Hot Pursuit (18 page)

‘I bet you were.' Sara moved, putting the width of a Regency striped sofa between them. ‘You must have got quite a shock when she collapsed.'

‘I did. Of course I did.' Max was defensive now. ‘I had no idea what the crazy old bat was likely to say next.'

‘That you threatened her, perhaps?' suggested Sara, before
she could lose her nerve. ‘You didn't like what she was saying so you lost your temper, didn't you? That was a mistake, Max. You've lost your strongest ally.'

Max's broad face hardened. ‘I don't need allies,' he said indifferently. ‘I have you.'

‘You don't.' Sara knew her voice wasn't as strong as she'd have liked, but that couldn't be helped. ‘Didn't you hear what I said, Max? I'm leaving you. I—I only came back to tell you goodbye.'

Max sighed. ‘My dear Victoria, you know you don't mean that. If you'd really wanted to leave me you'd have sent me another letter.' He paused. ‘Where have you been, by the way? I think I deserve an explanation.'

‘You don't deserve anything.' Sara quivered with indignation. ‘You've been lying to me for years.' She took a breath. ‘How long have you known Sophie is still alive?'

Max shrugged. ‘Sophie?' He made a careless gesture. ‘My first wife is dead, Victoria. She was drowned in the Solent ten years ago.'

‘That's not true.' Sara was amazed he would think she'd still believe it. ‘She only pretended to drown. With her mother's help she escaped to the States. She's been living there ever since. You know that.'

Max shook his head. ‘I know that's what your mother says,' he said patiently, almost as if he was speaking to a child. ‘But it's not true. And, even if it was, it has nothing to do with us.'

‘It does.' Sara was desperate. ‘If Sophie is alive, you were not free to marry me.'

‘You're wrong.' He was smug. ‘Sophie was legally declared dead before our marriage could take place.'

‘Even so—'

‘Face it, Victoria. We are married. Do you think I'd make a mistake like that?'

‘But our marriage is a mockery,' protested Sara, her hopes for the future fading before her eyes. ‘I—I want a divorce.'

‘I don't.' Max was infuriatingly casual. ‘And if there's the slightest chance that I may have overlooked something, we can easily rectify it. I'll arrange for us to—how shall I put it?—
restate our wedding vows. Yes, that sounds good. No one but ourselves need know why we're doing so.'

‘No!' Sara's jaw dropped. ‘Do you honestly think I'd do something like that?' she gasped. ‘You are crazy.'

‘Like a fox,' said Max drily, but his mouth had tightened ominously even so. Then, obviously making an effort to control himself again, he said, ‘You still haven't told me where you've been, my dear.' He arched a quizzical brow. ‘Or would you like me to tell you?'

Sara was taken aback, and showed it. ‘You don't know where I've been,' she said quickly, but Max merely bared his teeth in a mocking smile.

‘I'm afraid I do,' he said. ‘I know exactly where you've been hiding yourself. And who with. A charming young lady in Ellsmoor heard me asking about you and kindly volunteered the information I needed. I think her name was Proctor. Is that right? Emma Proctor? She was very kind.' Then his features hardened again. ‘So, how long have you known Matt Seton?'

Sara's fingers gripped the back of the sofa. She wanted to tell him she didn't know what he was talking about, but she was very much afraid her face had given her away.

‘I—I told you in my letter,' she insisted. ‘I've been staying with friends—'

‘Not
friends
,' Max contradicted her harshly, leaning across the sofa and imprisoning her white-knuckled hands beneath his. ‘One friend, Victoria.' His face contorted. ‘I repeat, how long have you known Seton? How long has he been your lover?'

‘My lover!' Sara could feel all the blood draining out of her fingers as Max's grip tightened. But it wasn't that that caused her breath to strangle in her throat. ‘Matt Seton's not my lover!'

‘Isn't he?' Max knelt on the sofa to increase his hold on her. He stared at her intently. ‘So why are you looking so guilty?'

‘I'm not looking guilty.' But she was, and she knew it. ‘You're hurting me.'

‘I can hurt you a whole lot more than this,' snarled Max savagely. His lips curled. ‘Who would have thought it? My frigid little wife has the hots for a famous author. I wonder how
long his sales will hold up when my publicity people are through with him? Dare you risk that?'

‘Oh, I think my public has more sense than to believe an abusive bastard like you,' remarked a casual voice from the doorway, and Sara looked beyond Max to see Matt and Hugo standing watching them. ‘And I suggest you let go of Sara. At once, if you don't mind. We don't want any more visible signs of your cruelty on her when she files for her divorce.'

S
ARA
took the train to Newcastle, spent the night at the Station Hotel, and hired a car to drive north the following morning.

Needless to say, she hadn't slept. Although she was excited at the prospect of seeing Matt again, she couldn't help wondering if she wasn't being too presumptive. After all, Matt was a famous man. He could pick and choose his friends, male as well as female. The very fact that he hadn't been in touch with her since he returned to Northumberland three months ago should have been enough to give her pause.

Maybe she should have waited for him to contact her. He was bound to visit London some time. Or should she have phoned him before recklessly boarding the train? Just because he hadn't wanted her to go back to Max that didn't mean he wanted her himself.

The truth, which was always the hardest to stomach, was that she wanted to see him. She was desperate to see him, actually, she thought ruefully. She had to know if they had a future together. She had to know if his kindness to her had been motivated by pity—or love.

Judging by the weeks and months that had gone by since he'd left London, the former seemed infinitely more probable. She'd known he felt sorry for her, that he'd wanted to protect her. Why couldn't she get her head round the fact that that was all he wanted? Why did a little voice inside her keep insisting that they deserved another chance?

If they'd had the opportunity to talk three months ago things might have been different. Clearer, certainly. As it was, all she had to go on was the stand he'd taken on her behalf when Max had been threatening her; his support when she'd explained that she'd been protecting her mother. And his efforts to ensure that until she got her divorce she had a place to live.

The scene Matt and Hugo had interrupted in Max's drawing
room was indelibly printed on her mind. Despite what had happened since then, subconsciously she kept replaying it in all its awful detail, reliving the moment when Max had realised he had underestimated his enemy.

Underestimated his brother, too, she remembered. It was Hugo who had let Matt into his brother's apartment; Hugo who had told him about Mrs Fielding's heart attack and his fears that Max might have had something to do with it.

To begin with Max had tried to bluff it out. He'd tried to convince Matt that he'd only been teasing his wife by threatening him; that he was jealous.

Of course, he hadn't known how intimately Matt had come to know her, that anything he said would be suspect to a man who'd seen what he'd already done to her in the past. He'd probably hoped that he could deceive Matt as he had deceived her mother. Certainly when he'd released her and got up from the couch there'd been nothing but bland geniality in his face.

Matt, however, had had a different agenda.

‘Pack an overnight bag, Sara,' he'd said, ignoring Max's protestations as if he wasn't there. ‘You can collect the rest of your clothes later.'

And, because that had been exactly what she'd wanted to do, Sara had obeyed him. She didn't know what had happened after she'd left the room. She'd closed the doors of the drawing room behind her, running up the stairs to the first floor as if the devil himself was at her heels.

It had taken only a few minutes to throw some trousers and shirts into a bag. She'd added underwear, shoes and stockings to the leather tote, sweeping her toothbrush, moisturiser and lipstick into a make-up case.

Then, cramming the bag shut, she'd picked it up and taken a last look around the bedroom she had shared with her husband. Even looking at the bed had caused a sick feeling in her stomach, and, with the bag banging against her legs, she'd hurried down the stairs again, eager to be gone.

She'd half expected to hear angry voices as she'd descended the stairs. She'd been apprehensive of what Max might do if he was cornered. But when she'd opened the drawing room
doors again she'd found her husband and Hugo seated together on the couch while Matt had been standing by the window.

Matt had looked relieved when she'd reappeared again. She guessed he'd wondered if she might change her mind about leaving. After all, only days before she'd told him that she had no choice but to return to her husband. Despite Hugo's revelations, he was still unaware that Max's first wife was alive, that her mother's eyes had finally been opened.

Right then, however, it had been Max's face that had drawn her attention. Scarlet with rage, he'd been forced to watch their departure with furious eyes. He'd said nothing, but his eyes had promised retribution, and she was sure it was only Hugo's hand on his sleeve that had stopped him from saying how he felt.

She didn't know what Matt had said to him even now—what he'd done—but clearly it had been enough to prevent any immediate retaliation. Nevertheless, Sara had worried that Max's desire for revenge would overcome Hugo's common sense.

It hadn't happened.

Max himself had suffered a stroke a few days later that had left him severely paralysed and barely able to speak. Hugo had had to abandon the play he'd been appearing in to take charge of his brother's affairs, and he had been more than willing to co-operate with Sara in any way he could.

It had been a difficult time for all of them. And, although Sara hadn't wanted to accept anything from the Bradburys, Hugo had insisted on organising convalescent treatment for her mother when she'd left the hospital. He'd also arranged for the deeds of Mrs Fielding's apartment to be made over to her, ensuring that she would keep her home whatever happened.

He'd wanted to provide an apartment for Sara, too, but, although she'd thanked him, she'd turned him down. Matt had found her somewhere to live until her affairs were settled. A friend of his, another doctor, was planning to spend six months working in the United States and he was quite happy for her to look after his house in Putney while he was away. It had two bedrooms and a garden, and Sara had spent much of the past three months sitting on the patio, trying to make some sense of her life.

Of course, to begin with, she'd spent quite a bit of time at the hospital with her mother. Matt had respected this, but it had meant they'd had little time to talk. Although he'd told her about Max's visit, and his own concern for her whereabouts which had culminated in Rob Marco's supplying him with Max's address, they hadn't discussed personal matters.

She'd been so grateful that he'd run into Hugo outside the apartment building. She doubted he'd have been admitted on his own. And if he hadn't…

But they hadn't talked about that either. Although he'd stayed on for a while she'd known that Matt was eager to get back to his daughter. He'd left her with Mrs Webb and her family while he'd made the trip, but he couldn't stay away indefinitely.

Nevertheless, he had been a tower of strength when Max had had his attack. And when Sara had tried to blame herself for being the cause of it he'd put her straight.

‘You have to stop feeling guilty for being a victim,' he'd said, just a couple of days before he'd returned to Northumberland. ‘Max had been living on the edge for far too long. His blood pressure must have been sky-high. It was only a matter of time before he snapped.'

Sara suspected he was right, but it had put another obstacle between them. There was no way they could talk about their future with Max lying paralysed in a hospital bed. It was only now, with her initial decree for divorce in her bag, that she felt able to come here and find out if she meant anything to him. Or whether circumstances had blinded her to the obvious: that she was merely another patient to add to his casebook.

She'd read most of Matt's books now. Although his kind of hard-edged crime novel wasn't usually her choice of fiction, she'd found his style of writing fascinating. The main character in all his books was a criminal psychologist, and she'd seen Matt himself in the intelligent caring man he wrote about.

She'd seen, too, that apart from his special treatment of her she had no real reason for believing she was any different from any of the women in his novels. Some of them became attracted to the character he wrote about, but at the end of every book the man was on his own again.

Was that how Matt wanted to live his life? she wondered anxiously, as the signs for Ellsmoor began to appear on her right. Was she only asking for more pain by coming here? Pain of a different sort, and far more devastating?

She had to find out. She couldn't go on not knowing. It was killing her. Living every day as if it was her last.

She passed Rosie's school just as the children were streaming out of the classroom for the morning break. She was tempted to stop and speak to the child, but she knew that was just a delaying tactic. But it did make her think.

Although Rosie had been keen enough for her to be her nanny, Sara didn't know how she'd feel about anything else. Would she want to share her father's affections with another woman? Sara's experience, limited as it was, didn't condition her to expect any happy endings.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when she turned into the private road that led up to Matt's home. Her hands were slippery on the wheel of the hired car, but she succeeded in turning into the gates of Seadrift and drawing the car to a halt in front of the house.

It was amazing how familiar everything looked. It was a warm sunny morning, and the walls of the house were bathed in a mellow light. Her eyes moved beyond the house to the cliffs and the ever-changing sea beyond, and she took a deep breath. She had the most ridiculous feeling that she'd come home.

Although she'd have liked to go round to the back of the house, she rang the front doorbell instead, stepping back a little apprehensively when she heard footsteps in the hall.

Mrs Webb opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Why Miss Victor,' she began, and then corrected herself. ‘I mean, Mrs Bradbury. What are you doing here?'

It was hardly the greeting Sara could have hoped for. ‘I— I've come to see Matt,' she said firmly, wishing she felt more confident. ‘Could you tell him I'm here?'

Mrs Webb shook her head, and Sara's spirits sank. But the housekeeper only said, ‘You've changed your hair, haven't you? It suits you.'

‘Thank you.' Sara had had the long hair Max had always coveted cut to a length that barely touched her shoulders. Then, trying to be patient, ‘Is Matt in?'

Once again Mrs Webb shook her head. ‘I'm afraid he's not,' she said, briefly dashing Sara's spirits for a second time. ‘He's taken the dogs out, Mrs Bradbury. I believe he's gone down to the beach. Do you want to come in and wait?'

Sara's head turned towards the cliffs and her stomach fluttered in anticipation. ‘I—no,' she said, realising there was no way she could go into the house and sit and wait for Matt to come back. ‘I—er—I'll go and meet him.'

‘Are you sure?'

The housekeeper looked disappointed, and Sara guessed she'd been hoping to hear what was going on. But it seemed fitting somehow that she should meet Matt on the beach. After all, that was where their relationship had changed so dramatically.

‘I expect I'll see you later,' Sara murmured, hoping she wasn't being too presumptuous, and, leaving the woman to gaze consideringly after her, she walked away.

She was glad her shoes had only modest heels as she crossed the grassy stretch to the cliff path. Although it was a beautiful morning, dew had soaked the grass and her heels sank into the soft earth. She was wearing a cream silk blouse, and a brown suede skirt, and the breeze blew the lapels against her cheek.

She paused at the top of the path and looked for Matt. And saw him. He was standing with his back to her, at the edge of the water, throwing spars of driftwood for the dogs to rescue. The two retrievers were charging excitedly into the surf, fetching the wood back to him and waiting with wagging tails for him to repeat the procedure.

Sara's heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him. She hadn't realised until then just how much she'd needed to see him, and her knees shook a little as she started down the path.

She didn't know what alerted him to her presence. It wasn't the dogs. They were too busy playing to pay any attention to someone who was still so far away. But Matt glanced around
and saw her, and, leaving the animals, he strode across the sand to meet her.

Sara reached the bottom of the path at the same time he did. They both halted, as if now that they were face to face they had nothing to say to one another. Then, feeling it was incumbent upon her to break the silence, Sara said breathily, ‘You're wet!'

Matt glanced down. The legs of his jeans were soaked. ‘I know,' he said ruefully, but he didn't sound as if he cared. ‘You're not,' he added, after a moment. ‘In fact, you're looking great. Life must be agreeing with you.'

Sara didn't know how to answer that. But as she continued to look at him she saw that he had lost weight. Although he still looked good to her, she saw that his cheeks had hollowed, there were pouches beneath his eyes, and his mouth had a distinctly cynical curve.

But she couldn't say that either. Instead, she chose to gesture at her own clothes, saying lightly, ‘It must be quite a change for you to see me in something decent at last.' And when that didn't provoke any response she went on, ‘Do you like my hair?'

‘I liked it before,' said Matt indifferently. Then, as Mrs Webb had done before him, ‘What are you doing here, Sara?'

Sara took a deep breath and decided she had to be forthright about this. ‘I—thought you might be glad to see me,' she said, lifting her shoulders in an embarrassed gesture. ‘Was I wrong?'

Matt swayed back on his heels. He was barefoot, she noticed, the cuffs of his jeans rolled to his knees.

‘I'm always pleased to see a friend,' he replied at last, which wasn't at all what she wanted to hear. ‘How's your mother?'