Hot Pursuit (10 page)

And, unable to prevent himself, he bent his head and kissed her, brushing the bruised skin with his lips.

She jerked beneath his caressing touch, her hands balling into fists at her sides. He would have liked to think it was to prevent herself from touching him, but he didn't believe that. Indeed,
apart from one revealing twitch, she made no move either to encourage or stop him, and Matt knew it was up to him to show some sense here.

But it was hard to be sensible. Her skin was so tender, so delicate. She tasted good, too, the light film of perspiration that had beaded her skin when he'd cleansed her hip like nectar on his tongue. Even the faint scent of the ointment was not unpleasant. It certainly wasn't enough to deter his desire. He wanted to taste every inch of her. In spite of everything, he couldn't stop.

His breath dampened her flesh. His lips burned a circle of kisses around her navel before beating a sensual path over her flat stomach. His thumbs urged the folds of the dress aside, revealing the hem of her bra. The enticing hollow between her breasts was visible to his impassioned gaze. He caught his breath. He wanted to remove her bra, to expose the rounded swell of her small breasts. He could see her nipples were already straining at the delicate lace that confined them. He longed to feel those hard peaks against his palms.

Dear God!

His own reactions to what he was doing could no longer be ignored. Between his legs his arousal throbbed with a painful insistence, and the blood was pounding in his head.

But he had to stop. With considerable effort he lifted his head and looked at her, encountering an unexpected trace of regret in her gaze. He'd expected many things: indignation; disillusionment; anger, even. What he hadn't expected was that she might actually have welcomed his lovemaking, and his brows drew together in momentary disbelief.

But her first words didn't match the fleeting expression that had now disappeared entirely. ‘Are you going to let me up now?' she asked, her voice as cold as her words. ‘Or are you going to demand payment for your services? Max said all men were the same in that respect.'

Matt's face flamed. Jerking back, he moved to the foot of the bed, wondering how he could have fooled himself into believing that she might want anything from him. She'd merely tolerated his lovemaking, borne his maudlin sympathies. For
God's sake, she was married to someone else. What did he expect?

But then, as if she'd instantly regretted the harshness of her words, Sara gave a despairing little moan. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, pulling down her skirt and scrambling across the bed towards him. She swung her feet to the floor beside him. ‘I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it.'

‘Didn't you?' Matt wasn't prepared to put his feelings on the line again. He was already deploring the impulse that had got him into this situation. Having her forgive him for being such an idiot was no compensation at all. Getting up from the bed, he thrust his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans, swayed back on his heels with what he hoped looked like cool indifference. ‘Well, that's good. I'd hate you to think I'd planned to seduce you as well.'

‘I don't.' She stood up, too, and although she was considerably smaller than he was without her high heels she was still too close for comfort. ‘Matt, I—I know you meant well, but—'

‘Spare me the lecture,' he said, his own voice harsh in his ears. ‘I've obviously embarrassed you—embarrassed us both—and I apologise.' He stepped back a pace, to put some space between them. ‘I'll leave you now. You can let me know what you intend to do when—'

‘No!' She caught his arm then, her cool fingers slipping almost possessively about his wrist. ‘Please, Matt. Don't go away mad at me.'

Matt expelled a heavy breath, trying not to consider what she wanted now. ‘I'm not mad at you,' he said, after a few moments of self-denial. Forcing himself to concentrate on the reason why he'd come to her room in the first place, he nodded towards the loveseat. ‘I bought you a couple of things in Ellsmoor. You may want to change before you leave.'

Sara's lips parted. She didn't even look at the jeans and tee shirt he'd found in the mini-market. ‘You want me to leave?' she asked anxiously, her hands tightening on his arm, and he stared at her with guarded eyes.

‘I understood that was what you wanted,' he said, stifling the sudden urge he had to beg her to stay.

Sara swallowed. ‘It's what I ought to do,' she admitted. ‘My staying here—well, it could put you in an awkward position.'

‘Do I look like I'm worried?' Matt's lips twisted. ‘It's your decision. I'm not sending you away.'

Sara gazed up at him. ‘So—I can still stay until tomorrow?'

‘You can stay as long as you like,' retorted Matt roughly, taking the hand resting on his arm and raising it to his lips. His mouth grazed her knuckles before seeking the network of veins at her wrist. ‘I may not approve of what you're doing, but you're safe here. I can promise you that.'

‘Oh, Matt.' She brought her free hand up to his face, cupping his jaw with unsteady fingers. ‘I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to thank you.'

‘No thanks are necessary,' Matt told her flatly. But when he would have turned away she reached up, and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth.

‘I'd like to stay,' she whispered at last, drawing back. ‘For a few days at least, if you'll let me.' She moistened her lips. ‘But I'm going to have to let—let Max know that I'm all right.'

‘As opposed to being at his mercy?' suggested Matt, with some bitterness, but it was a reprieve and he was grateful for it. ‘Why don't you leave that to me? You write a note and I'll get it to him without running the risk of his finding out where you are.'

Her eyes widened. ‘You can do that?' She trembled. ‘But how?'

‘You don't want to know,' replied Matt, removing her hand from his face before temptation got the better of him. Then, at the anxious look she was wearing, ‘Don't worry. I won't cause any trouble. Not until I know what kind of hold he has over you, at least.'

He walked to the door, eager now to withdraw and consider his options. ‘Check out the gear. I'm going to speak to Mrs Webb. And don't fret that she's not trustworthy. She is. If it hadn't been for her this place would never have become the sanctuary it is.'

Sara looked painfully vulnerable as she stood watching him leave the room. But he wondered if he wasn't being the world's
most gullible fool for taking her in. Or for being taken in by her? he mused, wanting to restore his sense of balance. He might be judging her husband without cause. But he didn't think he was. It might be foolish, but he trusted her.

But how the hell was he supposed to write fiction in his present frame of mind?

S
ARA
spent the rest of the morning in her room, trying to come to terms with what Matt had told her.

Max wasn't dead, she repeated incredulously. He was alive. The fears she'd had on his behalf had been groundless. He'd been taken to hospital, sure, but he'd been well enough to discharge himself the following morning. And since then he'd been trying to cover himself by pretending that
she
had disappeared, that
she
might have been kidnapped.

She trembled. After Matt had left her, she'd taken up a position on the window seat, gazing out at the sun-drenched cliffs and the water beyond with a feeling of disbelief. She still found it hard to accept that she was here, hundreds of miles from London; that she'd escaped. However grateful she was that Max had survived, the manner of her departure remained a constant source of amazement. How had he let her get away?

Of course, he had been unconscious at the time. He must have hit his head when he fell and for a few minutes he'd been dead to the world. Dead to her, too, she thought bitterly. She should have known it would take more than a simple fall to kill a man like Max Bradbury.

Not that she wanted him dead, she assured herself. That was too high a price to pay, even for her freedom. But if only he had been a reasonable man, a man she could appeal to. When it had become obvious that their marriage was not what he had expected, that
she
was not what he had expected, why couldn't he have let her go? It was what any other man would have done; any normal man, that was. But it hadn't taken her long to find out that Max was anything but normal.

She supposed they must have been married for about six months when he'd struck her for the first time.

She'd already learned not to contradict him, particularly if he'd been drinking. He had said some incredibly cruel things
to her, things he'd said he regretted bitterly when he was sober again, and she'd believed him. The crude words he'd used, deriding her for the smallest thing, belittling her intelligence, accusing her of being something she was not, had seemed so uncharacteristic of the man she'd believed she'd married. She'd been sure that it was the alcohol that was responsible for his ungovernable rage, and for a while he'd been able to hide his real nature from her.

But then everything had changed. It had only taken the discovery that she was on first-name terms with the commissionaire who worked in the lobby of their apartment building to invoke an almost insane fury. She'd been totally unprepared for the fist that had suddenly bored into her midriff and she'd been doubled over, gasping for air and sanity, when he'd stormed out of the duplex.

Of course, he'd apologised when he'd come back. He'd made the excuse of stress at the office, of being madly jealous of any man who spoke to her, of his own uncontrollable temper. He'd sworn it would never happen again, showered her with expensive presents until she'd been convinced of his regret.

Until the next time…

But she didn't want to think about that now; didn't want to consider what a naïve fool she had been, or how easily Max had managed to persuade her that she was actually to blame for his outbursts. In the beginning, desperate to make her marriage work—for her mother's sake as well as her own—she'd seized any excuse to explain his violence. The truth was, she hadn't been able to believe what was happening to her. She'd deluded herself that once Max realised she wasn't interested in any other man he'd come to his senses.

It hadn't happened. The violence had just got worse and there'd been nothing she could do. Max had made it very clear that he would never let her go, and she'd had the very real fear that if she did try to free herself he would turn his anger on her mother.

She was glad now that they'd had no children. Max would have had no compunction about using them in his unequal struggle for possession. Besides which, she realised now that
his jealousy would never have allowed a third person to dilute the complete submission he demanded of her.

Thrusting these thoughts aside, she got to her feet and crossed to the small pile of clothes Matt had left on the loveseat. There were jeans, which she judged might fit her very well, a couple of tee shirts, two changes of cheap underwear, the kind that was available in supermarkets, and a pair of trainers.

She pressed her lips together after she had examined the clothes, her eyes filling with tears suddenly at his kindness. This presumably was the ‘gift' he'd brought her, only to find her cowering behind the bathroom door. She'd been so afraid of him seeing her, of him finding out what Max had done to her, but now she was glad he knew. It was such a relief to have someone she could talk to, someone who wouldn't judge her. And, although she'd admitted nothing, she suspected Matt knew exactly what had been going on.

Sooner or later, she knew, she would have to go back, but please God not yet. Whatever excuse she gave, Max was never going to believe her version of events. Apart from anything else, she had shamed and humiliated him—or at least that was how he would see it. He was never going to forgive her for that.

Trying to ignore the inevitable, Sara carried the jeans and one of the tee shirts into the bathroom and took off her dress. The voile dress had been new, bought to go to the art exhibition Max had been planning to visit the evening when fate had overtaken both of them. It was strange to think it was the dress that had led to Max's accident. But then, it was on such simple things as these that her marriage had foundered.

As she hung the dress on the back of the bathroom door she thought how foolish she'd been to think that Max might like it. He hadn't chosen it, and for a long time now he had chosen all her clothes. But he had encouraged her to attend the fashion show with the wife of one of his colleagues, and, after seeing it modelled, Sara had fallen in love with its style and elegance.

Its style and elegance! Sara's lips curled in painful remembrance. Max hadn't thought it was either stylish or elegant. He'd said it was the kind of dress only a tart would wear, that she'd chosen it because she'd wanted to flaunt herself. She was quite
sure that if he hadn't fallen down the stairs he'd have torn the garment off her, and she wished now that she'd taken the time to grab a change of clothes before fleeing from the apartment. She didn't like the dress now; she hated it. She took a breath. Hated
him
! God help her.

The jeans were a little big, but that didn't matter. At least they weren't tight on her hip. The tee shirt was cropped and ended a daring inch above her navel, which she worried about a little. But then she remembered Max wasn't going to see her. For now she could please herself what she wore.

The trainers fitted beautifully. Sara guessed Matt must have checked the size of her shoes before buying them. Whatever, she looked infinitely better. She felt almost her old self as she went downstairs at lunchtime.

The first person she encountered was Mrs Webb. The housekeeper was setting the table in the dining room again and Sara halted uncertainly, not sure she wanted to face another grilling.

But Mrs Webb had seen her and, straightening, she arched her brows appreciatively. ‘You look nice,' she said, with none of the animosity that she'd exhibited earlier. ‘Matt's got good taste.'

Sara gave a rueful smile, realising there was no point in pretending that she'd brought the garments with her. ‘Where is— Matt?' she asked, for want of anything else to say, and the housekeeper returned to her task.

‘He's in his office, study, whatever you want to call it.' She sounded indulgent. ‘He said to tell you to go ahead and have lunch without him. I believe he's got a lot of work to catch up on, and he's got to pick Rosie up at three o'clock.'

Sara came a little further into the room. ‘I didn't realise he was writing a book at the moment,' she said, feeling a familiar sense of inadequacy. ‘I should apologise. I've taken up so much of his time.'

‘Did I say he was complaining?' The older woman gave her a sideways glance. ‘If you ask me, he's more than happy to have you here. Writing can be a lonely existence. And since Hester retired he's had to make do with Rosie's and my company.'

‘Hester.' Sara remembered the little girl mentioning that name yesterday afternoon when she'd been trying to prove how grown up she was. ‘Who—who is Hester?'

‘She used to be Rosie's nanny,' explained Mrs Webb, straightening from the table again. ‘She came north with Matt when he bought this place. She was from around here originally, just as he was.'

Sara nodded. ‘But she left?'

‘She retired,' replied the housekeeper, heading for the door. ‘Now, you sit yourself down. I'll be back in a minute with your meal.'

Sara would have liked to ask if she could just have her meal in the kitchen, as she'd done the day before, but she was chary of getting too familiar with Mrs Webb. She didn't know what Matt had told her, if anything, and until she did it was probably safer to maintain a certain detachment.

The housekeeper returned with an appetising dish of lasagne and new bread, fresh out of the oven. She advised Sara to help herself and, although her appetite had been virtually nonexistent since she left London, Sara found to her surprise that she was hungry.

She refused the glass of wine Mrs Webb offered, however. A diet cola was far more appealing, and by the time the housekeeper returned to see how she was doing she'd made a modest dent in the pasta.

‘That was delicious,' she said, feeling pleased with herself. ‘Did you make it?'

‘Well, I didn't buy it,' remarked Mrs Webb drily. ‘I don't hold with all those ready-made meals, although I suppose if you're a working girl you can't always spend half the day in the kitchen, can you?'

‘No, I suppose not.'

Sara thought longingly of those occasions when she'd made a meal for her mother and herself. But that was in the days before Max came on the scene; before he'd come to the school to present a cheque to the governors to equip a new gymnasium and decided she was going to be the next Mrs Bradbury. Before Sara's mother had seen him as her last chance to escape from
what she regarded as the near-poverty that had dogged her married life.

‘So—can I get you anything else?' asked Mrs Webb, gathering the plates together. ‘Some ice cream, perhaps?'

‘Nothing else, thanks.' Sara took a deep breath, once again dispelling Max's image from her mind. ‘Do you think Matt would mind if I took the dogs for a walk?'

The housekeeper looked surprised. ‘I'd say he'd be delighted,' she replied drily. ‘But are you sure you can manage them on your own? They're pretty wild.'

‘I'm not as helpless as I look,' declared Sara with a smile. ‘But I won't go down to the beach. I'm not that stupid.'

‘Well, actually, you could now,' said the older woman thoughtfully. ‘The tide's turned.'

Sara hoped so; she really did. But she wasn't thinking about the water that had trapped her earlier.

She accompanied Mrs Webb into the kitchen, helping her to load the lunch dishes into the dishwasher before going out into the garden. The two retrievers in their compound, sensing an outing, immediately set up a noisy greeting which completely masked the arrival of the young woman who suddenly appeared around the corner of the house.

Sara didn't know who was the most shocked: herself, because of her fear of being recognised, or the other woman, who clearly wasn't pleased to find her there. Sara didn't know how she knew the stranger didn't approve of her presence. She just sensed it. So who was she?

Mrs Webb supplied the answer. Following Sara out of the house, she saw the newcomer almost as soon as Sara did herself, and her lips parted in a pleasant smile.

‘Mrs Proctor,' she said. ‘What a surprise!'

The young woman came towards them. In a cream silk shirt tied stylishly at her waist and pleated linen trousers in a subtle shade of taupe she made Sara instantly aware of the limitations of her own attire. Mrs Proctor's hair was dark, a smooth silken cap that tucked confidingly beneath a most attractive chin. Sara guessed, too, that the hazel eyes set in a flawlessly oval face would miss little.

But for now the woman was obliged to acknowledge the housekeeper's greeting. Sara thought it was lucky that she hadn't let the dogs out. Mrs Proctor didn't look the type to appreciate having their paws on her clothes, and she ignored them as she produced an answering smile. ‘Hello, Mrs Webb,' she said politely. ‘Isn't it a perfect afternoon?'

And it was, thought Sara, glancing up at the clear blue sky above their heads. She just hoped the newcomer wasn't going to spoil it.

The realisation that she had no right to think things like that brought her up short. For heaven's sake, she chided herself, she probably had less right to be here than anyone else. In fact, scrub ‘probably'. She had no right to be here at all.

‘Is Matt working?'

Mrs Proctor's voice matched the rest of her: cool and cultivated, yet with an underlying note of arrogance. Sara had the impression she didn't care much for Mrs Webb either. But she was obliged to be civil.

‘Yes, I'm afraid so.' Mrs Webb had brought the dogs' slip collars out with her, and now she handed them over to Sara. ‘Is there anything I can do?'

In a pig's eye,
thought Sara drily, guessing that the visitor would want nothing from the housekeeper. But it wasn't anything to do with her, and, dipping her head, she went to unbolt the compound gate.

‘You're not going to let them out, are you?' Before Sara could open the gate, the woman stopped her. ‘I mean—' She glanced down at her immaculate appearance. ‘I really wish you wouldn't.'

Sara looked at Mrs Webb, and the older woman gestured resignedly towards the house. ‘Perhaps you'd better come in then, Mrs Proctor,' she said, without enthusiasm. ‘Maybe you'd like a cup of coffee before you leave.'