might be able to explain the ... amnesia.”
She could not tear her eyes away from his dark face. There was anger in it now, restrained, but none the less disconcerting for being held in check. If they were indeed married, she decided, something terrible had come between them, driving them irretrievably apart. Beneath the suave exterior she fancied that she could detect a desire for retaliation and knew herself completely vulnerable. Alone and unable to remember one single thing about her life until now, how could she cross swords with this man? She could not even appeal to him for understanding, because what she saw in these steady blue eyes was surely contempt.
“I can’t hope to convince you,” she told him with a dignity that appeared to surprise him. “I can only wait till Dr. Ordley returns from Nice with my suitcase.”
He put down his empty glass.
“So,” he mused, “you did intend to move in? You must forgive me if I find the situation slightly amusing . ”
His laughter angered her almost as much as the contempt, and she turned hastily toward the door.
“There’s no need for me to stay,” she cried. “I can easily walk back as far as Villefranche ... ”
He stepped between her and escape.
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” he said mildly. “Since you have come—of your own free will—I feel that you ought to stay. Besides, your doctor friend intrigues me. I would be more than sorry to miss his explanation of the amnesia. Surely you owe me that at least?”
Wearily she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, her eyes closed tightly in an effort at concentration.
“I can’t tell you any more,” she said. “I can’t tell you a thing about myself before this accident.”
He made no attempt to help her. Instead, he held the door open, waiting for her to precede him out of the room.
“This must be your doctor now,” he suggested as a car approached along the driveway. “We must certainly welcome him.”
John was already out of the car when they appeared together at the front door. Dixon Cabot did not give her an opportunity to speak to him alone. It was almost as if he suspected them of some deep intrigue, some plot that he hoped to nip in the bud now that he had returned to the villa so unexpectedly. He might even consider them lovers, she thought desperately, which would be reason enough for his show of anger a moment ago.
John looked completely disconcerted as he stood there in the pool of yellow light from the door lantern with her suitcase in his hand.
“Do come in,” Dixon Cabot invited. “Mediterranean nights can be extremely chilly at this time of year once the sun has gone down.” He stepped back into the hall. “I don’t think we’ve met before; Dr.—Ordley, isn’t it?”
John put down the suitcase just inside the door. He gave Adele a swift searching scrutiny, which said a good deal before he turned to the older man.
“You must be wondering about this setup,” he acknowledged, “but we did try to get in touch with you from the clinic where ... your wife was taken after her accident. The fact that you don’t have a phone here didn’t exactly help,” he pointed out, so aggressively that Adele knew he would have got in touch with her earlier in the afternoon if it had been at all possible.
“The telephone is about the last thing I want,” Dixon Cabot assured him, removing his heavy coat before he led the way back into the room, which Adele now knew must be his study. “I work here, Dr. Ordley, and I find it convenient not to be disturbed. In London one has to tolerate such things in the interests of business and social contacts. Here, I prefer to hold on to my privacy at all costs.”
“I don’t think I blame you,” John said, “but it can have its awkward side, can’t it? If ... Mrs. Cabot had been seriously injured a week ago a quick telephone message might have made all the difference to you.”
Dixon Cabot chose to ignore
She could not tear her eyes away from his dark face. There was anger in it now, restrained, but none the less disconcerting for being held in check. If they were indeed married, she decided, something terrible had come between them, driving them irretrievably apart. Beneath the suave exterior she fancied that she could detect a desire for retaliation and knew herself completely vulnerable. Alone and unable to remember one single thing about her life until now, how could she cross swords with this man? She could not even appeal to him for understanding, because what she saw in these steady blue eyes was surely contempt.
“I can’t hope to convince you,” she told him with a dignity that appeared to surprise him. “I can only wait till Dr. Ordley returns from Nice with my suitcase.”
He put down his empty glass.
“So,” he mused, “you did intend to move in? You must forgive me if I find the situation slightly amusing . ”
His laughter angered her almost as much as the contempt, and she turned hastily toward the door.
“There’s no need for me to stay,” she cried. “I can easily walk back as far as Villefranche ... ”
He stepped between her and escape.
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” he said mildly. “Since you have come—of your own free will—I feel that you ought to stay. Besides, your doctor friend intrigues me. I would be more than sorry to miss his explanation of the amnesia. Surely you owe me that at least?”
Wearily she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, her eyes closed tightly in an effort at concentration.
“I can’t tell you any more,” she said. “I can’t tell you a thing about myself before this accident.”
He made no attempt to help her. Instead, he held the door open, waiting for her to precede him out of the room.
“This must be your doctor now,” he suggested as a car approached along the driveway. “We must certainly welcome him.”
John was already out of the car when they appeared together at the front door. Dixon Cabot did not give her an opportunity to speak to him alone. It was almost as if he suspected them of some deep intrigue, some plot that he hoped to nip in the bud now that he had returned to the villa so unexpectedly. He might even consider them lovers, she thought desperately, which would be reason enough for his show of anger a moment ago.
John looked completely disconcerted as he stood there in the pool of yellow light from the door lantern with her suitcase in his hand.
“Do come in,” Dixon Cabot invited. “Mediterranean nights can be extremely chilly at this time of year once the sun has gone down.” He stepped back into the hall. “I don’t think we’ve met before; Dr.—Ordley, isn’t it?”
John put down the suitcase just inside the door. He gave Adele a swift searching scrutiny, which said a good deal before he turned to the older man.
“You must be wondering about this setup,” he acknowledged, “but we did try to get in touch with you from the clinic where ... your wife was taken after her accident. The fact that you don’t have a phone here didn’t exactly help,” he pointed out, so aggressively that Adele knew he would have got in touch with her earlier in the afternoon if it had been at all possible.
“The telephone is about the last thing I want,” Dixon Cabot assured him, removing his heavy coat before he led the way back into the room, which Adele now knew must be his study. “I work here, Dr. Ordley, and I find it convenient not to be disturbed. In London one has to tolerate such things in the interests of business and social contacts. Here, I prefer to hold on to my privacy at all costs.”
“I don’t think I blame you,” John said, “but it can have its awkward side, can’t it? If ... Mrs. Cabot had been seriously injured a week ago a quick telephone message might have made all the difference to you.”
Dixon Cabot chose to ignore
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