I buy you a cup of coffee?’
‘What? Coffee?’ She moved her shoulders offhandedly. ‘I—why, yes, I—suppose so.’
‘Good.’ He gestured towards the exit. ‘Shall we go? I can call back here later.’
‘All right.’
Outside, he turned towards the market place and she fell into step beside him, wondering rather anxiously what Barry would say when he found out that she had been having coffee with his stepbrother while he was at work. And then, she decided, she didn’t care. She wasn’t doing any harm, and besides, if she was honest she would admit that she had wanted to accept Morgan’s invitation. But why that should be so after the way she had felt when she encountered him, she did not care to analyse.
They sat at a table in the window of a small cafe that overlooked the Shambles, and after the waitress had taken their order Helen was glad of the activity outside to distract Morgan’s attention. But presently, after the coffee was served, he looked her way, and she put her hands down on to her lap to hide their damp unsteadiness.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, and her eyes flickered bewilderedly up to his.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes.’ He tipped the front legs of his chair back and regarded her through narrowed lids. ‘I shouldn’t have invited you to join me. But I selfishly felt like some company.’
Helen didn’t know how to reply. ‘I—it was very kind of you invite me—–’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t do it out of politeness anyway.’
Helen licked her dry lips. ‘Wh—why did you do it, then?’
Morgan’s chair dropped back on to all four legs with a protesting creak. ‘Because I find I like talking to you,’ he said, and the ready colour that never seemed far away in his presence poured back into her face.
‘I—I shouldn’t have thought that was something to apologise about,’ she murmured awkwardly at last, but when she ventured a look at his face she saw the wry cynicism in his expression.
‘Something makes me think Barry wouldn’t agree with you,’ he remarked dryly. ‘He made his feelings very clear the other evening.’
‘Oh, Barry says a lot of things he doesn’t really mean,’ exclaimed Helen, moving her shoulders protestingly. ‘He’s very glad you’ve come home.’
‘Is he?’ Morgan sounded unconvinced. Then as once before, he changed the subject, saying abruptly: ‘My father tells me you’re a physiotherapist. Do you like working with old people?’
Glad of the respite from personal matters, Helen said: ‘Not all my patients are old. There’s a fair percentage of children, too, and in any case, I like the work.’
‘Very commendable,’ he remarked, raising his coffee cup to her. ‘Have you ever thought of working outside the hospital system? In schools for handicapped children, for example?’
‘I’d like to,’ she answered frankly, ‘but I still have my training to complete.’
‘You didn’t go to university.’
It was a statement and she shook her head. ‘No. You did, though, didn’t you? What made you decide to be a doctor?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. An interest in humanity, I guess, combined with a lucky ability to remember anatomical terms.’
Helen smiled, relaxing somewhat. ‘I don’t believe that. Your father said you got a double first.’
‘My father talks too much,’ he retorted without rancour, and Helen sipped her coffee, thinking affectionately of the man who had made her feel so welcome in his home.
‘I suppose he told you about my marriage breaking up,’ Morgan said suddenly, and Helen’s new-found relaxation fled.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘There’s no need to look so flabbergasted—it’s no secret. Pam and I separated two years ago. We were totally incompatible.’
Helen cleared her throat. ‘He—I believe he did say something about it. Does—I mean—your daughter lives with you, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Morgan finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside. ‘Pam never wanted children. I don’t think she’d have married me at all if Andrea hadn’t already been on the way.’
‘Oh!’
Helen’s embarrassment was plain, and Morgan’s lips curved teasingly. ‘Oh?’ he echoed. ‘Is that all you can say? Oh? That doesn’t shock you, surely. Not these days when every girl you meet accepts going to bed as part of the deal.’
‘I don’t!’ declared Helen hotly, deriving a certain amount of courage from the strength of her convictions. ‘And I don’t believe all girls do either. That—that’s just a rumour put around by those who do to excuse themselves!’
‘Oh, yes?’ His eyes were lazily mocking. ‘Do I take it then that you and Barry—don’t?’
‘You can take it whatever way you like!’ she retorted shortly. ‘And now, if you’ve finished your coffee, I’ve got some shopping to do.’
The baiting light went out of Morgan’s eyes, and without another word he thrust back his chair and got to his feet. But when she went to pass him, his hand caught her wrist, his fingers closing over it tightly.
‘Wait,’ he said, his warm breath fanning her forehead. ‘Don’t go rushing off like this. Perhaps we could have lunch together. Allow me to make amends for embarrassing you. Will you?’
Helen’s breathing felt constricted. Because of the narrowness between the tables, her body was close to Morgan’s, the muscles of his legs hard against hers through her skirt and the suede pants he was wearing.
‘I—I don’t know,’ she got out jerkily, and because they were beginning to attract attention, he let her go and she made her way outside with air-gulping relief.
But in the narrow street outside, the question had to be answered, and although she knew she ought to refuse him she found herself agreeing to meet him in a couple of hours outside a pub they both knew.
For the rest of the morning she tried to justify her actions, but without much success, and by the time she had dumped her shopping in the boot of her Mini, parked on the outskirts of town, and walked the quarter mile or so to the Bartlemy, she was as taut as a violin string.
It didn’t help when Morgan kept her waiting almost ten minutes only to find that the restaurant was closed and the bar already full to overflowing with people wanting snacks.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Morgan as they came out into the wintry afternoon again. ‘I got held up at the bank.’
‘The restaurant would still have been closed,’ replied Helen tartly, and then, realising she was being shrewish, she added: ‘It wasn’t your
