A Matter of Trust (13 page)

‘Please. One sugar.'

He watched her cross the room, rather like a cat watches an unfamiliar mouse. Curious. Wary. Purring just a little . . .

Nesta had changed her clothes the moment she'd returned. In spite of the supposedly waterproof mac, they'd felt clammy and cold. She was now wearing a long, mid-calf length tartan skirt in a vivid blue, green and yellow pattern, and had pulled on her one really good piece of clothing, a mint green cashmere polo-necked jumper. It had been warm and comforting, snuggling into its woollen folds.

The contrast of the colour however, with her bell of red hair, and her sparkling emerald eyes was breathtaking, even to a man who wasn't already punch-drunk on lack of sleep.

Lisle reluctantly dragged his eyes from the wonderful sight of her, and looked around the room, his mobile lips twisting into a grimace of sympathy.

The wallpaper was a little too dark. The windows a little too grimy. The carpet a little too worn. The lampshade looked as it if belonged in the 1940's. A typical cheap bedsit
in
fact. Not that that meant anything. Now, if she'd been putting up at the swish Randolph hotel . . . Lisle's policeman instincts would have been twitching, even more than they were now.

But, he thought with a pang of depression, a woman like this belonged in a four-star room.

Too bone-weary to sit, he prowled the room, checking out the atrocious artwork, her old-fashioned alarm clock, his eyes taking note of her mac, drip-drying over a chair and the few toiletries she had scattered beside the washstand cabinet.

Nesta made the tea, very well aware of his roving eyes. They would, she was sure, miss nothing. He had the eyes of a hawk. Farseeing. Sharp. Trained to predator-perfection.

It made her shiver in the most odd way . . .

She made the tea and turned, once again having to force herself to walk across the room towards him and smile naturally. It wasn't easy. The man brought an aura of menace into the room that was, perversely, not so much frightening, as exciting. He had the same aura about him as the film idols of her grandmother's day. Bogart. Lancaster. Gable. A man's man, who should have seemed out of place in the second decade of the brand new millennium, but somehow didn't. He was the kind of man who had the power to force his environment to suit
him.
Not, as with all of the other men of her acquaintance, the other way
around.

No doubt about it, the man oozed power. Sex appeal. Charisma.

She became aware of his hazel eyes narrowing on her face, and she blushed furiously, aware that she'd been caught out staring.

Lisle, at the sight of that blush, instantly felt his body come abruptly awake. His blood, instead of running around apathetically in his veins, suddenly began to pound. He could feel his nerve-ends tingle, his body harden. He knew that look. What man didn't? The look of a woman who found him attractive. The look of a woman who'd been speculating.

He took a deep breath. It had been so long since he'd even thought about sex in any serious way. Since his divorce had become absolute, things had just slid into . . . well . . . limbo. Women were often put off by his occupation. And the antisocial hours he worked had made dating difficult. Eventually, he'd ceased to even bother. Now though . . .

He ran a harassed hand through his hair, unaware that the gesture set Nesta's own body tingling. His crisp brown hair crackled with electricity, and the sight of fingers running through it made her own fingertips itch to run through the dark locks.

‘May I sit down?' he finally said, taking a sip of the tea, and discovering that she'd made it just how he liked it.

‘Oh,
of course,' Nesta said, flustered. ‘I'm afraid the chairs aren't very comfortable.'

Lisle smiled and shrugged, sinking down into a very uncomfortable chair with a heartfelt sigh. This interview was definitely not going according to police manual instructions.

‘I should have introduced myself,' he apologised, setting his mug by his feet and reaching into his jacket for his ID. He held out the identification card to her, and Nesta reluctantly took it.

Detective Inspector Lisle Jarvis.

Two things struck her at once. Firstly, how well the name suited him. And secondly, how serious things had suddenly become. He was not just a gorgeous man any longer, a creature who'd brought a dash and masculinity into her rather feeble little room. He now represented the law. And all that it implied.

In spite of herself, Nesta felt instantly worried. Even though she understood the psychology of the moment, it didn't help her much. She told herself that many people felt guilty and nervous in the presence of police authority, even though, like herself, they'd done absolutely nothing wrong. But none of that could prevent her from feeling, suddenly, acutely vulnerable. Which made her, naturally, acutely angry. Being angry was much easier on the nerves than being afraid.

She moved purposefully to the equally uncomfortable chair opposite him, and sat
down,
calmly crossing her legs. Wordlessly, she handed his wallet back to him. ‘Inspector Jarvis. What can I do for you?' she asked bravely.

She might just as well take the bull by the horns.

Lisle smiled grimly, mentally shaking his head. So, she wanted to take the initiative did she? Put him in his place? Hah! Who did the lady think she was dealing with? A rank amateur? Even dog-tired, he could play her at any game she chose to play, and win. Hands down.

‘You can start off by telling me why you told me a pack of lies this morning,' he said savagely.

Nesta blinked, totally stunned. Whatever she'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. Her whole body jerked, both under the lash of the power in his voice, and the instant reaction to danger.

‘I beg your pardon?' she said coldly.

Lisle looked at her stormy eyes. They really were the exact colour of emeralds. They sparkled like jewels too. He shook his head, and made a great show of bringing out his notebook.

‘You are Nesta Janice Aldernay, of 31 Brook Close, Durham?'

Nesta gaped at him. ‘How . . . ?'

‘Your car number plate,' Lisle explained briefly. He'd tracked her to this residence by
the
simple expedient of getting a much put-upon WPC to check up on all the hotel and hostel registers that landlords, by law, were required to keep. It hadn't taken as long as he'd thought.

Nesta blinked again. ‘But why did you take down my car number plate? And,' her eyes sharpened accusingly, ‘I didn't see you write it down anywhere.'

Lisle sighed. ‘I have a very good memory, Miss Aldernay. As, so it happens, does Sir Vivian Dalrymple's next-door neighbour.'

Nesta, wide-eyed over the thought of his almost photographic memory, suddenly felt herself go a little cold. And a little pale. She cursed her fair skin, which she knew from experience, regularly gave the game away. It was almost impossible to stop her emotions and reactions from showing on her face.

‘Neighbour?' she echoed stupidly, biting her lower lip and desperately trying to guess ahead. Somehow, without quite knowing how, she seemed to have wandered into a minefield.

Seeing his hazel eyes flicker in interest, she leaned back in her chair and let her brow furrow in puzzlement. ‘Who did you say this neighbour was?'

Even as she said it, she wondered what the hell she was doing. And, quick as a flash, the ironical answer came back. She was letting him get under her skin—
that's
what she was doing. She felt a rush of sudden shame, as
she
realised that this was far, far too serious a matter to be playing games. Of course, she must just admit . . .

‘Miss Aldernay, don't play games with me,' Lisle said, his voice as soft as velvet, as deadly as dynamite. ‘I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I'm in no mood to be toyed with.' His voice rose to a sharp edge, then subsided again.

Nesta felt her nipples suddenly begin to ache. Sweetly. Unsettled, she sat up very straight on the chair. She took a breath.

‘I'm not sure . . .' she began, ready to tell him all about her father's research, but not sure she should even waste his time with it.

Lisle, however, glanced down at his notebook, and ruthlessly cut her off. Although, in his line of work, he was used to being lied to, there was something about being lied to by
this particular woman
that was oddly painful to him. He just didn't want to hear it.

‘According to our witness,' he began grimly, ‘a young woman, between the age of 20 and 25, called on Sir Vivian on Wednesday last. This woman was about five feet five in height, with a bell-shaped cut of red hair that came to a point either side of her lips.'

Lisle looked up suddenly, his eyes softening on the wings of her hair. They seemed to point, like arrows, to her mouth, which was slightly open, and breathing in air rapidly. Her lips were perfectly formed, lipstick-free, and had a deep, appealing, cupid's bow.

He
dragged his eyes from them with something of an effort, and looked into her eyes. And found that they were no longer flashing in furious emerald temper, but darkening in despair. He felt his heart sink. So she
was
guilty of something. Please, let it only be prevarication. Nothing worse. Please.

But he was in no mood to be merciful. ‘Does that description remind you of anyone, Miss Aldernay?' he jibed.

The voice was so soft, so sure, so damned wonderful, that Nesta once again felt herself getting angry.

‘There must be a fair few redheads in this city, Mr Jarvis,' she pointed out grimly.

‘
Inspector
Jarvis,' Lisle corrected ruthlessly. ‘And I dare say there are. But how many of them showed up outside Sir Vivian's home this morning, looking worried and anxious?'

Nesta watched him suddenly get to his feet and begin to pace restlessly. Like a caged tiger, all frustrated power and animal angst. Instinctively, she opened her mouth to tell him everything. Let him waste his time, what did it matter to her? But before she could do so, Lisle, alerted by the title of a book by her bed, suddenly lifted it up and read the title.

‘The Psychology of Sin' by Dr Callum Fielding.

He spun around, catching her just as she was about to speak.

‘You study psychology?' he snapped. It
sounded
so much like an accusation that it caught her totally unawares.

‘No. I mean, yes. I mean . . .' she flustered, ‘I've just finished a B.A. course in the subject at Durham.'

Lisle suddenly felt like laughing. And cursing roundly. Because, suddenly, the mystery was no mystery at all. And he should be glad, but he wasn't. He was disappointed.

‘Oh, I get it,' he nodded, rubbing his eyes tiredly. The sensible part of him knew that he was acting like an idiot because he was just too tired to think straight. But another part of him simply failed to care.

Nesta, not liking the sneer on his handsome face, or the tone of his voice one little bit, got rapidly to her own feet, her hands curling and uncurling into fists by her side.

‘And what exactly is it that you get,
Inspector
Jarvis?' she asked coldly, her chin coming up in a challenge, her body tensing.

Lisle looked at her, thinking what a waste it was. All that fire and beauty, thrown away on an old man.

No, a little demon voice popped up in the back of his mind. Not just any old man. A titled old man. A powerful old man. A man with a great academic reputation. The boy who'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks suddenly raised his ugly head.

As if he would ever be good enough for a woman like this. Well-educated. Beautiful.
Classy.

‘You thought he could get you in, did you?' he asked grimly. ‘Is that what he promised you? To get you a post-graduate course in this mighty, wonderful University of ours?' he goaded. ‘And just what did you have to do to fulfil your part of the bargain? And was it just the once? Or have you been seeing each other for a while?'

Nesta stared at him, trying to make sense of the bitter, mocking words. He was obviously grinding some personal axe. His ugly tone made her wince at first, and then, in a sudden wave of understanding, his equally ugly meaning had her exploding in indignation.

Her eyes widened, flaring into green lasers as he walked towards her and tossed the book he was carrying onto his now empty chair seat.

‘If you'd just told me this morning that you were Sir Vivian's mistress we could . . .'

Nesta hissed. There was no other word for the small expulsion of air that escaped her throat. Of all the condescending, self-righteous, mean-spirited . . . She felt her hand come back, and had just about a split second to wonder what the hell she thought she was doing. Then she was watching her hand swing out in front of her, heading for his face like a guided missile.

If he hadn't been so tired, she would never have been able to land the slap on him. As it was, he saw the movement, felt a brief-lived
desire
to laugh, and then felt the shocking, stinging slap numb the left side of his face. It was, he thought blankly, a rather good backhander.

The noise of the blow echoed through the room with all the panache of a gunshot.

Nesta's green eyes widened even further.

Had she really just hit him?

She saw the white imprint of a hand slowly appear in stark relief in his reddened face, and realised that, yes, she had indeed just hit him.

She, the psychology major, had just lost control.

Lisle blinked, still fighting off a vague desire to laugh. It had been so long since he'd been slapped in the face by a beautiful woman. Who'd have thought he still had it in him?

‘You do realise,' he heard himself say, clearly and mockingly, ‘that I could arrest you for assaulting a police officer?'

Nesta boiled at that weary, mocking tone. So he didn't take her seriously? Her heightened senses hummed, demanding that something else happen.