A Matter of Trust (7 page)

Markie barely heard what it was, but she
noticed
with a shaft of savage satisfaction that the blond giant's shoulders tightened when he saw the gesture. She made herself laugh provocatively. Good. So he wasn't as indifferent as he pretended.

With a toss of her beautiful head, Markie let the university Casanova walk her back into St Bede's under the nose of Callum Fielding.

*           *           *

Nesta walked into her dark and deserted room, and fumbled for the light switch. Walking to the tiny sink, she filled the kettle and made some tea, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

She hadn't been sleeping well lately, but something told her that tonight she'd sleep like a log. Perhaps because it had been such a therapeutic evening.

Her father's friends had once again taken her out, this time also inviting three others over for dinner who'd known Brian Aldernay, and all of them had talked about him with both fondness and respect. Unfortunately, none of them had known enough about his work to become suspicious when that other, plagiarised work had been published. But if they had been, she was convinced they would have acted.

She was sure now that everyone who mattered would heartily endorse her pursuit of the truth. And that was the reassurance she'd
subconsciously
been seeking ever since coming to this city. She was
not
being vindictive, nor was she being unduly harsh—the two things that had most worried her, when she'd set out to see Sir Vivian. This was not about a vendetta. This was about justice.

She took her mug of tea and climbed onto the bed, finding that it sagged in the middle and rolled her determinedly into the centre. Giggling and wriggling into a more comfortable position on the wayward mattress, she leaned back against the headboard with a sigh. And found herself, unexpectedly, thinking of Rob.

Rob Gingridge, a music graduate from her year at Durham. The tall, golden-haired, golden boy. They'd met in their first year at college, and had gone steady ever since. All her friends had envied her, for everyone agreed that Rob was going to be the next Simon Rattle. His good looks, personality and drive had made him stand out from the common herd, and his contacts in the media (his father worked for the BBC) would no doubt stand him in good stead for the future.

Too bad, really, Nesta mused now, with a wry twist of her lips. With so much going for him, she had always suspected that the time would come when he would cheat on her.

For Nesta had no illusions about men. Some, a very rare few, might have the ability to be faithful to one woman for the rest of
his
life, of that she was sure. But she'd never truly believed that Rob was one of them. Not even at the beginning, when everything was all rose-tinted glasses and champagne. Even then, there'd been tiny warning bells in the back of her mind every time she caught him eyeing up a curvaceous figure.

Nevertheless, when it had been merely a suspicion on her part, she'd been able to live with it. She might, after all, be doing him an injustice, and she'd been determined never to let jealousy, that most destructive of emotions, hold sway over her.

But actually catching him in bed with a beautiful brunette had been quite another matter. The funny thing was, that although it had hurt at the time, now, barely three months later, she could look back on it and, not laugh, exactly, but at least smile ruefully. It had all been so predictable. Ever so slightly tawdry. And so deeply pathetic.

Of course, Rob had tried to woo her back. Had spent, in fact, nearly a whole month on the attempt. Flowers, entreaties, rash promises. He'd done the lot. Nesta, though, had simply been too sick at heart to give him a second chance. More because of herself, and her cowardly actions, than because of Rob's behaviour. If she'd really mistrusted him so much, why hadn't she ended their relationship before? It was a question that still plagued her to this day. Oh, she'd rationalised it all
very
well at the time, of course. She wasn't a psychology graduate for nothing!

She'd very rationally and logically reminded herself that she had no
proof
that Rob had been cheating on her, so what could she have done? Hire a private investigator to follow him? Drill her friends for any gossip about him? Drill
his
friends? Kept on demanding reassurances from him, that she was the only one in his life, thus driving him further and further away?

What would that have said about her state of mind then?

Nesta sighed and sipped her tea.

Instead she'd done nothing, except wait for the other shoe to drop. And was that any better?

‘Oh damn,' Nesta said softly. Why didn't she just admit it? For it to have hurt her so relatively little, it had to mean that Rob had never meant as much to her as she'd assumed. Or tried to make out? Ruthlessly examining her own psyche, Nesta forced herself to face some very hard facts.

True, Rob had been her first lover. He'd been surprised (and full of masculine-like smugness) to find her, at eighteen, still untouched. No doubt he'd gone out of his way to make their time together something special. And at first, it had been wonderful. But now, looking back, Nesta was able to acknowledge to herself that she'd probably,
like
a lot of teenagers, been more in love with the
idea
of being in love. She'd been so pleased with herself, and her supposed newly found maturity, in taking a lover at last. She'd been so eager to make the leap from childhood to independence that she hadn't really ever stopped to ask herself, exactly, what she wanted from life.

Well, from now on, trust was going to be further up on her personal list of ‘must haves' than ever before. If the debacle of her affair with Rob had taught her one thing, it had taught her that any relationship without trust wasn't worth a damn.

Nesta's lips twisted into a rather bittersweet smile. Well, they say you lived and learned.

She placed her now empty mug on the rickety bedside table and slipped off her shoes. Within minutes she was undressed and back in bed, shivering slightly beneath the covers. Her mind, however, kept replaying the events of the night, and a small, glad smile curved her lips.

It had done her good to do something positive for a change.

*           *           *

Markie rose to her feet and smiled around at the table of expectant faces turned her way.

The evening was now well advanced, and a delicious dinner had been consumed, and the
Principal
of the college had made his speech. Now it was her moment in the spotlight.

She was seated at Lord St John's right, with a lady Professor of Physiological Sciences on her left, and Callum Fielding directly opposite her. To his right was Dr Ngabe, and to his left, Felicity Ollenback, a rather loud but pleasant American woman who'd tried to explain something to her about rats and mazes.

All night long, she'd been very careful to talk to everyone but Callum Fielding. She'd flirted outrageously with the Principal, who'd told her to call him Sin Jun, just like everyone else did, and both of them had thoroughly enjoyed the game. She'd sparkled for the men in her immediate range, and been friendly with the women.

To the blond giant, however, she'd said barely a word, something that the others had probably noticed, but been too polite to mention.

And Callum was now seething.

It hadn't taken him long to realise that ‘Markie' was actually the Kendall family member here to present the Prize, and he was feeling all kinds of a fool for mistaking her for Porter's latest feminine accessory. Even worse, Sir Vivian had not reappeared to take his place at the Dinner, and he suspected the old man had gone home early, which meant he wouldn't be able to talk to him about what was obviously troubling him until tomorrow.

And
for the last hour, he'd had to endure the cold shoulder treatment from the high-and-mighty Miss Kendall, who couldn't make her displeasure more obvious. Much to Michael Porter's glee.

And it didn't help that Callum couldn't help but feel that he deserved it. He'd been desperate to be left alone with Sir Vivian so that he could question him more closely, and he was uncomfortably aware that he must have made that plain. For all that the raven-haired beauty had stunned him, he'd wanted her to go. And it was obvious that a woman as rich, as well-connected and beautiful as Markie Kendall, wasn't used to being dismissed so cavalierly.

Now as she rose to her feet, and smiled around at them, he tried to pretend that he was immune to the beauty of that smile and the caress of those stunning blue eyes.

He reached for a glass of wine, which he'd barely touched all evening, and took a sip. What with the shock Sir Vivian had given him, and then the consternation that the arrival of Markie Kendall had stirred in him, he was barely aware that the Prize was about to be awarded. Something that had once been so exciting, now barely seemed to matter.

If he could just get her alone for a moment, and explain and apologise, he'd feel a whole lot better.

The Lalique crystal bowl, a traditional gift
given
with the Prize, sparkled in her hands as Markie lifted it into the air. As she did so, she noticed a blonde woman in the sea of tables in the main body of the room lean forward avidly.

Rosemary Naismith eyed the crystal bowl with a pang of envy. It was not the intrinsic value of the thing that mattered, of course, although it was beautiful and expensive, and would adorn any room. It was what it represented.

What she wouldn't have given to be in line to be awarded it!

‘It gives me great pleasure,' Markie said, with a somewhat wry smile, ‘to award the Kendall Prize to Dr Callum Fielding.'

She was watching him closely, of course. All night long she'd been punishing him for his boorish behaviour, and now she was intrigued to see how he reacted.

Callum heard her say his name, and he slowly put down the glass of wine in his hand. His eyes rose to meet hers—mocking blue, meeting shuttered, cautious sea-green.

Again his breath caught. She was so damned beautiful! He found his thought processes stalling, as if he'd just run into quicksand. For a man who'd always delighted in his quick, astute brain, feeling like a lovesick calf made him feel angry.

Markie saw his eyes flash, and felt a jolt of electricity flash through her.

The sudden loud applause released their
mutual
feelings of paralysis, and Callum rose to his feet, rising up as Markie tracked his progress, and her smile flashed bright and challenging.

‘Dr Fielding, congratulations,' she said, handing over the bowl and then the long, flat brown envelope that came with it. The mega-cheque that ensured his research for the next five years. A Prize, for an academic, above all others.

And yet, as Callum Fielding took it from her, and saw her turn coolly away from him, he suddenly realised that the Kendall Prize was a mere shadow of what he wanted from this woman.

He wanted her to want him.

And the knowledge made him burn with unprecedented desire, whilst at the same time, his innate sense of caution made a cold, hard warning shiver run up the length of his spine.

*           *           *

It was now gone midnight.

Back in her room at Truman Hall, Rosemary Naismith poured herself a huge glass of brandy and stood by the drinks cabinet, gulping it noisily. Every now and then her teeth hit the glass, making a chattering sound, but she didn't stop until all the liquor was gone. Then she poured a second bulbous glass and took it to the settee. She sat down
carefully,
on legs that felt made of nothing more substantial than air and water.

Her stomach churned, and she had to make a sudden dash for the bathroom.

Five minutes later, white and shaking, she returned to the living area that comprised the bulk of her rooms, and walked to the gas fire. But even though there was warmth, there was little comfort to be had from it. She gazed up from the fireplace and around the room, her face blank with shock.

She'd lived in these rooms in college for nearly fifteen years, yet everything, tonight, looked strange to her. As if she'd never seen it before. The Oxford skyline pen and ink drawing she'd bought from a flea market in Woodstock. The Oriental rug an ex-lover had given her as a present, on his return from a conference in Turkey. A highly polished bureau with very fine carving on the legs. None of it seemed familiar, somehow.

She knew, with one detached part of her mind, that she was in shock. She forced herself to take a hot shower, then climbed into bed. There she stared at the ceiling. Things were bad. Very bad.

But she'd think about that in the morning.

*           *           *

Tom Jenkins, the porter of St Bede's, checked that everything was all squared away in the
lodge
for the final time, and that the kettle was unplugged. The main gates were already locked (college policy demanded that they be locked at ten-thirty p.m. every night) and he was just about to do the same for the lodge itself.

He turned out the lights and locked the door behind him, then hesitated as he glanced upwards and saw the lights still on in the upper rooms. No doubt his wife was waiting up for him with a cup of cocoa. They'd been living in the small but cosy flat for the past thirty years now, and had their routine down pat. Grace did the early morning shift from seven a.m. until three p.m., and then he took over from then until eleven at night.

It had been a good job, and a good life, living in St Bede's. The flat had been a bit cramped when they'd had the two boys, of course, but they had both long-since moved out. One to go to work in London, and the other to live in Australia.

He was looking forward to visiting the one in Australia next year.

It had turned into a cool but not particularly cold night, and Tom decided to do a quick ‘rounds' of the college before heading upstairs. Just to re-check that the side gates leading into Little Clarendon Street and Walton Street were locked and make sure nothing was amiss after the big party. All the students had their own pass keys, of course, but sometimes
vagrants
or the homeless made their way into the grounds and curled up on or under the garden benches, and it was part of his ‘unofficial' duties to do a bit of security work.