whatever she was like, she didn’t deserve to suffer because of Nathan’s selfishness. Whatever his motivation, he felt himself weakening—ignoring his own misgivings, trying to justify his restraint.

“Go to the cops,” he said as Nathan slumped over the table, and his brother gave him a strangled look.

“You’re not serious! Carl would kill me.”

Nathan’s face was streaming with sweat, and with a sinking feeling, Jake sat down again. “Even if I wanted to help you,” he said, and as he spoke, he knew it was definitely the wrong thing to say, “there’s nothing I could do—”

“There is, there is.” Nathan didn’t wait for him to finish before breaking in. His eyes blazed now with a frantic light. He grasped his brother’s hand. “You could do it. You could go to England on my return ticket. You could use my passport. No one would know you weren’t me!”

Jake pulled his hand away and pressed himself back in his seat. He stared at Nathan as if he’d never seen him before, and although they’d never been close, something intangible died inside him. This was what Nathan had really come for. Not to see him, not to talk, not to share anything except this dirty secret. Nathan was prepared to make Jake an accessory to a crime, uncaring that if he was caught, he could go to prison in his place.

His distaste showing in his face, he said simply, “No.”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “You refuse?”

Jake shook his head. “Didn’t you expect me to?”

“Frankly, no.” Nathan gazed at him with bitter eyes. “After all, it’s what you did when you came back from Vietnam, isn’t it? I don’t recall you having any crisis of conscience because you tried to beat the system then.”

Jake bit back the ugly retort that sprang to his lips and made to get up again, but this time Nathan stopped him. “Please,” he said imploringly, the veins standing out on his forehead. “Please, you’ve got to help me. If—if I screw up, they’ll involve Cat, and it could kill Pa. I know you don’t care about him, but he’s not as tough as you think.”

Jake’s contempt was plain. “You son of a bitch,” he said harshly. “You’d do anything, say anything, so long as you saved your own rotten hide! My God, you disgust me. Well, tough, but I won’t do it. Find some other nut to screw!”

“What have you got to lose?” cried Nathan, hanging on to his wrist and preventing him from moving away. “I’m not asking you to deal with this guy. Just take the case to London and leave it where I tell you. Then check into a hotel in London. I’ll meet you there. I’ll be on the next flight.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Nathan groaned. “It’s so simple. You use my ticket, and I follow you. We’ll switch passports at the hotel, and you can fly home.”

“No.”

Jake was adamant, and realising his persuasion wasn’t working, Nathan let him go. “All right,” he said, dropping his face into his hands. “Go, then. But don’t think I don’t know why you’re doing this.” His voice became muffled, but his words were still audible. “You want to get back at me. You’ve always been jealous of the fact that our father chose me instead of you.”

“Jealous!”

Jake knew he shouldn’t respond to Nathan’s desperate accusations, but that one was too close to home. He couldn’t deny that there had been times when he’d envied his brother. But it was years since he had thought of it, and he certainly didn’t envy him now.

“Yes, jealous,” insisted Nathan, sniffing. “You’ve always resented me. Resented the fact that I had a better life.”

“No—”

“Yes. You’re not telling me you were happy, being stuck with that moron, Connor? God, it wasn’t me who came looking for you, big brother. It wasn’t me who used to stand outside of your house, spying on you, wanting for us to be friends! Remember?”

Jake’s jaw compressed. “You were glad enough to see me when I pulled those punks off you,” he reminded him tightly, recalling their first meeting with an unwilling sense of pain.

It had been just before he left for Vietnam. He’d been in a camp not far from Prescott, and he’d had the crazy notion that he might not be coming back. He’d decided he wanted to speak to Nathan at least once before he embarked for the Far East, so he’d ducked out of camp and hitched a ride to town.

He’d trailed Nathan and one of his pals to a bar in the sleaziest part of town, and then been beaten up for his pains when a couple of thugs had cornered the two rich youths by the jukebox. He’d jumped in to help them, and his uncanny likeness to his brother had caused some confusion. In the ensuing struggle, Nathan and his companion had gotten away.

He knew Nathan had recognised him. He’d found out later that Jacob had never hidden the fact that he had a twin. But Nathan hadn’t cared what happened to Jake, so long as he wasn’t injured. He’d saved his own skin, and that was all he’d cared about then. Hell, it was all he cared about now.

It was one of those occasions when Jake wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off not knowing he had a brother. Although his mother and Fletch had been reconciled before she died, he doubted she’d ever truly forgiven him and Nathan for being born. He’d always reminded her of Jacob—and of the way he’d betrayed her. Her life hadn’t been easy before, but it had been a damn sight harder after Fletch found out.

Nathan combed his hand over his hair and looked up at his brother with cold, accusing eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Forget it. Forget I ever came here. Forget I ever asked you for help. It was a crazy notion anyway. We’re not really brothers. We just share a likeness, that’s all.”

“That’s all it means to you, maybe,” muttered Jake harshly.

Right now, he wanted nothing so much as to put this ugly scene behind him. He wasn’t totally convinced by Nathan’s story, even if his brother’s cowardice was plain enough to see. What did Nathan really want, and did he, Jake, really care? It sounded as if his brother’s future was as shaky as his marriage.

“What do you mean?” Nathan demanded now, and Jake winced at the sudden hope that had appeared in his brother’s face. For once Nathan wanted a brother, so why did it sound so surreal?

“Get the case,” said Jake at last, telling himself it was the lingering loyalty to his mother’s memory that made him say it. He had plenty of free time due to him; hell, he never took a holiday, and he was making no promises. But perhaps there was something he could do to ensure that Caitlin wasn’t hurt….

2

The hospital was teeming with people. Many of the accident victims had been brought to St Anselm’s, and the doctors and nurses were working round the clock in an effort to keep up with the load. The lobby resembled nothing so much as a train station, with would-be passengers dashing from desk to desk, desperate for news, desperate for information.

Caitlin wasn’t one of them. She didn’t feel like one of them; she didn’t look like one of them. The anxiety she could see mirrored in their faces was not her anxiety; the fear that some loved one had perished in the crash was not what had brought her here.

Yet, as she pushed her way through the press of bodies, she couldn’t help an unwilling twinge of concern. Nathan might be all kinds of a bastard, but he was her husband, and for all her avowed indifference, she would not wish to see him dead.

And he wasn’t dead. He was injured, but he wasn’t dead. When the authorities had contacted her, to tell her that her husband had been one of the passengers on board the transatlantic flight that had crashed on take-off, they had instantly informed her that Mr Wolfe was one of the survivors. Like many of those who were injured, he had been taken to St Anselm’s hospital in New York City, and if she required any further information, Caitlin should contact the hospital direct.

It had come as a complete shock. Caitlin hadn’t even known Nathan was flying back on that plane. He’d left for New York over a week ago, ostensibly to visit his father in Prescott, New Jersey. He hadn’t told her why he was going, and she hadn’t heard from him since.

Not that that was unusual. These days, they rarely discussed personal things at all. It was only because her father expected it that they continued to share the same flat. But they had their own lives, their own friends; they might as well have lived apart.

Caitlin wondered if Nathan had really been to see his father. She knew pathetically little about his background, and what she did know was hardly up to date. She knew his mother was dead and that his father was virtually a recluse—at least, that was the excuse he’d given her for Jacob Wolfe not attending their wedding. And it must have been true, she supposed, or her father wouldn’t have encouraged the match.

Weariness descended like a cloud upon her. What was she really doing here? she wondered disconsolately. Why had she let her father persuade her to make this trip? Whatever had happened, Nathan wouldn’t want to see her. She should have told her father the truth and made him send someone else.

Marshall O’Brien could have done it. Her father’s personal assistant—secretary—henchman—would have handled the less attractive details far better than she. He wouldn’t have felt as helpless as she did staring round this vast foyer, with no earthly idea where her husband might be. And no helpful nurse to direct her. She sighed heavily. Just a cacophony of voices, and squealing gurneys, and—noise!

Yet it was she who hadn’t allowed Marshall to accompany her, even though her father had suggested it. After living a lie for almost three years, she was not about to expose the travesty of their marriage just because Nathan had been involved in a plane crash. Dear God, when she’d first heard the news, for a second—for the minutest, most shameful second of her life—she had actually believed that it was over. In spite of all the guilt and recrimination she had felt later, for that one fleeting second she’d thought she was free….

A harassed receptionist eventually informed her that her husband was in a ward on the twelfth floor. “Just take the elevator, take the elevator,” the woman exclaimed when Caitlin asked for directions. Then turned away almost immediately to answer another query.

She could have been a serial killer and she’d have received the same instructions, Caitlin thought wryly. Any security there had ever been had been eclipsed by the very real demands of the situation. It was no one’s fault; there simply weren’t enough staff to handle it. In circumstances like these, the most you could hope for was a civil tone.

The lifts, when she found them, were jammed with stretchers and still more people. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and the mix of sounds and dialects was deafening in the ponderous, clanking cubicle. But they ascended, albeit ponderously, to the upper reaches of the hospital, stopping at every floor to disgorge and take on more passengers.

Caitlin inevitably found herself pushed towards the back of the lift, with the iron rails of a gurney crushed against her stomach. She had never felt claustrophobic before, but the panic of confinement rose sharp and unfamiliar inside her. Only the awareness of the injured child on the gurney kept her silent, the bottle of plasma held high by an orderly providing a steadying focus on which to fix her gaze.

They reached the twelfth floor at last, and Caitlin forced herself to step out onto the vinyl landing. The gurney had swished away to her left, and her fellow passengers rushed off to find the nearest nursing station. But Caitlin took a moment to compose herself, as the smells of the hospital washed around her. Nathan would not expect her to rush to his bedside. In the circumstances, her being here at all seemed out of place.

She should never have married him, she thought again, with a sense of vulnerability. It was a feeling she’d had many times before. But it had been what her father had wanted, and after resisting him for so long, it had seemed the most logical thing to do.

How wrong she’d been…

Another lift stopped beside her, and realising she was causing an obstruction, Caitlin began to walk towards the busy nurses’ station. Around her, the tide of humanity continually ebbed and flowed, and listening to the unmistakeable sounds of grief, she wondered how she could be feeling sorry for herself when many of these people had lost friends and loved ones. At least Nathan was alive, and God willing, he’d make a full recovery. She should be glad he’d survived. Not bemoaning her fate…

She waited her turn silently, relieved that she was not obliged to make trivial conversation. It was a huge hospital, with the corridors stretching away to left and right evidently accommodating many wards. The sign, hanging above their heads, announced Neurosurgery and Neurology, and she was just absorbing the significance of this when the busy nurse asked her name.

“Um…” Caitlin looked at her a little blankly. “I—Wolfe. Caitlin Wolfe.”

“We don’t have any Caitlin Wolfe on this floor,” the nurse declared impatiently.

She was already turning to the next inquirer when Caitlin exclaimed, “It’s Nathan. Nathan Wolfe.” She flushed unhappily. “I misunderstood. I thought you wanted my name.”

She glanced at the couple behind her, hoping for their support, but the woman seemed dull-eyed and lifeless and the man looked right through her. Evidently the news they’d received had left them in a state of shock, and once again Caitlin felt guilty for her lack of grief.

“You’re Mrs Wolfe, is that right?” the nurse asked with more compassion, and Caitlin nodded quickly. For the first time, she felt a prickle of alarm. The nurse was eyeing her with some sympathy now. How serious could Nathan’s condition be?

“I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat, Mrs Wolfe,” the nurse declared at last, compounding her fears. “The doctor would like to speak to you before you see your husband. If you’d just wait over there…”

“He’s not dead, is he?”

Caitlin blurted the words urgently, and this time even the man and woman behind her in the queue showed some response. But the nurse was professionally reassuring. “He’s doing very well,” she declared, shuffling the folders on the desk. “The doctor just wants to talk to you. It’s nothing too serious.” She lifted her hand as if taking an oath. “I promise.”

Caitlin wasn’t sure how sincere the nurse’s promise might be. She was still troubled by those two words: Neurosurgery and Neurology. It must mean that Nathan had injured his head. Oh, God, he wasn’t brain damaged, was he? That would be the cruellest blow of all.

But she wouldn’t think about things like that, she decided, taking a seat on one of the steel-framed vinyl chairs. She had to be confident, and optimistic. Someone would surely have told her if Nathan was in a coma.

A little girl of perhaps two or three was waiting with her mother a couple of seats away. Although she was obviously too old to do so, she was sucking her thumb, and Caitlin wondered what anxieties she was suffering in her own small way. She had to know something was wrong. Her mother had been crying. Was that why she was seeking comfort in the only way she knew?

Caitlin attempted a smile, but it wasn’t returned, and even that effort was too great to sustain. Dear God, she thought, let Nathan be all right. Whatever he’d done, he didn’t deserve to be here.

The little girl continued to stare at her, and Caitlin wondered if things would have been different if she and Nathan had had a child of their own. It might not have changed his character, but he might have loved their child.

Her mind drifted back to her own childhood. When had she become aware that her own father had wished she had been a son? Was it when he’d realised her mother could have no more children after Caitlin? When he’d learned the dynasty he’d hoped to found was never to be?

To begin with, it hadn’t seemed that important—at least not to Caitlin. All through her childhood, all the time she was growing into adolescence, she had never felt she was a disappointment to either of her parents. She had been given everything a child could wish for, and they had had her love in return.

But she had always been a fairly serious child, never happier than when her nose was immersed in a book. She had satisfied every academic hope her parents could have had for her, and following a successful career at school, she had gone on to gain a brilliant degree besides.

Her aim had always been to work for her father’s company. Naïvely, she supposed now, she had seen herself taking over from him one day and running Webster Development. It was an ambition she had formed when he had first taken her to visit the Webster Building, and it was not until she’d gained her degree that she’d realised how unrealistic her hopes had been. Her father was from the old school, to whom the idea of a woman in a position of total authority was something of an anathema. He was prepared to make her an associate director, if that was what she really wanted. But as far as taking over when he retired…

A man in a white coat was approaching, and Caitlin felt her mouth go dry. Oh, God, she thought, please let it be good news. But the man didn’t even look at her. He just walked by, intent on some objective of his own.

Her thoughts returned to Matthew Webster. Not that she could blame her father for her present predicament, she reflected bleakly. Although his attitude might have caused her to rebel, ultimately she had been the one who’d made the mistakes.

And so, much to her father’s dismay and her mother’s quiet amusement, she had found herself a flat in London. Instead of commuting to the office from her parents’ home in Buckinghamshire, as Matthew Webster had expected, she had abandoned her ideas of working for the company and accepted a temporary position in a friend’s art gallery instead.

Of course, from her father’s point of view, she couldn’t have made a more unsuitable decision. The men she met in the course of her work at the gallery were not the sort of men he admired. Mostly, he regarded artists, of any persuasion, as wimps and losers, and he lost no opportunity to ridicule her chosen career.

But, once her mind was made up, Caitlin had proved to be as obdurate as her father. She liked the idea that people listened to her opinion; that she was treated as an equal instead of being ignored. And the work was easy. She could have done it standing on her head. It was pleasant, it was civilised, and she’d managed to convince herself it was what she wanted to do.

In addition to which, she had a social life at last. Instead of burying her head in a book every evening, she’d started accepting invitations to the theatre, and to parties, and to various exhibitions. She still had no illusions about her popularity, of course. Growing up as Matthew Webster’s daughter had made her cynical, and she couldn’t throw that cynicism off overnight. She knew she was neither incredibly sexy nor incredibly beautiful, and for all her independence, she was still too willing to accept that her father’s wealth was pulling strings.

“Mrs Wolfe?”

A nurse was standing in front of her, and Caitlin jerked her head up so quickly she went dizzy for a moment. “Yes?”

“Dr Harper says he’s sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Wolfe,” the nurse explained, urging Caitlin back into her seat when she would have stood up. “He’ll be with you very shortly.” She paused. “There’s a dispenser over there if you’d like to help yourself to some coffee.”

Caitlin made a negative gesture, the dizziness receding. Machine-made coffee was usually unpalatable in her experience, and although she’d come to the hospital straight from the airport, her stomach was not yet attuned to the fact that it was only midday here in New York. It was already five o’clock in London, and on any other day she would have been either at the flat, or working.

“It’s the pits, waiting,” remarked the little girl’s mother suddenly, in an accent that Caitlin found harder to understand than that of the nurse. She sniffed. “I guess you’re here for the same reason I am. You got someone injured in the crash?”

Caitlin nodded. “My husband.” She hesitated. “Did you…?”

“Yeah. Emmy’s father was on the same flight,” agreed the woman, pulling a used tissue out of her sleeve and blowing her nose hard. “He was on his way to England to see his sick mother. Leastwise, that’s what he told me.” She grimaced. “Who knows about men?”

Well, not me, thought Caitlin ruefully. She exchanged a wistful smile with the little girl. When David Griffiths had come along, she’d been vulnerable and far too willing to believe what he said.

David was the brother of the friend who’d invited her to work at the gallery, and, for some unknown reason, he had been instantly attracted to her. Had he seen how naïve she was? How inexperienced? Or had he sensed what a pushover she’d be?

Whatever, he had certainly made her feel special. The tall, shy young woman, who had come to help his sister sell her paintings, had been transformed into a glowing creature who believed everything he said. She’d sometimes wondered if he’d ever cared about her. Or if she was the kind of person who only saw what she wanted to see.

His sister, Felicity—Fliss—had approved of the alliance. She’d assured Caitlin that she was good for her brother and that he’d never been so happy before.

Sometimes, Caitlin had found him a little impractical. She was still her father’s daughter after all, and his attitude towards money gave her pause. But he taught her that life was not just a series of balance sheets and that personal fulfilment meant more than being a success.

Their affair had not been a passionate one. In lovemaking, as in everything else, David preferred to take it very much at his own pace. Caitlin doubted he had ever felt strongly about anything that didn’t directly affect his own wellbeing. He was selfish and self-indulgent—but he was fun.

The only aspect of their relationship that did trouble her was his moodiness. For all his happy-go-lucky ways, there were days when he was not approachable at all. And because in all the time she’d known him he had never had a job, Caitlin had got it into her head that he had financial problems; that although he seemed quite content to borrow money from either her or his sister, secretly he worried about the future.

She remembered she’d even mentioned her fears to Fliss quite early in their relationship. But Fliss had just dismissed them out of hand. David had always had these cranky days, she assured her carelessly. If she had any sense, she’d just leave him alone and he’d come round.

And she had, until that fateful day when she’d entered the small flat he’d occupied above the gallery and discovered him unconscious on the floor….

Looking back now, she could quite see why Fliss had been as angry as she was when Caitlin burst unannounced into her office. She had been dealing with a client at the time, and Caitlin’s hysterical belief that David had suffered some kind of stroke had not helped the proceedings. “My God,” she’d said later, after David had been carted off to a drug rehabilitation centre, “if you hadn’t recognised my brother’s little habit for what it was, you must have been living on another planet!”

And Caitlin supposed she had. Or in another world anyway, she conceded ruefully. But afterwards, she’d found it impossible to forgive him, or Fliss, for deceiving her as they had….

“You’re English, aren’t you?”

Emmy’s mother was speaking again, and guessing she needed the comfort of a shared confidence, Caitlin conceded that she was right.

“I flew in from London this morning,” she admitted as Emmy left the shelter of her mother’s skirt long enough to touch the glossy sable fur that trimmed Caitlin’s cashmere coat. “Um—how about you? Do you live in New York?”

“Can’t you tell?” The woman was philosophic about her accent. “Yeah, Ted and me, we live on Staten Island. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there. Believe me, you’ve missed nothing.”

Caitlin smiled. “I’m afraid this is my first trip to New York,” she said, grimacing at her ignorance. “I’ve been to Florida and California, but I’ve never been to the Big Apple before.”

“The Big Apple.” The woman repeated the words as if she liked the sound of them. “Yeah, well, I’ve never been to London. But Ted—he was born there, see.”

“He’s English, then?”

Caitlin found talking about something other than her own problems was comforting to her, too, and the woman nodded. “Sort of. His father was a G.I., see. His mother’s English, of course. But Ted, he always wanted to live in the States.”

“Ah.”

“His old lady didn’t,” went on her companion, pulling a wry face. “There was no G.I. bride bit for her. I guess you could say she wasn’t much interested in Ted, either. She let his father bring him back to the U.S. That’s why him dashing off to see her now she’s s’posed to be ill sounds pretty thin, don’t you think?”

Caitlin made some reassuring comment about time healing all wounds, but she wondered whom she was kidding. Her first opinion of Nathan had been coloured by the way David had treated her. The assured, confident American had seemed to possess all the attributes the other man hadn’t. He was good-looking, well-educated, ambitious; and she was no longer the naïve idealist she had been.

In addition to which, her father had liked him. She’d left the art gallery after her break-up with David, and it was while she was recovering her spirits at home that she’d met Nathan at the party her parents had given for her twenty-sixth birthday. He’d been at Harvard some years before with the son of one of her father’s business acquaintances, and because he was staying with the Gordons at the time, he’d accompanied them to the celebrations.

To begin with, she and Nathan had appeared to have so much in common. Like herself, Nathan was a university graduate. He was an older man, of course, but from a business background as she was. He’d told her his father owned a busy sawmill in New Jersey, and that he was visiting England to study British business methods.

His host, Adrian Gordon, had spoken very positively of his interest in the environment. And when Matthew Webster had offered to show him a little of the way he operated, Nathan had been eager to accept. He’d seemed so open, so enthusiastic, so eager to please. So much so, that she’d been completely taken in.

Their marriage was an instant disaster. She’d learned, at the start of her honeymoon, that Nathan had no feelings for her; that he cared for no one but himself. Her hopes, her fears, her needs, were not important. He’d married her because she was Matthew Webster’s daughter and because he believed that ultimately her father would give the control of the company to him….

“You come back here, Emmy.”

Caitlin came back to the present to find that the little girl had sidled up to her now and was stroking the fur that edged her cuff. “It’s all right,” she said, almost glad of the diversion. “I expect she’s missing her daddy. Just like you.”

“You got children, Mrs Wolfe?”

The woman moved into the seat next to her, and Caitlin gave her a rueful glance. “Unfortunately not,” she said, the pain of Nathan’s betrayal still sharp inside her.

She sighed.

She had certainly had a rude awakening. Until they were married, Nathan had held back from making love to her, and she, poor fool that she was, had imagined it was because he respected her. She winced. How wrong she had been. Nathan hadn’t touched her because he’d known his lovemaking would disgust her. She couldn’t respond to his violent sexuality, and by the time they came home from Tahiti, she was in a state of shock.

But she was not a quitter, and although she knew she had made a terrible mistake, she was still prepared to give the marriage a chance. She’d known how disappointed her father would be if she said she wanted to divorce Nathan. Particularly when he’d invested so much hope in their union.

She’d discovered Nathan was being unfaithful to her less than three months after their return to London. Seeing him with another woman had shaken her, and she had listened to his excuses with a heavy heart.

She’d learned Lisa Abbott’s name just a few weeks later.

The woman was an American, she discovered, and he had known her for years. He had apparently invited her to join him in London, and he had been using the credit card her father had given him to pay for a room at a hotel.

Caitlin had been searching, quite legitimately, for her address book when she’d found the damning statement crumpled at the back of a drawer. She probably shouldn’t have looked at it. The very fact that she hadn’t seen it before should have warned her it was nothing to do with her. But curiosity got the better of her, and like any normal wife, she’d wanted to know what it was.

The row that had followed had been painfully destructive, the first real indication that any hopes she still might have nurtured for their marriage had been hopelessly naïve. She’d walked out of the flat afterwards, with every intention of seeing a solicitor. She couldn’t go on living with a man to whom deceit was second nature.

But it was evening when she left the flat. All solicitors’ offices were closed, and rather than go back, she’d taken a room in a hotel. She’d had no knowledge that her father had had a heart attack until she’d arrived at her parents’ home the next day to find an ambulance—and Nathan’s car—already in the drive.

The sight of her father being carried from the house on a stretcher had sent her running towards the pillared portico. Matthew Webster was clearly unconscious, but her mother was there, with Nathan just behind her, and she’d raised accusing eyes to her daughter’s face.

“What is it? What’s happened?” cried Caitlin, convinced in those first few minutes that Nathan was responsible for her father’s collapse. She was quite prepared to believe he had told some cock-and-bull tale to her parents, blaming her for the rift between them and destroying all her father’s hopes for their marriage.

“Where have you been?” retorted her mother tearfully. “If Nathan hadn’t come at once, I don’t know what I’d have done.” She glanced round at her son-in-law gratefully. “We’ve both been trying desperately to find you. If you must continue to go out with your friends, you might at least leave Nathan an address where you can be reached.”

Caitlin’s eyes moved to her husband’s then, and his smug expression was almost her undoing. But how could she accuse Nathan of anything in the present circumstances? With the guilt successfully transferred to her shoulders, it was doubtful if even her mother would believe her.

Of course, Caitlin could tell from Nathan’s expression that he knew she wouldn’t say anything now. That half-amused arrogance, quickly disguised when her mother turned to speak to him, was a clear indication of what he was thinking. There was no question now of Caitlin betraying his falseness. Until her father recovered his strength, her hands were tied.

And, unfortunately, since that afternoon, Matthew Webster had never completely regained his strength. He’d recovered from the attack, but his doctor had warned him there was still a weakness in his heart, and he had to avoid any kind of stress.

For her part, Caitlin had eventually resigned herself to the hypocrisy of her marriage. The awful thing was that, as the weeks and months went by, she had actually begun to ask herself what she had to gain by ruining Nathan’s reputation. She was grateful that the physical side of their marriage was over, but from an objective point of view, he provided a shield. At least no other man attempted to seduce her. As Nathan’s wife, she was protected from men like him.

Gradually, however, she had become aware of a change in her father’s attitude towards her husband. He no longer seemed confident that Nathan was the man to succeed him. These days, he never spoke about giving Nathan more authority, and his sudden appointment of Marshall O’Brien as his second in command had placed a definite strain on their relationship….

“Mrs Wolfe?”

The unfamiliar masculine voice arrested her uneasy thoughts, bringing her abruptly back to earth. Whatever had happened in the past didn’t much matter now. Nathan was injured, maybe seriously, and even her father couldn’t blame him for that.

An elderly man in a white lab coat was looking down at her, and she forced her brain into action. “Dr—Harper?”

“That’s right.” Harper looked both harassed and weary. “Come with me, please, Mrs Wolfe. I’ll explain why I wanted to speak to you before you see your husband.”

“Good luck.”

Emmy’s mother called the words after her as Caitlin followed the stoop-shouldered medic into the corridor, and she raised a grateful hand. She had the feeling she was going to need all the luck she could get if Dr Harper’s expression was anything to go by.

The corridors were still busy, with orderlies transferring patients from one ward to another. Although she tried not to look at all the gurneys they passed, the need to reassure herself that Nathan wasn’t on one of them was irresistible. But none of the pale faces she saw even remotely resembled her husband. Wherever Nathan was, she was not to be allowed to see him until this unsmiling doctor had delivered his doubtful news.

The office he eventually appropriated was obviously not his own. A nurse, who had apparently been snatching a quick cigarette, was unceremoniously despatched, and Dr Harper opened a window to allow the noxious fumes to disperse. It allowed a draught of cold air to enter the office, however, and Caitlin blamed that for the sudden chill that slid down her spine.

“Please—sit down.”

Harper gestured to a chair beside the desk, and although Caitlin would have preferred to stand, she obediently complied. The truth was, she felt less helpless when she was standing. As if whatever blow she was going to be expected to weather could be overcome better when she was on her feet.

“Thank you.”

Her gratitude was as spurious as the tight smile she bestowed on her companion, and the doctor hesitated only a moment before seating himself behind the desk. It occurred to Caitlin then that he probably welcomed the respite. He wasn’t a young man, and he’d obviously been continually on his feet throughout the night.

“You’re English, Mrs Wolfe,” he remarked at last, unnecessarily, Caitlin felt, but she assumed it was his way of starting the interview. Whatever he had to say, it was probably easier to get the formalities over first. Hospitals had their own form of protocol, even in circumstances like these.

“Yes,” she replied now, crossing her legs and making sure the skirt of her coat covered her trembling knees. “I flew over from London this morning.”

“This morning?”

Harper arched a quizzical brow, and Caitlin felt obliged to explain. “On the Concorde,” she appended quickly. “I was lucky enough to get a cancellation.”

“Ah.” He inclined his bead. “Your husband’s not English, of course.”

Caitlin began to understand.

“No,” she said evenly. “Nathan was born in this country. As a matter of fact, he was over here visiting his—oh, God!” She broke off as a horrifying thought occurred to her. “Has—has anyone informed Nathan’s father? If he knew his son was on the flight, he must be worried sick. And he’s not a well man—at least, that’s what Nathan said.”

“We only inform next of kin,” replied Dr Harper flatly. “Right now, I’m more concerned with the after-effects of your husband’s injuries. I have to warn you, Mrs Wolfe, there’s a problem. He probably won’t remember who you are.”

Caitlin’s jaw sagged. She had barely recovered from the shock of learning that she was going to have to break the news to Nathan’s father, a man whom she’d never even met, and Dr Harper’s words left her weak.

“I beg your pardon,” she began, her mouth dry and taut with tension, and the doctor attempted to explain what he had meant.

“It’s quite common, really,” he told her, though Caitlin was equally sure it was not common at all. “Your husband is suffering the effects of being involved in a serious—not to say, traumatic—accident. In many cases of this kind, a temporary neurosis can occur.”

“You mean—there’s some psychological problem?”

“I mean that anyone involved in such a situation can conceivably suffer some kind of mental block.”

“Mental block?”

“Mrs Wolfe.” He was obviously trying to be patient, but he’d dealt with a lot of anxious relatives already that morning, and he was tired. “Your husband appears—I say, appears—to be quite normal. He has one or two minor injuries—cuts and bruises, that sort of thing—and when he was admitted, he was suspected of having a couple of cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder.” He paused. “All of which have been dealt with. He’s in a state of shock, of course, and I wouldn’t say he was fit to travel. But compared to some of the other—passengers—I’ve seen, he’s in fairly good shape.”

“But …?”

Caitlin sensed there was more, something the doctor wasn’t telling her, and Harper gave her a weary look before continuing with his diagnosis.

“But,” he agreed with a sigh, “he can’t remember anything.”

“About the accident? But surely—”

“Before the accident, and the accident itself,” Harper interrupted her heavily. “It may be a temporary condition as I say. It’s too soon to tell, and often the victims of car crashes, explosions, that sort of thing, suffer a short-lived amnesia. That may well be all we have to deal with here. But with head injuries, anything is possible.”

Caitlin swallowed. “You didn’t mention he’d injured his head.”

“Because he hasn’t,” declared Harper levelly. “Unless you count the bruise we found on his temple. We’ve done a scan, and we’ve found no internal bleeding. Nothing that might be causing pressure on his brain.”

“Then—”

“Mrs Wolfe, what can I tell you? For the present, there’s nothing more to be done. You must be prepared for him not to recognise you, that’s all. That’s why I wanted to speak to you before you saw him. I don’t want you to upset him. I just wanted you to know what to expect.”

3

He had the most God-awful headache. There were times when it felt as if there was an army of blacksmiths hammering away inside his skull. Just moving his head on the pillow sent a spasm of pain spiralling to his brain. A brain, which he had to admit felt like mashed banana, and just about as much use to him besides.

At least he still appeared to be in one piece. He might have a stinking headache, but his brain was still functioning, albeit at half power. Some of the poor devils in the beds around him didn’t even know which day it was. And the head injuries one of his fellow patients had sustained made him feel quite weak.

Well, weaker than he did already, he amended wryly, aware that right at this moment, he couldn’t have punched his way out of a paper bag. Dammit, even his legs felt like jelly. And although they’d assured him it was just delayed shock, he couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

It must have been one hell of a mess, he thought, not envying the fire crews and paramedics who had had to deal with the aftermath of the crash. Bodies everywhere, most of them well beyond the help of anyone in this world. And the screams—oh, God!—he could remember them. He doubted he’d ever get them out of his head.

Which was strange when so much else was gone. He didn’t remember getting on the plane. He didn’t even remember where he had been going. But most disturbing of all, he didn’t remember his name, or any damn thing about himself.

He didn’t remember the actual crash, either—just the horror of finding himself on the ground, surrounded by the cries of injured people. Someone had told him, he didn’t remember who, that he’d been thrown clear when the plane ploughed into the end of the runway. By some uncanny quirk of fate, the fuselage had fractured near his seat, and he’d been pitched onto the grass verge that edged the tarmac.

He remembered the smell—a sickening odour of kerosene—and the searing heat of the ball of fire that had consumed what was left of the aircraft. He knew that more people had died, engulfed by the flames, while he’d lain there unable to do anything.

They said he’d been knocked unconscious, which accounted for his memory loss now. He just wished he could have forgotten the aftermath of the crash. At present, it was the only thing on his mind.

Yet, if he concentrated, he could remember superficial things. It caused the throbbing in his head to increase, but he knew the name of the president who was presently occupying the White House, and he was pretty sure he could still read and write. For instance, those blacksmiths who were taking his skull apart had to come from somewhere. And no one had had to tell him where he was.

Or was that strictly true? Had he really known he was in a hospital in New York? He frowned. So, okay, someone had told him that, but he’d known what a hospital was, and he’d known what was happening after the crash.

The hammering was worse, much worse, and his mouth felt as dry as a dust bowl. Probably tasted like one, as well, he thought ruefully, wishing he could call a nurse. The injection they had given him earlier to relieve the pain must have worn off.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, a face swam into view. A female face, oval shaped and somehow vulnerable, it was gazing at him rather uncertainly. As if the woman didn’t quite believe he was alive, he mused, forcing himself to concentrate on who she was. She was nothing like the nurse who’d attended him earlier, who’d scolded him for trying to get out of bed. Just because he’d wanted to go to the bathroom instead of using one of their damn bedpans. Dammit, he might have lost his memory, but he still had some pride.

He wondered briefly if he’d died and gone to heaven. The way his head had been hammering earlier, there was always a chance. And surely only an angel could have eyes that vivid shade of sapphire. Or were they violet? he pondered dazedly as a sooty fringe of lashes swept her cheeks.

He licked his lips, but whatever romantic words had formed in his mind, his outburst was hopelessly prosaic. “A drink,” he whispered, giving in to the urgent needs of the moment. “I need a drink. I’m parched.”

Every word caused the pain in his skull to expand, and her timid “What?” had him groaning for relief. Dammit, what was the matter with her? Was he speaking a foreign language? Why was she gazing at him with those big blue eyes, as if he’d scared her half to death?

“Oh—water,” she eventually stuttered faintly. And now he heard the unfamiliar inflection in her voice. “I didn’t think—I didn’t realise—you want a drink?” She glanced around. “I’ll get the nurse. Just hang on a minute.”

“No,” he began as she would have moved away, and although he sensed her reluctance to obey him, she stayed where she was. “There,” he croaked, “on the cupboard.” And she turned to look at the carafe of water and the glass.

It was her accent, he realised as she poured a little of the water into the glass, dropped in a straw, and slid a slim arm beneath his shoulders. It was different, unfamiliar—English? Yes, that was it. He would almost swear it was English So—he knew her accent, but he didn’t know who she was.

A drifting cloud of fragrance enveloped him as she lifted him. And her breath, as she murmured, “Are you sure this is all right?” was just as sweet. Perfume, he breathed; nurses didn’t usually use expensive perfume. Or wear fur-trimmed overcoats besides, he thought as the softness of her sleeve brushed his neck.

He was so bemused by what his senses were telling him that when she brought the straw to his lips, he felt some of the water go sliding down his chin. Oh, great, he thought, he was dribbling like a baby. What an impression he was going to make.

Nevertheless, the drop of water that made it past his lips was refreshing. The straw was only plastic like the glass, and the liquid had a faint metallic taste, but it felt like liquid honey on his tongue. It eased the awful dryness that was almost choking him, and although his head was still throbbing, the woman’s appearance had distracted him from his woes.

When she lowered him back to the pillow, he groped blindly for her hand. “Who are you?” he demanded, hearing his voice, hoarse and anxious in his panic. He gripped her wrist, feeling the narrow bones taut, and somehow fragile, beneath his fingers. “You’re not a nurse,” he stated with more conviction. “Nurses don’t dress—or smell—the way you do.”

She hesitated. “Don’t they?”

“No.” He frowned. “I guess I should know you, right? We have—we have met before?”

“You don’t remember?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

He sighed. That was stupid. He had to calm down. Getting angry with her wasn’t going to achieve anything. She was here because she was concerned about him, not to listen to his griping. It wasn’t her fault that the damn plane had crashed.

“If—if they let you in to see me, you must be a relation,” he ventured steadily. He expelled his breath in frustration. “I can’t remember.”

She licked her lips now, her tongue appearing almost hypnotically to lave her upper lip. Its tip, pink and provocative, was mesmerising. It reminded him that his emotions hadn’t been paralysed by the crash, and he let go of her wrist, not wanting her to recognise his reaction. For God’s sake, the woman could be his sister, though he sensed with a kind of gut feeling that she wasn’t.

“You don’t remember—anything?” she asked at last, clearly as dismayed by the circumstances as he was himself. And, although he had no reason to think so, he sensed that it alarmed her. So their relationship was not as simple as he’d like to think.

Yet why wouldn’t she be alarmed to hear he was virtually a stranger? He was someone who couldn’t even tell her why she was here. It must have been a shock. Hell! It was something more than that to him. But he still had the feeling there was something she was trying to hide.

“Nothing—personal,” he replied at last, his headache rapidly overtaking his will to speak to her. He was too weak to play word games, and he half wished she would go. That surge of sexual attraction had all but dissipated, and he just felt tired. Deathly tired, actually. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

She was still watching him, warily, he thought, his imagination refusing to give in. He guessed she was trying to decide whether she believed him or not, and that was strange. Why would she think he might lie? What might he have done to make his answer seem so untenable? In the present circumstances, she must surely realise his limitations. For Christ’s sake, he was lucky to be alive.

Or not …

“You don’t remember going to see your father?” she ventured, and it was a great temptation to yell that he didn’t know who the hell his father was. But at least she’d supplied another piece of the jigsaw. He had a father, if no one else. He wasn’t completely alone.

“No,” he sighed, finding the strength to answer her somehow. “Believe it or not, I didn’t know I had a father until you said so. Or—a girlfriend, either,” he added weakly. “Perhaps if you told me your name …?”

Her lips parted. “I’m not your girlfriend!”

Her denial was absolute, and his hands curled helplessly into fists. For God’s sake, she couldn’t be his sister! He recoiled from that solution with a tortured breath.

“Then who…?” he began, but the effort defeated him. Behind his eyes, the darkness was rising, albeit against his will. With a sense of shame, he felt his senses slipping. The woman, whoever she was, dissolved.

When he opened his eyes again, it was evening. He knew it was evening because the long blinds had been lowered over the windows in the wall opposite, and there were lamps glowing all about the ward. It was strange how in such a short time the place had become familiar. But—God!—it was the only point of contact that he had.

His head wasn’t aching quite so badly now. Even when he moved his head on the pillow, he didn’t get the awful hammering he’d had before. The shaking in his limbs had receded to an occasional spasm, and he actually felt as if he might be able to sit up.

He could smell food and he wondered what time it was. Early evening, he surmised, judging by the muted activity in the ward. They’d be serving supper soon, and then they’d allow the patients to have visitors. At least, that’s what he seemed to remember had happened the night before.

His lips twisted at the word: remember. It was ironic, really, how some things seemed so clear. Like the night before, when he’d been transferred to this bed, and they’d been serving chicken soup for supper. He wondered what it would be tonight and if he’d be allowed to eat.

He closed his eyes for a moment as if to test his powers of perception. Yes, opening them again was definitely not the effort it had been. Last night, he’d felt as helpless as a baby. Which was silly, really, when he hadn’t been badly hurt.

He closed his eyes again, and this time the image of the woman he had seen earlier that day swam into his vision. Her vivid gaze seemed so real that he opened his eyes once more, half-convinced he’d find her sitting beside his bed. But there was no one near him; the activity of the ward went on around him. Had she really existed? he wondered, or had he dreamt the whole thing?

He shifted restlessly, and a drift of perfume brushed his consciousness. She’d been wearing perfume, he remembered. He’d noticed it when she’d put her arm around him and lifted the glass of water to his lips. The scent of her must have lingered on his pillow. So, she hadn’t been a dream; she’d actually been there.

Such a distinctive fragrance, he reflected, luxuriating in the memory. Cool and somehow innocent, yet purely sensual in its appeal. He knew instinctively it was the kind of perfume he liked to smell on a woman, and he briefly entertained the thought that she’d worn it just for him.

Yet when he’d suggested she might be his girlfriend, she’d been so affronted. As if the idea was too ridiculous to be borne. So—what? If not his sister, could she be his—wife? Dear God, he thought, if that were so, surely he would have known.

Or would he? Excitement stirred. The idea that he might be married to the beautiful creature who’d leant so confidently over his bed was tantalising. And it was an idea that, once having taken root, was hard to shift. Was that why she’d hurried to his bedside? And was she nervous because they’d had some altercation before he left?

But he’d been going to England, he reminded himself uneasily. And she hadn’t been with him, so far as he knew. No, she couldn’t have, to be so calm and collected. So had he been going to see her? Did they live apart?

She was English. He remembered that. Or if not English, then she’d lived there for some considerable time. God, if only he knew what had caused their separation. He knew so very little about himself.

As another thought struck him, he lifted his left hand and examined his third finger. But there was no ring—not even a sign that one had been there. But that meant nothing, he told himself fiercely. Not all men wore wedding rings. He frowned. Had she?

Refusing to let the insidious waves of panic scramble his already tortured senses, he made an intense effort to remember everything he knew about her. As if she were part of some imagined identity parade, he summoned up her image. Blue eyes simply weren’t enough. He needed to recall her face in intimate detail.

But the features he forced back into focus were no more familiar now than they had ever been, and the knowledge that he could meet someone from his past without feeling any sense of identification almost frightened him to death. She’d known his father, he reminded himself desperately, which meant she had a part in his life. But what part? And for how long? And where was his father? The questions scared him more each time he struck out.

Panic almost overwhelmed him. He could smell the cold sweat that had broken out all over his useless body. Fighting it back, he struggled to find something to hold on to. But terror had him firmly in its grip.

Christ, what would he do if he never regained his memory? If the black hole he called a brain refused to work? What did people do in circumstances like this? Did they all feel so helpless? God, he thought, he’d have given anything for a shot of a single malt.

He blinked rapidly, feeling the incipient twinges of the headache he seemed to have had forever gnawing at his temple. It seemed as if whatever way he turned there was no relief. Dammit, he wasn’t a chicken; he had to overcome this. But for someone who seldom got headaches in the normal way, it was draining his strength.

He swallowed. Now, how had he known that? he wondered shakily, clinging to the thought like the proverbial drowning man. How did he know he wasn’t a slave to migraines, or suffer hangovers whenever he drank? And he did enjoy a drink; he was fairly certain. Oh, Lord, was his memory slowly coming back into life?

Afraid to explore something that still seemed so fragile, he turned his attention to what he had been trying to do before. With a determined effort, he forced the woman’s face back into his consciousness. She must hold the key, if he could only remember what it was.

Her face seemed familiar now, but he knew that was just an aberration. Because he’d been concentrating on her image for so long, it had acquired a recognisable shape. But he didn’t doubt that she was real; that she existed. He knew her, and that had to be a plus.

He breathed heavily. She’d had light brown hair, he decided, recalling the silky strands that had brushed his collar. Sort of toffee-coloured, he amended, and streaked with butter. Like caramel and cream or corn and coffee. He delighted in the comparisons. And just as smooth.

As far as her face was concerned, that was harder. It was oval, yet she’d had quite a determined chin. Her cheekbones had been high, her cheeks streaked with colour; and she’d had a mouth that he’d badly wanted to kiss.

Ridiculous!

He dispatched the thought instantly, drawing in another unsteady breath. It was no use speculating about their relationship. Until she told him who she was, it was far too dangerous to permit.

Once again he forced back the frightening void that loomed in front of him. He had to stop being so negative about his condition. That doctor—Harper—had said there was no easy answer. It would take days or weeks or months to recover completely.

Or never…

Of course, it was easy for a doctor to say. He didn’t have to live with this terrible emptiness, this lack of knowledge that threatened to drive him mad. He didn’t have to wake up to an awareness that was only partial. He didn’t know his name, his age, his identity. He didn’t have a life.

The brief spurt of optimism he’d been feeling while he was recalling the woman’s image faded. There was no point in pretending he was getting anywhere with that. She was just as much a stranger now as she had ever been. Beautiful, yes, but anonymous just the same.

Which surely proved that their relationship couldn’t be an intimate one, he decided wearily. And, looking back, she had shown little joy in finding he was alive. If his opinion meant anything, she’d seemed to look at him almost critically. As if she was searching for some recognition she hadn’t found.

But that way lay danger. He refused to allow himself to approach the abyss again. She had to know who he was. Why else had she come here? The name—his name—Nathan Wolfe, had meant something to her.

A draught of air cooled his throbbing temples, but when he opened his eyes it was to find a nurse lifting the clipboard from the end of his bed. On it, he knew, were all the details of his present condition. They kept a note of his temperature, his blood pressure and his pulse.

And what else? he wondered. Judging by the way he was sweating at the moment, his temperature was probably way over par. He had only to think of how helpless he was, and his heart started pounding. The symptoms might be physical, but he knew it was mostly due to nerves.

“How are we feeling?” the nurse asked cheerfully, treating him to a gap-toothed smile. Haynes, he thought, frowning. Her name was Nurse Haynes. She’d been on duty last night when he was admitted. Only then he’d barely acknowledged she was there.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling terrific,” he said, the cynicism in his tone barely disguised. He forced a grin to his dry lips to mitigate his sarcasm. “Say, who was that woman who visited earlier today? I did have a visitor, didn’t I? She wasn’t just a vision brought on by all those drugs you’ve been pumping into me?”

Nurse Haynes looked at him over the rim of the clipboard. She had nice eyes, thought Nathan objectively, though not as nice as some others he recalled. Nevertheless, she was his best hope for enlightenment. He didn’t think old man Harper would be making any ward calls tonight.

The nurse lowered the clipboard to rest against her ample bosom. “She didn’t tell you?” she inquired, and his impatience flared anew. Why was it that everyone seemed to think it was necessary to respond to his questions with other questions? Did they think he’d be asking if he knew?

“No,” he replied at last, tersely, seeing no virtue in admitting some half truth. “So who was she? I have a right to know, don’t I? Or is this some guessing game I have to play?”

The nurse’s blonde brows elevated to somewhere near her nairline, and he realised he might have gone too far. He was in no state to make demands on anyone. Least of all some innocent nurse, who was only doing her job.

But Nurse Haynes was evidently disposed to be generous. “Why, Mr Wolfe,” she said, in what he knew instinctively was a Southern accent, “that—woman—as you describe her, is your wife.”

His stomach clenched. “My wife?”

“That’s right.” The nurse smiled. “A Mrs Caitlin Wolfe, from London. England, of course. What did you say to her? I hear she was quite upset when she left.”

He couldn’t believe it. My God, if she’d been his wife, he’d have recognised her, wouldn’t he? She’d been so close; she’d helped him to a drink of water, for Christ’s sake. He’d have identified something about her, even if it was only her perfume.

“I guess it’s come as quite a shock to y’all?” the nurse ventured, suddenly anxious. Was she afraid she’d get into trouble for letting the cat out of the bag? But, dammit, if the woman was his wife, he deserved to know about it. If only so that when she came back he’d have something to say.

And then, as the rest of what she’d said struck him, he stared up at her. “She’s left?” he exclaimed, gulping for air. “Dammit, where’s she gone?”

“Why, to check in to a hotel, I imagine,” responded Nurse Haynes soothingly. She hooked the clipboard back onto the rail and came to take his pulse. “I guess she’ll come back tomorrow. Particularly as she’s come such a long way.”

“Pigs might fly,” he muttered, resenting her suddenly for disrupting his pensive mood. How the hell was he supposed to relax when he supposedly had a wife he didn’t recognise? And why hadn’t she identified herself to him?

“She’ll be here,” declared Nurse Haynes confidently. She released his wrist and slipped her watch back into her breast pocket. “There now, you’ve got something to look forward to. Not everyone’s so lucky, believe me.”

His jaw clamped. He knew that was true. The aftermath of the accident was still horrifyingly fresh in his mind. After all, he was alive, and apart from his loss of memory, apparently not seriously injured. If he could only be patient, he had every chance of making a full recovery.

So why was he feeling so apprehensive? Why did the memory of his—wife—stick painfully in his gut? He had no reason to doubt she cared about him, yet he’d sensed a certain ambivalence in her gaze.

He spent the following day in a state of wary anticipation. Despite the depressed feeling he’d had the night before, he’d slept reasonably well and he’d awakened feeling infinitely brighter. At least he knew who he was, he told himself firmly. And from that basis, he would eventually rebuild his life.

So far as his marriage was concerned, he was determined to be optimistic. If it had been going through a rocky patch—and he had only his instincts to go on—then the accident could work in its favour. If he and—dammit, what had Nurse Haynes said her name was?—Caitlin? That’s right, Caitlin. If he and Caitlin were having problems, they’d have a chance to solve them. They were being given a new start, whether they wanted it or not.

Before lunch, Dr Harper appeared, trailing his usual pack of interns. Evidently, his case had warranted some excitement in the medical school, and he was forced to lie there saying nothing, while every detail of his condition was brought out and discussed in embarrassing detail.

Not that any conclusions were reached. Despite the fact that they all seemed to have an opinion on the matter, he knew there was no real treatment available. Harper had already broken the news that physicians were still largely uninformed about the way to treat amnesia, and his primary brief, so far as Nathan was concerned, was to ensure that his vital signs remained good and his prognosis positive.

His determined optimism took a dive when afternoon visiting came and went with no sign of the woman they said was his wife. So far as his fellow patients were concerned, it was no big deal. Several of them didn’t get any visitors, either, but he had been banking on her coming back and answering some of the questions that were now tormenting his brain. Who was he? What did he do? Where had he come from? And why had he been on the flight that had come to such an unhappy end?

Even so, he refused to be too downhearted. Perhaps she had other things to do. What other things, he didn’t care to speculate. The possibility that she hadn’t travelled to New York alone was becoming a source of anxiety he refused to face.

He barely touched his supper, earning a reproof from the ubiquitous Nurse Haynes. “Y’all should be thankful you’re alive, Mr Wolfe,” she declared, taking his pulse with impatient fingers. “If you’re worried about losing your memory, just think how you’d have felt if you’d lost a limb!”

He agreed that he wouldn’t have been too happy, though in his present state of mind he felt as if it might have been the lesser of the two evils. At least a man who’d lost a leg or an arm knew what was happening. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him his name.

When his wife didn’t appear for evening visiting, he knew he couldn’t go on keeping his panic at bay. He couldn’t think without resurrecting the ache in his temples, and although he was allowed to get out of bed to go to the washroom, his legs were so shaky he was practically in a state of collapse when he returned.

Where was she? Who was she? What if she wasn’t his wife at all, but some sicko who enjoyed making other people sweat? No, they’d said her name was Wolfe—Caitlin Wolfe—and that was his name. He had his passport to prove it, if nothing else.

He slept badly in spite of the medication they insisted he swallow. And although his sleep was shallow, it was tormented by dreams. He had some crazy notion that he was looking in a mirror, but the man looking back at him wasn’t himself.

He tried to shave the next morning. Designer stubble might look good on some hunk with a Miami tan, but on his pale face it just looked dirty. The trouble was, his hands shook so badly he ended up with a string of cuts, and his pallor wasn’t improved by so much blood.

Still, what the hell, he thought, crawling back into bed, it wasn’t as if anyone cared how he looked. This morning he had no expectations of a visit from his “wife.” Whoever she was, she was keeping out of his way.

Yet, lying there, he couldn’t help wondering what it was he’d seen in her face. He was convinced now he had seen something, and the thought occurred to him that she might have been afraid. But afraid of what? Of him? Of his condition? What kind of man had he been before the crash?

He looked at his hands, examining them, as if the answer might be found within their trembling grasp. What if he was a violent man? A wife beater? Dear God, was that the reason she’d looked so—strained?

Once again, the old fears threatened to overwhelm him. And once again, he managed to fight them back. Yet his sanity was in danger; he felt it. Even if he believed he wasn’t a violent man.

He caught the man in the next bed watching him warily, and he realised he must look strange, staring at his hands. Thrusting them under the bedclothes, he offered the man a wry grimace. If he wasn’t careful, he’d prove what he was trying so hard to refute.

Even so, another thought had occurred to him. His hands might not tell him what manner of man he was, but they did hold clues to the kind of work he’d done. His hands were hard, but he didn’t remember seeing any calluses, and his nails were free of oil and grease. Which pointed to the fact that he wasn’t a manual worker. Was it possible if he thought about an occupation he might have some success?

He made a salutary effort to swallow the stew and greens they served at lunchtime. But the meat was tough, and the greens were floating in their own juice. He seemed to remember that hospital food was always unappetizing. Could that mean he’d been in hospital before?

An hour later, he’d achieved no conclusions, either about his occupation or about whether he’d been in hospital before. It was like butting his head against a brick wall, which, come to think of it, was what it felt like had happened. His brain felt thick and mushy, just like soup.

He elbowed himself into a sitting position. It was almost visiting time again. The man in the next bed hadn’t had a visitor the day before. In fact, he didn’t think he’d had any visitors at all. He turned to him, preparing some friendly remark of commiseration. And then saw the woman walking toward him down the ward.

It was her.

Caitlin.

His wife!

He swallowed convulsively and immediately wanted to go to the washroom again. Christ, he was like a kid, getting excited just because she was here. It wasn’t as if she was doing him any favours. For God’s sake, she was twenty-four hours late!

But immediately on the heels of this came the awareness of his own shortcomings. He should have made an effort to improve his appearance while he had the chance. The nightshirt he was wearing was hospital issue. But what the hell! He usually slept in the raw.

The question of how he knew that was overwhelmed by his delight at seeing her. For almost forty-eight hours, he’d lived in anticipation of this moment, and for all his brave attempts to motivate himself, he admitted he needed her now, probably more than ever before.

4

Lisa Abbott stood at the sitting-room window of her fourth-floor apartment, watching the rain dancing on the balcony outside. The plastic table and chairs that furnished the small balcony were dripping with water, and it was hard to imagine now that she’d actually sunbathed from that very spot.

Of course, that had been months ago, she acknowledged dourly. Since then, she had had plenty of time to complain about the English weather. Why didn’t it snow, for God’s sake, instead of this interminable rain? The dampness seemed to have invaded the apartment and seeped into her bones.

Still, the weather mirrored her mood, she thought grimly, crossing her arms over her slim body. Was it really only weeks ago she had felt so optimistic about the future? She’d been so happy; so sure nothing could go wrong.

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She should have known she was tempting fate. Oh, yes, she knew she should be grateful that Nathan was still alive, but why the hell hadn’t he phoned? His secretary had said he had been admitted to a New York hospital; no one knew when he’d be back, but for God’s sake, there had to be telephones there. Why hadn’t he gotten hold of one and rung her? Didn’t he care how she was feeling?

She sniffed, shivering a little in the sheer satin teddy that was all she was wearing. She’d bought the garment just a week ago, anticipating Nathan’s reaction when he saw her in it. Now, it seemed it would be weeks before she was likely to find out. She didn’t even know how badly he’d been hurt.

She’d worn the teddy today in an attempt to raise her spirits. It hadn’t worked, even though she had gained some satisfaction from the knowledge that she still looked remarkably good for her age. The close-fitting satin accentuated the full swell of her breasts and hugged the narrow contours of her hips. For a woman of thirty-nine, she was remarkably well-preserved.

She sighed. If only there was something she could do, but her job at the casino meant she was virtually tied to staying put. Besides, it wouldn’t do for Carl to think they were trying to cheat him. If she went flying off to the States, he was bound to think the worst.

Her teeth ground together at the thought of the hundreds of thousands of dollars that had literally gone up in smoke. She couldn’t be certain, of course, but it seemed highly unlikely that Nathan’s suitcase could have survived unscathed. He wouldn’t have carried it on board as hand luggage. The last thing he’d want to do was draw attention to it. No, like everyone else’s baggage in the hold, it would have been destroyed.

Still, at least Nathan had survived. And Carl could hardly blame him because the plane had crashed. It was an accident, pure and simple. She just wished she could convince herself that he’d understand.

That was why she’d called Carl and invited him to come over. She knew Nathan wouldn’t like it, but dammit, he didn’t have to know. He hadn’t bothered to try and reach her, and she was restless. She ran slightly unsteady fingers over her stomach and down to the moist cleft between her legs, shivering in anticipation. She was horny. Oh, God, was she horny! She needed a man—any man—tonight.

If only Nathan’s secretary had been more friendly when she’d gotten up the courage to call his office. She’d suggested she contact Mrs Wolfe if she wanted any further information. Close-mouthed cow! Lisa wondered if she knew Nathan had a mistress. One thing was certain—she’d never get anything out of her.

In the meantime, she had needs; she had priorities. Not the least of which was finding some more cash. Unfortunately, she’d speculated a little on Nathan’s expectations. Maybe Carl would be generous. He used to like her not so long ago.

Lisa’s lips tightened. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. There was that bitch—Caitlin—who’d never had to fight for anything in her life, and here she was, with her only chance of happiness slipping away. What if Nathan was paralysed or disabled? Would she still feel the same way about him if he was?

But that was only morbid speculation. She couldn’t afford to be negative about the future. Nathan would get better; he would be all right. She was convinced of it. And when he did, she was going to make sure he got a divorce. Caitlin didn’t satisfy him; if it wasn’t for her daddy’s money, Nathan would never have looked at her. She had to remember that when things were looking black.

She sighed. If only Nathan’s original scheme had been successful. If Matthew Webster had retired and given his son-in-law control of the company, they’d have been together by now. Once the shareholders had seen what a good job Nathan was doing, they’d have supported him whether he was married to Caitlin or not. It was what they’d planned when she’d followed him to England three years ago.

But it hadn’t worked out that way. Somehow, Caitlin had discovered they were having an affair. If the old man hadn’t had a heart attack, she’d have spilled the beans to her father, and then Nathan would have lost any chance of making good.

The final straw had been when Webster had employed that creep, O’Brien. They hadn’t accused Nathan of anything, but it was obvious they didn’t trust him. Caitlin must have said something or why else had Nathan been side-tracked? Lisa didn’t blame him for using any means he could to screw the bastards.

She shivered again. It was getting dark. Across the square, lights were appearing in the windows of other apartments, reminding her that Carl was coming at six. She still hadn’t fixed her make-up, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t intend to get dressed until after he’d arrived.

Was she being reckless, getting involved with a man like Carl Walker just because she was feeling peeved? If Nathan found out she’d cheated on him, would he throw her out? She scowled. He wouldn’t find out. Carl wouldn’t tell him. His wife ensured there’d be no complications of that kind.

Marshall O’Brien entered Matthew Webster’s office with the ease of long familiarity. He’d only been Matthew’s personal assistant for the past two years, but his relationship with the older man went back much further than that. Even so, it was Matthew’s illness that had precipitated their association. Until then, it had remained virtually undisclosed.

Even now, there were only a favoured few who knew of—or suspected—its inception. And most of them would have thought twice before putting it into words. Matthew Webster had never been the kind of man to encourage confidences, and he treated his staff in much the same way he had treated his daughter—with consideration and respect, but little affection.

Nonetheless, his heart attack had changed many things. Not least, his plans for retirement. Despite what his doctors might have said at the time, Matthew had not handed over the reins of command as had been expected. On the contrary, after the attack his retirement had been indefinitely deferred.

And only he knew his sudden seizure had not been unwarranted. For months before the attack, he’d been living on his nerves. He hadn’t wanted to accept it, but it hadn’t taken him long to discover that Nathan was not the man he’d first believed him, and his suspicions had left him sick at heart.

Physically as well as mentally, as it had turned out. The husband he’d chosen for his daughter had proved to have feet of clay, and although Matthew had never had much time for emotion, especially not in business, having to consider his daughter’s feelings had frustrated him beyond belief.

After all, only months before, he’d been congratulating himself on his success. After years of having to live with the fact of Caitlin’s rejection of his plans for her, he’d been given a second chance. That wimp she’d been living with had blotted his copybook, and Caitlin had come running home with her tail between her legs.

He remembered how hard it had been not to say “I told you so” and he thought he’d been rewarded when Nathan Wolfe appeared on his horizon. Even then, he hadn’t been able to believe his luck when Caitlin had showed she was attracted to him, too, and when they’d announced their engagement, he’d thought he was the luckiest man alive.

He should have known better.

In fact, he thought now, he should have been suspicious of any man Caitlin was attracted to. Her record, so far as emotional relationships was concerned, was abysmal, and she’d proved time and time again how sensible he had been not to take her ambitions seriously. In his opinion, women were hopelessly impetuous and far too easily led.

Even so, Nathan had appeared to embody everything he’d hoped for in a future son-in-law. He was older than Caitlin, which was a distinct advantage. It meant he had experience, and although he hadn’t been married before, he’d had plenty of time to sow his wild oats. In addition to which, he’d insisted he was willing to learn, which meant that Matthew would be able to teach him his own methods and consequently keep one hand on the reins even after his retirement.

The only doubt he had had concerned the Wolfes’ own operation, but Nathan had admitted—modestly, Matthew had felt—that his father’s sawmill was having problems due to a slump in the market, and consequently there’d be no conflict of interest should Matthew choose to take him on.

To trust him …

Matthew felt the familiar flutter in his heart at the remembrance of how gullible he’d been. Dear God, after all those years of trusting no one but himself, he’d been pathetically easy to deceive.

Well, initially anyway, he conceded, his lips twisting. But Nathan had not only not been as clever as Matthew thought him to be, he hadn’t been as clever as he’d believed himself, and within months of his tenure, Matthew had been receiving reports that proved beyond doubt that Nathan’s judgment was sadly flawed.

His heart attack could not have come at a worse time. For weeks afterwards, he’d been forced to lie helpless while Nathan systematically took the company down. Only his lack of experience of a large organisation had worked against him, and his efforts to award tenders for contracts on the basis of favours granted had eventually been noticed in accounts.

Nevertheless, the half-yearly figures had been appalling, and by the time Matthew dragged himself back into his office, the shareholders were lusting for his blood. They were threatening to hit him with a vote of no confidence in the company’s management, and with competitors breathing down his neck, something drastic had to be done.

But he hadn’t fired Nathan. He’d known that by admitting his son-in-law’s incompetence, he’d be indirectly blaming himself, and any hint of a lack of judgment on his part could trigger an instant collapse of Webster shares. Instead, without actually making any overt reference to his mismanagement, he had systematically stripped Nathan of all responsibility in the company. And, just as inevitably, Matthew had resumed his former position, against medical advice and at the risk of his own health.

He didn’t know what Caitlin had made of her husband’s obvious change of status. She seemed content, and he had never allowed himself to entertain the thought that Nathan might have been a failure as a husband, too. He still refused to admit he could have been so totally wrong about the man, and in consequence he’d kept Nathan’s mistakes to himself.

Well, almost …

That was when he’d asked Marshall to join the company. He’d been prepared to pay him anything if he’d come to work for him. He needed someone he could trust in a position of authority. Someone who could be his eyes and ears, without alerting the other members of his board—or Nathan—what was going on.

Now, as he watched the younger man cross the thick carpet towards him, he was aware of his own mortality as never before. One day soon, he was going to have to make a decision about Marshall, and the knowledge filled him with defeat. He’d fought against it for so long, but fate was catching up with him. He couldn’t go on running Webster’s. Already, he had had intimations that his health was deteriorating more rapidly than even his doctors had expected, and despite his misgivings, he had to choose someone to be his successor. Obviously, it couldn’t be Nathan. Whatever happened, he couldn’t allow that. But Marshall … Marshall was still largely an unknown quantity. Despite their enforced intimacy, Matthew knew he was only here under duress.

He sighed. If only the boy could understand. But he’d never forgotten that once Matthew had forbidden him the privilege of working for the company. Never forgiven him, either. And if Marshall’s mother wasn’t still alive—and vulnerable—the young man would never have agreed to his request.

“Caitlin called,” he said now, lounging into the chair across the desk from Matthew and regarding him with cool blue eyes. He hooked his heel across his knees. “I thought you’d like to know.”

Matthew kept his temper with an effort. But he couldn’t suppress the indignant flutter in his chest. God, was his wife right? Had he made another foolish error? Marshall appeared to hate him as much as he admired him; he certainly showed him no respect.

“Didn’t she want to speak to me?” he demanded, his tone just short of an accusation. “You knew I wanted to talk to her if she called.”

Marshall shrugged. He was a man of middle height, stocky but muscular, and Matthew knew he worked out several times a week. He had short brown hair and he wore wire-rimmed spectacles, but his appearance was deceptive. He was as strong as an ox and just as stubborn when he chose. Like Caitlin …

“She wouldn’t wait,” Marshall said carelessly, flicking a speck of lint from his sleeve. He hesitated, and then added reluctantly, “I got the impression she was—nervous. I guess finding your husband doesn’t know you is quite a strain.”

“If he doesn’t,” muttered Matthew sceptically, tapping a pen somewhat agitatedly against his blotter. “What do you think? Is he lying, or has he really lost it? How the hell are we going to handle it if it’s true?”

Marshall’s face was annoyingly blank. “You’re talking about the discrepancies in the South American contract.”

“Well, I’m not bloody interested in his health, if you’re in any doubt.” Matthew scowled. “How in God’s name did we let him get away with it? Does nobody do their jobs around here but me?”

Marshall’s expression hardened. “It was you who insisted on keeping him on,” he pointed out evenly.

“Only because it would have been a damn sight more dangerous to let him go,” snarled his employer harshly. “Besides, I didn’t think he’d be reckless enough to attempt to defraud the company again. After bringing us to the brink of bankruptcy the last time, I thought he’d have learned more sense. Christ, the man’s a complete shit, and I want him out!”

“So you weren’t thinking of Caitlin’s feelings, then?” Marshall was sardonic, and Matthew gave him a brooding look.

“That, too,” he said defensively. “Hell, she’s married to him, isn’t she? How could I tell her what a bastard he was? Credit me with some feelings, Marshall. I’m not totally without discrimination.”

“But you’ve changed your mind now.”

“Situations alter cases,” said Matthew pedantically. He shook his head. “We have to think of the company. God, if this present fiasco were made public, I can just imagine what that would do for our shares.”

Marshall considered. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything we can do until he’s back in England. Then you can have your own physician check him over without causing too much fuss. But—” he paused “—if it’s true, it’s going to be difficult to prove his guilt. You can’t accuse a man who doesn’t remember what you’re accusing him of.”

Matthew flung the pen across the desk in frustration. “The truth is, it’s going to be hard to prove whatever the prognosis. If he’s fooled the doctors in the States, why shouldn’t he fool them here? And how am I going to tell Caitlin her husband’s a criminal? Thank God there aren’t any children to complicate things even more.”

Marshall’s lip curled. “Thank God,” he echoed harshly, and Matthew gave him a remorseful stare.

“You’re a lot of help, I must say,” he muttered. “And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. I’ve made mistakes in my time, I admit it. But dammit all, Nathan was the worst.”

Marshall sighed as if expelling his impatience on the breath, and then drew his brows together. “Well—there’s always the chance that his condition will be temporary. If he has lost his memory, it may be he’ll recover it when he gets home. Familiar things, familiar places, familiar people. I’ve heard there are no hard-and-fast rules where amnesia is concerned.”

“Which doesn’t do a lot for us,” declared Matthew wearily, lines of strain appearing beside his mouth. “Whatever happens, it’s going to be weeks, maybe even months, before we can nail him. Which means I’m going to have to make good the damage myself.”

Marshall’s brows elevated. “There is the woman—Lisa Abbott. She may know something about it. I could go and see her.”

“And warn him that we’re onto him? Not likely.” Matthew shook his head. “No, for the moment, our hands are tied. I just hope he hasn’t spent all the money. Half a million, Marshall! God, I can’t believe he had the brains to do it. He must have the luck of the devil!”

“I wouldn’t call being involved in a major air disaster particularly lucky,” observed Marshall sardonically. “And if he has really forgotten everything, I’d guess he’s feeling pretty low. Okay, you want your money back, but spare the man some pity. No name, no identity, no nothing! I’ll be interested to see how he handles it. It can’t be easy.”

“Hmm.”

Matthew was noncommittal. Right at the moment, he couldn’t find it in his heart to feel any compassion for Nathan at all. For all he knew, there might be other scams not yet discovered. For a man as unscrupulous as his son-in-law, there were always loopholes he could breach.

“Think about Caitlin,” said Marshall now, aware of the other man’s brooding countenance. “And you’re not going to do yourself any favours if you can’t put this out of your mind. I’ve told you, when he’s recovered I’ll handle it. Think of your daughter and what this might do to her.”

“I’m not without sensitivity as far as my daughter’s feelings are concerned,” retorted Matthew defensively. “I know you think I’m totally selfish, but it isn’t true.” He met the younger man’s accusing eyes and dropped his gaze abruptly. “All right. I’ll do as you say. That’s what I employed you for after all. You don’t have to keep reminding me you’d rather not be here.”

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