Marriage Under Suspicion

She said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Mr Henderson,’ and walked away, out of the hotel lounge, without looking back.

She made her way straight to the powder room, glad to find it deserted. She closed the door behind her, and leaned on it for a moment, angrily aware that her breathing was flurried. Hoping too that her exit had been as dignified and final as she’d intended.

But I couldn’t guarantee it, she thought, pulling a face. And he was probably well aware of it, damn him.

She walked to the row of basins, smoothed back her already immaculate hair, added another unnecessary coating of colour to her mouth, then washed her hands—a symbolic gesture which forced a reluctant laugh from her.

Admit it, Kate, she adjured her bright-eyed reflection, half guilty, half amused. Just for a moment there, you were actually tempted.

After all, Ryan isn’t expecting you back until tomorrow. And it was only an invitation to dinner. Who would know if you’d accepted—and where would have been the harm anyway? Your marriage is rock-solid—isn’t it?

For a moment, she was very still, conjuring up Ryan’s image in her mind, until he seemed to be standing beside her, tall, loose-limbed, nose and chin assertively marked in a thin face that would always be attractive rather than handsome.

So real, she realised wonderingly, that she could almost smell the slightly harsh, totally male scent of the cologne he used. So sexy, in a cool, understated way, that her whole body clenched in sudden, unexpected excitement.

His long legs and narrow hips were encased in faded denim, his collarless shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and the sleeves rolled back over muscular forearms. Working gear—and a far cry from the dark City suits he’d worn when they first met. But the changes in Ryan went far deeper than mere surface appearance. And if she was honest, this had been one of the aspects of his new life which had troubled her most.

As usual, one strand of his silky mid-brown hair was straying untidily across his forehead. But, less usually, the hazel eyes were narrowed almost questioningly, and the mobile mouth wasn’t slanted with its usual amusement.

She was being watched, she thought slowly, by a cool, sexy stranger. With the accent on the cool.

Or she was simply transferring her guilt She rallied herself with a slight shrug, acknowledging Ryan’s reaction if he ever discovered she’d been tempted, even for a second, to accept Peter Henderson’s invitation.

She closed her eyes, dismissing the image, wiping the whole incident. It had been a brief glitch on the smooth tenor of her life, not to be considered again.

Aloud, she said, ‘It’s time I went home.’

She used the public telephone in the foyer to call their flat. The answering machine was on, indicating that Ryan was working.

She said lightly, ‘Hi, darling. The wedding’s off, and I’ll be back as soon as I can make it. Why don’t we eat out tonight—my treat? See if you can get a table at Chez Berthe.’

She called at Reception on her way out to tell them she was leaving, and check that the cancellation hadn’t brought any unexpected hitches.

‘Everything’s fine,’ the girl assured her. ‘It’s just such a shame. None of us can remember it ever happening before.’

‘I hope it doesn’t set a trend,’ Kate said drily as she turned away.

‘Oh, one minute, Miss Dunstan.’ The receptionist halted her. ‘I almost forgot.’ Her expression was suddenly conspiratorial—almost sly. ‘This was left for you.’

She handed over an envelope, inscribed ‘Ms Kate Dunstan’ in bold handwriting.

‘Thanks,’ Kate said coolly, and thrust it into her bag, silently cursing the other woman’s overt curiosity. It was important to leave the place on a business footing, she thought, pinning on a smile that was pleasant but formal.

‘I can’t foresee any further problems,’ she said briskly, ‘but if something does crop up you can contact me at the office or on my mobile.’

She waited until she was in her car before she opened the envelope. It was Peter Henderson’s business card, but he’d scrawled his private number across the back of it.

And underneath he’d written, ‘I told you I was an optimist.’

Kate’s mouth tightened. She was sorely tempted to tear the card up and dump it in a waste bin, except there wasn’t one handy. She’d get rid of it later, she decided, slotting the card into the back of her wallet. After she’d added him to the client file list in the office computer, of course, she amended. That would neutralise him. Reduce him to a business contact. Innocent, and potentially useful. End of story.

Traffic was miraculously light, and she didn’t hang about, finding herself at home almost before she’d dared hope, parking next to Ryan’s Mercedes in the underground car park which served the development where their flat was sited.

It was the top floor of what had once been a large warehouse, overlooking the river. In addition to a superb living area, which also contained the galley kitchen, a bathroom, and the room which Ryan used as his office, there was a wide gallery up a flight of wooden steps housing their bedroom, and a private bathroom. The floors were pale, sanded wood, the ceilings were high and vaulted, and every window had wonderful views.

Each time she opened the front door, Kate felt a thrill of ownership buzz through her veins. It was light years away from the flat they’d had when they first married, she thought. That had been the basement of a Victorian house, where the floors creaked, the windows stuck, and the plumbing was eccentric. They’d spent the first year furnishing it, prowling round second-hand shops and markets to find exactly the pieces they wanted. But the eclectic mixture they’d assembled wouldn’t have fitted in here, and they’d sold most of it on to the couple who’d bought the basement from them as well.

Here, furnishings had been kept to a minimum, and clutter banished altogether. Kate had concentrated on shades of cream and ivory, with an occasional bold splash of Mediterranean colour. And it worked. A glossy magazine had suggested using the flat in a series on ‘Working at Home’, but rather to Kate’s disappointment Ryan had refused to take part, saying simply he couldn’t afford the disruption to his routine.

Now, she used her key quietly, because Ryan would still be working, and it was important not to disturb him. He liked peace when he was writing, although he was reasonably tolerant of interruptions, especially when they came with a cup of coffee.

I’ll give him half an hour, and then take him some, Kate thought, dropping her briefcase on to a sofa.

And she paused, as it occurred to her that things were altogether too quiet, too peaceful. She listened intently, but only silence came surging back to her.

She cleared her throat. ‘Ryan—are you there?’ And, for the first time, was aware of a faint echo in all that vaulted emptiness.

She thought, in bewilderment, but he must be here. He’s always here. And besides, he didn’t take the car.

Across the room, she could see the answering machine’s red light winking at her. When she played back the tape, she found just her own message, unheard.

She checked the bedroom, and both bathrooms, then looked in Ryan’s office to see if he’d left her a note, but there was nothing. His desk was clear.

Of course, she thought. He wasn’t expecting me until tomorrow.

She felt absurdly deflated. She’d rushed back here like a mad thing to be with him, and he was somewhere else. What was more, there was no table booked at Chez Berthe, or anywhere for that matter.

She sighed. She’d have to do something with pasta. Tuna, she thought, and anchovies, and there was some garlic bread in the freezer. She might as well make a start on it, because Ryan wouldn’t be long—not if he hadn’t taken the Merc.

On the other hand, she realised, as she glanced restively around her, the flat was preternaturally tidy—unused even, as if no one had been there all day.

Oh, stop it, she adjured herself. You’re just disappointed. You don’t have to be paranoid as well.

She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She’d make herself a cup of coffee instead, and then begin the evening meal. Surprise him when he returned.

As she turned off the tap, she saw the two crystal flutes upturned in the drainer.

Her brows lifted. Champagne? she thought. But Ryan hardly ever drank champagne. He was a claret man. They’d spent their eventual honeymoon touring the Médoc.

She set the kettle to boil, then obeying an impulse she hardly understood, flicked open the waste bin. An empty bottle of Krug was right there, mute evidence that Ryan had indeed been drinking champagne, and not on his own either.

For a moment, Kate stood staring down at it, then she dropped the lid and turned away.

Well, what of it? she thought, with a mental shrug. Clearly he had something to celebrate. Perhaps Quentin, his agent, had called round with news of the film option on the last book.

She still could hardly believe how spectacular Ryan’s new career had proved. She’d thought he was firmly implanted in the City. Had been frankly horrified when he’d announced his decision to leave broking, and write his first novel. Kate, whose partnership with Louie had been in its early, tentative stages, had tried to reason with him, pointing out the risks he was taking, but he’d been quite determined.

‘I don’t like my life,’ he’d said. ‘I look at the people around me, and I can see myself becoming like them. I don’t want that. This is my chance to break free, and I’m taking it.’