Dangerous Temptation

“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 (#ueed51abe-79df-500f-bd09-0d9fc09b22d3)

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.