Hot Pursuit (12 page)

Sara was already retreating through the door when Matt went after her. He didn't know what had made him say what he had, but it was obvious she'd been hurt by his words. The trouble was, it was becoming more and more difficult not to show how he was feeling, and he wished he could explain it to her.

He caught her in the hall outside his study, his hand closing round her arm and bringing her to a halt. ‘Sara,' he started again. ‘I'm sorry if I was short with you. When Rob gets on
the phone it's usually because he wants something that I can't give him.'

‘I'm really not interested,' she said, making an effort to release herself from his hold, and Matt gave an impatient sigh.

‘Listen to me,' he said. ‘Rob Marco is my agent. He was ringing to ask why he hasn't had the new manuscript. I was making the excuse that I still didn't have a permanent nanny for Rosie.'

Sara's brows arched scornfully. ‘So?'

‘So that's why I said what I did,' exclaimed Matt doggedly. ‘You probably thought I was criticising you. I wasn't, whatever it sounded like. I was just trying to distract Rob from his impression that you're really my girlfriend.'

‘Look, I really don't care—'

‘No, but I do,' muttered Matt, his patience wearing thin. ‘I'm telling you the truth, dammit. If I'd finished the damn manuscript we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

‘I hope you're not implying that I'm to blame for that,' she countered coldly, stiffening her back, and Matt expelled a long breath.

He was trying hard not to be aware of her small breasts rising and falling in tempo with her increasing indignation, the widening gap between her tee shirt and jeans exposing the intriguing hollow of her navel. She was so incredibly sexy, with her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with aggravated fire. He could feel a sensuous warmth spreading from his fingers to every erogenous nerve in his body, and he knew he was getting dangerously close to combustion.

‘I didn't say that,' he said now, struggling to contain his frustration, and she uttered a triumphant snort.

‘Good,' she said fiercely, and he had the sudden suspicion that she was using her anger to put a barrier between them. ‘Because I suggest that bottle of whisky on your desk is far more culpable than me!'

Matt choked on an oath. ‘Are you kidding?' he gasped. ‘I've had one mouthful of Scotch and that's all.'

‘So you say.'

‘It's the truth.' He was aware of a growing sense of outrage. ‘I'm not an alcoholic.'

‘Well, it isn't even lunchtime yet,' she persisted, and he shook his head in angry disbelief.

‘Where do you get off telling me what to do?' he demanded, using his free hand to pull her round to face him, and then could have died with mortification when he saw her flinch.

It was obvious that she had encountered this kind of situation before and she expected the worst. The look in her eyes damned and humiliated him, and with a groan of anguish he hauled her into his arms.

‘God, I'm sorry,' he muttered, one hand cradling the back of her neck while the other circled her waist. Silky hair brushed his fingers and her skin was incredibly soft beneath his hands. ‘Hell, Sara, don't you know I would never hurt you?'

Her response was muffled, but he could feel the sudden wetness that was dampening his shirt. She was crying, and her distress assaulted him like acid on an open wound. He felt so powerless; so useless. He wanted to help her, but all he was doing was turning her against him, too.

‘Sara, Sara,' he breathed, his fingers caressing her nape, and she did the unforgivable and turned her face up to his.

Her eyes were flooded with tears, but her expression was more forgiving than accusatory. Lashes, several shades darker than her hair, sparkled with jewelled drops, and Matt's tongue itched to lick them away. She was so beautiful, so vulnerable, and the knowledge that he had no right to hold her like this was tearing him to pieces. Did she know what she was doing? he wondered. What she was doing to him? Of course she did, he assured himself. He was holding her too close for the swelling in his pants to be ignored.

Then, ‘Matt,' she said huskily, and it was more than he could bear.

When her hand lifted to his face he caught it and brought her palm to his lips. But even that wasn't enough. He wanted her so much, wanted more than he had any right to expect, and he might never have another chance like this.

Her eyes were wide now, her lips parted and unknowingly
sensual. There was a moment when he might have drawn back, when he might have fought the demons that were riding him, but the sight of her tongue defeated him. When the pink tip appeared to circle her lips, he knew he had to taste it, and, cupping her face between his hands, he bent his head and kissed her.

‘Forgive me,' he groaned, his tongue slipping into her mouth, and after only a momentary hesitation she yielded to his intimate caress.

He'd intended to be gentle with her. He was fairly sure that any relationship she'd had with her husband would not have been gentle, and he'd wanted there to be no confusion between who was holding her, who was kissing her now.

But the moment his mouth covered hers all reason deserted him. He was like a man in the desert who was suddenly presented with a flask of cool clear water and didn't realise until that moment that he was dying of thirst. Maybe it was the way her lips opened to his, or the sensuous brush of her tongue. Or perhaps the devastating realisation he had that she was kissing him back.

Whatever, at that moment all bets were off. The heat that flared between them was automatic and uncontrollable, and Matt's mind swam with the emotions she so easily aroused inside him. He was like a man possessed, and when she wound her arms around his waist and hooked her thumbs into his belt he swayed back against the wall behind him, taking her with him.

The blood was pounding in his head, thundering through his veins, making any kind of coherent thought impossible. She burrowed against him, making him overwhelmingly aware of the layers of fabric that divided them. His skin felt raw, sensitised. He had to fight the urge to peel her tee shirt from her and bury his face between her breasts.

His hands slid down her back as he continued to kiss her, lingering on the bare skin of her midriff that was so tantalisingly warm to his touch. The temptation to slide his hands beneath the tee shirt and caress the erect nipples that were straining the
soft material was almost irresistible, but he dammed the impulse and cupped her rounded bottom instead.

Urging her against him was the purest form of torture, but it was worth it. Spreading his legs, he cradled her against the erection throbbing between his thighs. She rubbed herself against him and he wondered if she had any idea what she was inviting. How much more of this could he take without losing it completely?

And then she moaned.

It was a plaintive little sound, barely audible, in fact, but he heard it. For a moment he thought he'd hurt her. He was half afraid that his urgent hands had been too rough for her delicate skin. But then, with a shocking sense of his own insanity, he suddenly realised what was wrong.

With unsteady hands he managed to put some space between them, avoiding her eyes as he made some inane apology for touching her as he had. And all the while he chided himself for being a fool, for imagining that she had been as caught up in her emotions as he was. It wasn't true. That grotesque little moan had proved it. He'd been making love to a woman who had undoubtedly been conditioned never to say no…

‘B
UT
why can't you stay?' Rosie gazed up at Sara with tear-filled eyes. ‘I don't want you to go.'

‘And I don't want to go,' said Sara, wondering if she was being entirely wise in admitting as much. But she hated lying to the child. ‘I'm sorry, sweetheart. But this was just a temporary arrangement.'

‘But why?' Rosie wouldn't let it go. ‘You like it here. You said so. And I like you. Mrs Webb likes you. Even Daddy likes you.'

Does he?

Sara reserved judgement on that. Since that morning a couple of days ago, when Mrs Webb had gone to the dentist, Matt had barely spoken two words to her, and she was left with the unhappy conclusion that he regretted what had happened.

She regretted it, too, she reflected painfully, but for totally different reasons. Which was quite an admission to make, she conceded with a twinge of shame. Was she wicked for regretting that Matt hadn't gone on and finished what he'd started? Was it completely unforgivable to wish that for once in her miserable life she might have known the joy of a real man's love?

Only Matt didn't love her, she reminded herself swiftly. Once again she was deluding herself about the reason for his actions, just as she had deluded herself that Max had ever really cared about her. She was a pathetic creature, so desperate for affection that she was willing to do almost anything to prove that Max's estimation of her wasn't true.

And, until Matt had pushed her away from him and taken refuge in his study, she had believed that she might be happy here. For the first time in years she'd felt secure; wanted; almost content. It was only later that she'd wondered if she hadn't been deceiving herself all along. It wasn't the house or the circum
stances of her employment that had made her feel secure. It was Matt. Only Matt. And how sad was that?

‘When are you leaving?'

Until Rosie spoke again Sara had been staring blindly out of the window, but now she turned to the child with rueful eyes. And felt even worse when she saw the tragic look on the little girl's face.

‘Well, not today,' she said with determined cheerfulness, picking up a velour skirt and jacket that belonged to one of Rosie's dolls and exhibiting it for her approval. ‘What do you think of this? Smart, or what?'

They were sitting on the floor of the family room, and until Rosie had brought up the subject of Sara's employment again they'd been sorting through the toy cupboard for things Rosie could donate to the school fair.

Matt had collected his daughter from school a couple of hours ago. Sara had been having a cup of tea with Mrs Webb in the kitchen when they'd got back and Matt had merely deposited the little girl with them before heading back to his study.

‘That man's overdoing it,' the housekeeper had remarked sagely as Rosie helped herself to a biscuit from the tin. ‘He's looking tired, don't you think? I suppose it's because he's trying to get as much done as he can before you have to go back to London. He's going to miss you and that's a fact.'

Sara had made some non-committal comment, not wanting to get into a discussion about Matt in front of the child. It was only now she realised that, however distracted she'd seemed at the time, Rosie missed very little.

As if to underline this thought, she scrambled to her feet now and climbed onto the window seat. ‘Shall we go for a walk?'

‘A walk?' Sara looked up at her. ‘But it will be supper time soon.' She paused. ‘Besides, I thought you wanted to tidy the toy cupboard.'

‘I can do that any time,' said Rosie, her small fingers making damp circles on the glass. She glanced back with accusing eyes. ‘When you're not here.'

Sara sighed. ‘Oh, Rosie—'

‘Well, can we? Go for a walk, I mean? We don't have to
take the dogs. Daddy took them out before I went to school this morning.'

‘Did he?'

Sara hadn't known that. He must have taken them out incredibly early, she thought. She'd been up herself at seven o'clock.

‘Daddy's always up early,' continued Rosie, getting down again and standing with her feet apart and her hands on her hips, staring at Sara. ‘I'm never late for school these days.'

‘Well, that's good,' said Sara, getting to her feet and smiling at the little girl. ‘You don't want to be late, do you?'

‘I don't care.' Rosie was deliberately offhand. ‘I'll be going away to school soon, and then it won't matter.'

Sara blinked. ‘Going away to school?' she echoed. ‘Who told you that?'

Rosie shrugged, bundling all the toys and games they'd taken out back into the cupboard and closing the door. ‘Are we going for a walk?'

‘In a minute.' Sara wanted to know what Rosie had heard. ‘Is that what your daddy says?'

Rosie was still offhand. ‘Maybe.'

‘What do you mean, maybe? Either he did or he didn't.'

Rosie pursed her lips. ‘I heard him talking to Mrs Armstrong.'

Sara frowned. ‘Mrs Armstrong? Is that your teacher?'

‘No. My teacher's Mrs Sanders,' said Rosie scornfully. ‘Mrs Armstrong is Rupert and Nigel's mother.'

‘Oh, I see.' Sara assumed they must be children in her class. ‘And—you heard your daddy telling Mrs Armstrong that you'd be going away to school soon? Is that right?'

‘No.' Rosie started for the door. ‘Can we go?'

Sara heaved a sigh. She had no right to question the child, but she wanted to know what Matt had been saying. It was obvious it was on Rosie's mind, and perhaps he ought to be told that it wasn't wise to discuss his daughter's future with—with whom? Who was this Mrs Armstrong? Apart from being Rupert and Nigel's mother, of course. Was she another woman,
like Emma Proctor, who considered herself more than just a friend?

‘We'll go when you tell me what you heard,' she declared firmly, and Rosie sniffed.

‘Does it matter?'

‘I think it might.'

Sara gazed at her solemnly, wishing she didn't have to be stern with her. Rosie looked so adorable in her white canvas shorts and striped tee shirt, and Sara was tempted to take her in her arms and hug her and tell her that Matt wouldn't dream of sending her away to school. But until she knew what had been said she had to tamp down her emotions, even if the little girl had found a special place in her heart.

‘Oh—well…' Rosie was reluctant to go on. ‘It was something Mrs Armstrong said, that's all.'

‘Which was?'

‘Well, she said Daddy hadn't been very lucky with nannies,' mumbled Rosie unwillingly. ‘That when you left he'd likely have to send me away.'

‘She said that!' Sara was appalled.

‘Not 'xactly.'

‘Well, what
exactly
did she say?' demanded Sara, and then felt her face flood with hot colour when she suddenly realised that Matt was standing in the open doorway.

He must have heard what they were saying, she thought, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Oh, God, he was going to think she'd been pumping the child for information. He might even think she was curious about this Mrs Armstrong, whoever she was. And just because he might be right that was no excuse.

‘What's going on?' he asked, his gaze moving between them, and Sara and Rosie exchanged an embarrassed look.

The little girl recovered herself first. ‘We were just talking about school, Daddy,' she said, with remarkable aplomb. ‘Now we're going for a walk.'

‘Wait a minute.' Sara thought she should have known that Matt wouldn't swallow that. ‘I think you should go and check with Mrs Webb first. She may have something she wants you to do.'

‘Like what?'

Rosie was indignant, but her father's expression warned her not to argue. With a hunching of her shoulders she marched out of the door, leaving Sara to face the music alone.

Matt waited until his daughter was out of earshot and then arched an enquiring brow. ‘School?' he said, without inflection. ‘What have you been telling her?'

‘Me?' Despite the quickening of her heartbeat, Sara managed to sound reasonably calm. ‘I haven't been telling her anything. Well, not about school anyway.'

Matt came further into the room. He was wearing shorts today, khaki shorts that exposed his long muscled legs. Like hers, his black tee shirt barely skimmed his waistband, and her eyes were unwillingly drawn to the wedge of brown skin that appeared every time he moved.

Why was it that when she looked at him she was so acutely aware of her own sexuality? she wondered. Why, when for years she'd believed herself immune from any man's attraction, was she so irresistibly drawn to Matt's masculine grace? It was pointless, when all was said and done, and foolish. But she couldn't help herself. And if Max ever found out…

Well, he'd make her suffer for it, she reflected bitterly. But then, he'd make her suffer anyway. And perhaps she deserved his contempt. She was his wife, after all. She shouldn't be having these kinds of feelings for a man who wasn't her husband. Yet it was such a long time since Max had engendered anything inside her but fear and revulsion.

Even thinking about what was facing her when she returned to London was terrifying. Max was never going to forgive her for leaving him as she had. She mustn't forget that he knew that she was to blame for his fall. However accidental it might have been, she would bear the brunt of his wrath.

‘So what were you talking about?'

Matt's words broke into her pained reverie and she forced herself to meet his dark gaze. Was that an accusation she could see in the depths of his eyes? Or was it just, as Mrs Webb had said, that he did look excessively weary?

She hesitated now, and then, deciding she had nothing to
lose, she said quietly, ‘Are you thinking of sending Rosie away to school?'

‘What?'

He looked stunned, and Sara felt somewhat reassured. ‘You're not?'

‘What the hell are you talking about?' he demanded, and then, as if noting how his angry words affected her, he calmed down. ‘Where did you get that idea?'

‘Would you believe from Rosie?' Sara dug her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans, aware that her hands were sweating. She wished she had shorts to wear, she thought ruefully. The jeans were far too warm for the humid weather they were having at present. But beggars couldn't be choosers. ‘I think she's worried about what you're planning to do when I leave.'

‘Rosie?' Matt shook his head. ‘But I've never—'

‘Not even to Mrs Armstrong?' asked Sara, before she lost her nerve, and Matt's eyes narrowed.

‘Gloria?' he said, apparently confirming that he knew the woman far better than Sara could have wished.

‘If that's her name,' she agreed, annoyed to hear the note of censure in her voice. ‘I believe you were discussing the problems you were having in keeping a nanny with her.'

‘Blast!' Matt raised a hand and raked long fingers over his scalp. His action widened the gap between his shirt and his shorts and once again Sara's eyes were drawn to his flat stomach. ‘What did Rosie say?'

‘What? Oh—' Sara swallowed, finding it difficult to drag her gaze away from his taut body. Trying to concentrate on what she was saying, she mumbled, ‘I don't remember exactly what she said now.'

‘No?' Matt didn't sound convinced, and, as if becoming aware of her distraction, he uttered a rough oath. Turning away from her, he added in a strangled voice, ‘Dammit, Sara, will you stop looking at me that way? It's difficult enough keeping my hands off you as it is.'

Sara sucked in her breath. She'd never expected that. ‘I'm sorry,' she said huskily. She turned towards the door. ‘Would you like me to go?'

Matt gave an incredulous snort. ‘No, I wouldn't like you to go,' he retorted harshly. ‘I think you know what I'd really like you to do, so don't let's pretend we're fooling anybody here. You're married, and for some crazy reason you insist on going back to your husband. I can't say I'm happy about it, but my feelings don't count for much, do they?'

‘Matt—'

‘Don't,' he advised her grimly, putting the width of the room between them. Then, squaring his shoulders, he turned back to face her. ‘Now, tell me what you know about my conversation with Gloria.'

Sara licked her dry lips. She didn't want to talk about Gloria Armstrong, she thought impatiently. What she really wanted was for Matt to tell her how he really felt about her being here. Yet, as he'd said, she had no right to expect anything more from him. He'd done what he could to help her and that ought to be enough.

But it wasn't. She wanted so much more.

He was waiting for her answer, and her heart gave an odd little flutter at the strangely vulnerable look on his face. He was a tall man, strong and virile, his dark hair tumbled by the restless invasion of his hands. Even with the shadow of stubble on his jawline and his mouth set in a grim line he set her pulses racing. She had no fear of him. He'd taught her that strength could be tempered not with violence, but love.

But she couldn't tell him that. Shaking her head, she struggled to remember what they'd been talking about before she'd been distracted. ‘I—I've told you all I know,' she submitted at last. And then, to assuage her own frustration, she added, ‘Is Mrs Armstrong another of your admirers?'

‘Another of my—' Matt's eyes darkened. ‘I don't have admirers, Sara. Gloria Armstrong's husband farms the land north of here. They have two boys who are in Rosie's class.'

Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘I see.'

‘Do you?' Matt turned away from her again and stared broodingly out of the window. ‘What did you think? That I have a covey of women I can call on when I want to get laid?'

Sara couldn't prevent herself. ‘And do you?'

‘Oh, sure.' Matt scowled at her over his shoulder. ‘I'm a regular stud!'