Hot Pursuit (4 page)

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.

S
ARA
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 pro
fessional 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, won
dering 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?'