Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

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 only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending 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, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and 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 imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Hot Pursuit
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

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.’

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