A Matter of Trust (19 page)

She blinked. ‘Let go of me!' She managed to invest her voice, at least, with a little backbone.

Lisle blinked, looked down at his own hands on her arms, and suddenly released her. He took a single backward step, and dragged in a huge breath. Hell! What was getting into him?

Shaken but carefully hiding it, he retreated back to the safety of the door and the
familiarity
of his police notebook. One look at the almost bare page showed him how unsuccessful he'd been in interrogating his suspect.

Suspect. She was still a suspect, remember, he reminded himself grimly.

‘What time did you leave this Roger Waring's house?' he asked, his voice cold but still a little shaken.

Nesta rubbed her arms. He hadn't hurt her, she just wanted to capture the feel of his fingers against her flesh for ever and ever.

‘I . . . er . . . it was late. Gone midnight. I'm not really sure. You'll have to ask him,' she murmured, every inch as shaken as he was. The atmosphere in the room was so fraught with various dangers that it was hard to breathe, let alone think clearly.

‘I will, don't you worry about that,' Lisle said warningly. But if it was that late, she was in the frame for the Don's murder. He knew that to get to Wolvercote, she would have driven up the Woodstock Road to the roundabout at the top of it, the Wolvercote turn being the first exit. Which meant she could have stopped the car outside St Bede's, but the double yellow lines there might have attracted the attention of any late-night traffic wardens, and surely she wouldn't have risked getting a ticket?

But she could have parked on St Giles, and walked back easily enough. Carrying a bow and arrow? Even though it was night, there
were
streetlights. And besides, even that late at night, someone would have been about. Perhaps she'd parked in St Bede's itself. The postern gate was unlocked.

But would she have known that?

Or, perhaps, he was looking at this the wrong way. Could she have
seen
the killer? Did she know him, or her. Was
that
why she was all so-fired interested in this case? Was she shielding someone?

A man.

Her lover.

He fought back a sick sensation of despair in the pit of his stomach. Damn it, he couldn't get personally involved here. He
couldn't
. What did it matter to him if Nesta Aldernay had a string of lovers?

‘Did you see anyone entering or leaving the gates of St Bede's when you drove past?' he asked, trying to be fair, trying to be impartial and failing miserably. She was so lovely. He wanted her so much to be innocent of all this ugliness.

Nesta cocked her head partly to one side, frowning in thought. ‘No, I don't think so. But then, I wouldn't have been looking would I? I didn't know where Sir Vivian was, or was likely to be, every minute of the day,' she pointed out, reasonably enough but with a sardonic twist to her tone.

And if she was being just a little bolshie, well, surely she was entitled. She was, after all,
just
a little scared too. Just a little worried that she was becoming a prime suspect in a murder case!

Once again, she wondered if she should just tell him about her father's papers and get it over with. But if her enemy had them, what good would it do to tell the police? Even if they believed her, what could they do about it? Was it even illegal to steal someone else's academic work? Somehow, she doubted it.

Lisle narrowed his eyes. ‘You're doing it again,' he growled softly.

Nesta looked at him quizzically. His hair was damp from the rain outside, and was drying into a slight wave against his scalp. It was such a rich, dark colour, the texture so thick and vibrant that she could almost imagine the feel of it under her fingertips. His nose, which had so obviously been broken at some point, lent his face a devil-may-care, he-man kind of look that, she felt instinctively, was not the whole picture. What secrets did that tough, grim exterior hide? What kind of music turned him on. Was he married? She paled. What a thought.

Grimly, she tried to drag herself back to reality. To concentrate on the matter in hand.

‘Doing what?' she asked huskily.

‘Turning over the cogs in your mind. If you know something about this case, I want to know what it is. If I have to drag you down to the station and keep you there, I can. And I
will.'

‘You can only keep me 48 hours,' Nesta guessed. ‘I know my rights,' she added defiantly. Which was a lie. She'd never even contemplated being arrested before, but she could pretty quickly learn how she stood. ‘And if you do, I'll squeal for my solicitor so fast, your ears will burn,' she snapped.

If she knew any solicitors, that is.

Lisle's lips twisted. ‘Even so. You'd still be mine for 48 hours. I've got a nice little interview room all picked out for you. A wooden chair. A wooden table. A single light. It's real cosy.' His voice was strangely dreamy, almost hypnotic. Instead of being afraid of what he was describing, a vivid picture of the room flashed into her mind. A steel door. A bare and barren room, with just themselves, cocooned inside, the outside world forbidden to enter. He with his jacket off, his top two shirt buttons undone, his cuffs rolled back, revealing strong and hirsute arms. His eyes burning into hers . . .

She felt her nipples begin to tighten. She tried to drag in a deep breath.

‘This is . . . this is . . . terrible,' she said at last.

Lisle too, seemed to be having trouble breathing. ‘I agree,' he said flatly, his voice utterly bleak. ‘So if you'll just tell me why you broke in past a police seal, and what you're doing in a murdered man's office, the better it
will
be for both of us. Don't you think?'

Nesta wanted nothing more than to get out of that room. Get away from this man who seemed able, with the flick of his hazel eyes, to tie all her previously tightly-held principles and beliefs about herself into knots. ‘I . . . I was looking for a pair of earrings,' she said, as surprised by her own subconscious choice of explanation as the policeman watching her.

‘Really?' Lisle drawled. ‘Do tell. I'm sure I'm going to find this fascinating,' he drawled, settling himself more comfortably, folding his arms ever more tightly against his chest.

If he only knew what his body language was saying, Nesta mused giddily, he'd have a fit. But if his body was screaming out self-protection, his eyes were openly mocking.

Nesta flushed. Damn him, did he have to disbelieve her so obviously?

‘It might not sound much to you,' she began huffily, ‘but they belonged to my mother,' she felt the lie running away with her. ‘She died last year. They were her mother's before her, and they're the only family heirloom I have,' she finished miserably.

She lifted her chin, fighting a war within herself. One half was ‘Appalled' and was battling to get her to tell the truth. The opposing side was ‘Resolute', and was equally demanding that she stick with her original mission. Which was justice for her father. That was what she was there for, after all. And
she'd
better keep sight of it, or this man would quickly tie her up in knots.

Lisle was the man who was seeking Justice for Sir Vivian. Which was just as it should be. And it must still be for the best, surely, that she not interfere with that? Especially since she knew nothing that could help him with that.

‘Look, I'm sorry Sir Vivian's dead. Really I am,' she said softly, earnestly. ‘But I didn't see any mugger hanging around St Bede's that night. All right?'

Lisle grimaced. The papers were still touting the random mugging angle. And for that, he and his men were grateful. It kept the publicity down to a manageable level. He knew Lord St John James was behind that, of course, but for once he didn't care about the privileges of people who knew other people in high places.

But he also knew it couldn't last. Journalists had a way of worming out information. And once the news of the coroner's report leaked, as it inevitably would, they wouldn't only be making the front-page news in the local press, but the nationals would pick up on it too.

But for now he had a breathing space.

He looked at the woman in front of him. So beautiful and desirable. And so very dangerous.

He shook his head and ran a harassed hand through his hair. There was no point in telling her that this case was a long way from being a
simple
mugging. The less she knew, the more he might be able to trip her up.

Looking for earrings in a pig's eye.

But where did she fit in? Try as he might, he just couldn't picture her as a killer. And if he was right in his belief that the motive for the killing of the old man lay in Sir Vivian's belief that someone at that party was a cheat and an academic fraud, then it left this woman right out of it.

Nevertheless, he made a mental note to check out if any scandal hung over this young lady's head. Academic or otherwise.

‘May I go now?' Nesta asked politely. She fidgeted beside the desk, looking more and more miserable with every moment that passed.

‘Did you find them?' Lisle asked softly.

For a second, Nesta thought he meant her father's papers. She went white. Then she realised he was talking about the mythical earrings. Get a grip Nesta, she warned herself grimly. This man is running circles around you!

She shook her head. ‘No. I must have lost them somewhere else.'

‘Why are you looking for them here?' Lisle pounced, so softly, and with such finesse, that she didn't even see the trap.

‘What?' she asked blankly.

‘Why were you looking for them here?' he repeated relentlessly. ‘You must have thought you could have lost them here, which means
you
must have been here before. So you've been to both Sir Vivian's house and his office here in College. Yes?'

Nesta flushed. Oh damn.

Lisle smiled in triumph. Didn't see that coming, did you, he mused grimly. ‘Perhaps you'd better tell me why Sir Vivian brought you to this office? Was he getting worried that meeting you at his home was a little too public? Was it easier to sneak you into his office here in College? Where students would turn a grinning blind eye, and all his old colleagues would simply think what a dog he was?' He was taunting her ruthlessly, both because he felt his own, personal savage need to, and also because he wanted to see if he could goad her into betraying her secrets.

Nesta opened her mouth then closed it again helplessly.

What could she say? She'd neatly dug herself a nice little hole to fall into, and he'd so kindly given her a push. Bless him.

‘These earrings,' Lisle said, pushing away from the door once more and walking towards her. ‘Were they really your mother's? Or did Sir Vivian buy them for you. Expensive were they?' He watched her closely as he moved towards her.

Nesta began to back away. Lisle saw her confusion. A flush of resentment that crossed her face, and became a hint of pain. And suddenly, Lisle knew. This woman had no
more
been Sir Vivian's mistress than he was the Sultan of Brunei. Lady June had been right about her husband all along. He was not the philandering kind.

‘Exactly what did you want from the old man, Nesta?' he asked quietly and much more gently now.

And because he caught her so unexpectedly on the raw, Nesta flinched. She had gone to that lovely old man demanding his help. She had hurt and upset him with her claims. She had made his last few days on earth miserable.

‘If only I'd known he was going to die,' she mumbled . . . she'd never have done it. She'd have gone to someone else. Dr Callum Fielding perhaps. In her research on who was who at Oxford, Dr Fielding had been her second choice of possible helper. He was almost as well respected as Sir Vivian. He was younger, a member of a college that had nothing to do with either her father or the woman who had stolen his work, so he would be more inclined to be impartial. But she hadn't gone to him. She'd gone to an old man who'd loved Oxford, and had made him agree to hurt it. All for her.

A big fat tear slid down her cheek. She felt so guilty she could have screamed. She looked up at the tough-looking man who was standing so close to her again. She shook her head.

‘Nothing,' she said. ‘It's nothing that you'd be remotely interested in.'

She
had no idea, then, of how wrong she was.

She felt his finger under her chin, lifting her head.

Lisle caught his breath. Her lovely emerald eyes were swimming in tears. The arrows of red hair, leading his gaze to her mouth, brushed the tops of his knuckles. He felt a tenderness he'd never known before flood into his mind. His heart. ‘Oh, Nesta,' he said softly.

And lowered his head to kiss her.

Her lips were sweet, and tasting slightly of the salt from her tears. With a small murmured cry, she pushed against him, raising her arms to loop over his neck, turning into his warm embrace.

His tongue met hers. Duelled, caressed, promised . . .

Nesta felt her nipples harden into tight buds and was sure he must feel them pressing against his chest.

Lisle did. He dragged his mouth away. ‘We can't,' he said thickly.

Nesta sighed. ‘I know,' she agreed.

And they kissed again. And again. And again . . .

CHAPTER
TEN

Sergeant Jim Neill walked into the incident room and slumped wearily down into a chair. He watched his superior's face as he listened to the speaker on the other end of the telephone. He had that long-suffering look of all good cops, when dealing with petty bureaucracy.

But Jim, who knew his boss well, also detected a certain look of, what—happiness—in his eyes? Had something broken on the case?

‘Yes, Sir,' Lisle said flatly. His voice held that curiously neutral tone he used whenever speaking to one of the really big cheeses. Jim grinned.