He was half-afraid he had climaxed too soon, but her shuddering body reassured him on that score. He could feel her own convulsions rippling through her muscles as his body spilled its bounty into her womb...

The awareness that she was crying came to him from a great distance.

He hadn't had a female cry over him in years-not since he was fourteen and he'd made out with Marcie Kenyon behind the courthouse. Of course, he'd known it hadn't been Marcie's first time, however much she'd tried to tell him it was. She'd been putting out for years, but he let her think that he believed her because it had suited him to do so. It had saved him having to admit it was his first time, as well.

But this was different. This wasn't Marcie's ugly sobbing. He wouldn't have known she was crying at all, if it wasn't for the dampness against his neck. Of course, he thought uneasily. He should have worn a rubber. Were those tremulous sighs an indication that she wasn't on the pill?

"Hey," he said, lifting his head, wondering if it was something more fundamental, and she gave a half-apologetic sniff.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what's the matter with me. Except-except I never knew it could be so-so good." She offered him a half-tearful smile, and then hid behind the heel of the hand she scrubbed across her swollen eyelids. "Thank you," she said unsteadily. "Thank you, Nathan."

Nathan?

He blinked. Why the hell was she calling him Nathan? That wasn't his name. It was his brother's name, for God's sake! But how did she know that? Did she know Nathan, as well? He scowled. His name was Jake. Yes, that was it: Jake Connor. He was nothing like his brother-well, he hoped not anyway.

And yet...

His head was throbbing abominably, and through the haze of pain that was dulling his senses, he stared at the woman beside him with tormented eyes. He felt a surge of apprehension. She was familiar-yet not familiar. Goddammit, where was he? And more to the point, what had he done?

Forcing himself not to panic, he quickly glanced around him. He was on a bed, of course, but he had known that. But whose bed was it? He didn't recognise it. Nor the room around him-though he felt he should.

"Are you all right, Nathan?"

There she went again, calling him by his brother's name, her soft hands like silk against his jaw. Her body was still moulded to his; God, he was still joined to her. And if the way he was feeling was anything to go by, the sex had been good.

Oh, yes. He closed his eyes for a moment, as the images his thoughts evoked caused him to harden inside her. It had been good; better than good, it had been bloody fantastic. Hot and strong and exciting, and achingly sweet.

He opened his eyes and looked at her again. His lips parted to tell her she'd made a mistake, that whatever she'd thought, he wasn't Nathan, but that he'd be more than happy to continue to take his place. Despite the fact that her nose was red and those drop-dead blue eyes were still rimmed with tears, she was so beautiful. He thought so anyway. He'd always thought so. Ever since his brother had shown him her picture, right after the wedding.

Their wedding...

He swallowed.

He knew who she was.

She was Caitlin.

Caitlin Wolfe.

His brother's wife.

17.

What the hell was he going to do now?

Studying the remains of the whisky in his glass, Nathan's eyes were dark with anger and resentment. He should never have come back to Prescott; he should never have allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He had played right into the old man's hands, and whichever way he turned, he had the ignominy of knowing that Jacob was watching him.

It wasn't as if he and his father had ever been the best of friends. From the time he was old enough to understand, he'd had a certain contempt for him, but it wasn't until his brother had spilled the beans about their parentage that his feelings had been given some focus.

And now Jacob had him exactly where he wanted him. By revealing what he had planned to do, he had made his father an unwilling accessory after the fact. And there was no way Jacob was going to let him get away with it. Between his father's contempt and Carl's anger, he'd be lucky if he got out of this alive.

He scowled. It was all Lisa's fault, he decided resentfully. If she'd never introduced him to Carl Walker, he wouldn't now be in this mess. It was her fault that he'd started gambling again; her fault that he'd gotten in over his head.

He hadn't intended it to be that way. Okay, so he'd had some losses in the past, but in those days his father had al-ways been there to bail him out. Only when he married Caitlin, his father had washed his hands of him. He couldn't condone his son marrying Matthew Webster's daughter just so he could get his hands on Webster's company.

Which was a laugh when you considered that that was exactly what Jacob himself had done. He hadn't thought twice about marrying Iris Varley to get control of her father's mill. He had a bloody nerve complaining about his behaviour. He'd only been following Daddy's example, after all.

But that was all water under the bridge now, and when he'd first met Carl Walker, he'd never imagined that one day he'd have anything to fear. On the contrary, Carl could be courtesy itself when he chose to, and he'd assumed Carl was being friendly because of his association with Lisa.

How naive could you get?

He acknowledged now that he had been pretty stupid right from the start. Men like Walker didn't do people favours unless you had something they wanted. But he'd been itching to get even with Matthew Webster and his sidekick, and when Carl had come up with the South American deal, it had seemed like manna from heaven.

Of course, he'd known Carl was into drugs-selling them, that is, not snorting them. But until Carl had broached the subject, he hadn't given a lot of thought as to his suppliers. It wasn't until later, when he'd mentioned that Webster's had won the contract for a dam to be built on the Magdalena River in Colombia, the question he'd never asked had been answered.

The plan was so simple, he'd been amazed no one else had ever thought of it. Or perhaps they had, but they hadn't had the means or the contacts to pull it off. Carl had everything: an organisation already set up and running in Bogot, and contacts who would do anything for the right price.

It was Carl who had suggested the deal. Matthew Webster might have thought he was clever, stopping his son-in-law from having any involvement in the financial dealings of the company, but with his help, Carl was able to ensure that the cement company, who got the contract for supplying the dam project, submitted invoices for hundreds of tons of raw materials that were never supplied. Instead of which, the money received went into a numbered bank account in Bogot.

The original idea had been to split the profits, only when it came right down to it, Carl had proved to be less scrupulous than Nathan had thought. Instead of getting a healthy boost to the crappy salary Webster paid him, he'd found himself faced with exposure. If he didn't do what Carl told him, he'd arrange for his father-in-law to find out what was going on.

That was why he'd agreed to carry the stuff into the country. He'd been shit-scared that first time, and only the thought of what would happen if his luck ran out kept him going. But he didn't have the nerve to go on doing it, and he'd also known that Carl was never going to let him off the hook. God knew what else he might be compelled to do to save his reputation. With the threat of a prison sentence hanging over his head, he was vulnerable.

When he'd come up with the idea of switching places with Jake, it had seemed impossible. But the more he'd thought about it, the more feasible the idea had become. He had nothing left to keep him in England. His job was on the line, and his relationship with his wife was just a sham. On top of that, Lisa was beginning to bug him. She'd never lost sight of the idea that he'd promised her marriage once his use for Caitlin was over.

As if.

For a moment, the memory of the satisfaction he'd felt at the thought of duping Lisa, too, swept over him. She thought he was a loser. She'd never said as much, but he'd known, and he'd derived a great deal of pleasure from imagining how she was going to feel when she found out the truth. Of course, he'd expected it to take a little time before she'd discovered what had happened. But he knew better than to think that Jake would fool her for long.

If he even tried.

He hunched his shoulders, his good mood soon giving way to melancholy. Trust Jake to fuck everything up by losing his memory. For Christ's sake, why hadn't he died in the crash?

But he hadn't, and he was left to try and rescue the situation. The only person he'd really succeeded in fooling was Jake himself. Of course, if Jake had carried that case to London, Nathan would have made sure the Customs knew about it. Jake might be a hotshot defender, but he'd have had a hard time explaining why he was carrying drugs in his bag, particularly with his history. And they'd been hidden so cleverly, he doubted anyone would have noticed without fair warning. If Jake had decided to open the case, there would have been nothing for him to see.

Which was exactly what he'd planned; that and the fact that Jake was carrying his passport instead of his own. He'd known that sooner or later Jake would have managed to prove his identity, but that didn't give him an excuse for carrying cocaine.

With a bit of luck, Jake would have been tied up in London for some considerable time, and by then, Nathan had intended to be long gone. And he would have been, too, if he hadn't been so bloody nosy. It was partly the fear that Carl might too quickly have found out what had happened that had brought him back.

Of course, he could board the next plane to England with Jake's passport, and trust Carl would believe him if he could think of some reason for the delay. But he'd be back where he started, always supposing that Carl did buy his story. And if he didn't, they'd probably fish his body out of the Thames.

And to cap it all, he had his father on his back, asking awkward questions, wanting to know the truth. If he left now, there was no guarantee that the old bastard wouldn't put the authorities onto him. As soon as he'd found out that Jake was innocent of any crime, he'd been urging him to go and put things straight.

He poured himself another slug of whisky, feeling his mood darkening with the day. Why did his father always take Jake's side against him? It wasn't as if his brother had shown any love for the old man.

But ever since Jake came back from 'Vietnam, Jacob had made him out to be some kind of hero. And why? He hadn't done anything particularly heroic that he could see. Lots of guys had come back from 'Nam without the habit, but Jake had come back so fucked up he'd fallen apart.

Jacob liked to pretend that in Jake's position, he'd have deserted. He wouldn't believe that his younger son might just have handled it without resorting to dope. All that stuff about bodies decomposing in swamps, and kids with their heads blown away, had to be an exaggeration. Hell, how bad could it be? He was alive.

Still, it had annoyed him when he'd heard that Jake had gone cold turkey and kicked the habit. It had given his father another reason to admire him, and he was mad as hell when Jacob offered to pay for him going back to school. But in the event, Jake wouldn't take the old man's money-an-other reason for his father to bug him-and when he'd gotten his law degree, Jacob had been as proud as if he'd taught the guy himself.

It wasn't as if Jake had done anything startling since he left college. Nathan had laughed his head off when he'd discovered Jake was working for the public defender's office. All that education, and all he was doing was defending punks and freaks. In his place, he'd have taken off for California. Lawyers there earned million-dollar salaries just for helping some poor little rich kid to get a divorce.

Maybe he should have gone in for law himself, but at the time, the old man had had some notion of him staying here and running the lumber yard when he retired. What a joke! As if he'd have been content to stay in Prescott. As far as he was concerned, the sawmill was just a millstone round his father's neck.

In the event, it had all been academic anyway. What with a shortage of investment and a slump in the manufacturing industry, Varley's Mill had become just another statistic. Like the rest of the town, it had folded beneath the weight of its own debts.

He was still brooding over the past when his father appeared in the doorway. Nathan had thought he had gone to bed, which was why he'd felt at liberty to help himself to a drink. He knew the old man was unlikely to miss it. Since Jacob had given up hitting the bottle himself, it was just there for medicinal purposes.

"I should have known I couldn't trust you," Jacob muttered now, coming heavily into the room and snatching the bottle out of his son's hand. "How long do you expect to stay here, hiding out like some petty criminal? Why don't you find something useful to do, like telling the Websters Jake's not you?"

Nathan's mouth compressed. "Get real, old man. And don't pretend you can't afford to buy whisky. You're not spending your money on anything else."

"I'm feeding you, aren't I?" Jacob thrust the bottle back into the drawer of his desk. "And what I choose to spend my money on is no concern of yours. I suggest you find another bolt-hole. Before those lowlife friends of yours come to flush you out."

Nathan started. "What the hell do you mean? Has someone been in touch with you about me?"

"And if they had, do you think I wouldn't have told them where you are?" Jacob sneered. "No, you can relax. There haven't been any funny phone calls. But you must have gotten the stuff from somewhere, and my guess is, they won't give up just because the plane went down."

He had been afraid of that himself. Afraid that when Carl found out Jake was in London, he might decide to collect his dues. It didn't worry him that Jake might be in trouble. But what if Carl sent Lisa to deliver the news? She would recognise, where Caitlin obviously hadn't, that the man still in shock from the crash was not Nathan Wolfe.

He swallowed now, and as if sensing his son's uncertainty, Jacob frowned. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you? You don't think they'll forget who was carrying the stuff."

He tried to bluff it out. "It's not my problem."

"It's not Jake's, either," said Jacob harshly. "I suggest you think about this seriously. I wouldn't want to have to call the cops."

Nathan snorted. "Oh, yeah. I should have known. It's not my hide you're worried about, it's my sainted brother's. What did Jake ever do to earn his halo? Except escape being brought up by you!"

"Why, you-"

"What? What?" His son goaded him. "What's to stop me taking off right now? I've got Jake's passport. I could go to Pine Bay. It would serve him right if I pretended to be him."

"Well, I wouldn't fancy your chances if Fletch Connor came around," said Jacob contemptuously. "Face it, boy, you haven't got a hope of pulling it off."

"So what do you suggest?"

"You know what I suggest."

"And what will that achieve, short of getting us both arrested?"

Jacob stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"If I go to the police, Jake will still be in deep trouble." Nathan sneered. "Particularly if I tell them what I believe he had in that case."

18.

When Caitlin awakened, she was alone.

It was morning. A watery sun was already streaming through the cracks in the curtains, and although she didn't know exactly what time it was, she suspected it was quite late.

But for a moment, she was perfectly content to lie there and contemplate the day. She didn't want to get out of bed. She didn't want to do anything to spoil the delicious sense of wellbeing that she was experiencing. She felt relaxed and vaguely lethargic, and although her limbs felt weak and languid, it was not a sensation she had any wish to change.

She knew why she was feeling that way, of course. The moment she'd opened her eyes, the memories of the night before had come flooding back to her. A faint warmth invaded her cheeks at the remembrance. Dear God, she thought, after three years of marriage, she was finally Nathan's wife.

But that was melodramatic, and she knew it. For heaven's sake, it wasn't as if he had never made love to her before. In the early days of their marriage, he had abused her body all too frequently, appalling her with his brutal possession and with the sordid things he had expected her to do.

She caught her breath uneasily.

So why wasn't she appalled now? Why wasn't she stricken by the memory of allowing a man like that to take possession of her again? He was the same man-she had to believe that. Or run the risk of losing what little sense she had.

Her breath escaped in a wisp of sound, and thrusting any doubts to the back of her mind, she turned onto her side and surveyed the unoccupied half of the bed. The pillow was faintly dented, and the quilt was crumpled where he had got out of bed, but it wasn't just this proof of his presence that assured her he had really been there. She could feel him; she could still feel his touch upon her. The heat of his body warmed her senses. The scent of his maleness was on the sheets.

She tried to think rationally. Her husband had changed; the accident had changed him. That was why she'd had that sense of alienation when they'd made love. He had been different; he had been gentle, and oh, so wonderfully passionate. Dear God, any woman would have responded to him no matter how disillusioned they had once been.

It was incredible, but from the moment he'd kissed her, she'd been incapable of resisting the inevitable. The revulsion he'd once inspired in her had all been gone, and she'd found herself responding to emotions she hadn't even known she possessed. Her lips, her tongue, her skin, had all been electrified by the needs he'd aroused in her, and she'd been desperate to feed his hunger, and in so doing assuage her own.

Her limbs tingled still with the remembrance of how it had felt to feel him upon her. Between her legs, a tiny pulse throbbed at the thought of his powerful invasion, and of how eagerly she had welcomed him into her sheath. Muscles, slick with her arousal, had contracted and clenched around him, much as her legs had circled his hips and held him urgently inside her.

A wave of heat enveloped her at the memory, and those same muscles ached with remembered need. With one tremulous hand, she traced a path from the erect tips of her breasts, down over her quivering midriff, to the warm nest of blonde curls that hid her womanhood. Oh, God, she thought, she wanted him. She had never wanted him-or any man-before.

It was time to get up, she told herself, not wanting to face the thought of how vulnerable it made her, particularly as there was still the problem of Lisa Abbott to deal with. All right. She accepted he didn't remember her, but that didn't alter the fact that she was there. Impatient enough to call him at Fairings, she acknowledged resentfully. How long would it be before the woman plucked up enough courage to come to the flat?

Caitlin threw back the covers and got determinedly out of bed. There was nothing she could do about that for the present, she decided firmly, and until her husband recovered his memory, there was little Lisa Abbott could do, either. For the moment, she had the advantage, and instead of worrying about the future, she should live for the present. Nathan wanted her; he had proved that conclusively last night. Her wisest course should be to try and profit from it. To prove to him she was not averse to his lovemaking, and hope that when his memory did come back, he'd still feel the same way.

She was momentarily arrested by the sight of her own nakedness. For so long, she had avoided the demands of the flesh, and seeing herself unclothed seemed vaguely indecent somehow. Yet her pale skin was not unpleasing, and the sight of faint bruising on her breasts and thighs didn't make her feel any sense of dismay. The memory of how those bruises came to be there was far too disturbing, and she wondered if her husband had realised she had never had such feelings before.

She dressed in suede trousers and a skinny-rib sweater, choosing the most attractive items she had brought with her. She hadn't expected to be in the position of wanting to attract her husband's interest, and apart from the dresses she'd worn for dinner, which she'd had for some time, most of the clothes she'd packed had been chosen for their warmth, rather than anything else.

It was after eleven by the time she appeared downstairs. A shower and a careful application of make-up had taken almost another hour, and she was not surprised to find her mother and father sharing a pot of morning coffee in the conservatory.

"You're late," remarked her mother, breaking out of the conversation she had been having with Caitlin's father to offer her daughter a cup. But she left Caitlin with the impression they had been talking about her and Nathan, and it wasn't easy to sit down and act as if nothing momentous had happened.