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Passionate Protectors?: Hot Pursuit / The Bedroom Barter / A Passionate Protector
Anne Mather
Sara Craven
Maggie Cox
To love her and to cherish her…passionately!Hot Pursuit Anne Mather Sara was beautiful, secretive – and haunted. Matt Seton was both intrigued and annoyed by his unexpected houseguest. He could tell she was running from something. As the atmosphere became erotically charged between them, Matt realised that, though he mustn’t touch Sara, he couldn’t let her go… The Bedroom Barter Sara CravenPenniless and passportless, Chellie Greer’s stuck working in a seedy club with no means of escape – until Ash Brennan walks in. What’s such a powerful, irresistible man doing in a place like this? Ash offers her a way out, but Chellie has to wonder exactly why he is rescuing her. Is the price of freedom her body?A Passionate Protector Maggie Cox Charming, wealthy and smoulderingly attractive, Kyle Hytner could have an international playboy lifestyle – and any woman he wanted. So why had he fixed all his attention on Megan Brand? Megan was rebuilding her life, step by step. But the frighteningly intense passion she shared with Kyle was more like a giant leap!


She needs him; he wants her!
Passionate Protectors?
Three passionate and exciting romances from top Mills & Boon authors!

Passionate Protectors?
Anne Mather
Sara Craven
Maggie Cox



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Hot Pursuit
By

Anne Mather
ANNE MATHER says: “I’ve always wanted to write – which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I wrote only for my own pleasure, and it wasn’t until my husband suggested that I ought to send one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, more than a hundred and fifty books later, I’m literally – excuse the pun – staggered by what happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years, and on into my teens. The trouble was, I never used to finish any of the stories, and Caroline, my first published book, was the first book I’d actually completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby. It was quite a job, juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can see, but that’s the way it was.
I now have two grown-up children, a son and daughter, and two adorable grandchildren, Abigail and Ben. My e-mail address is: mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my readers.”

Chapter One
‘WE’RE going to be late, Daddy.’
‘I know that.’
Matt Seton managed not to sound as frustrated as he felt. It wasn’t Rosie’s fault that he’d overslept on the very morning that Mrs Webb wasn’t here, or that his head was still buzzing with the effort of falling out of bed just a couple of hours after he’d flaked out.
‘Mrs Sanders says that there’s no excuse for sleeping in these days,’ continued Rosie primly, and Matt could hear the echo of his ex-wife Carol’s peevish tones in his daughter’s voice.
‘I know. I know. I’m sorry.’ Clenching his teeth, Matt tightened his hands on the wheel of the powerful Range Rover. The temptation was to step down hard on the accelerator, but he didn’t think that risking another ticket for speeding would improve his standing with Mrs Sanders either.
‘So who’s going to pick me up this afternoon?’ Rosie asked, a little anxiously now, and Matt turned to give his daughter a reassuring look.
‘I will,’ he told the seven-year-old firmly. ‘And if I can’t make it I’ll ask Auntie Emma to collect you. How’s that?’
Rosie seemed slightly mollified, but as her small hands curved around the bag containing her pencil case and schoolbooks she cast her father an appealing look. ‘You won’t forget, will you, Daddy? I don’t like having to ask Mrs Sanders to ring you.’
Matt expelled a long sigh. ‘You’ve only had to do that once, Rosie,’ he protested. And then, because it was obviously a cause of some concern to the child, his lean mouth parted in a rueful grin. ‘I’ll be there,’ he promised. ‘I can’t have my best girl waiting around in the playground.’
‘Mrs Sanders doesn’t let us wait in the playground,’ Rosie told him pedantically. ‘We have to stay in school if our Mummys or Daddys aren’t there when school’s over.’
‘Right.’ Matt’s mouth compressed. ‘Well, as I say, I won’t let you down. Okay?’
‘Okay!’
Rosie’s eyes brightened in anticipation and Matt felt a heel for even comparing her to her mother. Rosemary was nothing like Carol, thank God, and it was up to him to organise a more stable structure in his daughter’s life.
And he was trying, goodness knew. Since ill-health had forced Rosie’s original nanny to retire he had interviewed a number of applicants for the position without any lasting success. Few younger women wanted to live in a remote area of Northumbria, far from the nearest town, and the older nannies who’d applied had, for the most part, appeared far too strict for his taste. He didn’t want Rosie’s confidence, already fragile because of her mother’s abandonment, shattered by some fire-breathing dragon who saw the unconventionality of Matt’s lifestyle as an opportunity to terrorise the little girl.
In consequence, he was seriously considering contacting an agency in London, in the hope that someone there might be professional enough about their career not to care about living in such rural surroundings. Saviour’s Bay wasn’t the back of beyond, after all. It was a wild and beautiful area of the Northumbrian coast, whose history was as turbulent as the seas that lashed the rocks below the cliffs. Its moors and hamlets were the haunt of archaeologists and naturalists, and from Matt’s point of view it was the ideal place to escape the demands that being a successful writer had put on him. Few people knew where he lived these days, and that suited him very well.
But it didn’t suit everyone, he acknowledged, and until the day came when he was forced to consider sending Rosie away to school he had to persist in his search for a suitable replacement for the woman who had virtually brought her up.
Not her mother, needless to say, he added to himself. Carol’s indifference, not just to him but also to their daughter, had long since lost its power to hurt him. There were times when he wondered why they’d ever married at all, but Carol had given him Rosie, and he could never regret that. He adored his small daughter and he’d do whatever it took to keep her with him.
Matt appreciated that his success had given him certain advantages. When Carol had left him for another man he’d been the author of two moderately successful novels, but that was all. It was his third book that had hit the big time, and his fourth and fifth novels had sold in their millions. Subsequent sales of screen rights to a hotshot Hollywood director had helped, and these days he could virtually name his price.
But being photographed wherever he went, having his picture exhibited in magazines and periodicals, being invited onto television talk shows and the like, was not what he’d had in mind when he’d written his first book. As a doctor, specialising in psychology, he knew exactly what other people thought he’d expected from his change of career. The truth was, he had never been interested in becoming famous. And these days he just wanted to be left alone to get on with his next manuscript.
Which was why he’d bought Seadrift, the sprawling house overlooking the bay that he’d fallen in love with the first time he’d seen it. It served the dual purpose of giving him the peace he needed to work and the opportunity to put several hundred miles between him and the London media.
The gates of St Winifred’s Primary loomed ahead and Matt breathed a sigh of relief. A glance at his watch told him it was still a minute or two to nine o’clock, and if Rosie got her skates on she should make it into class in time for registration.
‘Have a good day, angel,’ he said, exchanging a swift kiss with his daughter before she thrust open her door and clambered down onto the kerb.
‘Bye, Daddy,’ she called, her face briefly exhibiting a little of the anxiety she’d exhibited earlier. Then, cramming her grey hat with its upturned brim and distinctive red band down onto her sooty bob, to prevent the wind from taking it, she raised a hand in farewell and raced across the playground to the doors, where one or two stragglers were still entering the building.
Matt waited until the swirling hem of Rosie’s pleated skirt had disappeared from view before putting the Range Rover into drive again and moving away. He couldn’t prevent the sigh of relief he felt at knowing that she was in safe hands for a few hours at least. When he was working he could easily forget the time, and it wasn’t fair on his daughter that she should have to spend her days worrying that he might not be there when she came out of school.
That was why he needed someone—nursemaid, nanny, whatever—to take up the slack. He had a housekeeper, Mrs Webb, who came in most days to cook and clean and do the ironing, but he’d never realised how much he’d depended on Hester Gibson until she’d been forced to retire. But then, Hester had been so much more than a nanny. From the very beginning she’d been more of a mother to Rosie than Carol had ever been, and when Carol had moved in with her lover Hester had taken Matt under her wing, too.
They had been living in London at that time, but Hester had had no qualms when Matt had suggested moving to the wilds of Northumbria. Like Matt, she had been an exile from the northeast of England herself, only living in the south because she hadn’t been able to find suitable employment in her home town of Newcastle. It had been like coming home for both of them, and the house at Saviour’s Bay had offered space and comfort.
Matt sighed again, and, turning the heavy vehicle in the yard of the village pub, drove back the way he’d come. The roads between Saviour’s Bay and the village of Ellsmoor, where Rosie’s school was situated, were narrow, with high, untrimmed hedges on either side. He supposed the state of the hedges was due to the local farmers, who were having a hard time of it at present, but it meant it was impossible to see far enough ahead to overtake the slow-moving hay wagon in front of him. But Matt was in no hurry now. He had the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon to himself, and as he’d worked half the night he thought he deserved a break.
Of course, he needed a shave, he conceded, running a hand over the stubble on his jawline. And some coffee, he thought eagerly, having only had time to pour milk onto Rosie’s cornflakes and fill her glass with fresh orange juice before charging out to the car. Yes, some strong caffeine was just what he needed. It might clear his head and provide him with the impetus to get this nanny business sorted.
He made reasonably good time back to the house. Saviour’s Bay was a village, too, but a much smaller community than that of Ellsmoor. In recent weeks he’d toyed with the idea of buying an apartment in Newcastle that they could use in term time. A would-be employee would obviously find the city more appealing. But the idea of living in town—any town—even for a limited period wasn’t appealing to him. He loved Seadrift, loved its isolation too much to consider any alternative at present. And Rosie loved it, too. She couldn’t remember living anywhere else.
As he swung onto the private road that led up to the house he noticed a car parked at an angle at the side of the road just before the turning. He slowed, wondering if the driver had missed his way, but the vehicle appeared to be deserted. Whoever owned the car had either abandoned it to walk back to the village, or had gone up to the house, he decided. There were no other houses along this stretch of the cliffs, which was why he’d bought Seadrift in the first place.
He frowned, looking back the way he’d come, but there was no one in sight. He wasn’t worried. He’d had too many skirmishes with the press in the past to be concerned about some rogue reporter who might have hopes of finding a novel perspective on his present situation. Thankfully the press in this area accepted his presence without much hassle, and were usually too busy following up local issues to trouble him. But the car was there and it had to belong to someone.
So who?
Scowling, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator and quickened his pace. The pleasant anticipation he’d been feeling of making coffee and reading his mail was dissipating, and he resented whoever it was for ruining his mood.
The gates to the house appeared on the right. They were open, as usual, and Matt drove straight through and up the white gravelled drive to the house. Long and low and sprawling, Seadrift looked solidly inviting, even on this overcast June morning. Its walls were shadowed with wisteria, its tall windows reflecting the light of the watery sun that was trying to push between the clouds.
There was a block-paved turning circle in front of the double doors, flanked by outbuildings that had now been put to a variety of uses. A triple garage had been converted from a low barn, and another of the sheds was used to store gardening equipment.
Parking the Range Rover to one side of the doors, Matt sat for a moment, waiting to see if his arrival elicited any response from whoever it was he suspected had invaded his territory. And, sure enough, a figure did appear from around the corner of the barn. But it wasn’t the man he’d expected; it was a woman. And as far as he could see she was carrying nothing more incriminating than the handbag-size haversack that was looped over one shoulder.
She was young, too, he noticed, watching her as she saw the car and after only a momentary hesitation came towards him. She was reasonably tall and slim, with long light brown hair streaked with blonde and confined in a chunky braid. She didn’t look any older than her mid-twenties, and he wondered what she was doing, wandering around a stranger’s property. Hadn’t she heard of the dangers that could face young women like her in remote areas? Hell, in not so remote ones, too. For God’s sake, she knew nothing about him.
Of course, she might have expected there to be a woman at the house, he was reminding himself, when another thought struck him. She could be from the agency. Just because he hadn’t heard from them recently it didn’t mean they didn’t still have his name on their books. Here he was, suspecting the worst, and she could be the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. A nanny for Rosie. Someone to look after her and care for her; to give her her meals and be company for her when he was working. Someone to take her to school and pick her up again on those occasions when he couldn’t. Could he be that lucky?
Collecting his thoughts, Matt pushed open the door of the Range Rover and stepped out onto the forecourt. Then, replacing his scowl with a polite look of enquiry, he went towards her and said, ‘Are you looking for me?’
‘Oh—’ The girl seemed taken aback by his sudden appearance and Matt had a moment to assess the quality of the cream leather jacket she had slung about her shoulders. It had obviously not been bought off the peg at some department store, and the voile dress she was wearing with it seemed unsuitable for a morning interview with a prospective employer. But what the hell? he thought. Professionally trained nannies could command generous salaries these days, and what did he know about women’s fashions anyway?
Apparently deciding he meant her no harm, in spite of the stubble on his chin, she gave a nervous smile. ‘I—yes,’ she said, answering his question. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. If—if you live here.’
‘I do.’ Matt held out his hand. ‘Matt Seton. And you are…?’
She seemed disconcerted by his introduction. Had she recognised his name? Whatever, she was definitely reluctant to shake his hand. But eventually she allowed him to enclose her fingers in his much larger ones and said, ‘I’m—Sara.’ And, when he arched his brow, ‘Um—Sara Victor.’
‘Ah.’ Matt liked her name. It sounded solid; old-fashioned. Having interviewed a series of Hollys and Jades and Pippas, it was refreshing to meet someone whose parents hadn’t been influenced by television soaps. ‘So, Miss Victor: have you come far?’
She seemed surprised at his question, withdrawing her hand from his with unflattering haste. Dammit, surely she wasn’t scared of him.
‘Er—not far,’ she said at last. Then, when it was obvious that something more was expected, she added, ‘I—I stayed at a guesthouse in Morpeth last night.’
‘Really?’ Matt revised his opinion. The agency must have cast its net far and wide. She’d hardly have stayed in Morpeth if she lived in Newcastle. There was only a handful of miles between the two.
‘Is that your car at the end of the road?’ he asked now, and she nodded.
‘It’s a hired car,’ she told him swiftly. ‘But there seems to be something wrong with it. It gave up down there, as you can see.’
‘Lucky you made it this far, then,’ remarked Matt neutrally. ‘I’ll have the garage in Saviour’s Bay pick it up later. They can return it to the agency when it’s fixed.’
‘But I don’t—’ She broke off, staring at him as if he was speaking in a foreign language. ‘There’s no need for you to do that. If I could just use your phone—’
Her voice trailed away and Matt’s brows drew together in sudden suspicion. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you?’ he exclaimed. ‘I should have known. You’re another bloody reporter, aren’t you?’ He gave her a scathing look. ‘They must be desperate if they’re sending bimbos to do the job!’
‘I am not a bimbo!’ For once he had stung her into an unconsidered retort. She straightened her spine, as if she could add to her height. But she was still several inches shorter than Matt’s six feet plus and her frustration showed in her face. ‘And I never claimed to be from any agency.’
‘Whatever.’ Matt’s jaw compressed. ‘So, what are you doing here? I notice you haven’t denied being a reporter.’
‘A reporter?’ She stared at him, thick blonde lashes shading eyes of a misty grey-green. ‘I don’t understand. Were you expecting a reporter?’ Her face paled a little. ‘Why would a reporter come here?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am.’
‘I don’t.’ She frowned. ‘Well, I know your name is Seton. You told me that.’
‘Matt Seton?’ prompted Matt caustically. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘Actually, no.’ She looked troubled. ‘Who are you?’
Matt swayed back on his heels. Was she serious? She certainly looked as if she was, and if he’d had any conceit to speak of she’d have certainly exploded it with her innocent words. If they were innocent, he amended. Or could she really be that good?
‘You don’t go to bookshops, then?’ he enquired drily, aware of a totally unfamiliar sensation of pique. ‘You’ve never heard of my work?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She looked a little relieved now, but hardly apologetic. ‘Are you famous?’
Matt couldn’t prevent an ironic laugh. ‘Moderately so,’ he said mildly. ‘So…’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I told you. My car broke down.’ She paused. ‘I was hoping to use your phone, as I said.’
‘Really?’ Matt considered her.
‘Yes, really.’ She shivered suddenly, and, although it was hardly a cold morning, Matt noticed how pale she was. ‘Um, would you mind?’
Matt hesitated. It could still be a clever ruse on her part to get inside his house. But he was beginning to doubt that. Nevertheless, no one apart from his friends and family had ever got beyond his door, and he was loath to invite any stranger, however convincing, into his home.
‘Don’t you have a mobile?’ he said, and she gave a weary sigh.
‘I don’t have my mobile with me,’ she told him tiredly. ‘But if helping me is a problem just tell me where I can find the nearest garage. I assume the one you mentioned isn’t far away.’
‘Far enough,’ muttered Matt heavily. ‘Can you walk the best part of three miles?’
‘If I have to,’ she replied, lifting her head. ‘Just point me in the right direction.’
But he couldn’t do it. Berating himself for being a fool, he slammed the door of the Range Rover and gestured towards the house. ‘You can use the phone,’ he said, striding past her. He led the way through an archway that gave access to the back of the building, hoping he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life. ‘Follow me.’
Immediately, his two retrievers set up an excited barking, and he wondered if she’d heard them earlier. Although the dogs themselves were just big pussy-cats, really, the noise they made had scared off tougher intruders than her.
‘Do you like dogs?’ he asked, glancing over his shoulder, and she gave an uncertain shrug.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Are yours dangerous?’
‘Oh, yeah!’ Matt gave a wry grin. Then, realising she was taking him literally, he added. ‘Dangerously friendly, I mean. If you’re not careful they’ll lick you to death.’
Her smile appeared again, a more open one this time, and Matt was amazed at the difference it made to her thin features. For a moment she looked really beautiful, but then the smile disappeared again and he was left with the knowledge that for someone who had supposedly only been driving for about an hour that morning she looked exhausted.
Opening the door into the boot room, Matt weathered the assault of the two golden retrievers with good-natured indulgence. They were Rosie’s dogs, really, but as they spent as much time with him as they did with her they tended to share their affections equally.
It took them only a few moments to discover he wasn’t alone, however, and he had to grab them by the scruffs of their necks before they knocked his guest over. As it was, she swayed a little under the onslaught, and he was forced to lock the dogs in their compound in the yard before opening the door into the kitchen.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, glancing ruefully about him. Their plates from the previous night’s supper still lay on the drainer, waiting to be put into the dishwasher, and Rosie’s breakfast bowl and glass occupied a prominent position on the island bar. If Mrs Webb had been working that morning the place would have looked much different, and Matt thought how typical it was that the one morning he had a visitor the kitchen should look like a tip.
‘They’re very friendly, aren’t they?’ she said, speaking about the dogs, but he knew she’d noticed the mess. ‘Are they yours or your wife’s?’
Matt’s mouth turned down. ‘My daughter’s, actually,’ he said. Then, because she was looking as if the next puff of wind would knock her over, he added, ‘I was just about to make myself some coffee. Would you like a cup?’
‘Oh, please!’
If he was to speculate, Matt would have said she spoke like someone who hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in some time. There was such eagerness in her response, and once again he felt a renewal of his doubts about her. Who was she really? Where had she been heading on the coast road, which was usually only used by locals and holidaymakers? What did she really want?
‘I’ve got the number of the garage in Saviour’s Bay,’ he said as he spooned coffee into the filter. ‘I’ll just get this going and then I’ll find it for you.’
‘Thank you.’
She hovered by the door, one hand clutching the strap of her haversack, the other braced against the wall unit nearest to her. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was trembling, though whether that was because she was cold, despite the warmth of the Aga, or apprehensive, he wouldn’t like to say.
It was quite a novelty for Matt to face the fact that she might not trust him. Her question about whether the dogs belonged to him or his wife might just have been a rather clumsy attempt to discover if he was married. For the first time he realised how vulnerable she might feel.
‘Hey, why don’t you sit down?’ he suggested, pointing towards the two stools that were set at either side of the island bar. ‘This is going to take a few minutes.’
‘O—kay.’
With evident reluctance she crossed the room and, dropping her haversack onto the floor beside her, levered herself onto one of the tall stools. But he noticed she chose the one that put the width of the bar between them, before treating him to another of those polite smiles.
Matt pulled a wry face but he didn’t say anything. She’d learn soon enough that he wasn’t interested in her or anyone else. That was, if she bothered to check him out in whatever place she was heading for. Despite his fame, and the monetary success it had brought him, Matt had declined all opportunities to replace his ex-wife.
And he had had opportunities, he conceded without conceit. A man in his position always attracted a certain type of woman, even if he was as ugly as sin, and he wasn’t that. His features were harsh, maybe, but they weren’t totally unappealing. He’d been told when he was younger and less cynical that deep-set eyes, olive skin, and a nose that had been broken playing rugby were far more interesting than pretty-boy looks.
But who knew what the real truth was? He no longer cared. So long as Rosie loved him, that was all that mattered.
When he turned back to his visitor, however, he got a surprise. While he’d been speculating on the possibilities of her being afraid of him, she’d slumped in her seat, shoulders hunched, head resting on the arms she’d folded on the counter. She was either asleep or exhausted, he realised in amazement. And he’d bet money on the former. What the hell was going on?
The phone rang at that moment and at once she jerked awake. Cursing, Matt went to answer it, not knowing whether his irritation was caused by the fact that she’d fallen asleep or that the sound had awakened her. Looping the receiver off the wall, he jammed it to his ear. ‘Yeah?’
‘Matt?’
‘Emma!’ Matt expelled a long breath. ‘Hi! What can I do for you?’
‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
It would be all the same if she was, thought Matt ruefully. He owed Emma Proctor too much to resent the interruption and, aware that Sara was watching him with wary grey-green eyes, he said swiftly, ‘No, I just got back from taking Rosie to school. I’m in the middle of making some coffee, actually. I’m afraid we slept in this morning.’
Emma made a sympathetic sound. ‘Of course, it’s Mrs Webb’s day off, isn’t it? I gather you’ve had no luck with the agency?’
‘No.’ Matt didn’t particularly want to get into that now. ‘No luck at all.’
‘What about trying the local employment agency?’ Emma suggested helpfully. ‘They sometimes have childminders on their books.’
‘But I don’t want a childminder,’ declared Matt mildly. ‘I want someone with the proper training, not a girl who only wants to work here on a part-time basis. I need someone in the evenings, too, when I’m working. You know that.’
‘What you need is a surrogate mother for Rosie,’ said Emma a little tersely. ‘And the chances of finding someone like that who’s also prepared to live in rural Northumbria—’
‘I know, I know.’ He and Emma had had this conversation too many times for Matt to show much patience with it now. ‘Look, thanks for caring, but I’ve really got to work this out for myself.’
‘If you can,’ muttered Emma huffily. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t why I rang. I wondered if you wanted me to collect Rosie from school this afternoon. I’ve got to go to Berwick this morning, but I should be back by—’
‘It’s okay. I’ve told Rosie I’ll pick her up myself this afternoon,’ replied Matt quickly, wondering what his visitor was making of the one-sided conversation. He hesitated. ‘I appreciate the offer, Em. I really do. Some other time, yeah?’
‘I suppose so.’ To his relief, she didn’t pursue it. ‘Well, I’d better go. There’s nothing you want from Berwick, is there? I can always drop it off on my way home.’
‘Not that I can think of,’ said Matt politely. ‘Have a good day, Em. Speak to you soon.’
When he replaced the receiver he noticed that his visitor dropped her gaze, as if afraid of being caught out watching him. Frowning slightly, he turned back to the filter and saw that the jug was now full and steaming on the hotplate. Unhooking a couple of mugs from the rack, he looked at Sara again.
‘Black? White? With sugar or without?’
‘White with no sugar,’ she answered at once. ‘It smells delicious.’
Matt poured some for her and pushed the mug across the counter. Then, taking a carton of milk from the fridge, he passed that over, too. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
Matt drew a breath. ‘You hungry?’
‘Hungry?’ For a moment she looked almost eager. Then those thick blonde lashes shaded her eyes again. ‘No,’ she responded carefully. ‘This is fine.’
Matt considered, and then pulled a large biscuit tin towards him. It was where Mrs Webb stored the muffins she made for his breakfast and, although these had been made the day before, they still smelled fresh and appetising. Heated in the microwave, they often made a meal for someone who often forgot about food altogether, and Matt offered the tin to Sara now.
‘Sure?’ he asked. ‘I usually heat a couple of these for my breakfast. I can recommend them.’
She looked as if she wanted to take one, but after a pregnant pause she shook her head. ‘The coffee is all I need,’ she assured him. And then, perhaps to divert herself, she added, ‘I gather you’re looking for a nursemaid for your daughter?’ Faint colour entered her cheeks. ‘How old is she?’
‘Rosie?’
Matt hesitated, closing the tin again. Then, deciding there was no harm in telling her, he added, ‘Seven.’ He shook his head. ‘I can hardly believe it. Time goes so fast.’
Sara moistened her lips. ‘Is your wife dead?’ she asked, and then lifted her hand in a gesture of remorse. ‘No. Don’t answer that. I had no right to ask.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ But Matt answered her just the same. ‘Carol left me when Rosie was a baby,’ he said flatly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not a secret.’
‘I see.’ Sara cradled her coffee mug between her palms. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ Matt gave a wry smile. ‘But, believe me, it was the best thing for both of us.’
Sara looked up at him. ‘For you and your wife?’
‘For me and my daughter,’ Matt amended, hooking his heel around the stool opposite and straddling it to face her. He nodded to her cup. ‘Coffee all right?’
She drew back when he was seated, as if his nearness—or his bulk—intimidated her. It crossed his mind that someone must have done a number on her, must be responsible for her lack of confidence, but he didn’t say anything. In his professional experience it was wiser not to probe another person’s psyche. Not unless you had a reason for doing so, at least.
‘So you live here alone?’ she said at last, apparently deciding to pursue her enquiries, and he pulled a wry face.
‘I have Rosie,’ he said, his lips twitching. ‘Hey, are you sure you’re not a journalist? That’s the kind of question they ask.’
Her face fell. ‘No!’ she exclaimed. And then, as if realising he was only teasing her, she continued, ‘I was thinking about the job.’
‘What job?’ For a moment he was nonplussed, and she took advantage of his silence.
‘Your daughter’s nanny,’ she declared quickly. ‘Would you consider me for the post?’

Chapter Two
HE LOOKED stunned. That was the only description Sara could find to fit the expression on his lean tanned face. An expression that was definitely at odds with his harsh compelling features. At least a day’s growth of stubble roughened his jawline and there were dark pouches beneath the deep-set hollows of his eyes.
And why shouldn’t he be shocked at her announcement? thought Sara uneasily. It wasn’t every day that a strange woman turned up on your doorstep asking for work. After all, he knew nothing about her. She didn’t even have the backing of an employment agency. She could be a con artist, living on her wits. Though any con artist worth her salt would surely not try and dupe a man like him.
Sara wished now that she hadn’t made the offer. She didn’t know anything about him either, and just because he had been kind to her that was no reason to trust him. Besides, she wasn’t a nanny. She wasn’t a nursemaid. Her experience with children had been confined to the classroom, but he’d never believe that she’d once been a primary school teacher. That had been at another time; sometimes now it seemed like another life. When she’d been young—and so naïve.
‘You’re offering to become Rosie’s nanny?’ Matt Seton asked at last, and she could tell he was suspicious of her offer. ‘You didn’t say you were looking for work.’
I’m not. I’m looking for sanctuary, thought Sara wildly, but she couldn’t tell him that. And when she’d left London the previous evening she’d had no plans beyond the need to get away. To put as many miles between her and Max as possible.
But she couldn’t think about that now. She needed time to come to terms with what she’d done. ‘I might be,’ she said, taking a sip of her coffee to avoid his penetrating gaze. ‘Are you interested?’
‘“I might be”,’ he mocked, echoing her words. ‘Are you used to working with children.’
‘I was.’ Sara chose her words with care. She didn’t like lying but she really didn’t have a choice. And, the more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. A job like this might be exactly what she needed. Somewhere to stay; a means of earning money; a chance to disappear without leaving a trail. She hesitated, and then stated bravely, ‘I used to be a primary school teacher.’
‘Used to be?’ Dark brows arched interrogatively.
‘Yes.’
‘But not any more?’
‘Not recently, no.’
‘Why?’ The question was innocent enough but she had the feeling he was baiting her.
‘Because I gave up teaching some time ago,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s not something you forget.’
‘So what have you been doing?’
Fighting for my life!
Somehow she managed to keep her voice steady as she replied, ‘I—got married. My hus—my ex-husband, that is, didn’t like me having a job.’
And that must be the understatement of the year!
‘I see.’ Matt Seton was regarding her so intently she was almost sure he could see into her mind. And if he could he’d know that she wasn’t being completely honest, that she was only telling him as much of the truth as she needed to sound sincere. ‘Do you come from around here?’
He asked a lot of questions. Sara swallowed and considered the option of saying yes. But he’d know she didn’t sound like a local. So, after a moment, she said, ‘I used to live in the south of England until quite recently.’
‘Until you decided to hire a car and drive three hundred miles up the motorway?’ suggested Matt laconically. ‘What happened, Sara? Did your husband ditch you for someone else, so you decided to disappear and make the bastard sweat?’
‘No!’ She was horrified. If Max had turned his attentions elsewhere she wouldn’t be in this state now. ‘I—I told you, we’re—we’re divorced. I just fancied a change of scene, that’s all. I didn’t know where I wanted to stay until I got here.’
‘And decided that because I needed a nanny, you’d be it,’ he commented cynically. ‘Forgive me if I sound sceptical, but I’ve never heard such a load of garbage in my life.’
‘It’s not garbage.’ Sara suspected she was beginning to sound desperate but she couldn’t help it. She really wanted this job. ‘Do you want a nanny or don’t you? You sounded fairly sure about it when you were on the phone.’
Matt tipped his stool onto its back legs, balancing himself with one hand on the counter. ‘So you were listening?’
‘How could I not?’ Sara knew there was no point in denying it. ‘All I’m asking is that you consider me for the position.’
‘Really?’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘So what qualifications do you have?’
Sara hesitated. ‘Well, two years of working at a primary school in—in London.’ She’d almost mentioned the school’s name and that would have been foolish. ‘Like I say, I left when I got married.’
‘And you can prove this? You’ve got certification, references?’
Sara bent her head. ‘Not with me.’
‘But you could get them?’
Her shoulders slumped. ‘Not easily, no.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’ He was sardonic. ‘Hey, I may live in the sticks, but I haven’t got straw in my ears, Mrs Victor.’
‘It’s Miss Victor,’ she muttered unnecessarily. If he wasn’t going to employ her, what did it matter what he thought her name was? It wasn’t her real one. She lifted her head, deciding to make one last plea for his understanding. ‘Look, I’m not going to pretend that working for you wouldn’t suit my purposes. It would. And, although I can’t prove it, I was a primary school teacher. A damn good one, as it happens.’ She gazed at him. ‘You could give me a week’s trial, at least. What have you got to lose?’
‘Plenty.’ The feet of the stool thudded down onto the tiled floor as he leaned almost threateningly towards her. ‘I don’t just leave my daughter with anyone, Miss Victor. She’s far too important to me. I’m sorry.’
He didn’t look sorry. On the contrary, he looked as if he’d be glad to see the back of her, and she pushed the remains of her coffee aside and got to her feet.
‘So am I,’ she said, barely audibly, bending to pick up her bag. ‘If—if I could just use your phone…’
‘Wait.’ To her dismay he stood also, successfully putting himself between her and the door. ‘Tell me something: did you really spend the night in Morpeth, or was that a lie, too?’
‘Does it matter?’
She was trying to remain calm, but she was suddenly conscious of how vulnerable she was here. So long as they’d been discussing the job she’d felt a certain amount of control over the situation. But he’d made it plain that he didn’t believe her and now she was uneasily aware that he held her fate in his hands. What did he intend to do with that knowledge? What if he decided to report her to the authorities? How long would she remain free if he gave her description to the police?
‘Humour me,’ he said, pushing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Jeans that fit him so closely that they were worn almost white in places, she noticed inconsequentially, running her tongue over her dry lips.
‘I—all right, no,’ she conceded unwillingly. ‘May I use the phone now?’
‘So—you’ve been driving since late last night or early this morning?’
Sara sighed. ‘Something like that.’
‘You must be exhausted.’
She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘What’s it to you?’
He was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. Then he said flatly, ‘I’m not completely heartless. I know a runaway when I see one. Why don’t you sit down again and I’ll make you some breakfast? You might even like to rest for a while before contacting the garage about your car.’
Sara stared at him. ‘I didn’t come down with the last shower either,’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘And where do you get off, calling me a runaway? I told you, I decided I needed a change of scene—’
‘I know what you said,’ he interrupted her blandly. ‘But you don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?’
‘I don’t give a—a flying flea what you believe!’
‘Oh, I think you do.’ He was smug.
‘Why should I?’
‘Because it must have occurred to you that I could decide to keep you here until I had your story checked out.’
Sara gasped. ‘You wouldn’t do that!’
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.’
‘Because—because you have no right. I’m not a child; I’m not even a teenager. I can please myself what I do.’
‘Possibly.’ He paused. ‘But you must admit that someone who suddenly decides they need a change of scene wouldn’t leave in the middle of the night. Particularly as you appear to have left without bringing any papers, any references, anything to prove you are who you say you are.’
Sara felt totally defeated. ‘Just let me go,’ she said wearily. ‘Please.’ She paused. ‘Forget the phone. I’ll check the car myself, and if it still doesn’t start I’ll make some other arrangement. Just forget you ever saw me.’
Matt sighed. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I think you need some help,’ he said gently. ‘Why don’t you tell me what really happened? My guess is that you had a row with your husband and decided to take off. I don’t know where the hired car comes in, but that’s not important. Am I somewhere near the truth?’
‘I told you.’ She spoke doggedly. ‘I don’t have a husband.’
‘Right.’ His mouth thinned. ‘So why are you still wearing both your wedding and engagement rings? For sentimental reasons?’
Sara sagged. She’d forgotten about the rings. She was so used to wearing them, so used to Max’s anger if she ever dared to take them off, that she hadn’t even thought about them or what they might mean to someone else.
She swayed. She felt so dizzy suddenly. When had she last had anything to eat? she wondered. Not today, certainly. And she couldn’t recall eating much the previous day either. She’d missed dinner, of course, but had she had any lunch? She wished she could remember. But everything that had happened before Max came home remained a blank.
Not the memory of Max lying at the foot of the stairs, however. She recalled that, and recalled herself rushing down the stairs after him, kneeling at his side, desperately trying to find a pulse. But her hand had been shaking so much she hadn’t been able to feel anything. In any case, he hadn’t been breathing. And surely that could mean only one thing.
He was dead!
She swayed again, and saw Matt put out his hand towards her. He was going to touch her, she thought, jerking back from the contact as if she was stung. Her legs felt like jelly. Dear God, what was happening to her? She mustn’t pass out here. She knew nothing about this man except that he was threatening to expose her.
She should never have come here; never have asked for his help. She was on her own now. That was what she wanted. The only person she could rely on was herself…

Sara opened her eyes to curtains moving in the breeze from the open window behind them. Sunlight dappled peach-coloured walls, laid yellow fingers over a tall armoire and a matching chest of drawers, added warmth to the lime-green quilted bedspread that covered her. Somewhere a tractor was droning its way across a field, a dog was barking, and the plaintive sound of gulls was overlaid by the dull thunder of the sea.
Where was she?
Propping herself up on her elbows, she frowned as she looked around the pretty bedroom. Nothing was familiar to her—except her jacket folded over the back of a rose-pink loveseat, and her strappy high heels standing beside the chair.
Then it all came rushing back. Max’s fall, and her escape; the car she’d hired that had stalled just after she’d turned onto the sea road; the many futile attempts she’d made to start it again.
A shiver crept down her spine. But that still didn’t explain how she came to be here, lying in a strange bed, fully clothed except for her jacket and shoes. What had happened? She put a confused hand to her head. She had to remember.
There’d been a house, she thought, her head throbbing with the effort to recall the morning’s events. She’d been so relieved to find it on this lonely stretch of the coast. She’d hoped that whoever owned the house might let her use their phone to call a garage. She’d doubted she’d find a phone box this far from the village.
But the house had appeared to be empty. She remembered hearing dogs barking, and she’d been on her way back to the road when one of those big Range Rovers had pulled into the yard. Even then she’d hoped that it might be a woman driving the vehicle. At that time of the morning mothers were often employed on the school run. But the man who’d swung open the door and pushed jean-clad legs out of the car had been anything but feminine.
Matt Seton.
She swallowed, wondering if Max would have heard of him. Probably, she decided. Max had always prided himself on being familiar with every facet of the arts, and although she’d never read any of his books Seton had projected such an image of power and self-confidence that she was sure that anything he produced would be a success.
But Max was dead, she reminded herself once more, feeling a sense of panic creeping over her. In any case, she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Max right now. She was trying to work out how she came to be in Matt Seton’s bedroom.
Well, maybe not his bedroom, she conceded, determinedly concentrating on the room instead of letting her thoughts numb her mind to the exclusion of anything else. She had the feeling that Matt Seton’s bedroom would look nothing like this. This room was too light, too feminine. His daughter’s, perhaps? He’d said he had a daughter. Did she really want to know?
Still, he had been kind to her, she acknowledged. Initially, anyway. Despite the fact that when he’d emerged from the Range Rover her primary instinct had been to run. She hadn’t wanted to speak to him, hadn’t wanted to put her trust—however fleetingly—into another man’s hands. But common sense had won out over panic and she’d been quite proud of the way she’d handled herself then.
Until the idea of asking him for a job had occurred to her. That had been a crazy notion. She realised it now, had realised it as soon as he’d started asking questions she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. But the thought of staying here, of blending into the landscape so that no one would find her until she wanted them to, had seemed, momentarily at least, the perfect solution.
A dog barked again. Closer at hand this time. She guessed it must be just beneath the window and she heard a man bidding it to be quiet. The man’s voice was familiar, strong and attractive, and she had no difficulty in identifying it as belonging to her unwilling host.
Which brought the realisation that Matt Seton must have carried her upstairs and put her to bed. He must have removed her shoes and jacket and covered her with the quilted spread. Why? Had she fainted? Had she fallen and hit her head? No, that simply wouldn’t happen. Not today. Not after…
Her bag? Alarm gripped her again. Where was her bag? Her haversack? She’d had it with her when she’d been feeling so dizzy downstairs, but she couldn’t see it now. What was in it? What could Matt Seton have found if he’d looked through it? Anything incriminating? Oh, she hated that word. But was there anything to prove that her name wasn’t really Sara Victor?
Throwing the coverlet aside, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and choked back a gasp of pain. Her hip throbbed abominably, and even if the room hadn’t spun briefly about her she’d still have had to remain motionless until the pain subsided.
Finally it did, and, drawing up the skirt of her dress, she examined the ugly bruise that was visible below the high-cut hem of her briefs. Circles of black and blue spread out from a central contusion where ruptured blood vessels were discernible beneath the skin. It was nasty, but not life-threatening, and she touched it with cold, unsteady fingers before pulling her skirt down again.
‘So you’re awake!’
The voice she’d heard a few minutes before seemed to be right behind her, and she swung apprehensively towards the sound. Matt Seton was standing in the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb, his eyes dark and shrewd, surveying her. How long had he been there? she wondered anxiously. Had he seen—?
She expelled an uneven breath. She was unwillingly aware that long ago, before her marriage to Max, she’d have considered Matt Seton quite a dish. Even wary and suspicious of her as he was, he still possessed the kind of animal magnetism that most women found irresistible. He wasn’t handsome, though his lean hard features did have a rough appeal. But it was more than that. A combination of strength and vulnerability that she was sure had all his female acquaintances falling over themselves to help him. A subtle power that was all about sex.
She bent her head, and, as if sensing she was still not entirely recovered from her loss of consciousness, he went on, ‘When did you last have a meal?’
Sara’s eyes went automatically to her watch, but she saw to her dismay that it wasn’t working. A crack bisected the glass and one of the hands was bent. She must have done it when she fell against the table the night before, but because until now she hadn’t wanted to know what time it was she hadn’t noticed.
‘I—what time is it?’ she asked, without answering him, and Matt pulled a wry face.
‘Why? Will that change anything?’ Then, when her eyes registered some anxiety, he added shortly, ‘It’s after one o’clock. I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you want some?’
One o’clock! Sara was horrified. She must have been unconscious for over three hours.
‘You fainted,’ he said, as if reading the consternation in her face. ‘And then I guess, because you were exhausted, you fell asleep. Do you feel better?’
Did she? Sara had the feeling she’d never feel better again. What was going on back home? Did Hugo know Max was dead yet? Of course he must. He had been going to join them for supper after the show…
‘Hello? Are you still with us?’
She must have been staring into space for several seconds, because she realised that her host had moved to the foot of the bed and was now regarding her with narrowed assessing eyes. What was he thinking? she pondered apprehensively. Why couldn’t she stop giving him reasons to suspect her of God knew what? Yet, whatever he suspected, it couldn’t be worse than the truth.
‘I’m sorry.’ She eased herself to the edge of the bed, trying not to jar her injured hip. ‘When I asked to use the phone I didn’t expect to make such a nuisance of myself.’
He didn’t argue with her. There was no insincere attempt to put her at her ease. Just a silent acknowledgement of the statement she had made and a patient anticipation of an answer to the question he had asked earlier.
‘Lunch,’ he prompted her at last. ‘I think we need to talk, and I’ll be happier doing it when you’ve got some solid food inside you.’
‘Perhaps I don’t want to talk to you,’ she retorted, getting to her feet. Without her heels he seemed that much taller, easily six feet, with a powerful muscular body that bore no resemblance to Max’s more bulky frame. ‘Where’s my bag?’
His expression was cynical. ‘There,’ he said flatly, indicating a spot beside the loveseat. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t been rummaging through your belongings while you’ve been unconscious. What do you take me for?’
Sara’s pale cheeks deepened with embarrassed colour. ‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’ But she did. Max wouldn’t have hesitated in using any situation to his advantage. ‘I—just wanted a tissue.’
‘Yeah, right.’ He was sardonic. Then his brows drew together as she stepped rather stiffly into her shoes. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ But she wasn’t. She’d been stiff getting out of the car, but she’d still been running on adrenalin and the ache in her hip had been bearable. Now, after resting, after giving in to her exhaustion, her senses were no longer dulled by over-active hormones and she could hardly move without wincing. ‘I’m still a bit unsteady, that’s all.’
Matt regarded her dourly. ‘I’d say that was the understatement of the year,’ he remarked, forestalling her when she would have reached for her jacket. ‘You won’t be needing this. Not yet, anyway. You’re going to have something to eat, even if I have to feed you myself.’
Sara’s cheeks flushed. ‘You can’t force me!’
‘Don’t make me prove it,’ remarked Matt, making for the door, her jacket looped over one shoulder. He nodded towards a door beside the armoire. ‘There’s a bathroom through there. Why don’t you freshen up before the meal?’ He paused. ‘Oh, and there are tissues in there, too. If you really need them.’
Sara pressed her lips together as he left the room. Once again, he’d caught her out in a lie. But then, she was no good at lying. She never had been. It might have been easier for her if she had. If Max—
But she had to stop thinking about Max. Had to stop remembering how he’d humiliated and terrified her for almost three years. Why had she stayed with him? Why had she put up with his moods, his tempers? Because she’d been too much of a coward to break away from him? Or because she’d known what he’d do to her and her mother if she dared to try and leave him?
And now he was dead…
Her throat felt dry, and after ensuring that Matt had left the room she shuffled across to the bathroom. Like the bedroom, it was predominantly peach and green in colour. Pale green bath and basin; cream tiles with a peach flower decorating the centre; thick peach and green towels set on a stainless steel rack.
There was a mirror above the basin and Sara examined her reflection with critical eyes. Fortunately, her face was unmarked. Max never left any visible signs of his cruelty, at least none that couldn’t be covered by her clothes. There had never been any obvious signs that he was anything other than an ideal husband. Even Hugo—gentle, bumbling Hugo—had never suspected what a monster his brother really was. And as for her mother…
Sara trembled. She was doing it again, concentrating all her attention on the past. She’d done what she could. She’d phoned the emergency services before she’d fled from the apartment. She’d ensured that Max was attended to. The only thing she hadn’t done was stay and be charged with his murder…
Expelling an unsteady breath, Sara ran some water into the basin and washed her face and hands with the creamy soap she found there. It was so good to get rid of the stale make-up she’d been wearing since the night before, and, after rescuing her haversack from the other room, she spent a few minutes applying moisturiser to her skin. She didn’t use any lipstick or mascara, but an eyeliner was necessary to draw attention away from the dark circles around her eyes. She looked pale, but she couldn’t help that. She had the feeling she’d never look normal again.
She found her brush and, loosening her hair, she got rid of the tangles before plaiting it again. Then, satisfied that she’d repaired the damage, she went back into the bedroom.
She found her hip was easier now that she was moving about again. In a few days the bruises would disappear, as they had done before. She’d be able to look at herself and pretend, as she had pretended so many times before, that Max had left no scars upon her. But the real scars went deeper, were longer lasting. Those scars were incapable of being destroyed.
She closed her eyes for a moment, preparing herself to meet the questions Matt Seton wasn’t going to forget he hadn’t had answers to. And, before she left the room, she took off her watch and her rings and slipped them into the bottom of her bag. One way or another she was no longer Max’s possession. She was on her own now, and, until she decided what she was going to do, she had to think on her feet.
There was still her mother, of course. But she doubted she would have any sympathy for her daughter. They had never been close, and in the older woman’s eyes the only sensible thing Sara had ever done was to marry Max Bradbury. It had always been the same. Max could do no wrong. And, because when they’d got married Max had moved her mother out of her run-down house in Greenwich and into a luxury apartment in Bloomsbury, Sara had never been able to appeal to her for help. God knew what she’d think when she discovered Max was dead and her daughter was missing. Sara doubted she would ever forgive her.

Chapter Three
SARA looked even paler when she came downstairs, and Matt felt a heel for upsetting her. But, dammit, he hadn’t been born yesterday, and it was obvious that the story she’d told him wasn’t even close to the truth.
He had already beaten eggs for omelettes, and he set a bowl of freshly washed salad on the breakfast bar. Fresh coffee was simmering on the hob, and there was nearly half a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge—a hangover from his working jag of the night before.
‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating the stool she had occupied before. He had considered laying the table in the dining room, but that had seemed too formal. Besides, if he had any sense he’d feed her and send her on her way without any further nonsense. It wasn’t his problem if she was running away. He had been a fool to get involved. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Better,’ she said, with another of her guarded smiles. She edged onto the stool. ‘You didn’t have to do this, you know.’
Yes, I did, thought Matt wryly, but he contented himself with a careless, ‘No problem.’ The eggs sizzled as he poured them into a hot pan. ‘There’s wine in the fridge, if you want it.’
‘Not for me, thank you.’ She was evidently trying to relax, but although she propped her elbows on the bar and looped her fingers together he could see she was on edge. Then, as if determined to behave naturally, she added, ‘You said you were a writer?’
Matt cast her a sardonic glance. ‘Did I say that?’
‘Well, you implied as much,’ she said, looking embarrassed, and he took pity on her.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘I write.’
Her eyes widened, and he was struck anew at how lucid they were. But now that she’d removed her make-up he could see the dark shadows that surrounded them, noticed with his professional eye for observation that her skin was porcelain-fragile and almost transparent.
Who the hell was she? he wondered. What was she really doing in this part of the country? And why did he feel such an unwarranted sense of responsibility for her?
‘What do you write?’ she asked, apparently hoping to prevent him from asking her any more questions, and he drew a breath.
‘Thrillers,’ he replied at last, deciding not to elaborate. She wouldn’t be interested in his background in psychology, or in the fact that the main character in his last three novels had used psychological profiling to catch his villains. Carol hadn’t been. She’d thought she’d married a doctor. She’d never been interested in his writing. He tipped half the cooked eggs onto Sara’s plate. ‘Okay?’
She nodded her thanks for the golden-brown omelette he’d set in front of her. ‘Mmm, this looks delicious.’
‘So eat it,’ he advised, straddling the stool opposite as he’d done before. He pulled his own plate towards him and set a board with newly sliced French bread beside them. ‘Help yourself.’
He noticed how long it took her to swallow just a few mouthfuls of the omelette. She asked if she could have a glass of water and punctuated every forkful with several generous gulps so that the glass was empty long before the eggs were eaten. Much against his better judgement, Matt refilled the glass and added a handful of ice cubes from the freezer. For that she offered him a smile that for once was totally sincere.
‘So—are you writing at the moment?’ she asked at last, seemingly conscious of the fact that he was watching her every move. She managed to meet his eyes, if only briefly. ‘It must be a fascinating occupation.’
‘It’s a living.’ Matt helped himself to a wedge of bread and spread it thickly with butter. He offered it to her, but she declined, and, taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully before continuing, ‘I’m lucky. I enjoy it. Not all writers do, you know.’
‘They don’t?’
He wondered if her ingenuity was real or feigned. She certainly appeared to be interested. But then, he’d been flattered too many times before to take anything at face value. ‘No,’ he answered her now, forking the last of his omelette into his mouth. ‘To some people, it’s just a job. For me, it was a hobby long before I started to take it seriously.’
Sara looked impressed. ‘It must be great to do something you really enjoy.’ She cupped her chin in her hand. ‘I envy you.’
‘You didn’t enjoy teaching, then?’ suggested Matt mildly, and saw the way the colour seeped into her face at his words.
‘That’s different,’ she said tightly. ‘I meant, it must be wonderful to have a—vocation.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t call it that. But I know what you mean.’ Matt shrugged and then directed his attention to her plate. ‘Is something wrong with your eggs?’
‘Oh—no.’ She hurried to reassure him. ‘You’re a good cook. I just—er—I don’t have much of an appetite, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.’
Matt collected the plates and got up to pour the coffee. Then, setting a mug of the steaming liquid in front of her, he said, ‘So what are you going to do now?’
She glanced half apprehensively towards the door and he wondered if she was remembering the argument they’d had before she’d collapsed. But as far as she was concerned her vehicle was unusable. Was she thinking she would have to make other arrangements before she could continue with her journey?
‘I—I suppose I should ring the garage in—where was it you said? Saviour?’
‘Saviour’s Bay.’ Matt regarded her levelly. ‘Actually, I did ring them myself.’
‘You did?’ The relief in her eyes made him regret the lie he’d just told her. ‘What did they say? Are they sending somebody out?’
Matt ignored his twingeing conscience. ‘Not until tomorrow. They’re pretty strapped today.’
‘Oh, no!’ Her disappointment was evident. She ran slim fingers up into the hair at her temples, dragging several strands to curl about her jawline. ‘God, what am I going to do now?’
He guessed the question was rhetorical, but he answered her anyway. ‘You could stay here overnight,’ he suggested, wondering why he was doing this. ‘I have a spare room. You’ve just spent a couple of hours in it.’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’ He hardened his tone. ‘You were quite prepared to stay if I offered you a job. What’s the difference?’
She flushed. ‘That was a mistake.’
‘What was?’
‘Asking you for a job. I don’t know what possessed me.’
‘Try desperation?’ he suggested flatly. ‘Come on, Sara, we both know you don’t have anywhere else to go. And until your car’s fixed…’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll find a hotel. A guesthouse. Something.’
‘Around here? I don’t think so. Not unless you’re prepared to hike several miles, as I said. And somehow, in those heels, I don’t think you’d make it.’
‘You don’t know what shoes I’ve brought with me. I have a suitcase in my car—’
‘No, you don’t. I checked.’ Matt didn’t go on to add that he’d started her car, too. She must have flooded the carburettor when it had stalled and she’d tried to start it again. ‘There’s nothing in the boot.’
Her indignation was appealing. ‘You had no right to do that.’
‘No.’ He agreed with her. ‘But you had left the keys in the ignition. Anyone could have done the same.’
She sniffed. ‘You can’t force me to stay here.’
‘I have no intention of forcing you to do anything,’ he declared dismissively. ‘And very shortly I’ll be leaving to pick up my daughter from school, so you’ll have every opportunity to walk out if you wish.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s your call.’

Matt covered the distance between Seadrift and St Winifred’s Primary feeling a sense of incredulity. Had he really left Sara—if that really was her name—alone in his house? After spending the last few years isolating himself from everybody but his family and the people who worked for him, had he actually encouraged a complete stranger to spend the night in his home?
Was he mad? He knew practically nothing about her, and what he did know was definitely suspect. She had no more decided on a change of life than he had. He’d bet his last cent that she was a runaway. But from whom? And from what?
Whatever it was, he knew that it made his own misgivings about leaving her in his house groundless. She wasn’t a thief. He was sure of that. Nor was she anyone’s idea of a nanny, although he was prepared to believe that she hadn’t been lying when she’d said she’d been a teacher. That had been the only time when there’d been real conviction in her voice. So what was she? Who was she? And what was he going to do about her?
For the present, however, he had other things to think about. Not least the fact that he had to introduce her to Rosie. He had no idea what his daughter would think of him inviting a strange woman to spend the night. Rosie might only be seven, but she could be remarkably adult on occasion, and she was bound to wonder how Sara came to be there.
To his relief, he heard the bell that marked the end of the school day as he pulled up outside the gates. He wasn’t late, thank goodness. But his early arrival did mean that he had to get out of the Range Rover and be civil to the other parents who were already gathered outside the school.
‘Hello, Matt.’
Gloria Armstrong, whose husband farmed several hundred acres north of Saviour’s Bay, gave him a winning smile. Like several of the mothers of children in Rosie’s class, she was always eager to chat with him. Matt was by no means a conceited man, but he knew these women seemed to get a disproportionate delight in using his first name. It was a pity Hester wasn’t still here to run interference for him.
‘Gloria,’ he responded now, nodding to her and to one or two of the other parents. Thankfully, there was a handful of fathers present, too, and he was able to ally himself with them as he waited for Rosie to emerge from the school buildings.
‘I hear you’ve had no luck in finding someone to care for Rosemary,’ Gloria added, not at all daunted by his offhand greeting. Her heavily mascaraed eyes moved over his tall figure with a certain avidity. ‘I wish I could do something to help.’
Yeah, right. Matt schooled his features and gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sure you’ve got enough to do looking after those three boys of yours,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Not to mention your husband. How is Ron, by the way?’
Gloria’s mouth turned down. ‘Oh, Ron’s all right,’ she said dismissively. ‘So long as he has his golf and his beer and his cronies, he’s as happy as a pig in muck!’ She grimaced. ‘I sometimes think he doesn’t care about me and the boys at all.’
Remembering what Rosie had said about the three boys, two of whom were in her class, Matt reserved judgement. There was no doubt they were tearaways in the making, but who was he to condemn them? He’d probably been far worse in his youth. At least if half of what his mother maintained was true.
‘I imagine the farm keeps him fairly busy,’ he said neutrally, wishing he could move away from her. He noticed their conversation was being observed by more than one pair of interested eyes, and the last thing he needed was for someone to mention to Ron Armstrong that he’d been seen chatting up his wife at the school gates. Despite what he’d said to Gloria, he knew her husband was a hothead and a bully. He could imagine the headlines if the other man chose to take him to task for being a womaniser.
A womaniser! Him! Matt stifled a groan. Nothing could be further from the truth. These days he was virtually celibate. The last time he’d got laid had been before Hester retired. He’d had to spend a weekend in London, visiting his agent and doing some publicity, and one of the advertising execs had come on to him. She’d been exceptionally good-looking, he recalled, but their hasty coupling in her hotel room had hardly been memorable. He’d been glad he could honestly say he was leaving London the following morning, and he’d left strict instructions with his agent that he wasn’t to give his phone number to anyone…
‘I wish I had a job.’
He’d forgotten Gloria was still there, but her rueful remark forced him to acknowledge her again. ‘You have a job,’ he said, wishing Rosie would hurry. He glanced at his watch. ‘I wonder what’s holding them up?’
‘Who?’ Gloria looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
‘The kids,’ said Matt quellingly. Then, with some relief, ‘Ah—here they are.’
‘You know, I could look after Rosemary.’ Gloria grabbed his arm as he would have moved away. ‘At least I’ve had plenty of experience.’
And not just in looking after children, thought Matt drily, shaking her hand off his sleeve. For the first time he felt a little sympathy for Ron Armstrong. Perhaps he had some justification for his temper, after all.
‘It’s okay,’ he heard himself saying now. ‘I’m hoping I’ve found someone. She just started today, as a matter of fact.’
Gloria’s full mouth took on a sulky slant. ‘Well, that’s news,’ she said, clearly not believing him. ‘I was talking to Emma Proctor yesterday morning and she didn’t say anything about you hiring a nanny.’
‘She doesn’t know yet,’ said Matt, wondering how he could have been so reckless as to say such a thing. Now he would have to ring Emma and explain the situation to her.
‘Obviously not.’
Gloria sniffed, but to Matt’s relief Rosie had seen him and she came barrelling out of the gate towards them.
‘Daddy! Daddy!’ she squealed, flinging herself into his arms. ‘You came! You came!’
‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ said Matt, swinging her round. He grinned. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Quite good—’
‘Your daddy’s had a better one,’ put in Gloria maliciously, before Matt could perceive her intent and deflect it. ‘He’s found someone to look after you, Rosemary. Isn’t that nice? I expect she’ll be coming to meet you tomorrow.’
Rosie’s eyes grew round. ‘Is that true, Daddy? Has the agency sent you someone else?’
‘Not exactly.’ Matt could have strangled Gloria as she stood there enjoying his discomfort. Clearly she thought he was making the whole thing up and she wanted him to have to admit it. Casting her a malevolent look, he ushered Rosie away towards the Range Rover. ‘I’ll tell you all about it as we go home,’ he promised, flicking the key fob to unlock the vehicle. ‘Okay?’
‘But you have found a new nanny, haven’t you, Daddy?’ Rosie asked, clambering, with his assistance, into the front seat. ‘You weren’t just saying that?’
Matt reflected again how adult Rosie was at times. He had no idea what he was going to say to her. He couldn’t lie to his daughter, but equally he had to come up with a reasonable explanation of who Sara was and why she was staying at the house.
If she was still there when he got back, he acknowledged. She could have taken the keys he’d left on the counter in the kitchen and made another attempt to start her car. Once she found it was operable, she was a free agent. Whatever he thought, she’d have no reason to stay.
He sighed, fitting his keys into the ignition, and Rosie gave him a troubled look. ‘What’s wrong, Daddy?’ she asked shrewdly. She hesitated. ‘Is it because you haven’t found a nanny? Did you just say that because you don’t like Mrs Armstrong? ‘Cos that’s all right. I don’t like Rupert and Nigel either.’
Rupert and Nigel! Matt raised his eyes heavenward for a moment. Nobody but Gloria Armstrong would have called those two imps of Satan Rupert and Nigel. Rosie was always telling him some story or other about what they’d got up to in the classroom, about how Mrs Sanders was forever sending them to the head teacher for extra discipline.
But grumbling about the Armstrongs wasn’t going to help him now. Choosing his words with care, he said, ‘A young woman did come to see me today. Not from the agency,’ he added quickly, holding up a hand to prevent Rosie from interrupting. ‘She’s a visitor. Her car broke down at the bottom of the road and she came to ask if she could use the phone.’
Rosie’s face dropped. ‘So she’s not a nanny?’
‘No.’ Matt shook his head. ‘But she is going to stay with us, at least until tomorrow. So I want you to be especially nice to her.’
Rosie sniffed. ‘So who is she? Why is she staying with us?’
‘I’ve just explained,’ said Matt patiently. ‘Her car broke down and—she can’t get it fixed until tomorrow.’ May God forgive him the lie. ‘She’s nice. I think you’ll like her.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Sara. Sara Victor. What do you think?’
Rosie shrugged, and Matt thought at first that she was going to reserve her opinion until she’d met their visitor. But he was wrong. His daughter was simply considering her options.
‘Perhaps she’ll want to stay,’ she said at last, with childish optimism. ‘If she likes it here, she might want to take the job.’
Matt made no response to this. He was already regretting having to discuss Sara’s arrival with her. But then, he’d known he’d have to give some explanation to his daughter. Unfortunately Gloria Armstrong had precipitated the event.
It seemed to take for ever to get back to Saviour’s Bay. Now that she knew about Sara, Rosie wasn’t interested in talking about her day at school. She just turned the conversation back to Sara, and he eventually gave up trying to talk about anything else.
She wanted to know Sara’s age, what she looked like, where she came from. If she was on holiday, what was wrong with her car? The questions came thick and fast, and Matt dreaded getting back to Seadrift and finding that Sara had gone. He didn’t know what he’d tell his daughter if that happened. And, however slight the association was, he knew Rosie would be very disappointed, too.
Would he be disappointed?
That was a question he chose not to ask himself. Yet he knew he was curious about Sara as well. From a professional point of view, he assured himself firmly. As a psychological case, she interested him greatly. But that was all it was, he told himself. He had no interest in her as a woman at all. The days when he’d allowed his hormones to govern his actions were long gone. Any relationships he had were short and rarely sweet. Which suited him.
It was something of a relief to find that the hired Ford was still parked where Sara had left it. If it wouldn’t have caused complications that he chose not to get into right now he’d have shifted it inside his own gates. But towing it would require her assistance, and she might just be tempted to try and start it herself.
‘Is that her car?’ asked Rosie, peering over her shoulder as they drove up the private road to the house. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I’ve already told you. I don’t know,’ said Matt, disliking the untruth almost as much as his own behaviour. ‘Can you sit still? We’re almost there.’
‘Where is she?’
Rosie was still full of questions, and Matt expelled a weary breath. ‘I expect she’s in the sitting room,’ he said shortly, hoping Sara hadn’t been invading the rest of the house. He didn’t think it was likely. She’d seemed quite happy in the spacious sitting room, with its broad windows that overlooked the sweep of the bay.
Rosie had her door open as soon as he stopped the car, jumping down onto the paved forecourt, dragging her canvas bag behind her. Scurrying round the corner of the building, she briefly disappeared from view, but Matt could hear the dogs barking as she reached the back door.
Striding after her, he saw her stop outside the dogs’ compound and open the gate. Then, after bending to fuss over the two animals, she turned to enter the house. ‘Don’t,’ yelled Matt, but it was too late. Rosie had already opened the door, and the retrievers bounded boisterously after her.
By the time he reached the kitchen Rosie and the dogs had disappeared, but he could hear them rampaging into the sitting room, barking again. There was shouting, mostly from Rosie, and laughter, which he was amazed to identify as coming from his visitor, and when he arrived at the sitting room doorway he was confronted by a scene he’d never expected. Sara was down on her knees, fussing over the animals, and Rosie was standing watching her with a look of delighted anticipation on her small face.
It was a long time since he’d seen Rosie so animated with someone other than himself, and he felt a twinge of guilt for neglecting her, for making her a hostage to the life he chose to lead. It hadn’t been so bad when they’d had Hester. She’d compensated for the extended family Rosie didn’t have. But since Hester had retired Rosie had had only his parents to rely on. And, apart from the fact that they lived in Cumbria, they were enjoying their retirement too much for him to inflict a lively seven-year-old on them very often.
But Rosie was evidently enjoying herself now, and he suspected Sara was, too, though she sobered a little and scrambled to her feet when he appeared. He noticed she’d discarded the strappy shoes in favour of going barefoot, and he wondered why he was suddenly struck with the fact of how sexy bare feet could be.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, distracting himself. Collecting his wayward thoughts, he indicated the dogs. ‘I couldn’t stop Rosie from letting them in.’
‘That’s okay.’ Sara brushed her skirt, dispersing a fine cloud of dog hairs into the atmosphere. ‘I had to meet them again sometime.’
‘Sara, don’t you like Hubble and Bubble?’ demanded Rosie indignantly, and Matt gave an exasperated sigh. He could do without this.
‘Not everyone’s as mad about dogs as you are, Rosie,’ he retorted, his tone sharper than it might have been because of his own reactions. He forced himself to look briefly in Sara’s direction before adding, ‘And I don’t recall your being given permission to call our guest by her first name. I think you should apologise.’
Rosie flushed at the reproof, but before Matt could feel any remorse Sara intervened. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said, smiling at the little girl. ‘What was it you called the dogs? Hubble and Bubble?’ And, at Rosie’s nod, ‘Well, I suppose they introduced us, didn’t they?’ She held out her hand towards the child. ‘I’m very pleased to meet—all of you.’
Rosie was completely won over. Matt could see that. Any concerns she’d voiced on the way home from school were totally dispelled by the warmth of Sara’s smile.
Conversely, Matt wasn’t sure now that that was what he wanted. It was one thing feeling sorry for the woman, and quite another seeing his daughter responding to her undoubted charm. He knew absolutely nothing about her, he reminded himself irritably. He certainly didn’t know why he’d invited her to stay.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Rosie was saying delightedly, casting a triumphant glance up at her father. ‘Daddy says you’re going to stay with us. I hope you do.’
‘Oh—well, it’s just for one night,’ Sara murmured a little awkwardly. ‘It’s very kind of your father to invite me.’
She didn’t know the half of it, thought Matt, raking long fingers through his hair, but before he could respond Rosie jumped in again. ‘But you do like it here, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Are you on holiday? Or are you looking for a job?’
Now Matt saw it was Sara’s turn to look disconcerted. ‘I—I haven’t decided,’ she said at last, a faint flush tingeing the skin of her throat. The unsuitable voile dress exposed a fair amount of her neck and throat, he noticed, and, as if conscious of this, she crossed her arms at her midriff, one hand seeking to protect herself from his eyes. ‘This is a very—beautiful place.’ She glanced towards the windows, the tip of her tongue touching her parted lips. ‘I think you’re very lucky to live here.’
Matt found to his annoyance that his eyes were following her tongue’s sensual exploration. And he felt impatient with himself for being so immature. For God’s sake, he was a grown man, not a schoolboy. What was there about this woman that affected him so?
‘That’s what Daddy always says,’ exclaimed Rosie now, rather wistfully, and Matt wondered if he was depriving his daughter of a social life. Seadrift was remote. There was no getting away from it. But he resented the thought that a stranger should bring it to mind.
‘I’m sure he’s right,’ Sara murmured, no doubt for her own reasons, he thought savagely. He didn’t need her endorsement. In fact, he needed nothing from her, he thought irritably. She bent to pat the two retrievers, exposing the dusky hollow of her cleavage. ‘You probably couldn’t keep these two rascals if you lived in a town.’
‘Do you live in a town?’ asked Rosie. Then, without pausing, ‘Would you like to live at the coast?’
Matt stiffened. ‘Rosie!’ he said warningly, half afraid he knew what was coming. But he couldn’t stop her. It was too late.
‘’Cos Daddy’s looking for someone to come and look after me,’ she explained eagerly. ‘You wouldn’t have to do much. Just take me to school and stuff. You wouldn’t really be a nanny,’ she ran on, ‘’cos I’m too old for that. But you could live here—couldn’t she, Daddy? And then I wouldn’t be always getting in your way when you’re working, like you said.’

Chapter Four
SARA didn’t want to feel any sympathy for Matt Seton, but she couldn’t help it. She saw the look of anguish that crossed his lean tanned features at the child’s careless words. He obviously cared deeply about his daughter, and it hurt him to hear her describe the way she thought he thought about her. She sensed he was fostering all the remorse of a single father who was obliged to employ strangers to care for his child while he earned them both a living.
But she also glimpsed a thread of anger in the gaze he directed towards her, and she wondered if he thought she had engineered Rosie’s innocent invitation.
‘I—’ She strove to find an explanation for not accepting the position that wouldn’t offend the little girl. ‘It’s very kind of you, Rosie—’
‘But Miss Victor is heading off tomorrow,’ put in the child’s father harshly, before Sara could finish, and, despite the fact that she’d been about to say something similar, Sara felt her hackles rise at his callous dismissal. ‘Besides,’ he went on, rather maliciously, she thought, ‘I’m sure our visitor would find our way of life very dull.’
Rosie looked crestfallen now. ‘Would you?’ she asked, her dark eyes, so like her father’s, gazing up at Sara in mute appeal. Sara thought it would have taken a harder heart than hers to resist her, but once again Matt Seton saved her the trouble.
‘Of course she would,’ he essayed flatly. ‘Now—shall we get these animals out of here before they shed any more hair?’
Rosie’s lip jutted. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so,’ declared her father inflexibly, ushering the two retrievers into the hall. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Miss Victor?’
It was a perfunctory enquiry at best, and Sara expelled a breath before lifting her shoulders in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked, deciding there was no point in pretending that she could go against his wishes, however enthusiastic Rosie might be.
Matt Seton paused in the doorway. ‘You’re a guest,’ he said simply. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see what my housekeeper has left for our evening meal.’
Sara took a couple of steps after him. ‘It’s early yet,’ she protested. Then, with inspiration, ‘Don’t these dogs need exercising or something? I—Rosie and I could take them for a walk.’
‘I don’t think so.’
His cold denial came only seconds before Rosie’s, ‘Oh, why not, Daddy? We often take the dogs out after I get home from school.’
‘We do,’ he said, emphasising the personal pronoun. ‘Besides—’ he gave Sara another impatient look ‘—Miss Victor doesn’t have any suitable footwear.’
‘I don’t need shoes on the beach,’ she exclaimed, the idea growing on her. She found the prospect of running along the shoreline, paddling in the cool waters of this northerly sea, more and more appealing. She couldn’t run away from her troubles. She knew that. But perhaps this was a way to escape from them for a while. ‘We wouldn’t go far. I promise.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He was adamant, and her spirits plummeted. But how could she blame him really? She hadn’t exactly behaved responsibly this far.
‘You could come with us, Daddy.’
Clearly Rosie wasn’t prepared to accept his refusal without an attempt to change his mind, and Sara sensed he was torn by the knowledge that he was on the point of disappointing her once again.
‘Rosie,’ he began, a little wearily, but she evidently sensed he was weakening.
‘Please, Daddy,’ she begged, clutching his hand. ‘You need the exercise, too. You’re always saying so. Come on. It’ll be fun.’
Matt looked as if that was the last word he’d have used to describe the proposed outing, and, judging by the look he cast in her direction, Sara guessed he blamed her entirely.
But this time he wasn’t prepared to risk another rift with his daughter. ‘Well,’ he began slowly, ‘perhaps for half an hour—’
He wasn’t allowed to finish. Rosie squealed with delight, throwing her arms around his hips and hugging him tightly. Matt’s hands were gentle on her shoulders, but over his daughter’s head his eyes told Sara a different story. However, she wasn’t prepared to deal with his resentment; not now. Glancing out of the window again, she saw that although the sun was still fighting with the clouds a stiff breeze was flattening the grass on the cliff top. She would wear her jacket, she thought, concentrating on the needs of the moment. There was no point in risking a chill, however bleak her future looked at present.
They left the house through the kitchen, but this time they turned away from the front of the house. Instead, they followed a grassy path through a walled plot where wallflowers grew in wild profusion and rambling roses covered a latticed trellis, their scent evocative on the afternoon air.
The dogs bounded ahead, their flowing tails wagging excitedly as they led the way across the cliffs to where a rocky path meandered down to the beach. They were obviously used to this walk, and although they occasionally turned back to ensure that their human companions were following they needed no encouragement.
‘This is lovely, isn’t it, Daddy?’ exclaimed Rosie, who had thrown off her school blazer and was jumping up and down beside the adults. ‘Aren’t you glad you came now?’
Matt’s mouth compressed for a moment, before the smile he reserved for his daughter appeared again. ‘I guess,’ he said drily. Then, with a disturbing look at Sara’s feet, ‘Are you sure you want to go down here without shoes?’
Sara had been wondering the same thing, but his sardonic words hardened her resolve. ‘I’m sure,’ she said, going ahead as if she was used to negotiating rocky paths in her bare feet every day. She started down with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘No problem.’
In fact, her feet felt as if they’d encountered every sharp stone on the path by the time she reached the bottom. It was only by a supreme effort of will that she stopped herself from crying out at times. Still, the soft sand was balm to her bruised soles, and she strode off towards the water with real enthusiasm.
After a few moments Rosie joined her, and then, after assuring herself that Sara was all right, she raced off in pursuit of the dogs. With a feeling of inevitability Sara realised she was going to have to be content with Matt Seton’s company, and she was hardly surprised when he said drily, ‘Not as easy as it looked, was it?’
‘I’m not as fragile as you seem to think,’ she retorted, catching her breath when she inadvertently trod into a pool of cold water. Then, forcing her mind away from her own problems, she took a deep breath and said, ‘I never realised there were still untouched beaches like this in England.’ She looked about her. ‘It’s amazing!’
‘Oh, Robinson Crusoe has nothing on us,’ remarked Matt, matching her mood. ‘Despite the isolation, it’s a good place to live.’
‘I can believe it.’ She sighed, and then caught her breath again as an errant wave drenched her ankles. ‘What made you choose it?’
‘Its remoteness from London?’ he suggested. And then, as if aware that his answer had raised more questions, he went on, ‘No, I am from this area originally. I guess that’s why it appeals to me.’
‘But you used to live in London?’
Her audacity surprised her, and she was quite prepared for him to remain silent. But then he said, ‘For my sins. When I left university it was the place to be.’ He paused. ‘How about you, Miss Victor? Are you a runaway from London, too?’
‘You don’t run away from places,’ she retorted recklessly, and was instantly aware that she’d aroused his interest.
‘No, you don’t,’ he agreed. ‘Which begs the question, who are you running away from?’ He waited a beat. ‘Who—or what?’
That was too close for comfort, and, taking advantage of the fact that he was still wearing his shoes, she trod further into the water. It was cold, and her skin feathered instinctively, but anything was better than fencing words with a man who was proving far too perceptive for her peace of mind.
To her relief, Rosie provided a distraction. Seeing that Sara was in the water, albeit only up to her ankles, she came running back to join them, peeling off her own shoes and socks with obvious intent.
‘No, Rosie.’ Her father grabbed the little girl before she could scamper into the water. ‘It’s too cold yet,’ he insisted, ignoring her protests. ‘Miss Victor was just coming out—weren’t you, Miss Victor?’
Sara didn’t have a lot of choice. Besides, the water was proving much cooler than she’d anticipated. ‘That’s right,’ she said, avoiding his eyes in favour of the child’s. She stepped out onto the damp sand and smiled at Rosie. ‘Look, I’ve got goosebumps.’
Rosie struggled to get over her disappointment. ‘Have you?’ she asked doubtfully, and Sara squatted down beside her to help her put her shoes on again.
‘Everywhere,’ she assured the little girl, indicating her wrists and bare legs, and knew the instant when Matt Seton joined his daughter in assessing her appearance.
She was immediately conscious of the fact that the hem of her skirt had fallen back to mid-thigh, exposing her knees and several inches of flesh above them. Matt’s eyes seemed to touch her skin and, although she knew it was crazy, she felt that appraisal deep within her bones.
Heat, strong and totally inappropriate, flooded her chilled limbs, and she couldn’t wait to get to her feet and put some distance between them. She wasn’t attracted to this man, she told herself fiercely. She couldn’t be. Not in her present situation. After the way Max had treated her, she’d always believed she’d never want to get involved with any man ever again, and for all she knew Matt Seton might be just like him. After all, he looked bigger and stronger, and therefore more dangerous.
When she tried to get to her feet again, however, her legs gave way under her. Her bruised hip screamed with pain when she tried to straighten it, and she sank down onto her knees in total humiliation.
But, the damp sand had barely had time to coat her skin before hands fastened about her upper arms and helped her up again. Favouring her uninjured leg, she managed to support her weight with an effort, and even managed a light tone as she said, ‘Sorry about that. I must have lost my balance.’
Matt let her go with obvious reluctance. ‘Are you sure that was all it was?’ he asked, and she could tell from his expression that he distrusted her story. ‘I think we’d better be getting back,’ he added, whistling to the dogs, and she was grateful he was giving her time to pull herself together.
‘I fall over all the time,’ said Rosie comfortingly, trying to reassure her. ‘Do you want to hold my hand?’
‘Thanks.’ Sara forced a smile, even though she knew her face must look pinched. ‘I think I’m all right now.’
And it was true. She could put her weight on her injured hip again now. Not heavily, of course, and not with the freedom with which she’d come down the cliff path. But, as before, it got easier as she moved forward, and she faced the climb with only a small amount of trepidation.
Even so, going up the cliff was much different from coming down. Each step required an effort, and although Rosie surged ahead, Matt insisted on following behind. She didn’t truly believe he was doing it because he got some pleasure out of watching her struggles, but she was very relieved when she reached the top.
She longed to sink down onto the grass then, and allow her aching limbs to relax, but she didn’t dare. She had to keep going until she got back to the house at least. Even then she had to remain on her guard. Or Matt might get even more suspicious. She already knew he was not an easy man to deceive.
Back at the house, with the dogs corralled in their compound in the yard, Rosie was sent to change her clothes and Sara asked if it would be all right if she went to her room. ‘I’d like to have a wash,’ she said, picturing the bed where she had rested earlier with real longing. ‘If you don’t mind.’
Matt regarded her consideringly. ‘Why don’t you have a bath?’ he suggested. ‘I expect you’re feeling quite stiff.’
Sara sucked in a breath. ‘Why do you say that?’ she demanded, and he lifted his shoulders in a careless gesture.
‘Well, you have had a long drive,’ he pointed out mildly, and she dipped her eyes to hide the relief that rose in her face.
‘I—I see,’ she said, glancing about her for the haversack which she’d left behind when they went out. She managed a slight smile. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Why else would your legs give out on you?’ he queried, and she wondered just how innocent his remarks really were.
‘I—they didn’t give out,’ she protested. ‘I told you. I lost my balance.’
‘I know what you told me,’ he returned, taking off the cream sweater he’d pulled on over his black tee shirt when they’d left the house. He smoothed his ruffled hair with long-fingered hands. ‘Okay. Have it your own way. But I’d still get in the bath if I were you.’
Sara straightened up. ‘I might do that.’
‘Be my guest.’
She was aware that he watched her as she left the kitchen. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew she hadn’t done anything to improve his opinion of her by collapsing on the beach.
It was surprisingly easy to find the room where she’d rested earlier. She could hear Rosie clattering about in her room, which was apparently further along the galleried landing, but Sara went into her own room and closed the door behind her. Then, sinking down onto the side of the bed, she allowed her body to sag with relief. Exhaustion rounded her shoulders and she allowed her wrists to fall loosely between her knees.
Had he believed her? Or did he suspect that there was more to her conduct than a simple stiffness in her spine? No doubt he had a computer. He’d need one for his writing. Was he even now combing the Internet for any story that might match her unconvincing explanation?
She looked for her watch and then remembered that she’d taken it off before lunch. It was broken anyway, so it wouldn’t have been any good to her. Besides, she knew it was nearly five o’clock. She’d seen a clock in the kitchen. Almost a whole day had passed since she’d left the apartment. She’d been a widow for almost twenty-four hours. She shivered. Oh, God, what was she going to do?
The effort required in taking a bath wasn’t particularly appealing now, but she guessed the hot water might soothe her aches and pains. Somehow she had to get through the next fifteen hours without breaking down. When Matt left to take Rosie to school the following morning she’d ask him to give her a lift into Saviour’s Bay. With a bit of luck her car might be repaired by lunchtime, and then she’d be free to move on.
But where?
And what if Matt wouldn’t let her go?
But she wouldn’t think like that, she told herself severely. He couldn’t keep her here by force and, despite what he’d said before, she didn’t think he’d report her to the authorities. Not without knowing who she was. He wasn’t that kind of man. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.
The corner bath filled quickly. She found some pine-scented bath gel in a glass cabinet over the sink and added a squeeze of fragrance to the water. Steam rose, warm and scented, into her nostrils, and she felt a twinge of anticipation at the prospect of feeling clean again. One day at a time, Sara, she told herself encouragingly. She had to believe that she’d get through this.
It was hard to hold on to that thought when she took off her clothes, however. With the removal of her dress it was impossible to avoid the many bruises and contusions colouring her pale skin. She looked as if she’d been in a fist fight, she mused bitterly, and of course she had. But there had only ever been one real contender.
Yet Max was dead and she was alive…
The incredible truth couldn’t be denied and she sagged weakly against the basin. She hadn’t meant for him to die, she insisted painfully. But who was going to believe her now?
For so long she’d accepted that her hands were tied, that there was nothing she could do to change things. Even without the threats Max had made against her mother, she’d known he would never let her go. He’d told her so many times. And she’d believed him. God knew, she’d had every reason to believe his threats before.
So what had happened last night? How had the victim suddenly become the hunted? She’d had no notion that anything different was about to happen. She’d been too busy defending herself to anticipate that help might come from a totally unexpected source.
She swallowed the sickly feeling that surged into her throat at the memory. She saw Max raising his hand towards her, saw herself falling against the corner table on the landing of their duplex apartment. Even now her hip throbbed in memory of the agonising pain that had stunned her at the impact. She remembered rolling herself into a ball, arms curled over her head in mute acceptance of the boot that would surely follow—but it hadn’t happened. Instead, Max had lost his balance. He’d tripped, swearing as he’d stumbled over her crumpled body, and, unable to save himself, had fallen headlong down the stairs.
Another wave of nausea gripped her. It had been an accident, she assured herself now, as she’d assured herself then. If she’d rolled against his legs, if she’d caused him to lose his balance, it hadn’t been deliberate. If he hadn’t hit her, if he hadn’t caused her to fall across the head of the stairs, she wouldn’t have provided an obstacle. She’d never dreamt that he might trip over her; that he’d break his neck as he fell.
But it had happened. She could hear Max’s voice in her ears, hear the frantic cries he’d made as he’d tried desperately to save himself. He hadn’t given up without a struggle. She’d heard the scratching of his fingernails against the banister, the creaking of the wood beneath his weight. And then the awful thudding sound as his body pitched forward, no longer aggressive, out of his control.
An accident.
She sucked in a breath. That was what it had been. When she’d scurried down the stairs to where he was lying in the foyer of the apartment she’d had no other thought in her mind than to assure him she was sorry, so sorry, for what had happened.
But he’d been lying still, so very still, and she’d guessed at once that it was hopeless. She’d attempted to revive him. She’d even put her trembling mouth over his cold one and tried to breathe air into his lungs. He hadn’t responded. That was when she’d called the emergency services. That was when she’d known she had to get away.
She’d realised how it would look to a stranger. Realised that she was virtually admitting her guilt. But it was no good. No one was going to believe it was just an accident. Men like Max, men who were fit and strong, didn’t just fall down a flight of stairs without provocation. And if they arrested her, if they examined her and saw what he’d had done to her. Well, she was afraid her battered body would prove her guilt.
She expelled the breath she had hardly been aware she was holding, and then almost jumped out of her skin when someone knocked on the bathroom door.
Immediately she sprang to brace a shoulder against the panels, terrified that whoever it was out there was going to open the door and see her naked flesh. She suspected that Matt Seton was still curious about her. And if he glimpsed—
But she stifled the thought, saying instead, ‘What do you want?’ in a voice that sounded annoyingly tremulous even to her.
‘You okay?’
It was Matt, and unreasonable irritation gripped her. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason, I guess. Except that you’ve been in there for over half an hour and I haven’t heard a sound since the water stopped running,’ he replied mildly. ‘I wondered if you’d fallen asleep? That can be dangerous, you know.’
She gulped. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘Hardly.’ His tone had hardened, and she couldn’t honestly blame him. He’d been concerned, that was all. Something she wasn’t used to. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘supper will be ready in about an hour, so don’t hurry. You’ve got plenty of time.’
Sara pressed her hot cheek against the wood. ‘Thanks.’
‘No sweat.’ The harshness had left his voice. ‘Just don’t drown yourself, okay?’
Her lips quivered. ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’
She heard him leaving the bedroom, heard the outer door slam behind him, and breathed a little more easily again. But she couldn’t help the frisson of pleasure she felt at the knowledge that he’d been worried about her. It was so long since anyone had cared about her in that way. Hugo had treated her with affection, it was true, but she’d always known that in any real confrontation he would always take Max’s side. He was his brother, after all, and without Max’s support his acting career would very likely have slid back into oblivion where it had begun.
But she had to stop thinking about Max, she thought fiercely, checking that the door was securely closed before crossing the room again and easing herself into the bath. There was no lock on the door, but she found she trusted Matt Seton not to come in without an invitation. As for Rosie: she seemed like the kind of little girl who would follow her father’s example. Abandoning herself to anything but the reassuring embrace of the water, Sara sat down.
She winced as its heat probed the tender places of the hip and thigh she’d injured when she fell. Even sitting on the hard enamel was painful at first, but after a few minutes the warmth acted as an analgesic and she was able to relax. She leaned back against the side of the bath and closed her eyes.
Goodness, that felt good. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a bath. These days taking a shower was so much quicker and easier. Besides, she avoided spending too much time in the bathroom. Without her clothes she felt that much more vulnerable, and it wasn’t above Max to take advantage of it. She’d dreaded those occasions when he’d stepped into the shower with her and—
Her eyes jerked open. She must stop reliving the past. Eventually what had happened was going to catch up with her, but for now she had to think of something else. She had to think about herself, think of what she was going to do tomorrow. The future stretched ahead of her, uncharted. And, however shameful the admission, she was glad Max was never going to be able to hurt her again.
By the time she got out of the bath she was feeling infinitely more human. She dried herself on one of the large towels from the rack and then, after a moment’s hesitation, wrapped herself in the cream towelling bathrobe she found hanging on the back of the door. She wondered if Matt would mind if she wore the robe for a couple of hours. Then she could wash and dry her bra and panties. The expensive scraps of silk and lace that Max had bought for her would need no artificial drying, and she’d feel infinitely fresher wearing clean underwear tomorrow.
When she opened the door into the bedroom, however, she discovered that, as well as checking on her well-being, Matt had also left a pile of clothes on the bed. Sara’s eyes widened in amazement when she discovered a cellophane-wrapped package of bikini briefs beneath what were obviously his chambray shirt and sweat pants. The shirt and sweat pants were freshly laundered, but it was obvious that the package containing the briefs hadn’t been opened. Where had they come from? she wondered. He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend. But a man like him was bound to have women friends. Hadn’t he been speaking to one of them—Emma—earlier on?
Still, the idea that he might have contacted one of his girlfriends for help didn’t sit well with her, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she turned the packet over in her hands. And discovered that the label indicated that they were suitable for a nine- to ten-year-old!
Rosie! she thought incredulously, a gulp of laughter escaping her. They had obviously been bought for Rosie, but just as obviously they were too big for her. Ripping open the cellophane, Sara pulled them out and examined them more closely. Made of white cotton, they looked plain and practical, and, although they’d probably be a tight fit, she thought they’d do very well.
A feeling of gratitude filled her, and with it a sense of shame at her own presumption. Matt was trying to help her; that was obvious. She had to stop believing that all men were like Max. They weren’t. He had been the exception. Was it evil to be glad he was finally out of her life?
The briefs were barely decent, but Sara didn’t care. With Matt’s sweat pants bulking around her thighs, and the ends of his shirt tied at her waist, she looked anything but provocative. He’d also left a pair of sports socks, which she found worked equally well as slippers. After she’d rinsed out her own bra and panties, and hung them on the radiator in the bathroom to dry, all that was left for her to do was brush out her hair and plait it again. She was sitting at the dressing table, securing it with an elasticated band, when there was another knock at her door.
She stiffened. She couldn’t help it. Old habits die hard, she thought, taking a deep breath and calling, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Rosie.’ The little girl needed no further bidding before opening the door and putting her head round it. ‘Can I come in?’
Sara found herself smiling. ‘It looks as if you are in,’ she remarked mildly. ‘But, yes. Come in. What can I do for you?’
Rosie entered the room, revealing that she’d changed out of her school clothes into cut-off jeans and a pink tee shirt. She had evidently washed her face, too, though Sara could see the telltale smears of what appeared to be chocolate around her mouth. But she looked sweet and wholesome, and Sara wanted to hug her.
‘Daddy says supper will be ready in ten minutes,’ she declared, regarding her father’s guest with interest. ‘Are those Daddy’s clothes?’
‘Yes.’ Sara nodded. ‘He was kind enough to lend them to me.’ She got up from the stool. ‘How do I look?’
‘We—ll.’ Rosie was thoughtful. ‘They look a bit big,’ she confessed at last. Then, glancing about her, ‘Don’t you have any clothes of your own?’
‘Not here,’ replied Sara, determinedly suppressing thoughts of where the rest of her clothes were. ‘Oh, and your father gave me these.’ She held up the packet that had contained the bikini briefs. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, no!’ Rosie giggled. ‘Daddy’s Aunt Margaret sent them last Christmas. She’s ever so old, and Daddy says her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.’
‘Ah.’ Sara screwed the packet into a ball, preparatory to taking it downstairs to throw away. ‘Well, I’m very grateful for that.’
‘Do they really fit you?’ asked Rosie, staring at her critically, as if trying to imagine how they might look on an adult, and Sara grimaced.
‘Just about,’ she answered, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips. ‘Shall we go down?’
Rosie hesitated. ‘Have you changed your mind? About staying, I mean? I wish you would.’
Sara sighed. ‘Rosie—’
‘’Cos Daddy really needs someone. We slept in this morning, and I was nearly late for school.’
Sara shook her head. ‘I don’t think we should be having this conversation, Rosie.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because—because, like your Daddy said, I’ve got to leave tomorrow.’
Rosie’s lips pursed. ‘Don’t you like it here, either?’
‘Of course I do.’ Sara wished she didn’t have to lie to the child. ‘I think you’re very lucky to live so close to the sea.’
‘Most people don’t.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘Then—’
‘I think we should go down for supper,’ Sara insisted firmly. She pulled a face at her reflection, knowing the little girl could see her. ‘I just hope your father isn’t expecting any visitors tonight.’

Chapter Five
MATT came awake slowly, staring up at the ceiling that was striped with bars of sunlight. He’d left the window open the night before, he remembered, and the slats of the blind were moving in the breeze.
He often left his window open. He liked to come awake to the muted roar of the sea. The constant movement of the tides gave him a feeling of constancy, a sense of knowing that in this world not everything was subject to change.
So why did he have such a feeling of unease this morning? he wondered, pushing the sheet back to his waist and running an exploratory hand over the rough pelt of hair that angled down to his navel and beyond. And then he remembered his uninvited visitor. Sara Victor, if that really was her name. And why should he care, anyway? She was leaving this morning. When he got back from taking Rosie to school he’d pretend to check her car and miraculously find that it was working. Then she’d have no excuse to hang about any longer, and he could get back to doing the job he loved.
Only it wasn’t quite that simple. Rosie had taken an instant liking to her, which was unusual in itself. Since Hester had retired the little girl had been introduced to many of the would-be nannies who had turned up at his door, and she hadn’t been impressed with any of them. Granted, most of the younger ones hadn’t wanted to live in the area, but even those who had had left a lot to be desired so far as Rosie was concerned.
He’d agreed with her for the most part. He didn’t want Rosie’s life controlled by either a bimbo or a martinet. And, although he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in any attachment, he’d always been aware of the dangers inherent in having a younger woman living in his house.
And now Rosie had formed an attachment of her own.
He’d seen it happening, of course. All last evening he’d been forced to watch his daughter falling more and more deeply under Sara’s unconscious spell. And it was unconscious. He knew that. Sara hadn’t set out to entrance the little girl; she just couldn’t help doing so.
She had the knack of drawing Rosie out of herself. Without talking down to her, she was able to put herself on the child’s level, and Rosie had responded in kind. Matt hadn’t been aware that his daughter was missing anything until he’d heard her discussing her dolls’ outfits with Sara. What did he know of women’s fashions, or of the most attractive shades of lipstick and nail varnish? He hadn’t even known Rosie knew about such things until she’d produced a bottle of some glittery substance, which had apparently come as a free gift with one of the preteen magazines he’d bought for her, and proceeded to paint Sara’s nails with it.
When he’d protested that Miss Victor couldn’t possibly want her nails painted that particular shade of pink, Sara had insisted she didn’t mind.
‘It’s okay,’ she’d assured him lightly. ‘It washes off.’ Then she’d given a wry smile. ‘At least I hope it does.’ She’d held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. ‘Do you like it?’
Matt didn’t remember what he’d said. Whatever it was, it had made no lasting impression on him. What he did remember was that she disturbed him; that he’d been far too aware of her as a woman ever since she’d appeared downstairs wearing his old chambray shirt and sweats.
When he’d left the clothes on her bed he’d never dreamt that he’d have such a powerful reaction to her wearing them. But the knowledge that she’d obviously not been wearing a bra had aroused the most unsettling images in his head. He’d found himself wondering whether she’d bothered to put on the briefs he’d found in Rosie’s drawer. Or had they been too small for her? The possibility that she might be naked beneath the baggy trousers was all he’d needed to fuel his imagination.
He reluctantly recalled how he’d felt when Rosie had crept into his room after he’d retired, begging him to ask Sara to stay. ‘Just for a few days, Daddy,’ she’d entreated him appealingly, and, although Matt had told her no, he couldn’t help the treacherous thought that employing Sara could be beneficial to both of them.
But that wasn’t an option. Rolling onto his stomach, Matt was aware that his morning erection hadn’t subsided. Hard and insistent, it throbbed against his stomach, and he was irritably aware that it was thinking about his house guest that had caused it. It was all too easy to imagine how delightful it would have been to strip the sweat pants from her and sate his burning flesh between her thighs. He could almost feel those long slim legs wrapped around his waist, her firm breasts crushed against his chest. When he brought them both to a shuddering climax she’d sob her gratitude in his ear, whispering how much she’d wanted him, how amazing their lovemaking had been…
‘Are you awake, Daddy?’
The stage whisper sent Matt’s senses reeling. And aroused an immediate feeling of self-disgust. Dammit, what was wrong with him? he asked himself irritably. What on earth was there about Sara Victor that aroused the kind of fantasies he hadn’t had since he was a teenager? It wasn’t as if she was incredibly beautiful. She was good-looking, yeah, but she was no supermodel. Nor did she behave in a way designed to provoke such a reaction. If he was feeling in need of a woman it was his fault, not hers. He needed to get laid, and quick. Before he was tempted to do something they would all regret.
But right now Rosie took precedence, and, rolling onto his side to face her, he contrived a smile. ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he said, with what he thought was admirable self-restraint. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
Rosie was hovering by the door. In cropped Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, her cheeks pink, her hair tousled, she looked adorable, and Matt thought again how lucky he was to have her. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder half apprehensively. ‘I want to talk to you.’
Matt compressed his lips. ‘That sounds ominous,’ he remarked drily, guessing the topic. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like what you have to say?’
‘Oh, Daddy!’ Rosie took his response as an invitation to join him and came to climb onto the bottom of the bed. Then, realising she’d left the door open, she scrambled down again and went to close it. After she’d resumed her position against the footboard, she declared urgently, ‘It’s about Sara.’
Matt had assumed as much, but he didn’t let on. Instead, he pushed himself up against his pillows and regarded his daughter enquiringly. ‘Don’t you mean Miss Victor?’
‘She said I could call her Sara,’ protested Rosie at once. ‘Last night. When she came to say goodnight. She said that calling her Miss Victor made her feel as if she was back in school again.’ She paused. ‘Did you know she used to be a schoolteacher, Daddy?’
Matt blew out a breath. So she’d told Rosie she used to teach, had she? He would like to think it had just been a casual admission, but he couldn’t help wondering if she’d said it deliberately. To persuade him that she hadn’t been lying about that, at least. Or to get the child to speak to him on her behalf.
‘I believe she said something about it,’ he admitted now. ‘So—is that all you wanted to tell me?’
‘Hardly,’ said Rosie indignantly. ‘I just wondered if you knew, that’s all.’
‘Well, I do.’ Matt arched his dark brows. ‘What else is new?’
‘Daddy!’ Rosie looked red-faced now. ‘Give me a chance! I can’t think of everything all at once.’
‘Okay.’ Matt contained his amusement. ‘It must be something serious to get you out of bed before seven o’clock.’
‘Oh, Daddy.’ Rosie gazed at him impatiently. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’ She paused. ‘Why can’t you ask Sara to stay?’
Matt sighed. ‘We talked about this last night, Rosie.’
‘But you need a nanny. You said so yourself. Or I mean I do. Why can’t it be Sara?’
‘Rosie—’
‘Please!’
‘Look,’ he said, trying to reason with her. ‘We know nothing about Sara. We don’t even know where she came from.’
‘Then ask her,’ said Rosie practically. ‘I’m sure she’d tell you if you did. She told me I was very lucky to live by the seaside. She said that when she was just a little girl she had to live in the town.’
‘Did she now?’ Matt absorbed this information, wondering how true it was. He hesitated, loath to pump the child, but compelled to do so anyway, ‘Did she tell you anything else?’
‘Just that she never had a dog when she was little,’ said Rosie thoughtfully. ‘I’ll ask her where she came from, if you like.’
‘No.’ Matt spoke sharply and the little girl’s jaw quivered in response.
‘All right,’ she said, getting down from the bed. ‘I won’t say anything. But I think you’re really—really mean.’
‘Ah, Rosie—’ Matt rolled to the side of the bed and grabbed his daughter’s arm before she could get away. ‘Honey, try to understand. You’re very precious. How can I leave you with someone I hardly know?’
‘You didn’t know any of the other girls who came for the job,’ replied Rosie tremulously, and Matt groaned.
‘Baby, they came from an agency.’
‘So?’
‘So—’ He pulled her towards the bed and swung his feet to the floor. Then, placing a hand on either side of her small waist, he gave her a gentle shake. ‘Try to understand, sweetheart. I don’t like disappointing you, but—’
‘Then don’t,’ pleaded Rosie, seizing the opportunity. ‘Give Sara a chance, please! I promise I’ll be good. I won’t play her up like I used to with Hester.’
‘It’s not you I’m worried about,’ muttered Matt, but he was hesitating. His common sense was telling him to stick to his guns, to ignore the emotional demands his daughter was making on him, but his instincts were telling him something else.
All right, he knew nothing about Sara, but he’d bet his last cent that, whatever she was running away from, she was not a bad person. There was something innately honest about her, an integrity that was at odds with all he knew and suspected about her.
‘Daddy…’
Rosie’s wheedling voice made his decision for him. ‘All right,’ he said, praying he wouldn’t have cause to regret the impulse. ‘We’ll give her a few days’ trial—’
‘Hurray!’ Rosie was excited.
‘—but I’m making no promises beyond the weekend, right?’
‘All right.’ Rosie clasped her hands together. ‘Can I go and ask her? Can I? Can I? I’m sure when she knows that you want her to stay she’ll change her mind—’
‘Hold on.’ Matt held on to the little girl when she would have darted towards the door. ‘What do you mean, you’re sure she’ll change her mind? What have you been saying to her, Rosie? Come on. I want to know.’
Rosie heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Nothing much,’ she mumbled, the sulkiness returning to her expression. ‘I just said I wished she could stay, that’s all.’ She gave a jerky shrug. ‘If you want to know, she said she couldn’t.’ And then, as her father gave her a stunned look, she added, ‘But I know she wanted to, Daddy. Only she thought you didn’t want her here.’
Matt stared. ‘Did she say that?’
‘No.’ Rosie spoke crossly. ‘I’ve told you what she said.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Rosie was indignant. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
Matt pulled a wry face. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘So?’ Rosie pulled her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Can I go and ask her?’
Matt glanced at the clock on the cabinet beside the bed. ‘Not yet,’ he said heavily, already regretting his generosity. ‘It’s barely seven o’clock. We’ll discuss it some more at breakfast.’
He let the little girl go, but now Rosie hesitated. ‘You won’t put her off, will you, Daddy?’ she persisted. ‘I mean, you will let her know that we—that we’d both like her to stay?’
Matt stifled an oath. ‘Don’t push your luck, Rosie,’ he said, without making any promises. ‘Go get your wash, and clean your teeth. As I say, we’ll talk about this later. If that’s not good enough for you we’d better forget the whole thing.’
Rosie’s chin wobbled again, but she managed to control it. ‘All right, Daddy,’ she said huskily, and with a tearful smile she made good her escape before he changed his mind again.

Mrs Webb had arrived by the time Matt came downstairs.
The housekeeper, who was in her middle fifties, had worked at Seadrift for as long as Matt had owned the house, and there was usually an easy familiarity between them that wasn’t much in evidence this morning.
However, there was a welcome pot of coffee simmering on the hob and, after giving her his usual greeting, Matt went to help himself to a cup. He hoped the caffeine would kick-start his brain, which seemed to have blanked during his conversation with Rosie. Why, in God’s name, had he given in to her? What had possessed him to agree to asking Sara to stay?
‘I understand you’ve got a new nanny,’ said Mrs Webb suddenly, turning from the fridge and confronting him with accusing eyes. ‘You didn’t tell me you were interviewing anyone yesterday.’
Matt expelled a disbelieving breath. ‘Who told you we had a new nanny?’ he demanded, but he already knew. Gloria Armstrong would have lost no time in ringing his housekeeper to hear all the lurid details. He only hoped Mrs Webb hadn’t said anything to expose the lie.
He was wrong, however. ‘Rosie, actually,’ she replied huffily, peeling the plastic wrap from a packet of bacon. ‘She couldn’t wait to tell me the woman had stayed the night.’
Matt gave an inward groan. ‘Well—it’s not settled yet,’ he said lamely, silently berating his daughter for her big mouth. ‘And—and the reason I didn’t tell you I was interviewing anyone yesterday was because I didn’t have any plans to do so.’
‘Oh, right.’ Mrs Webb regarded him sceptically. ‘So she just turned up out of the blue?’ She grimaced. ‘How convenient.’
Matt’s patience grew taut. ‘Actually, it wasn’t convenient at all,’ he declared tersely. ‘And, as I say, I’m not absolutely sure I’m going to employ her.’
‘So where did she come from? The agency?’
‘No.’ Matt blew out a breath. ‘As a matter of fact, her car broke down at the bottom of the road. Didn’t you see it as you came by?’
Mrs Webb looked surprised. ‘So that’s her car. I assumed some kids had stolen it and abandoned it when it ran out of petrol.’
‘No.’ But Matt was determined not to be drawn into telling the housekeeper the whole story. Not yet, anyway. ‘She—she came to the house, wanting to use the phone, and when she discovered I was looking for a nanny she offered herself for the job.’ He paused, and then went on doggedly, ‘She used to be a primary school teacher.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Matt wondered why it sounded so much more convincing the second time around. ‘Now, where is Rosie? I want to speak to her.’
‘Oh, I think she went upstairs again,’ said Mrs Webb, obviously mollified by his explanation. ‘She said something about waking—Sara, is it?’
Dammit! Matt suppressed another oath. What in hell’s name did Rosie think she was up to? He’d told her he’d discuss Sara’s employment at breakfast. He just hoped she hadn’t jumped the gun.
Snatching up the morning newspaper that Mrs Webb always brought for him, he stalked out of the kitchen and into the library. Seating himself in the hide-covered chair beside the desk which he used for his research, he took another long swig of his coffee and then turned to stare broodingly out of the windows.
Beyond the cliffs, the sun had already spread its bounty across the dark blue waters of the bay. Whereas the day before it had been cloudy, this morning the sky was high and clear. Seagulls soared effortlessly on the thermals, their haunting cries mingling with the muted roar of the surf. In an ideal world he shouldn’t have a care in the world, beyond the problems facing the protagonist in his current manuscript. Indeed, after taking Rosie to school he’d intended to spend the whole day finalising the book’s denouement. Instead he had to deal with a situation that he very much suspected was far more complex than his uninvited guest was letting on.
Scowling, he flipped open the newspaper that he’d dropped on the desk. The latest images from a middle-eastern war he felt he had no part of dominated the front page. There’d been a derailment in southeast London, a well-known politician had been discovered in compromising circumstances, and someone who’d won the lottery six months ago was now broke again.
So what’s new? thought Matt cynically, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. Why did journalists feel the need to fill their columns with negative news items? he wondered. Was it because stories about other people’s problems, particularly the rich and famous, made the average reader feel better about their own lives?
Probably, he decided, flicking the pages. There was nothing like learning about someone else’s misfortunes to make some people feel good.
He heard Rosie come scampering down the stairs and remembered he had his own problems to deal with. He’d half risen from his chair to go after her when a small picture towards the bottom of page four caught his eye. Sinking back into his seat, he stared at it disbelievingly. It was a picture of Sara, he saw incredulously. Only her name wasn’t Sara; it was Victoria. Victoria Bradbury, actually. The wife of the entrepreneur Max Bradbury, and she was missing.
Victoria, he thought, acknowledging the connotation. Miss Victor hadn’t wanted to stray too far from the truth. But no wonder she didn’t want to tell him who she was. Although Matt had only heard Max Bradbury’s name in passing, she didn’t know that.
He read the article through, his brows drawing together as he assessed its content. According to the writer, Victoria Bradbury had disappeared two nights ago, and both her husband and her mother were frantic with worry. Mr Bradbury had apparently had a fall the same evening, which was why his wife’s disappearance hadn’t been noted until the following morning.
Luckily Mr Bradbury had been able to crawl to a phone and summon assistance before losing consciousness. His brother, the actor Hugo Bradbury, had said it was most unlike Victoria to leave the apartment without informing her husband where she was going. Fears were being expressed that she might have been kidnapped. Mr Bradbury had been detained in hospital overnight for tests, but had discharged himself the following morning to conduct the search for his wife personally. Max Bradbury was an extremely wealthy man and he intended to use all means at his disposal to find her.
The article ended with an appeal that anyone who might have seen Mrs Bradbury or knew of her whereabouts should contact the police and a London number was supplied.
Matt blew out a breath, slumping back in his chair and staring incredulously out of the window. Then, snatching up the newspaper again, he examined Sara’s—Victoria’s—picture more closely. It had to be her. He would swear it.
It was a more sophisticated Victoria than he was used to seeing, of course. For one thing she wasn’t wearing her hair in a plait. Instead, it was coiled into a knot on top of her head. The carefully coaxed strands that framed her face and curved so confidingly beneath her jawline were familiar, and the widespaced eyes, the high cheekbones, the generous, yet curiously vulnerable mouth were unmistakable. Unless she had an identical twin, he was looking at a picture of the woman who had spent last night in his spare room. Dammit, what was she playing at?
Anger gripped him. It infuriated him that he’d been taken in by her air of vulnerability. Hell, he’d felt sorry for her. He hadn’t believed her story, of course, and that was one thing in his favour, but he had felt a sense of responsibility for her which he realised now had been totally misplaced. She must have been laughing at him all along.
Max Bradbury’s wife. He scowled. He wondered how long they’d been married. To his knowledge Bradbury was at least fifty, which must make him more than twenty years older than his wife. So what had gone wrong? Had she become bored with the old man? Hadn’t he been giving her enough attention? Was this escapade intended to remind him how lucky he was to have such a young and attractive wife?
And, if so, what was the idea of asking for a job? Of pretending that she’d once been a primary school teacher. For God’s sake, a man like Max Bradbury wouldn’t have married a schoolteacher. No, she had to have been some kind of party girl or socialite. How else could she have met a man like him?
‘Breakfast’s ready, Daddy.’
Rosie’s voice calling his name alerted him to the fact that it wasn’t only his feelings Victoria Bradbury had insulted. It was his daughter’s, too, and he dreaded having to tell the little girl that ‘Sara’ wouldn’t be staying.
But he couldn’t do that now. Before he made any decisions he might later regret he was going to have a frank discussion with his house guest and find out where the hell she got off, making a fool of him and his daughter. And after that he was going to ring the number they’d given in the newspaper. It would give him great satisfaction to send Victoria Bradbury back where she belonged.
Or would it?
His scowl deepened, and he quickly folded the newspaper and stuffed it into one of the drawers of the desk just as Rosie appeared in the doorway.
‘Are you coming, Daddy?’ she exclaimed, though there was a tentative note in her voice, and he remembered what he’d been going to do before the article in the newspaper had distracted him. ‘Mrs Webb says breakfast is ready.’
‘Is—Sara—up?’ he asked, guessing his daughter would assume he was angry with her for disobeying him, and she gave a nervous shrug.
‘She’s in the dining room,’ she said. And then added quickly, ‘I haven’t told her anything about what we were talking about, Daddy. Honestly. I just wanted to—to—’
‘To see if she’d slept all right?’ suggested Matt, helping her out, and Rosie gave a relieved nod.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I’m coming.’ Matt paused only long enough to swallow the last dregs of coffee in his mug. ‘You lead the way.’
Mrs Webb had laid the table in the dining room and was fussing about with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and a rack of toast. Matt guessed she was curious about their guest, too, and she was asking her what had gone wrong with her car when he entered the room.
Although she was answering the housekeeper’s question at the time, Matt noticed the way Sara-Victoria’s eyes darted to his face when he appeared. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a definite trace of trepidation in her gaze, and he wondered if she’d realised that her disappearance might have warranted media attention.
‘Good morning,’ he said, deliberately adopting an upbeat tone, and he saw the relieved hint of colour that entered her pale cheeks at his words.
She was wearing her own clothes again this morning, and Matt’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to the taut breasts pushing at the semi-transparent fabric of her dress. Its shades of blue and green matched the luminescence of her eyes, which he was aware were watching him with wary intensity. Slim arms were wrapped protectively about her midriff, and he wondered if she realised what a giveaway that was.
‘Um—good morning,’ she responded at last, and Matt despised the sudden surge of blood that her husky voice caused to rush to his groin. All of a sudden he was remembering the sexual fantasies he’d been having about her earlier, and even the fact that he now knew she was another man’s wife didn’t make them any the easier to dismiss.
‘Sit here, Daddy.’
Rosie pulled him to the seat beside hers, and Matt strove to act naturally. Hell, he thought, he was behaving as if he’d never been with a woman before. What was there about Victoria Bradbury that struck such a chord in his subconscious? What was there about her wary face that inspired thoughts of naked bodies and sweat-soaked sheets?
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked at length, realising that, however much he might want to, he couldn’t broach the subject of her identity while Rosie and Mrs Webb were present. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to speak to her at all until Rosie had been delivered to school, and that might prove something of a problem. After all, he’d promised his daughter to discuss the subject of Sara’s employment at breakfast.
‘Very well,’ she replied politely, evidently taking her cue from him, though he doubted she was being entirely honest. Although she’d done her best to disguise them, there were still dark rings around her eyes, and, knowing what he knew now, he wasn’t really surprised. ‘It’s so peaceful here.’
‘Sara likes the seaside, Daddy,’ put in Rosie eagerly, evidently hoping to prompt him into saying something positive, but it was Mrs Webb who spoke next.
‘You’re not from around here, are you, Miss Victor?’ she observed, setting a bowl of cornflakes in front of Rosie. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s a southern accent.’
Matt saw the way the younger woman stiffened at these words, but she managed to produce a tight smile. ‘I—yes. You’re right. I’m from London,’ she admitted, with obvious reluctance. Then, changing the subject, ‘Just toast for me, please.’
‘Are you sure?’
Mrs Webb was persistent and, taking pity on his guest, Matt intervened. ‘I think we’re all set here,’ he said, regarding his own plate of bacon and eggs without enthusiasm. ‘If we need anything else I’ll come and find you. Okay?’
‘Well—if you say so.’ Mrs Webb wasn’t giving up without a struggle. ‘Couldn’t I tempt you with an omelette, Miss Victor?’
Matt felt Sara’s eyes dart to his again, and he guessed she was remembering the lunch he had made her the previous day. ‘Toast is fine,’ she insisted, and the housekeeper had to accept defeat.
‘I’ll leave you, then,’ she said, giving Matt a speaking look. ‘Remember, Rosie’s got to leave for school in less than twenty minutes.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Matt drily. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Webb pursed her lips and left the room, and as soon as the door had banged behind her Rosie made a face. ‘She’s cross because Daddy didn’t ask her to sit with us and have her coffee,’ she confided, with a giggle. ‘We usually have breakfast in the kitchen, you see.’
‘Oh.’
Sara looked to Matt for confirmation and he sighed. ‘She does like to share all the village gossip,’ he agreed, wishing Rosie wasn’t quite so candid. He pushed the toast rack towards Sara. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
She took a slice of toast and spread it thinly with butter, but once again Matt noticed that she barely touched it. At this rate she’d be just skin and bone in no time, he mused unwillingly. But it wasn’t his concern. If she’d lost her appetite, it was doubtless because she was terrified he was going to find out what a liar she was. But why was she lying? Why had she run away? What the hell was she playing at?
‘You don’t have to leave today, do you, Sara?’ Rosie asked now, nudging her father’s ankle with her foot. And, although he gave her a warning look, she went on bravely, ‘Sara could stay—’ she faltered ‘—stay until tomorrow, couldn’t she?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sara began, and although Matt was tempted to let her leave and be done with it, he saw his daughter’s face and relented.
‘Yes, stay,’ he said flatly, deciding that she deserved the chance to explain why she’d been lying. And this way he could ensure that she’d still be here when he got back from taking Rosie to school. ‘At least until tomorrow.’
He could see her indecision. She was probably weighing the advantages of staying here, where she believed no one knew who she was, against moving on and risking inevitable exposure. He was also aware that his own feelings were just as ambivalent. Dammit, he didn’t owe her a thing, he told himself savagely. Yet he couldn’t deny he felt sorry for her.
And how sensible was that?

Chapter Six
SARA went back to her room after Matt had left to take Rosie to school. She wanted to avoid giving Mrs Webb the chance to ask any more questions. She was unpleasantly surprised to find that the bed she’d slept in had already been made.
Which meant the housekeeper must have accomplished this task while they were downstairs having breakfast. She didn’t for one minute think that Matt would have made her bed, and she wondered uneasily what the woman had thought of the fact that she didn’t have any luggage.
For she had no doubt that Mrs Webb would have noticed. She might not have actually interfered with any of her belongings, but in the course of her work she was bound to have opened the bathroom door and seen that there was no toothbrush on the shelf.
Closing the door behind her, Sara leaned heavily back against the panels. Why had she agreed to stay on for another day? Why, when she’d realised what a gossip Mrs Webb was, hadn’t she made her excuses and left? Because her car was still not fixed, she reminded herself impatiently. Perhaps she should contact the rental agency, which was a countrywide operation after all, and ask them to supply her with a new car?
But, no. That would be foolish, she realised at once. At the moment all anyone knew was that she’d left the apartment. She’d deliberately not taken her own car because registration plates were so easy to trace. In time they might get around to checking with the rental agencies, but by then she intended to have abandoned the car in favour of some other form of transport.
The trouble was, she needed money. She hadn’t thought of that when she’d left London, and although she’d used her credit card to hire the car she hadn’t considered using a cash machine until she’d been forced to stop for petrol. Then she’d realised that to do so would alert the authorities to her current whereabouts and she’d used most of her cash for the fill-up.
Working for Matt Seton would have solved all her problems, she thought regretfully. But she should have known that any legitimate employer would want the kind of personal details that she couldn’t supply. Not to mention references, she remembered wearily. And who could blame him for that?
She knew the most sensible thing would be to leave now, before she said or did something to betray herself. Before she got in too deep, she acknowledged tensely. Last night there’d been times when she’d almost forgotten the events that had brought her here, when she’d begun to relax and enjoy herself. Did that make her a bad person? she wondered. Was the fact that for the first time in years she’d been able to be herself without fear of retribution a cause for self-disgust?
Max would have thought so. Max would have been incensed at her behaviour. He didn’t like children and he’d have accused her of using Rosie to get to Matt. He’d have said that allowing the little girl to paint her nails had just been a way of attracting Matt’s attention. Max had been insanely jealous, as she knew to her cost, and he’d have turned an innocent game into something ugly.
Yet had it been so innocent? she fretted uneasily. Perhaps she was the provocative little tease that Max had always accused her of being. It was certainly true that she’d been acutely aware of Matt Seton ever since he’d emerged from his Range Rover the day before. In spite of her apprehension she’d recognised him at once for what he was: a disturbingly attractive man who she had soon realised was nothing like Max.
Thank God!
She didn’t know how she had been so sure of that. It wasn’t as if she was a terrifically good judge of character. She’d married Max Bradbury, hadn’t she? Her lips twisted. She’d thought he was a good man. Because he was so much older than she was, she’d trusted him. She’d actually believed that his promise to take her away from what he’d convinced her was a boring existence had been inspired by love and not by an unnatural desire for possession. Instead, he’d turned her life into a nightmare, and even now he was still controlling her from the grave.
She shuddered. What was she doing, thinking about Matt Seton when it was because of her that her husband was lying cold on some mortuary slab? She could imagine how Matt would feel about her when he found out who she really was. However reluctant he’d been to offer her his hospitality up to this point would be as nothing compared to his revulsion when he discovered the truth. She was a murderess—well, she’d be convicted of manslaughter at the very least, she amended. He wouldn’t want someone like her associating with his daughter.
And as for anything else…She gave a bitter smile. There were no men in a women’s prison.
She moved away from the door, wincing as once again her hip reminded her of its presence. If only her car was operational, she thought fiercely. She really believed she might have made her getaway while Matt was out. It wasn’t fair to involve him in her troubles. And if the police ever discovered that he’d allowed her to stay here he might be charged with harbouring a wanted criminal.
But he didn’t know who she was, she assured herself, disliking that word ‘criminal’ again. Although she guessed it was only a matter of time before he found out. Max’s death was bound to make news eventually. And, although she hadn’t seen a television since she’d arrived, he was bound to have a set somewhere.
She walked restlessly to the windows. It was such a beautiful morning, she thought. She longed to get out of the house and escape her anxieties in the simple delight of feeling the wind in her hair and the sun on her face. Who knew how much longer she’d be free to enjoy such simple pleasures? Oughtn’t she to make the most of it while she had the chance?
Despite being reluctant to meet Mrs Webb again, she opened her door and stepped out onto the landing. A railed gallery overlooked the main entrance and she saw to her relief that there was no sign of the housekeeper in the hall below.
Matt hadn’t used this door the day before, but, having descended the stairs on tiptoe, Sara prayed it wouldn’t present any problems now. She was unutterably relieved when the key turned and the handle yielded to her touch. Stepping outside, into the sunshine, she took a deep breath of the salt-laden air.
She heard the dogs barking as she walked across the forecourt. Their hearing was obviously sharper than Mrs Webb’s, and Sara hoped the housekeeper would be too busy quieting them to notice her slipping out of the gates.
She wanted to go down to the beach if she could, but, remembering the steepness of the path they’d used the afternoon before, she guessed that was the only means of access. It meant circling the house again, but luckily the track beyond the gates led onto the cliffs without having to re-enter the property.
All the same, she was glad when she started down the path and the cliff face hid her descent from view. It wasn’t that she was afraid of being seen, she assured herself. She wasn’t a prisoner yet, for heaven’s sake. She just needed a little time alone to think about what she was going to do next.
She must have walked at least a quarter of a mile along the beach when she heard someone calling her name.
She had been enjoying the unaccustomed freedom. The breeze was warmer today, and she could smell the sea. The damp sand had been totally untouched when she’d started along the shoreline, and she knew her footprints would soon be washed away by the incoming tide.
Hearing her name, however, she expelled a sigh and stopped. She didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. Only Matt Seton knew she was staying here; only he was likely to come after her.
Stifling her resentment, she turned. As if he couldn’t have allowed her to finish her walk in peace, she was thinking half irritably. For heaven’s sake, he wasn’t her keeper.
The sight that met her startled eyes caused her to quickly revise her opinion, however. Matt was still some distance away, but between them lapped a rapidly expanding stretch of water that successfully trapped her between the incoming tide and the cliffs. Fairly deep water, too, she saw, trying not to panic. It had already covered the rocks that formed a sort of breakwater at the foot of the headland.
As she watched, she saw Matt break into a run, splashing into the water that divided them with grim determination. ‘Stay where you are,’ he yelled, wading towards her, and Sara stood there, dry-mouthed, as he closed the space between them. The water came up to his thighs, she saw, soaking his jeans and plastering them to the powerful muscles of his legs. Despite the sunshine, she felt sure the water must be icy. It was far too early in the day for the sun to have gained any strength.
She watched his approach anxiously, wondering what she would have done if he hadn’t appeared. She could keep herself afloat, but she wasn’t a strong swimmer. If Max were here, he’d tell her how stupid she was.
Matt reached her without too much difficulty and she looked up at him with apologetic eyes. ‘I should have told Mrs Webb where I was going, shouldn’t I?’ she began, before he could say a word. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted a walk. I had no idea—’
Her voice trailed away and Matt expelled a resigned sigh. ‘Yeah, well, let’s get you back before we start the inquest, shall we?’ he suggested flatly. ‘Here: there’s no point in both of us getting soaked to the skin. I’ll carry you.’
‘Oh, that’s not necess—’ she started, but Matt wasn’t listening to her. Before she knew what was happening, he’d swung her up into his arms. But she couldn’t prevent the groan of agony that escaped her lips when his thoughtless handling brought her bruised hip into sharp contact with his pelvis. The pain was sharper than ever and it was difficult to get her breath.
Matt was instantly aware of her reaction. ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked, frowning, and she guessed he’d seen the way the colour had drained out of her face.
‘I—it’s nothing,’ she assured him quickly, not wanting to arouse his curiosity. ‘You gave me a shock. I could have walked, you know.’
Matt looked as if that was open to discussion. But once again the precariousness of their situation forced him to put his own feelings on hold. ‘Hang on,’ was all he permitted himself, before plunging back into the water, heading for the dry sand further along the beach.
She put her arms around his neck, unafraid that they wouldn’t make it. She trusted Matt implicitly, she realised, more aware of the strength of his arms supporting her than the chilly waters of the North Sea surging below. And, although every movement he made caused the fabric of her dress to chafe her sore skin, she bore it gratefully. The warmth of his body soothed her like nothing else she could remember.
Which was crazy, she chided herself impatiently, trying not to notice the length of his eyelashes or the darkening line of stubble on his jaw. Such a strong jawline, she mused, aware of him with every cell in her being. This close, she could see every pore and bristle, was only inches away from the sensual curve of his mouth.
His breath fanned her temple, warm and only slightly flavoured with the strong black coffee he’d drunk at breakfast. She could smell the soap he used, smell his sweat. And was helplessly aware of her own reactions to him.
She was instantly ashamed. She had no right to be speculating on what it would be like to be in his arms because he wanted her there. It was useless to wonder how she’d feel if he touched her, touched her intimately. But, if he allowed her slim frame to slide against him, would she find he was aroused?
She sucked in her breath. This had to stop, she told herself fiercely. She’d never had thoughts like this before. She’d certainly never considered herself a sexual woman. The only man she’d ever known intimately was Max.
Her husband’s name acted like a douche of cold water. She shivered violently and Matt, misunderstanding, said sharply, ‘Are you getting wet?’
‘No.’
Her response was sharper than it might have been because of the way she was feeling, and Matt arched an ironic brow. ‘Well, we’re nearly there,’ he said, nodding towards the dry sand directly ahead of them. ‘I should have warned you about the tides around here. They can be dangerous.’
Sara shook her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said, turning to see the cliff path just a few yards away. ‘You can put me down now.’
‘Perhaps I don’t want to,’ remarked Matt, stepping out of the water onto the patch of sand that was still uncovered by the tide. He looked down into her startled face and she was uneasily aware of how emotionally vulnerable she was. ‘I think you and I need to have a little talk, Mrs Bradbury.’ He allowed her name to register with her. ‘Don’t you?’

Sara could scarcely breathe. ‘How do you know who I am?’ she asked, not bothering to try and deny it, and Matt hesitated only a moment before setting her on her feet.
‘How do you think?’ he asked, stepping away from her. ‘I saw your picture in a newspaper, of course.’ He paused, looking back at her. ‘Look, do you mind if we continue this after I’ve got out of these wet clothes?’
Sara’s mouth felt so dry she doubted her ability to speak. But she had to say something in her own defence. Swallowing, she whispered, ‘It—it was an accident, you know. It wasn’t my fault.’ She drew a breath. ‘I—I didn’t mean to—’
‘Deceive me?’ Matt finished the sentence he thought she’d started in a dry, cynical voice. ‘Yeah, right.’ He glanced towards the path again. ‘Well, like I say, I’d prefer to have this conversation when I’m not in danger of freezing my butt, okay?’
He attempted to pull the soaked jeans away from his legs, but only succeeded in drawing Sara’s eyes to the way the denim was drawn taut over the swell of his sex. He intercepted her stare and gave a wry grimace. ‘Sorry if I’m embarrassing you, Mrs Bradbury,’ he added mockingly. ‘I guess I’m not as cold as I thought.’
Sara’s face flamed. ‘You’re not embarrassing me,’ she exclaimed, even though her face was bright red. Now she looked anywhere but at his crotch. ‘Would you prefer me to go first?’
Matt’s lips twisted. ‘Yes, I’d prefer you to go first,’ he mimicked her prim tone. ‘And when we get back to the house you’re going to let Mrs Webb take a look at that hip. I know it’s hurting you, and the old lady used to be a nursing auxiliary until she had a family and had to give it up.’
Sara pressed her lips together. This wasn’t the time to argue with him, as he’d said, but she hoped he didn’t think the fact that he’d discovered who she was gave him the right to order her about. She had no intention of letting Mrs Webb or anyone else examine her. If she was arrested—She licked her dry lips. Well, she’d face that problem when she came to it. Until then…
It was harder climbing the cliff path today than it had been the day before. She assumed fear—and the prospect of imminent exposure to the authorities—had stiffened her muscles, and it was difficult putting one foot in front of the other.
On top of that, her mind was buzzing with thoughts of what Matt intended to do with her. Had he already called the police? Or was he prepared to listen to her side of the story before turning her in? Although she knew there was no chance of her getting away, she couldn’t help considering and discarding every option open to her.
Reaching the house, she had only Mrs Webb’s ire to contend with, however. The housekeeper clicked her tongue when she saw Matt’s wet clothes and said, ‘Go and get into a hot shower before you catch your death.’ Then she turned on Sara. ‘You should have told me you were going out,’ she exclaimed shortly. ‘I would have warned you about the tides.’
‘I know.’
Sara was contrite, but Matt chose to intervene. ‘Give her a break,’ he said, heading for the hall. ‘She’s had a shock. And, as far as getting wet is concerned, it is the middle of June, not November.’
‘And that water’s warm, is it?’ Mrs Webb enquired, with some sarcasm, and he sighed.
‘Warm enough,’ he said, not to be outdone. ‘Right. I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.’
Sara knew this remark was addressed to her, but she had no intention of staying in the kitchen until he returned. It was to avoid the housekeeper’s questions that she’d sneaked out in the first place, and although she was fairly sure Matt hadn’t told Mrs Webb who she was, she wasn’t prepared to take that chance.
She waited until Matt had disappeared upstairs before saying casually, ‘I’ll be in my room, if anyone wants me.’
‘Why don’t you stay here?’ The housekeeper sounded put out. ‘Unless I’m not good enough for you, that is.’
Sara blew out a breath. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she said evenly. ‘It has nothing to do with your company, I can assure you.’
Mrs Webb regarded her grudgingly. ‘Matt says you’re staying until tomorrow,’ she remarked conversationally. ‘Have you—er—have you known him long?’
Sara blinked. ‘Matt?’ She shook her head ‘I only met him yesterday. I thought you knew.’
‘I know what he said,’ declared the housekeeper narrowly, looking sceptical. ‘But he seems awfully concerned about someone he only met twenty-four hours ago.’
Sara wished she’d left when Matt had. Whatever she felt about it, Mrs Webb was determined to get her pound of flesh. ‘I meant it,’ she said, ‘we barely know one another.’
But she couldn’t help wondering what the housekeeper would say if she was honest. She and Matt might only have known one another for a short time, but their relationship couldn’t be judged in terms of hours and minutes. Despite the shortness of their association, he probably knew her more intimately than anyone else.
Mrs Webb shrugged and returned to the casserole she’d been preparing before they came in, and Sara took the opportunity to get away. Favouring her uninjured leg, she left the kitchen, going as swiftly as she could up the stairs and along the gallery to her room.
It was amazing how quickly this room had become her refuge, she thought, sinking down onto the bed. It wasn’t her room, and it certainly wasn’t anything like the room she’d shared with Max. But it was bright and cheerful, and she felt at home there.
Which she had never done in the luxurious duplex apartment she shared with her husband. Situated in a fashionable part of the city, it had been decorated and furnished by a firm of interior designers that Max thought highly of. She’d had no say in any of it. The apartment was expensive and soulless, and she hated everything about it.
Or perhaps she’d simply hated the life she’d lived there, she acknowledged bitterly. Like his Rolex watch, his Armani suits and his Bentley, she had been just another of Max’s possessions. The only difference had been that he had treated his watch, his clothes and his car rather better than his wife.
Her hip throbbed, reminding her that she ought to check and see that it hadn’t started bleeding. The skin had been seriously scrubbed in places, and it wouldn’t be the first time that she’d had to repair the damage. But this time she didn’t have a convenient wardrobe of clothes to change into, and she could imagine Matt’s reaction if he saw blood on her dress.
Lifting the hem of her skirt, she examined the injury, noticing that the skin was badly inflamed. But that was because of the way Matt had carried her, and she could hardly blame him for trying to save her life.
Nevertheless, there was a faint trace of blood oozing from the point of her hip and she clicked her tongue in frustration. Now what was she going to do? She didn’t carry any adhesive plasters in her haversack. Perhaps she’d find some in the bathroom cabinet. It was the kind of thing people did keep in case of emergency.
Holding her skirt to her waist, she got up from the bed and limped into the bathroom. Then, clutching her dress in one hand, she reached up to the cabinet with the other.
‘Sara?’
It was Matt’s voice and she panicked. He mustn’t see her like this. All right, so he probably knew about Max’s accident, but there was no need for him to witness her humiliation. If he chose to call the police she couldn’t stop him. But she could hold onto her dignity until then.
Pushing the bathroom door to with her uninjured hip, she called weakly, ‘What do you want?’
‘Can I come in?’
Sara breathed a little more easily. She’d thought at first that he was in. ‘Why?’ she asked, suddenly remembering what he’d said about Mrs Webb. ‘I don’t need any assistance.’
‘I’m not offering any,’ he replied, his voice louder now. ‘I’ve brought you a gift.’
A gift!
Sara blinked. What kind of gift could he have brought her? Some more of his old clothes? Or perhaps he wanted to show her the newspaper where he’d read about her? That seemed infinitely more likely.
‘I—just leave it on the bed,’ she called, deciding there was no point in expecting him to go away without achieving his objective. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
There was silence for a moment, and then she heard Matt’s voice just outside the bathroom door. ‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is your hip all right?’
Sara trembled. ‘It’s fine,’ she insisted. ‘What do people usually do in the bathroom?’ She closed the door of the cabinet, just in case he came to investigate, but that was a mistake. She had evidently dislodged the items inside and a tube of hair gel came clattering down into the basin in front of her.
‘What the—?’ Without more ado, the bathroom door was forced open, and Matt stood on the threshold staring at her with bleak horrified eyes. ‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, staring at her injury. ‘Did I do that?’
‘As if.’ Sara managed the contemptuous rejoinder with amazing composure. But then, realising that her lacy briefs left very little to his imagination, she allowed her skirt to fall and sagged against the basin. ‘I had a fall before I came away.’
Matt gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You do a lot of falling in your house, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Sara stared at him with confused eyes.
‘Your husband,’ he stated flatly, his eyes still fixed on the spot her skirt had now hidden from his gaze. ‘He fell, too. What a coincidence!’
Sara’s shoulders slumped. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’
‘No.’ Matt agreed. ‘But I’m willing to listen if you want to tell me. I’m not jumping to conclusions here, but a simple fall wouldn’t have caused that mess.’
‘It did.’ Sara was desperate. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean it to happen. And that’s the truth.’
Matt’s brows drew together. ‘Hey, I’m not accusing you of anything,’ he protested. His eyes darkened. ‘I’d guess it had something to do with your running away, right?’
‘If you say so.’ Sara spoke wearily. ‘So what now? Are you going to turn me in?’
Matt eyes sought hers. ‘Turn you in?’ he echoed blankly. ‘You talk as if you’re a criminal. The last I heard, running away isn’t a capital offence.’
‘Running away?’ She repeated his words barely audibly. ‘But you said you knew about—about Max having a fall.’
‘So?’
‘So—so what did it say about how they found him? Did it tell you the way he—he died?’
‘He’s not dead!’ Matt spoke harshly now. He stared at her. ‘Why would you think he was?’ He shook his head. ‘He apparently had the presence of mind to call the emergency services before he passed out. He spent the night in hospital and discharged himself yesterday morning. That’s when you were reported missing. According to the article I read, your husband’s afraid you might have been kidnapped.’

Chapter Seven
MATT wouldn’t have believed Sara could get any paler, but she did. Every scrap of colour drained out of her face, leaving her unnaturally pallid. The circles around her eyes stood out in sharp relief and her mouth worked in silent consternation.
‘You’re—you’re lying,’ she got out at last, and he wondered why, if she’d believed her husband was dead, the news that he wasn’t should have such a shattering effect.
‘Why would I lie?’ he reasoned, becoming anxious in spite of himself. ‘Sara—’
‘Max calls me Victoria,’ she said dully. ‘You must know that.’ Then she slid to the floor in a dead faint.
It was the second time he’d had to pick her unconscious body off the floor. Not that she weighed much. She felt wholly insubstantial in his arms. How long was it since she’d eaten a decent meal? he wondered. In the last twenty-four hours she’d only picked at her food, and he suspected her weakness was due in part to hunger.
So, why? Why had she been starving herself? Why had she run away? And how had she sustained such an ugly bruise on her hip? As Matt carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed his mind buzzed with a jumble of questions. The most obvious explanation was fear. But what was she afraid of?
He straightened and stood looking down at her. He wished he could believe she was a spoiled wife who had grown bored with her pampered existence and decided to give her husband a wake-up call. Could she really have been that self-indulgent? Somehow he didn’t buy it.
Her eyelids were fluttering and, realising that in a short time she was going to be wide awake and denying everything he was thinking, Matt came to an abrupt decision. Hoping she wouldn’t object too much, he took the hem of her skirt and drew it up to her waist.
He was shocked again by the sight of the ugly lesions on her hip, but he knew he didn’t have time to examine them more closely right now. Instead, he slipped his arm beneath her and eased her dress out of the way.
She began to protest now as consciousness returned, trying to push his hands away without any success. Matt wasn’t listening to her. Horror had replaced his concern and he sank down onto the bed beside her in speechless disbelief.
There was barely an inch of her torso that didn’t bear the scars of injuries old and new. Some bruises were obviously more recent than others, the colours ranging from stark black and blue to a jaundiced yellow or brown. She’d been beaten, and beaten badly, and Matt wanted to take the man who’d done this to her and wring his cowardly neck.
His hands trembled as he eased the dress away. Sara seemed to realise there was no point in trying to stop him. It was too late; too late for both of them. Matt closed his eyes for a moment against the murderous rage that was demanding revenge.
‘Your husband did this to you?’ he asked at last, when he had himself in control again, and she shrugged.
‘Does it matter?’ She sighed. His hands lingered at her waist. ‘I think you’d better let me get up.’
‘And I think you ought to have that hip treated,’ said Matt flatly. ‘From what I’ve seen, it needs medical attention.’
Her response was urgent. ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she exclaimed fiercely, and he didn’t think this was the time to tell her that that was what he had been before he’d become a writer.
He expelled an unsteady breath, hoping she wouldn’t mistake his concern for something less commendable. ‘I’ve got some first aid stuff in my bathroom. I suggest you let me deal with your hip if you don’t want me to involve anyone else.’
‘I can do it,’ she protested, but once again he prevented her from getting off the bed.
‘I’m sure you can. I’m sure that’s what you’re used to,’ he muttered harshly. ‘But in this instance I’d prefer it if you’d let me make sure there’s no infection.’
Sara made a weary sound. ‘There is no infection,’ she insisted. ‘It’s just bleeding a bit, that’s all.’
‘So I see,’ he said grimly, unable to hide his reaction. And she suddenly seemed to realise that the lower half of her body was still exposed to his gaze.
‘Mr Seton—’
‘Don’t call me that.’ He was impatient. ‘It’s too late for us to behave as if we’re just casual acquaintances. We’re not. I know it and you know it. Whether you like it not, I feel responsible for you.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’
‘I won’t if you’ll do as you’re told.’
Her eyes flashed with sudden spirit. ‘And I’m very good at doing as I’m told,’ she told him bitterly, and he groaned at his own thoughtlessness.
‘Sara—’
‘Shouldn’t that be Victoria?’ she enquired painfully. And then, as if she’d just recalled why she was lying on the bed, ‘Did I pass out?’
Matt nodded. ‘Like a light.’ He got up. ‘Stay here. Please. I’ll be back in a few seconds.’
Sara looked up at him. ‘You did say—Max was alive?’ she ventured.
‘Yes.’ Matt hesitated. ‘Why would you think he wasn’t? What happened before you ran away?’
Sara moved her head from side to side on the pillows. ‘He was so still,’ she whispered, obviously thinking about it. ‘I couldn’t find a pulse. I was sure—’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Oh, God, he’s going to be so mad when he finds out what I did.’
Matt felt his anger surfacing again, and determinedly forced it back. ‘I’ll get my gear,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Just—relax, okay? I won’t be long.’
She didn’t answer, and he could only hope that she’d be too distracted by what he’d told her to disobey him. It wasn’t just an excuse to get his hands on her again, he assured himself. She was in such a frail state she might pick up some infection without her being aware of it. He didn’t want to think what the ravages of blood poisoning might do to her fragile system. He’d seen too many tragic cases in the past.
Without taking the time to check what was in the bag he kept in his bathroom, he simply snatched it out of the cupboard and charged back along the landing. Only to encounter Mrs Webb at the top of the stairs.
‘Something wrong?’ she asked, her sharp eyes immediately noting the medical kit. ‘Do you need my help?’
Matt gave her a resigned look. ‘No help needed,’ he said, aware that Sara’s door was ajar and that she could probably hear everything that was being said. ‘Miss Victor just needs an adhesive plaster, that’s all.’
‘Hurt her heel, has she?’ Mrs Webb arched an enquiring brow. ‘I could have told her that those shoes she wears aren’t suitable for around here.’
‘Something like that,’ Matt agreed, his nerves screaming in frustration. ‘If you’ll excuse me…?’
‘Very formal all of a sudden, aren’t we?’ remarked Mrs Webb with a sniff. ‘Oh, well.’ To his relief she turned towards his daughter’s bedroom. ‘I expect I’ll hear all about it from Rosie. She seems to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on,’ said Matt, gritting his teeth, but he was talking to himself. The housekeeper was already out of earshot.
Aware of the tension in his shoulders, Matt determinedly tried to relax before going back into Sara’s room. He half expected to find her locked in the bathroom, but, although she was sitting up, she was still on the bed.
‘I guess you heard that,’ he said, hesitating only a moment before closing the door behind him. ‘My housekeeper likes to feel she’s in the know.’
‘Yes.’ Sara’s tone was dry. ‘Well, I suppose it’s only a matter of time before she realises who I am.’
Matt shrugged. ‘We’ll deal with that when we have to,’ he said, sitting down beside her and opening the leather bag. ‘Now, let’s see: what have we got? Gauze; adhesive plasters; bandages.’ His fingers hesitated over the syringe and the advantages of injection. But, dismissing the idea, he added, ‘And some antiseptic ointment. Good.’
‘This really isn’t necessary,’ she murmured, and he saw she was embarrassed all over again. She’d pulled her dress down, too, even though she was running the risk of staining it. Her dignity still meant something to her, at least.
‘We have to talk,’ said Matt, opening the packet of plasters and examining its contents. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me why you thought your husband was dead?’ He paused. ‘Did you try to kill him?’
‘No!’ Her denial was instantaneous, and, looking into her horrified eyes, he couldn’t help but believe her. ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ she added, with a revealing tremor in her voice. ‘Max fell. Down the stairs in our apartment. I tried to find a pulse but I couldn’t.’ She took a breath. ‘It wasn’t Max who called the emergency service. It was me.’
‘So why didn’t you stay and speak to them?’ Matt asked, hoping that by getting her to talk to him he could divert her attention. He urged her back against the pillows again, avoiding her eyes as he lifted the hem of her skirt. ‘I don’t understand why you ran away.’
‘Don’t you?’ The laugh she gave was without humour. ‘No, well, perhaps it is hard for you to understand how I felt. I suppose the simple answer would be to say I panicked. I was afraid no one would believe my version of events.’
Matt frowned. ‘Okay,’ he said evenly. ‘I’ll buy that. Having seen what the bastard’s done to you, you’ve got a point.’ His jaw compressed as he cleaned the abrasion on her hip with a sterile wipe. ‘But for goodness’ sake, Sara, why did you stay with him?’
Sara caught her breath, and he guessed her hip was stinging. ‘You don’t know that Max did this to me,’ she argued. ‘If you met him, you’d think he was a charming man. Hugo thinks so, and so does my mother. As far as she’s concerned I’m an ungrateful wife.’
The area around the abrasion was clean now, and Matt stared at it for a long time, trying to contain his anger. Who the hell was Hugo? he wondered, resenting the thought that some other man might be involved. He didn’t like the idea that there was someone else she cared about.
‘Who is Hugo?’ he asked at last, when he had himself in control again. But the question was too personal and he felt her eyes upon him.
‘Hugo is Max’s brother,’ she replied at last, and Matt cursed his own stupidity. He remembered now seeing the man’s name in the article he’d read about her disappearance. Her lips twisted as she added, ‘He’s harmless.’
‘But he doesn’t stop his brother from beating up his wife every chance he gets,’ pointed out Matt harshly, and she sighed.
‘I’ve told you,’ she said, pressing a protective hand to her midriff. ‘Hugo doesn’t know anything about it. He—he thinks Max and I have the ideal marriage. He’s a hopeless romantic at heart.’
Hopeless? Right. Matt shook his head. But touching her was becoming the finest form of torture, and the idea that some man felt he had the right to brutalise her infuriated him anew. ‘What about your father?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Doesn’t he care?’
‘My father’s dead and my mother wouldn’t want to believe me. She has a very comfortable lifestyle, thanks to Max,’ she said unsteadily. She looked down. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Not nearly,’ retorted Matt, his tone savage. ‘Dammit, Sara, women don’t have to put up with this sort of thing today. Why don’t you get a divorce?’
She stiffened then. Her muscles locked, and he felt the withdrawal of a confidence he’d hardly begun to explore. ‘You don’t understand,’ she told him tersely, and he knew if he hadn’t been applying a gauze coated with antiseptic ointment to her hip at that moment she’d have scrambled off the bed and left him. She licked her lips. ‘Thank you for doing this, but please don’t think it gives you the right to offer me advice. I know what I’m doing—what I have to do. And getting a divorce isn’t an option!’
‘Why the hell not?’
Matt was impatient, but she just regarded him with cool guarded eyes. ‘Well, your knowing who I am solves one problem,’ she declared, ignoring his outburst. ‘I can’t stay here now.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll have to go back.’
‘No!’
The word was torn from him. She couldn’t be serious. He tried to concentrate on the two strips of adhesive he was smoothing over the gauze. To go back to a man who clearly had no respect—let alone any love—for her. For God’s sake, after what she’d told him about the circumstances of her departure he had no doubt that Max Bradbury would have reserved some particularly unpleasant punishment for embarrassing him when she got back.
His hands trembled as he completed his task but he didn’t immediately release her. Although he knew she was eager to end this awkward encounter, his hands lingered on her skin. He wasn’t unaware of the impropriety of his actions. He was running the risk of her accusing him of God knew what! But at that moment it wasn’t important. He simply didn’t want to let her go.
His eyes drifted down, over the quivering muscles of her stomach. The dusky hollow of her navel tantalised him, made him catch his breath. Below her navel the lacy briefs offered little protection, the triangular shadow that marked the apex of her legs inviting his hungry gaze.
He wanted her, he realised, even as he rejected the thought as unworthy of him. This was no fantasy; this was real, this was honest—though he doubted she’d believe his feelings had no strings attached. She’d probably find any overture he made towards her, however innocent, utterly repulsive. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think she felt any attraction to him.
Yet still he prolonged the moment. And, as if becoming aware that the atmosphere between them had changed, she struggled to get up. ‘Please,’ she said, and although there was no fear in her eyes there was withdrawal. And a mute appeal he found hard to resist.
‘You do please—me,’ he told her huskily. And despite herself, he was sure, she gave a helpless little moan.
‘Oh, Matt,’ she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion.
And, unable to prevent himself, he bent his head and kissed her, brushing the bruised skin with his lips.
She jerked beneath his caressing touch, her hands balling into fists at her sides. He would have liked to think it was to prevent herself from touching him, but he didn’t believe that. Indeed, apart from one revealing twitch, she made no move either to encourage or stop him, and Matt knew it was up to him to show some sense here.
But it was hard to be sensible. Her skin was so tender, so delicate. She tasted good, too, the light film of perspiration that had beaded her skin when he’d cleansed her hip like nectar on his tongue. Even the faint scent of the ointment was not unpleasant. It certainly wasn’t enough to deter his desire. He wanted to taste every inch of her. In spite of everything, he couldn’t stop.
His breath dampened her flesh. His lips burned a circle of kisses around her navel before beating a sensual path over her flat stomach. His thumbs urged the folds of the dress aside, revealing the hem of her bra. The enticing hollow between her breasts was visible to his impassioned gaze. He caught his breath. He wanted to remove her bra, to expose the rounded swell of her small breasts. He could see her nipples were already straining at the delicate lace that confined them. He longed to feel those hard peaks against his palms.
Dear God!
His own reactions to what he was doing could no longer be ignored. Between his legs his arousal throbbed with a painful insistence, and the blood was pounding in his head.
But he had to stop. With considerable effort he lifted his head and looked at her, encountering an unexpected trace of regret in her gaze. He’d expected many things: indignation; disillusionment; anger, even. What he hadn’t expected was that she might actually have welcomed his lovemaking, and his brows drew together in momentary disbelief.
But her first words didn’t match the fleeting expression that had now disappeared entirely. ‘Are you going to let me up now?’ she asked, her voice as cold as her words. ‘Or are you going to demand payment for your services? Max said all men were the same in that respect.’
Matt’s face flamed. Jerking back, he moved to the foot of the bed, wondering how he could have fooled himself into believing that she might want anything from him. She’d merely tolerated his lovemaking, borne his maudlin sympathies. For God’s sake, she was married to someone else. What did he expect?
But then, as if she’d instantly regretted the harshness of her words, Sara gave a despairing little moan. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pulling down her skirt and scrambling across the bed towards him. She swung her feet to the floor beside him. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Matt wasn’t prepared to put his feelings on the line again. He was already deploring the impulse that had got him into this situation. Having her forgive him for being such an idiot was no compensation at all. Getting up from the bed, he thrust his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans, swayed back on his heels with what he hoped looked like cool indifference. ‘Well, that’s good. I’d hate you to think I’d planned to seduce you as well.’
‘I don’t.’ She stood up, too, and although she was considerably smaller than he was without her high heels she was still too close for comfort. ‘Matt, I—I know you meant well, but—’
‘Spare me the lecture,’ he said, his own voice harsh in his ears. ‘I’ve obviously embarrassed you—embarrassed us both—and I apologise.’ He stepped back a pace, to put some space between them. ‘I’ll leave you now. You can let me know what you intend to do when—’
‘No!’ She caught his arm then, her cool fingers slipping almost possessively about his wrist. ‘Please, Matt. Don’t go away mad at me.’
Matt expelled a heavy breath, trying not to consider what she wanted now. ‘I’m not mad at you,’ he said, after a few moments of self-denial. Forcing himself to concentrate on the reason why he’d come to her room in the first place, he nodded towards the loveseat. ‘I bought you a couple of things in Ellsmoor. You may want to change before you leave.’
Sara’s lips parted. She didn’t even look at the jeans and tee shirt he’d found in the mini-market. ‘You want me to leave?’ she asked anxiously, her hands tightening on his arm, and he stared at her with guarded eyes.
‘I understood that was what you wanted,’ he said, stifling the sudden urge he had to beg her to stay.
Sara swallowed. ‘It’s what I ought to do,’ she admitted. ‘My staying here—well, it could put you in an awkward position.’
‘Do I look like I’m worried?’ Matt’s lips twisted. ‘It’s your decision. I’m not sending you away.’
Sara gazed up at him. ‘So—I can still stay until tomorrow?’
‘You can stay as long as you like,’ retorted Matt roughly, taking the hand resting on his arm and raising it to his lips. His mouth grazed her knuckles before seeking the network of veins at her wrist. ‘I may not approve of what you’re doing, but you’re safe here. I can promise you that.’
‘Oh, Matt.’ She brought her free hand up to his face, cupping his jaw with unsteady fingers. ‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to thank you.’
‘No thanks are necessary,’ Matt told her flatly. But when he would have turned away she reached up, and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth.
‘I’d like to stay,’ she whispered at last, drawing back. ‘For a few days at least, if you’ll let me.’ She moistened her lips. ‘But I’m going to have to let—let Max know that I’m all right.’
‘As opposed to being at his mercy?’ suggested Matt, with some bitterness, but it was a reprieve and he was grateful for it. ‘Why don’t you leave that to me? You write a note and I’ll get it to him without running the risk of his finding out where you are.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You can do that?’ She trembled. ‘But how?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ replied Matt, removing her hand from his face before temptation got the better of him. Then, at the anxious look she was wearing, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t cause any trouble. Not until I know what kind of hold he has over you, at least.’
He walked to the door, eager now to withdraw and consider his options. ‘Check out the gear. I’m going to speak to Mrs Webb. And don’t fret that she’s not trustworthy. She is. If it hadn’t been for her this place would never have become the sanctuary it is.’
Sara looked painfully vulnerable as she stood watching him leave the room. But he wondered if he wasn’t being the world’s most gullible fool for taking her in. Or for being taken in by her? he mused, wanting to restore his sense of balance. He might be judging her husband without cause. But he didn’t think he was. It might be foolish, but he trusted her.
But how the hell was he supposed to write fiction in his present frame of mind?

Chapter Eight
SARA spent the rest of the morning in her room, trying to come to terms with what Matt had told her.
Max wasn’t dead, she repeated incredulously. He was alive. The fears she’d had on his behalf had been groundless. He’d been taken to hospital, sure, but he’d been well enough to discharge himself the following morning. And since then he’d been trying to cover himself by pretending that she had disappeared, that she might have been kidnapped.
She trembled. After Matt had left her, she’d taken up a position on the window seat, gazing out at the sun-drenched cliffs and the water beyond with a feeling of disbelief. She still found it hard to accept that she was here, hundreds of miles from London; that she’d escaped. However grateful she was that Max had survived, the manner of her departure remained a constant source of amazement. How had he let her get away?
Of course, he had been unconscious at the time. He must have hit his head when he fell and for a few minutes he’d been dead to the world. Dead to her, too, she thought bitterly. She should have known it would take more than a simple fall to kill a man like Max Bradbury.
Not that she wanted him dead, she assured herself. That was too high a price to pay, even for her freedom. But if only he had been a reasonable man, a man she could appeal to. When it had become obvious that their marriage was not what he had expected, that she was not what he had expected, why couldn’t he have let her go? It was what any other man would have done; any normal man, that was. But it hadn’t taken her long to find out that Max was anything but normal.
She supposed they must have been married for about six months when he’d struck her for the first time.
She’d already learned not to contradict him, particularly if he’d been drinking. He had said some incredibly cruel things to her, things he’d said he regretted bitterly when he was sober again, and she’d believed him. The crude words he’d used, deriding her for the smallest thing, belittling her intelligence, accusing her of being something she was not, had seemed so uncharacteristic of the man she’d believed she’d married. She’d been sure that it was the alcohol that was responsible for his ungovernable rage, and for a while he’d been able to hide his real nature from her.
But then everything had changed. It had only taken the discovery that she was on first-name terms with the commissionaire who worked in the lobby of their apartment building to invoke an almost insane fury. She’d been totally unprepared for the fist that had suddenly bored into her midriff and she’d been doubled over, gasping for air and sanity, when he’d stormed out of the duplex.
Of course, he’d apologised when he’d come back. He’d made the excuse of stress at the office, of being madly jealous of any man who spoke to her, of his own uncontrollable temper. He’d sworn it would never happen again, showered her with expensive presents until she’d been convinced of his regret.
Until the next time…
But she didn’t want to think about that now; didn’t want to consider what a naïve fool she had been, or how easily Max had managed to persuade her that she was actually to blame for his outbursts. In the beginning, desperate to make her marriage work—for her mother’s sake as well as her own—she’d seized any excuse to explain his violence. The truth was, she hadn’t been able to believe what was happening to her. She’d deluded herself that once Max realised she wasn’t interested in any other man he’d come to his senses.
It hadn’t happened. The violence had just got worse and there’d been nothing she could do. Max had made it very clear that he would never let her go, and she’d had the very real fear that if she did try to free herself he would turn his anger on her mother.
She was glad now that they’d had no children. Max would have had no compunction about using them in his unequal struggle for possession. Besides which, she realised now that his jealousy would never have allowed a third person to dilute the complete submission he demanded of her.
Thrusting these thoughts aside, she got to her feet and crossed to the small pile of clothes Matt had left on the loveseat. There were jeans, which she judged might fit her very well, a couple of tee shirts, two changes of cheap underwear, the kind that was available in supermarkets, and a pair of trainers.
She pressed her lips together after she had examined the clothes, her eyes filling with tears suddenly at his kindness. This presumably was the ‘gift’ he’d brought her, only to find her cowering behind the bathroom door. She’d been so afraid of him seeing her, of him finding out what Max had done to her, but now she was glad he knew. It was such a relief to have someone she could talk to, someone who wouldn’t judge her. And, although she’d admitted nothing, she suspected Matt knew exactly what had been going on.
Sooner or later, she knew, she would have to go back, but please God not yet. Whatever excuse she gave, Max was never going to believe her version of events. Apart from anything else, she had shamed and humiliated him—or at least that was how he would see it. He was never going to forgive her for that.
Trying to ignore the inevitable, Sara carried the jeans and one of the tee shirts into the bathroom and took off her dress. The voile dress had been new, bought to go to the art exhibition Max had been planning to visit the evening when fate had overtaken both of them. It was strange to think it was the dress that had led to Max’s accident. But then, it was on such simple things as these that her marriage had foundered.
As she hung the dress on the back of the bathroom door she thought how foolish she’d been to think that Max might like it. He hadn’t chosen it, and for a long time now he had chosen all her clothes. But he had encouraged her to attend the fashion show with the wife of one of his colleagues, and, after seeing it modelled, Sara had fallen in love with its style and elegance.
Its style and elegance! Sara’s lips curled in painful remembrance. Max hadn’t thought it was either stylish or elegant. He’d said it was the kind of dress only a tart would wear, that she’d chosen it because she’d wanted to flaunt herself. She was quite sure that if he hadn’t fallen down the stairs he’d have torn the garment off her, and she wished now that she’d taken the time to grab a change of clothes before fleeing from the apartment. She didn’t like the dress now; she hated it. She took a breath. Hated him! God help her.
The jeans were a little big, but that didn’t matter. At least they weren’t tight on her hip. The tee shirt was cropped and ended a daring inch above her navel, which she worried about a little. But then she remembered Max wasn’t going to see her. For now she could please herself what she wore.
The trainers fitted beautifully. Sara guessed Matt must have checked the size of her shoes before buying them. Whatever, she looked infinitely better. She felt almost her old self as she went downstairs at lunchtime.
The first person she encountered was Mrs Webb. The housekeeper was setting the table in the dining room again and Sara halted uncertainly, not sure she wanted to face another grilling.
But Mrs Webb had seen her and, straightening, she arched her brows appreciatively. ‘You look nice,’ she said, with none of the animosity that she’d exhibited earlier. ‘Matt’s got good taste.’
Sara gave a rueful smile, realising there was no point in pretending that she’d brought the garments with her. ‘Where is—Matt?’ she asked, for want of anything else to say, and the housekeeper returned to her task.
‘He’s in his office, study, whatever you want to call it.’ She sounded indulgent. ‘He said to tell you to go ahead and have lunch without him. I believe he’s got a lot of work to catch up on, and he’s got to pick Rosie up at three o’clock.’
Sara came a little further into the room. ‘I didn’t realise he was writing a book at the moment,’ she said, feeling a familiar sense of inadequacy. ‘I should apologise. I’ve taken up so much of his time.’
‘Did I say he was complaining?’ The older woman gave her a sideways glance. ‘If you ask me, he’s more than happy to have you here. Writing can be a lonely existence. And since Hester retired he’s had to make do with Rosie’s and my company.’
‘Hester.’ Sara remembered the little girl mentioning that name yesterday afternoon when she’d been trying to prove how grown up she was. ‘Who—who is Hester?’
‘She used to be Rosie’s nanny,’ explained Mrs Webb, straightening from the table again. ‘She came north with Matt when he bought this place. She was from around here originally, just as he was.’
Sara nodded. ‘But she left?’
‘She retired,’ replied the housekeeper, heading for the door. ‘Now, you sit yourself down. I’ll be back in a minute with your meal.’
Sara would have liked to ask if she could just have her meal in the kitchen, as she’d done the day before, but she was chary of getting too familiar with Mrs Webb. She didn’t know what Matt had told her, if anything, and until she did it was probably safer to maintain a certain detachment.
The housekeeper returned with an appetising dish of lasagne and new bread, fresh out of the oven. She advised Sara to help herself and, although her appetite had been virtually non-existent since she left London, Sara found to her surprise that she was hungry.
She refused the glass of wine Mrs Webb offered, however. A diet cola was far more appealing, and by the time the housekeeper returned to see how she was doing she’d made a modest dent in the pasta.
‘That was delicious,’ she said, feeling pleased with herself. ‘Did you make it?’
‘Well, I didn’t buy it,’ remarked Mrs Webb drily. ‘I don’t hold with all those ready-made meals, although I suppose if you’re a working girl you can’t always spend half the day in the kitchen, can you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
Sara thought longingly of those occasions when she’d made a meal for her mother and herself. But that was in the days before Max came on the scene; before he’d come to the school to present a cheque to the governors to equip a new gymnasium and decided she was going to be the next Mrs Bradbury. Before Sara’s mother had seen him as her last chance to escape from what she regarded as the near-poverty that had dogged her married life.
‘So—can I get you anything else?’ asked Mrs Webb, gathering the plates together. ‘Some ice cream, perhaps?’
‘Nothing else, thanks.’ Sara took a deep breath, once again dispelling Max’s image from her mind. ‘Do you think Matt would mind if I took the dogs for a walk?’
The housekeeper looked surprised. ‘I’d say he’d be delighted,’ she replied drily. ‘But are you sure you can manage them on your own? They’re pretty wild.’
‘I’m not as helpless as I look,’ declared Sara with a smile. ‘But I won’t go down to the beach. I’m not that stupid.’
‘Well, actually, you could now,’ said the older woman thoughtfully. ‘The tide’s turned.’
Sara hoped so; she really did. But she wasn’t thinking about the water that had trapped her earlier.
She accompanied Mrs Webb into the kitchen, helping her to load the lunch dishes into the dishwasher before going out into the garden. The two retrievers in their compound, sensing an outing, immediately set up a noisy greeting which completely masked the arrival of the young woman who suddenly appeared around the corner of the house.
Sara didn’t know who was the most shocked: herself, because of her fear of being recognised, or the other woman, who clearly wasn’t pleased to find her there. Sara didn’t know how she knew the stranger didn’t approve of her presence. She just sensed it. So who was she?
Mrs Webb supplied the answer. Following Sara out of the house, she saw the newcomer almost as soon as Sara did herself, and her lips parted in a pleasant smile.
‘Mrs Proctor,’ she said. ‘What a surprise!’
The young woman came towards them. In a cream silk shirt tied stylishly at her waist and pleated linen trousers in a subtle shade of taupe she made Sara instantly aware of the limitations of her own attire. Mrs Proctor’s hair was dark, a smooth silken cap that tucked confidingly beneath a most attractive chin. Sara guessed, too, that the hazel eyes set in a flawlessly oval face would miss little.
But for now the woman was obliged to acknowledge the housekeeper’s greeting. Sara thought it was lucky that she hadn’t let the dogs out. Mrs Proctor didn’t look the type to appreciate having their paws on her clothes, and she ignored them as she produced an answering smile. ‘Hello, Mrs Webb,’ she said politely. ‘Isn’t it a perfect afternoon?’
And it was, thought Sara, glancing up at the clear blue sky above their heads. She just hoped the newcomer wasn’t going to spoil it.
The realisation that she had no right to think things like that brought her up short. For heaven’s sake, she chided herself, she probably had less right to be here than anyone else. In fact, scrub ‘probably’. She had no right to be here at all.
‘Is Matt working?’
Mrs Proctor’s voice matched the rest of her: cool and cultivated, yet with an underlying note of arrogance. Sara had the impression she didn’t care much for Mrs Webb either. But she was obliged to be civil.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Mrs Webb had brought the dogs’ slip collars out with her, and now she handed them over to Sara. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
In a pig’s eye, thought Sara drily, guessing that the visitor would want nothing from the housekeeper. But it wasn’t anything to do with her, and, dipping her head, she went to unbolt the compound gate.
‘You’re not going to let them out, are you?’ Before Sara could open the gate, the woman stopped her. ‘I mean—’ She glanced down at her immaculate appearance. ‘I really wish you wouldn’t.’
Sara looked at Mrs Webb, and the older woman gestured resignedly towards the house. ‘Perhaps you’d better come in then, Mrs Proctor,’ she said, without enthusiasm. ‘Maybe you’d like a cup of coffee before you leave.’
There was definite annoyance in the young woman’s expression now, but she controlled it. ‘That might be very nice,’ she agreed, but her gaze had returned to linger curiously on Sara. ‘I didn’t realise Matt employed someone to exercise the dogs for him.’ She wet her already glossy lips. ‘Are you a local, Miss—Miss—?’
‘She’s from the agency.’
Matt’s interjection caught them all unawares. Sara had assumed he was still closeted in his study and she was disturbed at how eagerly her eyes turned to him.
He was still wearing the black tee shirt and jeans he’d been wearing when he’d come into her bedroom, and, although she hadn’t realised it at the time, his appearance had registered with her. The dark colour accentuated his raw masculinity, drew her unwilling attention to the impressive width of his chest, to the powerful muscles in his thighs. Looking at him, she could hardly believe how gentle he had been with her, how sensual his lips had felt against her skin…
But then what he’d said registered, too, and she dipped her head again, unable to meet his eyes. Dear God, was he offering her the job as Rosie’s nanny? And, if so, what did she intend to do?
‘I told you I was still looking for a nanny, didn’t I, Emma?’ Matt continued, addressing his remarks to the visitor. ‘Meet Miss Sara Victor. We’re giving each other a week’s trial to see how it goes.’
Emma!
As Sara realised that this must be the woman who’d phoned Matt the day before, Emma Proctor looked decidedly put out. ‘I thought you said that you hadn’t seen any suitable applicants,’ she exclaimed, giving Sara a disparaging look. ‘This was rather sudden, wasn’t it?’
‘Isn’t that always the way?’ remarked Matt with amazing sanguinity. ‘Sara just arrived yesterday.’
‘She’s very good with Rosie,’ put in Mrs Webb, not to be outdone, and Sara wished they’d stop talking about her as if she wasn’t there. Though she had no wish to draw attention to herself, she reminded herself firmly. And she could hardly object if Mrs Webb was sticking up for her.
‘That’s true,’ Matt added now, but Sara noticed he raked a restless hand through his hair as he spoke. Perhaps he wasn’t as relaxed about this as he appeared, she fretted anxiously. And was it fair to expect him to cover for her this way?
Meanwhile Emma Proctor was doing her best to hide her resentment and, ignoring Sara completely, she remarked, ‘Mrs Webb told me you were working.’ She treated the housekeeper to the kind of look she’d given Sara earlier. ‘I was hoping you’d have time for a chat. I’ve been meaning to ask you about the books you said you’d sign for Darren’s school fête.’
Matt’s smile looked a little forced now. ‘Well, I am working, Em—’
‘But you’re not working right now, are you?’ she pointed out smoothly, with another impatient glance at Sara and Mrs Webb. ‘It will only take a minute. And I have driven over specially.’
Matt took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ he said, apparently accepting defeat. ‘You’d better come in.’
Mrs Webb pulled a wry face at Sara as Emma went triumphantly up the steps and into the bootroom, and Sara felt an unexpected sense of camaraderie with the older woman. But when she started towards the dogs again Matt caught her arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Miss Victor asked if she could take the dogs for a walk,’ said Mrs Webb, before Sara could respond. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s not all right,’ he retorted, and Sara, who had been momentarily struck dumb by the possessiveness of his strong fingers, shook herself free.
‘Why not?’ she demanded, aware that Emma Proctor had paused to listen to their exchange. Her eyes challenged his. ‘I’ve got nothing to do until Rosie comes home.’
‘Because you’re not familiar with the area,’ he said tersely, clearly aware of his audience. ‘You can come with Rosie and me when we take them out later.’
‘But—’
‘I doubt if—Miss Victor, is it?—is likely to lose her bearings around here,’ observed Emma Proctor, once again reminding him of her presence. ‘This is the only house along this stretch of the coast.’
‘Even so—’
Matt didn’t say anything more, but his expression was compelling and Sara knew she couldn’t go against him. He was sticking his neck out by allowing her to stay here, and the least she could do was respect his wishes.
‘Okay,’ she said, with a small shrug. Then, because she couldn’t resist it, ‘I suppose I’ll have to go and pick Rosie up in a little while anyway.’
Matt’s expression mirrored his impatience. ‘We’ll talk about that,’ he stated flatly, and although his eyes promised a suitable retribution Sara wasn’t alarmed. He followed Emma up the steps and into the house. ‘I won’t be long.’
Sara’s lips twitched, and after Matt and Emma had disappeared she turned back to the dogs with a rueful smile. ‘Sorry, guys,’ she said, squatting down on her heels and pushing her fingers through the bars. ‘You’re going to have to wait. We all are.’
‘You’re staying on, then, are you?’
Mrs Webb’s enquiry reminded Sara that there’d been a fourth witness to their exchange. ‘For a short time,’ she said, getting to her feet again. Then, because she had to know, ‘What has he told you?’
‘Me?’ For the first time the housekeeper looked a little taken aback. ‘Matt doesn’t have to clear his arrangements with me.’
‘I know, but—’ Sara sought for words. ‘He must have said something.’
Mrs Webb folded her hands together at her waist. ‘As I say, he doesn’t have to tell me anything. If he says you’re going to be Rosie’s nanny, then that’s good enough for me.’
Sara sighed. ‘Mrs Webb—’
‘All right.’ The housekeeper gave in. ‘He asked me not to gossip about your arrival. I know you’re in some kind of trouble, and he’s trying to help you, but that’s all. I trust Matt to know what he’s doing. He is a trained psychologist, you know.’
Sara’s eyes had widened. ‘A trained psychologist?’ she echoed. ‘He didn’t tell me that.’
‘No, well, it’s not something he likes me to gossip about either,’ said Mrs Webb drily. ‘Now, I must get on…’
‘Why did he give it up?’ asked Sara, unable to stop herself, and the housekeeper sighed.
‘Can’t you guess? To pursue his writing career, of course. Rosie was just a baby at the time.’
Sara bit her lip. ‘Was that—was that when his wife left him?’
‘Miss Victor—’
‘Call me Sara, please!’
‘Sara, then.’ Mrs Webb folded her lips together for a moment before continuing, ‘Don’t you think you ought to ask Matt these questions, not me?’
Sara flushed, but she stood her ground. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No—’ Mrs Webb turned towards the house, only to pause with her foot on the bottom step. ‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm to tell you that Carol—that’s his ex-wife—wasn’t prepared to give up the comfortable existence she’d had as a doctor’s wife. There was no certainty Matt would have any success as a writer.’
‘But she left her baby behind,’ protested Sara, unable to conceive of any woman doing such a thing, and the housekeeper nodded.
‘Yes, well, she married one of Matt’s partners in the practice just a week after their divorce became absolute,’ she conceded with a grimace. ‘Rosie would have been in the way.’
Then, as if she realising she had already said too much, Mrs Webb disappeared into the house.

Chapter Nine
MATT stared at the blank computer screen in front of him and scowled. For the first time in his writing career he was finding it almost impossible to concentrate on his work, and it irritated the hell out of him.
He knew what was wrong with him, of course. He was getting far too involved in Sara’s life. Despite the fact that he’d promised her not to say or do anything to alert Max Bradbury to her whereabouts, the temptation to let the bastard know exactly what he thought of him was hard to resist. More than that, he itched to bury his fist in Bradbury’s face, which was totally unlike him.
He’d always considered himself a reasonable man. Hell, when Carol had first left him and shacked up with Philip Arnold he’d never even thought of resorting to violence. Which probably said more about his relationship with his ex-wife than his own character, he conceded ruefully. In all honesty, if it hadn’t been for Rosie they’d have probably split up long before they had.
So what did that say about the present situation? Why did he feel this overpowering need to protect Sara? And what had possessed him to tell Emma Proctor that she was Rosie’s new nanny? By now the news was probably common knowledge throughout the county.
Yet, during the three days that had passed since Emma’s visit, he had to admit that the demands on his time had been eased. Although he hadn’t allowed Sara to pick Rosie up from school, there was no doubt that she had taken much of the responsibility for entertaining his daughter once she was home off his shoulders.
Of course, Sara wasn’t a nanny. But he believed her story about being a teacher now. She was good with the little girl and Rosie liked her. In normal circumstances he’d have considered himself very lucky to have her, but these circumstances were anything but normal.
His scowl deepened. One of his main sources of discontent was the fact that Sara had resisted all his efforts to find out why she stayed with her husband. She insisted that in a few more days she would have to go back, and that was the real cause of his writer’s block. Why did she feel any allegiance towards him? What twisted hold did the man have over her life?
Dammit! Leaving his desk, he walked to the windows, looking out on the scene that usually never failed to soothe his troubled psyche. The North Sea was grey today, reflecting the clouds that hovered over the headland. The mournful sound of a ship’s foghorn seemed to echo his mood, and he lifted both hands to massage the taut muscles at the back of his neck.
He had to stop this, he told himself savagely. He had to stop behaving as if he had any role to play in Sara’s future. Despite that emotional scene in her bedroom, when he’d made such a pathetic fool of himself, their association remained very much that of an employer and an employee. She’d accepted his excuse for staying on with obvious gratitude, but there’d been no further intimacy between them. Indeed, there were times when Matt wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing.
But then he’d remember the bruises he’d seen on her body and know he hadn’t.
He swore again, balling a fist and pressing it hard against the windowframe. He increased the pressure until all the blood had left his fingers and his hand was numb. And then, with an angry exclamation, he withdrew it and thrust it into his pocket, finding a masochistic pleasure in the pain he’d inflicted upon himself.
At least he’d done as he’d promised and let Bradbury know that his wife was safe and well. Or as safe and well as a woman who’d been brutalised could be, he amended grimly. He had a friend at the London Chronicle and he’d merely called in a favour by getting him to deliver the note Sara had written. Of course he hadn’t told her that he’d made the note public property, but there’d been no way he could have risked Max Bradbury burying it and continuing with his bogus concern.
As it was, there’d been a small item in yesterday’s papers. News of the letter had evidently circulated round the tabloid editors, as he’d hoped it would, and Bradbury had had to come up with a convincing explanation.
His story was that the blow he’d suffered to his head when he fell had temporarily robbed him of his memory. Thanks to Matt’s friend, he was able to claim that he’d contacted the Chronicle himself, as soon as he’d remembered that Victoria had told him she was going to visit a schoolfriend in the north of England. He’d had a letter from her now, he said, and all was well.
Until she went back, thought Matt, feeling his muscles tighten again. He’d probably done her no favours by holding Bradbury’s name up to possible ridicule, but it was too late now. It was just something else ‘Victoria’ would have to pay for.
Victoria!
His jaw clenched. One thing she had told him was that Victoria wasn’t her real name. She’d been christened Sara, she said, and Matt could only assume that it hadn’t been sophisticated enough for Max Bradbury’s wife. Not that she’d complained about it to him. Despite the fear she obviously had of her husband, she was absurdly loyal. Even though she must know that by changing her name he had removed another of the props that had made her who she was.
Matt had decided not to show Sara the article in the newspaper. He hadn’t wanted her to be concerned because Bradbury had implied that he knew where she was. The fact that he’d chosen to tell the media that she was in the north of England was just a coincidence. It had to be. But it was another example of how everything seemed to work to Bradbury’s advantage.
Sara’s rental car was no longer advertising her presence, at least. He’d had the garage in Saviour’s Bay pick it up and return it to the local franchise in Ellsmoor, and, although he’d been forced to admit that there’d been nothing wrong with it in the first place, Sara hadn’t complained. Whatever she chose to do after she left here, for the moment she seemed happy to be free of all obligations.
The phone rang before he could indulge in any further introspection, and, tamping down his resentment, he went to answer it.
‘Yeah?’
‘Matt?’
He recognised the voice at once. It was his agent, Rob Marco, and he pulled a wry face. He could guess what Rob wanted: some kind of timeframe for the completion of the new manuscript. The fact that he should have been in the final stages by now was just another cause for his tension.
‘Hi, Rob,’ he answered now, dropping down into his leather chair and propping his feet on the edge of his desk. He glanced at his watch. ‘How are things with you?’
‘They could be better,’ replied Rob, with just the trace of an edge to his voice. ‘How are things with you, Matt? When can I expect the new manuscript?’
Matt gave a sardonic snort. ‘I should have guessed this wasn’t a social call,’ he said, hooking the phone between his ear and his shoulder and pulling open the bottom drawer of the desk. ‘I don’t work well with deadlines, Rob. You know that.’
There was a moment’s silence while the other man considered his response and Matt used it to lift the half-empty bottle of whisky from the drawer. Unscrewing the cap, he treated himself to a healthy swig before setting it down beside the computer. He deserved some consolation, he told himself defensively. It was lunchtime, after all, and problems were assaulting him on all sides.
‘I’m not giving you a deadline,’ said Rob at last, his tone infinitely more conciliatory. ‘But, as you know, your next book is due for publication in the spring. Your publishers would just like to be able to announce the date of publication of the new novel on the flyleaf.’
‘What you mean is, they’re hoping I’ll sign a new contract,’ remarked Matt drily. ‘Have they come to you with any figures? I assume they’ve got an offer in mind?’
Rob sighed. ‘We haven’t gone into specifics, Matt. I wouldn’t do that without your say-so. But Nash is a good publisher. They’ve done pretty well by you in the past.’
‘In other words, you’re interested,’ said Matt, studying the toes of his loafers. Rob was a good agent, and if he was recommending another deal it meant Nash had come up with a pretty spectacular sum. Of course, the book Nash was hoping to negotiate for wasn’t his current work in progress. Their interest had been prompted by his next project, an outline of which had been with his publishers for the past three weeks.
‘It’s inviting,’ affirmed Rob. ‘I doubt if you’d get a better offer.’ He paused. ‘They’re hoping they can persuade you to sign a three-book deal this time. They’re talking seven figures. That’s as much as I’m going to say.’
Matt shook his head. ‘Seven figures,’ he echoed wryly, wishing he felt more enthusiasm for Rob’s news. But right now getting his current manuscript finished and ready for despatch seemed an insurmountable task. The idea of committing himself to writing three more books, even with a seven-figure advance, sounded almost impossible to achieve.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rob was nothing if not intuitive. ‘Isn’t it enough?’
‘More than enough,’ responded Matt, blowing out a breath. ‘Thanks, Rob. As I’ve said before, you’re the best agent in the business.’
‘But you’re not happy.’ Rob wasn’t deceived. ‘Come on, Matt. What’s your problem? Is it Rosie?’
‘Rosie’s fine.’ Matt chose to answer his last question first.
‘You got her a nanny, right?’
Matt hesitated. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly?’ Rob was curious. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Either you got her a nanny or you didn’t.’
Matt wished he’d just answered in the negative and been done with it. ‘I’ve got a temporary nanny,’ he said at last. Then, hoping Rob would take the hint, ‘Thanks for calling, Rob. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have some definite news.’
Rob sounded put out. ‘Is that all you’re going to say?’ he exclaimed. ‘You haven’t even told me how the new manuscript is coming along.’
‘It’s getting there,’ said Matt evasively. ‘I’m sorry if you think I’m ungrateful. I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment.’
‘Including the temporary nanny?’ suggested Rob shrewdly. ‘Who is she, Matt? A girlfriend? I tell you, pal, that’s not a good idea. You should never mix business with pleasure.’
If only he could, thought Matt bitterly, and then chided himself for the thought. Just because Sara was grateful for his protection it did not mean she spent her time fantasising about what he’d be like in bed. After her experiences, sex would be the last thing on her mind. Besides, however unhappily, she was married. And at no time had she let him think that anything else was on the cards.
It was pathetic. He was pathetic, he thought irritably. At the first opportunity he should find himself another woman and get a life. There was always Emma. Since her husband had died she’d made no secret of the fact that she’d be willing to advance their relationship. But he wasn’t attracted to Emma; he hadn’t been attracted to anyone for a long time. So why the hell was Sara Bradbury playing havoc with his hormones?
‘It’s nothing like that,’ he told Rob shortly. ‘She’s just someone I met recently who was looking for a job. But she’s not staying. As I said before, it’s just a temporary arrangement. But Rosie likes her. And that’s what matters.’
‘So what’s she like?’ Rob was trying to sound casual and failing abysmally. He’d probably made the connection between his evasion and Sara’s arrival, thought Matt grimly. ‘Is she young? Attractive? Married?’
A knock at the study door interrupted Matt’s concentration. ‘Come in,’ he called impatiently, guessing it was Mrs Webb with a sandwich for his lunch. Then, to Rob. ‘I’m not getting into what she looks like. She’s—passable, okay? But in any case she doesn’t interest me.’
It was only as he was completing this sentence that he looked up and realised it wasn’t the housekeeper who was hovering in the doorway. With an inward groan, he let his eyes meet Sara’s across the width of the room. She had evidently heard what he was saying to Rob and taken exception to it. He was devastated by the injured look that crossed her face.
‘Ah. Damn—’ His exclamation was audible to both Sara and Rob, but he didn’t have time to spare his agent’s feelings right now. ‘Speak to you later, Rob,’ he said quickly. ‘Something’s come up.’ And, slamming down the phone, he got to his feet. ‘Sara—’
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said, the stiffness of her words only equalled by the rigidity of her stance. Matt closed his eyes for a moment against the almost irresistible impulse he had to leap across his desk and take her in his arms. ‘I could have come back.’
She looked so delicate standing there, so fragile. Only yesterday he’d thought she was losing that look of vulnerability; that the time she’d spent outdoors with Rosie and the dogs had added a glow of health to her pale skin. She was still far too thin, of course, but her appetite was definitely improving. She’d been gaining in confidence, too. He could have sworn it.
Now his careless words had spoiled everything. And he could hardly tell her he’d only said what he had to put Rob off the scent. She wouldn’t want to know why he’d said it. It wasn’t her fault that she was having such a stressful effect on his life.
‘Sara—’ he began again, but she wouldn’t let him finish.
‘I only came to ask if you’d like your lunch now,’ she continued, in the same unyielding tone. ‘I heard the phone and it seemed a good opportunity to interrupt you.’
‘I don’t mind—’
‘That’s all right, then, isn’t it?’ She took a breath. ‘I’ll get your tray. Mrs Webb left it ready.’
‘Dammit!’ Matt swore. He’d forgotten that the housekeeper had told him she had a dental appointment at twelve o’clock. ‘There’s no need for you to run around after me. I don’t expect it. I’m not your husband.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Sara was already retreating through the door when Matt went
after her. He didn’t know what had made him say what he had, but it was obvious she’d been hurt by his words. The trouble was, it was becoming more and more difficult not to show how he was feeling, and he wished he could explain it to her.
He caught her in the hall outside his study, his hand closing round her arm and bringing her to a halt. ‘Sara,’ he started again. ‘I’m sorry if I was short with you. When Rob gets on the phone it’s usually because he wants something that I can’t give him.’
‘I’m really not interested,’ she said, making an effort to release herself from his hold, and Matt gave an impatient sigh.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Rob Marco is my agent. He was ringing to ask why he hasn’t had the new manuscript. I was making the excuse that I still didn’t have a permanent nanny for Rosie.’
Sara’s brows arched scornfully. ‘So?’
‘So that’s why I said what I did,’ exclaimed Matt doggedly. ‘You probably thought I was criticising you. I wasn’t, whatever it sounded like. I was just trying to distract Rob from his impression that you’re really my girlfriend.’
‘Look, I really don’t care—’
‘No, but I do,’ muttered Matt, his patience wearing thin. ‘I’m telling you the truth, dammit. If I’d finished the damn manuscript we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
‘I hope you’re not implying that I’m to blame for that,’ she countered coldly, stiffening her back, and Matt expelled a long breath.
He was trying hard not to be aware of her small breasts rising and falling in tempo with her increasing indignation, the widening gap between her tee shirt and jeans exposing the intriguing hollow of her navel. She was so incredibly sexy, with her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with aggravated fire. He could feel a sensuous warmth spreading from his fingers to every erogenous nerve in his body, and he knew he was getting dangerously close to combustion.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he said now, struggling to contain his frustration, and she uttered a triumphant snort.
‘Good,’ she said fiercely, and he had the sudden suspicion that she was using her anger to put a barrier between them. ‘Because I suggest that bottle of whisky on your desk is far more culpable than me!’
Matt choked on an oath. ‘Are you kidding?’ he gasped. ‘I’ve had one mouthful of Scotch and that’s all.’
‘So you say.’
‘It’s the truth.’ He was aware of a growing sense of outrage. ‘I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘Well, it isn’t even lunchtime yet,’ she persisted, and he shook his head in angry disbelief.
‘Where do you get off telling me what to do?’ he demanded, using his free hand to pull her round to face him, and then could have died with mortification when he saw her flinch.
It was obvious that she had encountered this kind of situation before and she expected the worst. The look in her eyes damned and humiliated him, and with a groan of anguish he hauled her into his arms.
‘God, I’m sorry,’ he muttered, one hand cradling the back of her neck while the other circled her waist. Silky hair brushed his fingers and her skin was incredibly soft beneath his hands. ‘Hell, Sara, don’t you know I would never hurt you?’
Her response was muffled, but he could feel the sudden wetness that was dampening his shirt. She was crying, and her distress assaulted him like acid on an open wound. He felt so powerless; so useless. He wanted to help her, but all he was doing was turning her against him, too.
‘Sara, Sara,’ he breathed, his fingers caressing her nape, and she did the unforgivable and turned her face up to his.
Her eyes were flooded with tears, but her expression was more forgiving than accusatory. Lashes, several shades darker than her hair, sparkled with jewelled drops, and Matt’s tongue itched to lick them away. She was so beautiful, so vulnerable, and the knowledge that he had no right to hold her like this was tearing him to pieces. Did she know what she was doing? he wondered. What she was doing to him? Of course she did, he assured himself. He was holding her too close for the swelling in his pants to be ignored.
Then, ‘Matt,’ she said huskily, and it was more than he could bear.
When her hand lifted to his face he caught it and brought her palm to his lips. But even that wasn’t enough. He wanted her so much, wanted more than he had any right to expect, and he might never have another chance like this.
Her eyes were wide now, her lips parted and unknowingly sensual. There was a moment when he might have drawn back, when he might have fought the demons that were riding him, but the sight of her tongue defeated him. When the pink tip appeared to circle her lips, he knew he had to taste it, and, cupping her face between his hands, he bent his head and kissed her.
‘Forgive me,’ he groaned, his tongue slipping into her mouth, and after only a momentary hesitation she yielded to his intimate caress.
He’d intended to be gentle with her. He was fairly sure that any relationship she’d had with her husband would not have been gentle, and he’d wanted there to be no confusion between who was holding her, who was kissing her now.
But the moment his mouth covered hers all reason deserted him. He was like a man in the desert who was suddenly presented with a flask of cool clear water and didn’t realise until that moment that he was dying of thirst. Maybe it was the way her lips opened to his, or the sensuous brush of her tongue. Or perhaps the devastating realisation he had that she was kissing him back.
Whatever, at that moment all bets were off. The heat that flared between them was automatic and uncontrollable, and Matt’s mind swam with the emotions she so easily aroused inside him. He was like a man possessed, and when she wound her arms around his waist and hooked her thumbs into his belt he swayed back against the wall behind him, taking her with him.
The blood was pounding in his head, thundering through his veins, making any kind of coherent thought impossible. She burrowed against him, making him overwhelmingly aware of the layers of fabric that divided them. His skin felt raw, sensitised. He had to fight the urge to peel her tee shirt from her and bury his face between her breasts.
His hands slid down her back as he continued to kiss her, lingering on the bare skin of her midriff that was so tantalisingly warm to his touch. The temptation to slide his hands beneath the tee shirt and caress the erect nipples that were straining the soft material was almost irresistible, but he dammed the impulse and cupped her rounded bottom instead.
Urging her against him was the purest form of torture, but it was worth it. Spreading his legs, he cradled her against the erection throbbing between his thighs. She rubbed herself against him and he wondered if she had any idea what she was inviting. How much more of this could he take without losing it completely?
And then she moaned.
It was a plaintive little sound, barely audible, in fact, but he heard it. For a moment he thought he’d hurt her. He was half afraid that his urgent hands had been too rough for her delicate skin. But then, with a shocking sense of his own insanity, he suddenly realised what was wrong.
With unsteady hands he managed to put some space between them, avoiding her eyes as he made some inane apology for touching her as he had. And all the while he chided himself for being a fool, for imagining that she had been as caught up in her emotions as he was. It wasn’t true. That grotesque little moan had proved it. He’d been making love to a woman who had undoubtedly been conditioned never to say no…

Chapter Ten
‘BUT why can’t you stay?’ Rosie gazed up at Sara with tearfilled eyes. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘And I don’t want to go,’ said Sara, wondering if she was being entirely wise in admitting as much. But she hated lying to the child. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. But this was just a temporary arrangement.’
‘But why?’ Rosie wouldn’t let it go. ‘You like it here. You said so. And I like you. Mrs Webb likes you. Even Daddy likes you.’
Does he?
Sara reserved judgement on that. Since that morning a couple of days ago, when Mrs Webb had gone to the dentist, Matt had barely spoken two words to her, and she was left with the unhappy conclusion that he regretted what had happened.
She regretted it, too, she reflected painfully, but for totally different reasons. Which was quite an admission to make, she conceded with a twinge of shame. Was she wicked for regretting that Matt hadn’t gone on and finished what he’d started? Was it completely unforgivable to wish that for once in her miserable life she might have known the joy of a real man’s love?
Only Matt didn’t love her, she reminded herself swiftly. Once again she was deluding herself about the reason for his actions, just as she had deluded herself that Max had ever really cared about her. She was a pathetic creature, so desperate for affection that she was willing to do almost anything to prove that Max’s estimation of her wasn’t true.
And, until Matt had pushed her away from him and taken refuge in his study, she had believed that she might be happy here. For the first time in years she’d felt secure; wanted; almost content. It was only later that she’d wondered if she hadn’t been deceiving herself all along. It wasn’t the house or the circumstances of her employment that had made her feel secure. It was Matt. Only Matt. And how sad was that?
‘When are you leaving?’
Until Rosie spoke again Sara had been staring blindly out of the window, but now she turned to the child with rueful eyes. And felt even worse when she saw the tragic look on the little girl’s face.
‘Well, not today,’ she said with determined cheerfulness, picking up a velour skirt and jacket that belonged to one of Rosie’s dolls and exhibiting it for her approval. ‘What do you think of this? Smart, or what?’
They were sitting on the floor of the family room, and until Rosie had brought up the subject of Sara’s employment again they’d been sorting through the toy cupboard for things Rosie could donate to the school fair.
Matt had collected his daughter from school a couple of hours ago. Sara had been having a cup of tea with Mrs Webb in the kitchen when they’d got back and Matt had merely deposited the little girl with them before heading back to his study.
‘That man’s overdoing it,’ the housekeeper had remarked sagely as Rosie helped herself to a biscuit from the tin. ‘He’s looking tired, don’t you think? I suppose it’s because he’s trying to get as much done as he can before you have to go back to London. He’s going to miss you and that’s a fact.’
Sara had made some non-committal comment, not wanting to get into a discussion about Matt in front of the child. It was only now she realised that, however distracted she’d seemed at the time, Rosie missed very little.
As if to underline this thought, she scrambled to her feet now and climbed onto the window seat. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’
‘A walk?’ Sara looked up at her. ‘But it will be supper time soon.’ She paused. ‘Besides, I thought you wanted to tidy the toy cupboard.’
‘I can do that any time,’ said Rosie, her small fingers making damp circles on the glass. She glanced back with accusing eyes. ‘When you’re not here.’
Sara sighed. ‘Oh, Rosie—’
‘Well, can we? Go for a walk, I mean? We don’t have to take the dogs. Daddy took them out before I went to school this morning.’
‘Did he?’
Sara hadn’t known that. He must have taken them out incredibly early, she thought. She’d been up herself at seven o’clock.
‘Daddy’s always up early,’ continued Rosie, getting down again and standing with her feet apart and her hands on her hips, staring at Sara. ‘I’m never late for school these days.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Sara, getting to her feet and smiling at the little girl. ‘You don’t want to be late, do you?’
‘I don’t care.’ Rosie was deliberately offhand. ‘I’ll be going away to school soon, and then it won’t matter.’
Sara blinked. ‘Going away to school?’ she echoed. ‘Who told you that?’
Rosie shrugged, bundling all the toys and games they’d taken out back into the cupboard and closing the door. ‘Are we going for a walk?’
‘In a minute.’ Sara wanted to know what Rosie had heard. ‘Is that what your daddy says?’
Rosie was still offhand. ‘Maybe.’
‘What do you mean, maybe? Either he did or he didn’t.’
Rosie pursed her lips. ‘I heard him talking to Mrs Armstrong.’
Sara frowned. ‘Mrs Armstrong? Is that your teacher?’
‘No. My teacher’s Mrs Sanders,’ said Rosie scornfully. ‘Mrs Armstrong is Rupert and Nigel’s mother.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Sara assumed they must be children in her class. ‘And—you heard your daddy telling Mrs Armstrong that you’d be going away to school soon? Is that right?’
‘No.’ Rosie started for the door. ‘Can we go?’
Sara heaved a sigh. She had no right to question the child, but she wanted to know what Matt had been saying. It was obvious it was on Rosie’s mind, and perhaps he ought to be told that it wasn’t wise to discuss his daughter’s future with—with whom? Who was this Mrs Armstrong? Apart from being Rupert and Nigel’s mother, of course. Was she another woman, like Emma Proctor, who considered herself more than just a friend?
‘We’ll go when you tell me what you heard,’ she declared firmly, and Rosie sniffed.
‘Does it matter?’
‘I think it might.’
Sara gazed at her solemnly, wishing she didn’t have to be stern with her. Rosie looked so adorable in her white canvas shorts and striped tee shirt, and Sara was tempted to take her in her arms and hug her and tell her that Matt wouldn’t dream of sending her away to school. But until she knew what had been said she had to tamp down her emotions, even if the little girl had found a special place in her heart.
‘Oh—well…’ Rosie was reluctant to go on. ‘It was something Mrs Armstrong said, that’s all.’
‘Which was?’
‘Well, she said Daddy hadn’t been very lucky with nannies,’ mumbled Rosie unwillingly. ‘That when you left he’d likely have to send me away.’
‘She said that!’ Sara was appalled.
‘Not ‘xactly.’
‘Well, what exactly did she say?’ demanded Sara, and then felt her face flood with hot colour when she suddenly realised that Matt was standing in the open doorway.
He must have heard what they were saying, she thought, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Oh, God, he was going to think she’d been pumping the child for information. He might even think she was curious about this Mrs Armstrong, whoever she was. And just because he might be right that was no excuse.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his gaze moving between them, and Sara and Rosie exchanged an embarrassed look.
The little girl recovered herself first. ‘We were just talking about school, Daddy,’ she said, with remarkable aplomb. ‘Now we’re going for a walk.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Sara thought she should have known that Matt wouldn’t swallow that. ‘I think you should go and check with Mrs Webb first. She may have something she wants you to do.’
‘Like what?’
Rosie was indignant, but her father’s expression warned her not to argue. With a hunching of her shoulders she marched out of the door, leaving Sara to face the music alone.
Matt waited until his daughter was out of earshot and then arched an enquiring brow. ‘School?’ he said, without inflection. ‘What have you been telling her?’
‘Me?’ Despite the quickening of her heartbeat, Sara managed to sound reasonably calm. ‘I haven’t been telling her anything. Well, not about school anyway.’
Matt came further into the room. He was wearing shorts today, khaki shorts that exposed his long muscled legs. Like hers, his black tee shirt barely skimmed his waistband, and her eyes were unwillingly drawn to the wedge of brown skin that appeared every time he moved.
Why was it that when she looked at him she was so acutely aware of her own sexuality? she wondered. Why, when for years she’d believed herself immune from any man’s attraction, was she so irresistibly drawn to Matt’s masculine grace? It was pointless, when all was said and done, and foolish. But she couldn’t help herself. And if Max ever found out…
Well, he’d make her suffer for it, she reflected bitterly. But then, he’d make her suffer anyway. And perhaps she deserved his contempt. She was his wife, after all. She shouldn’t be having these kinds of feelings for a man who wasn’t her husband. Yet it was such a long time since Max had engendered anything inside her but fear and revulsion.
Even thinking about what was facing her when she returned to London was terrifying. Max was never going to forgive her for leaving him as she had. She mustn’t forget that he knew that she was to blame for his fall. However accidental it might have been, she would bear the brunt of his wrath.
‘So what were you talking about?’
Matt’s words broke into her pained reverie and she forced herself to meet his dark gaze. Was that an accusation she could see in the depths of his eyes? Or was it just, as Mrs Webb had said, that he did look excessively weary?
She hesitated now, and then, deciding she had nothing to lose, she said quietly, ‘Are you thinking of sending Rosie away to school?’
‘What?’
He looked stunned, and Sara felt somewhat reassured. ‘You’re not?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he demanded, and then, as if noting how his angry words affected her, he calmed down. ‘Where did you get that idea?’
‘Would you believe from Rosie?’ Sara dug her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans, aware that her hands were sweating. She wished she had shorts to wear, she thought ruefully. The jeans were far too warm for the humid weather they were having at present. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. ‘I think she’s worried about what you’re planning to do when I leave.’
‘Rosie?’ Matt shook his head. ‘But I’ve never—’
‘Not even to Mrs Armstrong?’ asked Sara, before she lost her nerve, and Matt’s eyes narrowed.
‘Gloria?’ he said, apparently confirming that he knew the woman far better than Sara could have wished.
‘If that’s her name,’ she agreed, annoyed to hear the note of censure in her voice. ‘I believe you were discussing the problems you were having in keeping a nanny with her.’
‘Blast!’ Matt raised a hand and raked long fingers over his scalp. His action widened the gap between his shirt and his shorts and once again Sara’s eyes were drawn to his flat stomach. ‘What did Rosie say?’
‘What? Oh—’ Sara swallowed, finding it difficult to drag her gaze away from his taut body. Trying to concentrate on what she was saying, she mumbled, ‘I don’t remember exactly what she said now.’
‘No?’ Matt didn’t sound convinced, and, as if becoming aware of her distraction, he uttered a rough oath. Turning away from her, he added in a strangled voice, ‘Dammit, Sara, will you stop looking at me that way? It’s difficult enough keeping my hands off you as it is.’
Sara sucked in her breath. She’d never expected that. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said huskily. She turned towards the door. ‘Would you like me to go?’
Matt gave an incredulous snort. ‘No, I wouldn’t like you to go,’ he retorted harshly. ‘I think you know what I’d really like you to do, so don’t let’s pretend we’re fooling anybody here. You’re married, and for some crazy reason you insist on going back to your husband. I can’t say I’m happy about it, but my feelings don’t count for much, do they?’

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