Hot Pursuit (3 page)

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?'

H
E 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.