Free Marriage Under Suspicion by Sara Craven Page A

solitary craft. You're the one who goes out to work, who meets the people, and does
    the deals.'
    What was he trying to tell her? she asked herself, with a sudden stab of desolation. That
    even when he'd gone she would still have a life—of sorts?
    She shivered, pulling a condemnatory face at the inoffensive lemon tea. 'And if I don't get
    cracking there won't be any deals.'
    He was watching her again. 'Sure you feel up to it?'
    'Fighting fit.' She sounded bright enough to dazzle. 'Is the bathroom free?'
    'It's all yours.' He ran a hand round his chin. 'I shaved after I had my shower.'
    On impulse, she put down her beaker and went towards him, reaching up on tiptoe. 'Let
    me sniff.' She kept her voice light.
    It was one of the small jokey intimacies they'd always shared, this gentle inhalation of the
    scent of his skin, so familiar to her that if she'd been presented, blindfold, with a hundred
    other men, she would pick him without hesitation.
    From their earliest time together, it had filled her with delight.
    'Oh, God.' She could remember nuzzling him, nipping him softly with her teeth, unable to
    get enough of him. 'You smell wonderful.'
    And him turning to her, gathering her up in his arms, his hands urgent, his voice husky.
    'And so do you, Kate—Katie...'
    Often—so often—this tiny nonsense had led to them falling back into bed together,
    uncaring of the time, or other obligations. Oblivious, indeed, to everything but their
    mutual need, and it’s heated, ecstatic fulfilment.
    No one's marriage could survive at that pitch for ever, Kate reminded herself. But it
    would do no harm to remind him of what they'd had together. And what they could still
    have.
    She breathed deeply, burying her nose in his lean cheek, even as her senses alerted her
    sharply to a difference.
    She stepped back. 'You've changed your cologne.'
    'Yes, it's one I bought at the airport on the last trip. Do you like it?'
    'I—I don't know.' Nor did she. It was much lighter and more floral than the usual one.
    Did she—'X', the unknown quantity—like it? she wondered.
    She said hurriedly, 'Perhaps it's a bit young.’
    His grin was sardonic. 'Aren't you the flatterer? Go and dress while I polish my Zimmer
    frame.'
    She flushed. 'I didn't mean that as it sounded. It just doesn't seem to be—you.'
    'Ah,' he said lightly. 'But perhaps this is the beginning of a whole new me.’
    Yes, Kate thought, as she trailed back upstairs. That's what I'm afraid of.
    On the other hand, maybe she was too much the same, she thought as she surveyed
    herself, dressed and ready for another working day. The brief navy skirt, the immaculate
    silk blouse, the scarlet double-breasted blazer were almost like a uniform. She wore a
    similar version of the same thing every day. Not too formal for the office, but smart
    enough to take her to meetings with clients. But not bloody exciting, that was for sure.
    She hardly thought Ryan's eyes would light up when he saw her.
    And she was right, because when she got downstairs he was talking on the telephone, and
    didn't even notice her.
    'Fine,' he was saying briskly. 'One o'clock. I'm looking forward to it.' He replaced the
    receiver, wrote something swiftly on the pad next to the phone, tore off the sheet, and
    stuffed it into his pocket.
    'Chatsworth Blair?' She gave him an enquiring glance.
    He nodded, his expression already preoccupied, going ahead of her into the solitary world
    he inhabited where she could not follow. 'Confirming lunch.'
    He picked up his briefcase, and headed for the door. 'I'll see you later.'
    'Have a good day,"' she called after him. 'Give my love to Joe.'
    But he was already closing the door, and didn't seem to have heard her.
    Kate collected her own briefcase and bag, and went over to switch on the answering
    machine. She stood for a moment, looking down at the blank pad. There'd been a scene in
    a film she'd enjoyed—something by Hitchcock and Cary Grant—where he'd read a mes-
    sage he wasn't