‘All I know is that my name’s Daniel.’
‘True…if that note was addressed to you.’
He frowned, then made a face.
‘It was in my shirt pocket. “Daniel, darling, hope you’ve everything you need—see you soon, all my love, R.”,’ he quoted flatly. ‘Are you saying I could have been about to give the note to someone? That I could be “R”?’
‘Well…’ The flaw in this theory had just struck her. She was too used to thinking up strange twists in her detective books. She coloured a little as he laughed.
‘If so, it could be that “Daniel, darling” and I have a relationship I don’t feel ready to admit to!’ He grinned. He was watching her embarrassment with a merciless gleam.
‘Well, there’s something else you know about yourself.’ She covered her loss of poise with a stab of teasing humour. ‘You’re heterosexual!’
‘As far as I can tell from analysing my thought-processes,’ he agreed.
There was an ironic gleam in his slow appraisal of Carla’s flushed, heart-shaped face, her slender figure hidden by the Aran sweater. The unabashed curiosity made her stiffen slightly. Then the implication of his words sank in. The heat which abruptly engulfed her was so all-consuming, she felt as if invisible flames were licking around her. The lurch of awareness was back, double strength. She was horrified to feel a shiver of physical reaction, new and deeply unnerving.
She looked quickly away, praying that he hadn’t noticed her hot cheeks and erratic pulse-rate…
‘Don’t look so anxious, Miss Julyan.’ He grinned. ‘I’m in no state to put any theories to the test. Besides, you brought sex into the conversation, not me!’
‘I wasn’t intending to look anxious.’ She defended herself as calmly as she felt able. There was an annoying huskiness in her voice. ‘And please stop calling me Miss Julyan…’
‘What would you prefer to be called? Ma’am?’
‘Carla. I’d prefer to be called Carla.’ She hung on to her temper with difficulty.
‘Then we’ll seal the intimacy. You call me Daniel,’ he said irrepressibly, finishing his meal with a nod of approval. ‘And you’re a great cook, Carla. One of these days you’ll make a husband a very happy man.’
‘My husband is dead.’ She said it without inflexion, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. ‘He was thrown from his horse in a riding accident, a year ago. And, to be quite truthful, he wasn’t a very happy man when he was alive…’
What had prompted her to say such a thing? The confession seemed to hang in the air between them, out of place and unwarranted.
Daniel leaned back in the wing-chair, watching her intently. To cover her confusion, she stood up and took the tray from his knees, carried it to the sideboard. Pausing there, she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks for a few seconds, and drew a deep breath before she came back to sit down opposite him again.
‘You reverted to your maiden name?’ His curiosity was clearly aroused.
‘I…yes.’
He was searching her face, a dissecting light in his eyes.
‘Do I detect that your marriage was an unhappy one, Carla?’ There was a gentler note in his voice.
‘What makes you say that?’ She knew she sounded idiotic. She’d virtually told him it was unhappy, hadn’t she?
‘Dropped your married name only a year after being widowed? And what you said just now? About your husband?’ he suggested, quietly ironic.
‘Sorry—ignore what I said, would you?’ She managed to smile at him, sipping some wine while she grappled with her composure. ‘Rufus died just over a year ago. I guess I’m…I’m not really over it all yet…’
‘I’d say it takes a lot longer than a year to mourn the loss of someone you love.’ Daniel’s face was shadowed. The flicker of the fire lit one side only.
To evade further discussion, she nodded quickly.
‘That’s assuming, of course, that you did love your husband?’
‘I…’ She stopped, staring at him, mauve-blue eyes wide with indignation. ‘What a strange question!’ she finished up coldly. ‘I appreciate you’ve got time on your hands, but if you’re going to spend it making rude speculations about me I might regret offering to have you here…!’
There was a brief silence.
‘Would you like me to leave?’
‘No, of course not!’ she amended irritably, cross with herself for losing her cool.
‘Thanks.’ The edge in the deep voice was difficult to fathom. There was certainly more to it than gratitude, or remorse.
She forced a laugh. ‘I offered you company this evening. All we seem to have done is bicker!’
‘We don’t seem destined to hit it off,’ he confirmed evenly.
For some reason, this analysis made her feel even angrier.
‘The trouble is, we seem to have got round to talking about me, when the idea is to talk about you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’m convinced that if we adopt a logical approach to your memory-loss, something will trigger its return.’
‘You mean, like tracking back over your movements when you lose your wallet?’
‘Something like that. Why not?’
‘Why not indeed?’ His smile was far from reassuring. ‘You’re not a policewoman, by any chance?’
‘No. I write detective stories…’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘Are you published?’
‘Yes. I write under the pseudonym of Carl Julyan.’
He looked unflatteringly blank for a few moments, then his eyes betrayed a flicker of recognition.
‘Carl Julyan? You’re Carl Julyan? Creator of Inspector Jack Tresawna?’
‘Yes. Have you read any of my books?’
‘I must have done.’
‘And did you enjoy them?’ she felt forced to enquire, goaded by his lack of comment.
‘I did. Sorry, I wasn’t intending any insult,’ he added evenly; ‘I was waiting to see if this revelation brought anything else filtering back to mind.’
‘Has it?’
He shook his head slowly.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But you can remember reading Carl Julyan books. That’s a breakthrough, of a kind!’ she said, excitement making her eyes glow. ‘Maybe if you reread one or two your memory might be jolted by something?’
‘Possibly. Although I’d hazard a guess that fiction is unlikely to.’ Lifting his uninjured hand to his forehead, he massaged his temples with a sudden, jerky motion.
‘Are you all right?’ She found herself quelling an instinctive urge to jump up and fuss like a mother hen.
‘Yes…I’m all right.’ He dropped his hand quickly.
‘Have you got a headache?’
He smiled bleakly. ‘Since I woke up in a hospital bed three weeks ago, I can’t remember not having a headache. I gather from the doctors that headaches and head injuries tend to go together.’
The put-down seemed