A Matter of Trust (23 page)

Callum got up and walked restlessly to the window to look outside. It had begun to rain fitfully. Showers and sunshine. A perfect metaphor for life.

He sighed heavily. ‘Rosemary is . . . complicated. I think she's having problems. She was always volatile, always a bit of a compulsive, obsessive personality. She drinks too much, and always seemed to need the approbation of men—and the more dangerous the men, the worse for her they were, the better she liked it. Looking back, I suppose I've always felt that she seemed hell-bent on self-destruction, and could never understand why.'

‘And you think maybe this explains it?' Markie said quietly. ‘She had this big dark secret hanging over her?'

At least she now knew that there was nothing going on between them. He sounded sincerely bewildered and wary when talking about Naismith. With relief, she felt the green-eyed monster within her retreat, appeased.

Callum
turned and looked at her and spread his hands. ‘Maybe. Who knows what Rosemary is thinking? I've never pretended to understand the woman. But that's not the question, is it?'

Markie looked at him for a moment in puzzlement, then went even more pale than before. ‘You mean, did she know that Sir Vivian was on to her,' Markie asked breathlessly.

Callum nodded, stony-faced. ‘And if she did know, did she kill him to keep him quiet?'

*           *           *

Lisle wearily collected his coat, gave a few words of encouragement for his flagging team, and headed for home. He pulled up at a set of traffic lights and tapped the wheel impatiently. He'd be better off buying a house here, in Kidlington, he mused. It would save the short but traffic-jammed commute into Oxford itself.

Perhaps he and Nesta should start looking for one.

He found himself grinning again.

Nesta.

It was madness. She'd been a suspect in a case. He'd known her only a few days. She was so much younger, so much smarter, so much out of his class, it was ridiculous to even think of marrying her. And if someone had told him just two weeks ago that he'd be engaged to be
married
to a woman with all those credentials, he'd have laughed himself sick.

It was so fraught with possible dangers.

But then, he thought soberly, the first time around, he'd done it all by the book. He'd known Marie, his first wife, since school. They'd gone out for two years. Had a proper engagement party. Put a deposit down on their first starter-home. Had the white wedding, and all the rest of it.

And
that
hadn't worked out.

For all he'd thought that she'd been prepared for life as a copper's wife, and for all Marie had thought so too, they had just been proved wrong. It had been as simple as that. The missed Dinners, parties, birthdays, had become more and more aggravating. The long hours, the odd hours, the lack of status in being a cop's wife, the pity of friends, it had all undermined them. The times she'd had to go to hospital, after being told he'd been wounded in the course of duty. The tension it had caused for months afterwards. Eventually, there had just been no escape, except divorce. Now he was glad they hadn't had children. He was also genuinely glad that Marie had found someone else—a dentist, with a good income, steady hours, and a nice detached house in the village of Yarnton.

Just what Marie should have had in the beginning, if they'd only known.

But with Nesta, Lisle just knew it was going
to
be different. Not just because, as a soon-to-be practising psychologist, she'd be better able to cope with the stresses that came with the job of being Mrs Lisle Jarvis. And not just because things were better, now that Lisle had earned his last promotion, which meant that there would be a lot less likelihood of him being stabbed by a drug-crazed suspect on the streets now that he was no longer in the front line. The hours were not quite so crazy, except when he had a big case on like this. And he was well and truly on the ladder to promotion—provided he could just solve this damned case.

No, even with all those improvements, he knew that wasn't why he felt so outlandishly confident that this time, with this woman, it would all work out. It was something more nebulous. Just something he felt deep inside that he'd never felt with Marie. Something he'd never even known that he
should
be feeling.

He got home to find all his lights on. Inside, a Dinner was cooking. Not one of those candlelight meals like Marie had prepared for them, during their first year of marriage. Oddly, if it had been, alarm bells would have started ringing.

He could smell that this was nothing that had taken painstaking hours to cook. Just a simple shop-bought meal.

Chicken Kiev, by the smell of garlic.

As
he walked into the door, he could see that the table was set, just with his ordinary odds-and-ends, and a sauce bottle. Nesta was sat on his sofa, books and papers scattered all around her. She was looking over the photocopies of her father's thesis, and she hastily gathered them together when she saw him walk in. He'd given her a key to his flat yesterday, and her bedsit was looking more and more like a no-go area.

She'd spent the day at his place, going over her options. With Sir Vivian gone, she had to decide how to proceed.

She'd almost decided that a direct approach to the woman concerned was the only way, but right now she had better things on her mind. Her face lit up into a welcoming smile, with not a trace of unease or reproach for the lateness of the hour.

‘Lisle!' She thrust the papers into her battered briefcase and uncurled herself from the sofa. She wore no make-up, and was dressed in a faded pair of jeans and a rumpled thick-knit sweater.

She looked gorgeous.

She walked into his arms and kissed him. ‘Hungry?'

‘Starving.'

‘For food first? Or for me?' she asked huskily.

‘What do you think?'

She led him to the bed, watching him as
he
shrugged off his shirt. Mimicking him, she pulled the sweater over her own head and matched him, stripping herself article of clothing, for article of clothing, both of them feasting their eyes on the other, until they were naked.

When he joined her on the bed, she was breathing rapidly, her eyes as large as a cat's at night. The moment he touched her, she moaned, her skin tingling with goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cold.

Lisle reached for her, all his cares simply slipping away . . .

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘Who are you calling?' Markie asked. It was getting dark, and they'd decided to spend the evening at the cottage, before heading back to Oxford. Now she watched Callum as he used the landline and dialled a familiar number.

He glanced at her, ready to speak, then heard the voice in his ear instead and half-turned away from her. ‘Hello, Sin Jun. Yes, me, Callum. Look, do you have the number for Inspector Jarvis?'

As Markie made a face, Callum looked back at her and shrugged. Putting his hand over the receiver, he said softly, ‘He's got to know what we found out.'

Markie
sighed. She still hadn't really forgiven the policeman for treating Callum as a suspect. ‘If you say so,' she muttered darkly.

Callum made a note of the number, and reached for the phone. At the incident room, he learned that Inpsector Jarvis had just left for the day.

‘All right, but can you give him a message please. It's important. Can you tell him that Dr Fielding called. I'm at Sir Vivian's country cottage, and I've found his journal, and papers relating to the person he suspected of cheating. Have you got all that?'

He listened as the constable on the other end repeated his words back at him and sighed. ‘No, I'm not in Oxford, so I can't come in first thing. I'll be starting out from Cornwall some time in the morning. But I will go and see the inspector as soon as I can. Yes? Fine, that's right.' He listened for a few moments longer, then rang off.

‘You must feel really strange about all this,' Markie said thoughtfully, coming to stand beside him. ‘Is that why you didn't actually give him Dr Naismith's name?'

‘Partly,' Callum agreed. ‘But mostly because I need to read the results of all of Vivian's research first. It's possible he could have made some errors.' His lips twisted as she gave him a knowing look. ‘Yes, I know, it's unlikely. But damn it, Markie, you don't just accuse a colleague of theft and plagiarism without being
absolutely
sure of your facts first. Besides, one of the first rules is always check your data. Not that I don't trust Sir Vivian to have done his homework, but still, I have to check it out for myself as well.'

‘So once we're back at Oxford, you want to hit the libraries, right?'

‘Right.'

Markie nodded. ‘OK. You carry on reading, and I'll make us some Dinner.'

Callum looked at her surprised. ‘You can cook?'

Markie put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘Of course I can cook,' she scoffed.

She didn't, however, tell him that she could cook particularly well.

*           *           *

Considering she had recourse only to the tins and dried staples with which the tiny cottage kitchen was stocked, she thought she hadn't done too badly. A few hours later, they sat down to the first course, tinned soup and herb bread croutons. Callum ate with a mechanical air that told her he was not really tasting the food, which was probably just as well, she thought wryly.

‘So, you've never been married?' she said artlessly, making him nearly choke.

He patted his mouth with a paper napkin
and
shook his head. ‘No. You?'

‘Not so far,' she said gaily. ‘But it's not as if I'm anti-marriage or anything. If the right man came along, I suppose I'd consider it.'

‘Very magnanimous of you.'

‘I thought so.' She cleared away the soup bowls, and came back with a makeshift stew of tinned stewed beef, tinned carrots and tomatoes, with a scattering of dried herbs for flavouring. Without a word, Callum began stoically eating again.

Markie grinned. Just wait until he realised what she had planned for dessert!

*           *           *

It was nearly midnight before Callum had finished reading the last of Sir Vivian's notes, and feeling tired, depressed and heartsick, he turned off the downstairs lights and climbed the steep wooden stairs.

Markie had gone to bed an hour ago, saying she was sleepy, and he'd barely muttered a vague ‘goodnight' in her direction. Now he was careful not to turn on the landing lights as he made his way to the biggest of the two bedrooms, determined not to disturb her. He trod lightly, and opened the bedroom door with a silent snick. The curtains inside were drawn, and as he shucked off his clothes, he reflected that tomorrow was going to be a grim day.

Once
Lisle Jarvis was presented with Rosemary's name as the one Sir Vivian was going to denounce, her movements on the night of the Prize-giving party were going to be put under a microscope. He could only hope that they'd stand up to such scrutiny.

But deep inside he had the sick feeling of dread that they would not. And the thought of what would happen then made his head ache. The scandal for the city, and the university in particular, wasn't even the worst of it. There were June Dalrymple's feelings to consider, when it all came out, as well as the tragedy for Rosemary Naismith. How would a woman like that take to being sent to prison?

He pulled back the blankets and slid his naked form into the bed, then jumped as a warm hand and knowing fingers slipped up his back, and hooked over one broad shoulder.

‘I thought you were never coming up,' Markie complained softly.

‘Sorry. I thought we'd agreed you were having the smaller room,' he said stiffly, putting one foot on the floor, preparatory to leaving.

For a slightly built woman, Markie Kendall's grip was remarkably firm as she pulled him back down onto the mattress. ‘
You
agreed that I'd be sleeping in a different bedroom,' she corrected huskily. ‘I just never put you right.'

In the darkness, Callum tensed. ‘I don't think this is a good idea.'

‘No?'

‘No,' he said resolutely.

A pair of soft lips brushed the column of his neck. ‘No?'

He swallowed hard. ‘No.'

Her hand moved down his shoulder, across his chest, and began to dance over one hard, male nipple. She pinched it hard, just short of pain, making his muscles clench in exquisite anticipation.

‘No?' she whispered.

He tried to speak, but found he couldn't, and merely shook his head instead. In the darkness, she interpreted the movement and smiled.

She bent her head, and began nibbling on one earlobe. Then she let her tongue dart into his sensitive ear, and sighed softly.

‘No?' she murmured. ‘Really?'

Callum groaned.

She pressed herself against his back, her tender naked breasts pressing into the hollows of his shoulderblades.

‘No?'

Callum turned onto his side and wordlessly reached for her. For all that he was so much bigger than her, he was a remarkably tender lover, careful, considerate and consummate. Markie soon found that she couldn't speak either, but her cries grew from soft, whispering endearments, to sharper, higher, moaning cries as he nudged her legs apart and with a
sure,
firm and conquering thrust, entered her. Her fingernails raked his back, and her heart hammered as she heard him moan in response.

Years spent keeping fit in the gym lent her shapely legs a surprising strength, as she hooked them over his hips and her hands on his firm masculine buttocks pulled him ever more deeply into the core of her femininity.

The slow, sensual dance became faster, more urgent, and soon Markie could only scream his name as she felt her body shudder and spasm beneath his heavy, comforting weight.