Hot Pursuit (6 page)

She looked for her watch and then remembered that she'd taken it off before lunch. It was broken anyway, so it wouldn't
have been any good to her. Besides, she knew it was nearly five o'clock. She'd seen a clock in the kitchen. Almost a whole day had passed since she'd left the apartment. She'd been a widow for almost twenty-four hours. She shivered. Oh, God, what was she going to do?

The effort required in taking a bath wasn't particularly appealing now, but she guessed the hot water might soothe her aches and pains. Somehow she had to get through the next fifteen hours without breaking down. When Matt left to take Rosie to school the following morning she'd ask him to give her a lift into Saviour's Bay. With a bit of luck her car might be repaired by lunchtime, and then she'd be free to move on.

But where?

And what if Matt wouldn't let her go?

But she wouldn't think like that, she told herself severely. He couldn't keep her here by force and, despite what he'd said before, she didn't think he'd report her to the authorities. Not without knowing who she was. He wasn't that kind of man. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did.

The corner bath filled quickly. She found some pine-scented bath gel in a glass cabinet over the sink and added a squeeze of fragrance to the water. Steam rose, warm and scented, into her nostrils, and she felt a twinge of anticipation at the prospect of feeling clean again. One day at a time, Sara, she told herself encouragingly. She had to believe that she'd get through this.

It was hard to hold on to that thought when she took off her clothes, however. With the removal of her dress it was impossible to avoid the many bruises and contusions colouring her pale skin. She looked as if she'd been in a fist fight, she mused bitterly, and of course she had. But there had only ever been one real contender.

Yet Max was dead and she was alive…

The incredible truth couldn't be denied and she sagged weakly against the basin. She hadn't meant for him to die, she insisted painfully. But who was going to believe her now?

For so long she'd accepted that her hands were tied, that there was nothing she could do to change things. Even without the threats Max had made against her mother, she'd known he
would never let her go. He'd told her so many times. And she'd believed him. God knew, she'd had every reason to believe his threats before.

So what had happened last night? How had the victim suddenly become the hunted? She'd had no notion that anything different was about to happen. She'd been too busy defending herself to anticipate that help might come from a totally unexpected source.

She swallowed the sickly feeling that surged into her throat at the memory. She saw Max raising his hand towards her, saw herself falling against the corner table on the landing of their duplex apartment. Even now her hip throbbed in memory of the agonising pain that had stunned her at the impact. She remembered rolling herself into a ball, arms curled over her head in mute acceptance of the boot that would surely follow—but it hadn't happened. Instead, Max had lost his balance. He'd tripped, swearing as he'd stumbled over her crumpled body, and, unable to save himself, had fallen headlong down the stairs.

Another wave of nausea gripped her. It had been an accident, she assured herself now, as she'd assured herself then. If she'd rolled against his legs, if she'd caused him to lose his balance, it hadn't been deliberate. If he hadn't hit her, if he hadn't caused her to fall across the head of the stairs, she wouldn't have provided an obstacle. She'd never dreamt that he might trip over her; that he'd break his neck as he fell.

But it had happened. She could hear Max's voice in her ears, hear the frantic cries he'd made as he'd tried desperately to save himself. He hadn't given up without a struggle. She'd heard the scratching of his fingernails against the banister, the creaking of the wood beneath his weight. And then the awful thudding sound as his body pitched forward, no longer aggressive, out of his control.

An accident.

She sucked in a breath. That was what it had been. When she'd scurried down the stairs to where he was lying in the foyer of the apartment she'd had no other thought in her mind than to assure him she was sorry, so sorry, for what had happened.

But he'd been lying still, so very still, and she'd guessed at once that it was hopeless. She'd attempted to revive him. She'd even put her trembling mouth over his cold one and tried to breathe air into his lungs. He hadn't responded. That was when she'd called the emergency services. That was when she'd known she had to get away.

She'd realised how it would look to a stranger. Realised that she was virtually admitting her guilt. But it was no good. No one was going to believe it was just an accident. Men like Max, men who were fit and strong, didn't just fall down a flight of stairs without provocation. And if they arrested her, if they examined her and saw what he'd had done to her. Well, she was afraid her battered body would prove her guilt.

She expelled the breath she had hardly been aware she was holding, and then almost jumped out of her skin when someone knocked on the bathroom door.

Immediately she sprang to brace a shoulder against the panels, terrified that whoever it was out there was going to open the door and see her naked flesh. She suspected that Matt Seton was still curious about her. And if he glimpsed—

But she stifled the thought, saying instead, ‘What do you want?' in a voice that sounded annoyingly tremulous even to her.

‘You okay?'

It was Matt, and unreasonable irritation gripped her. ‘Why shouldn't I be?'

‘No reason, I guess. Except that you've been in there for over half an hour and I haven't heard a sound since the water stopped running,' he replied mildly. ‘I wondered if you'd fallen asleep? That can be dangerous, you know.'

She gulped. ‘Are you spying on me?'

‘Hardly.' His tone had hardened, and she couldn't honestly blame him. He'd been concerned, that was all. Something she wasn't used to. ‘Anyway,' he went on, ‘supper will be ready in about an hour, so don't hurry. You've got plenty of time.'

Sara pressed her hot cheek against the wood. ‘Thanks.'

‘No sweat.' The harshness had left his voice. ‘Just don't drown yourself, okay?'

Her lips quivered. ‘Okay.'

‘Good.'

She heard him leaving the bedroom, heard the outer door slam behind him, and breathed a little more easily again. But she couldn't help the frisson of pleasure she felt at the knowledge that he'd been worried about her. It was so long since anyone had cared about her in that way. Hugo had treated her with affection, it was true, but she'd always known that in any real confrontation he would always take Max's side. He was his brother, after all, and without Max's support his acting career would very likely have slid back into oblivion where it had begun.

But she had to stop thinking about Max, she thought fiercely, checking that the door was securely closed before crossing the room again and easing herself into the bath. There was no lock on the door, but she found she trusted Matt Seton not to come in without an invitation. As for Rosie: she seemed like the kind of little girl who would follow her father's example. Abandoning herself to anything but the reassuring embrace of the water, Sara sat down.

She winced as its heat probed the tender places of the hip and thigh she'd injured when she fell. Even sitting on the hard enamel was painful at first, but after a few minutes the warmth acted as an analgesic and she was able to relax. She leaned back against the side of the bath and closed her eyes.

Goodness, that felt good. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a bath. These days taking a shower was so much quicker and easier. Besides, she avoided spending too much time in the bathroom. Without her clothes she felt that much more vulnerable, and it wasn't above Max to take advantage of it. She'd dreaded those occasions when he'd stepped into the shower with her and—

Her eyes jerked open. She must stop reliving the past. Eventually what had happened was going to catch up with her, but for now she had to think of something else. She had to think about herself, think of what she was going to do tomorrow. The future stretched ahead of her, uncharted. And, however shame
ful the admission, she was glad Max was never going to be able to hurt her again.

By the time she got out of the bath she was feeling infinitely more human. She dried herself on one of the large towels from the rack and then, after a moment's hesitation, wrapped herself in the cream towelling bathrobe she found hanging on the back of the door. She wondered if Matt would mind if she wore the robe for a couple of hours. Then she could wash and dry her bra and panties. The expensive scraps of silk and lace that Max had bought for her would need no artificial drying, and she'd feel infinitely fresher wearing clean underwear tomorrow.

When she opened the door into the bedroom, however, she discovered that, as well as checking on her well-being, Matt had also left a pile of clothes on the bed. Sara's eyes widened in amazement when she discovered a cellophane-wrapped package of bikini briefs beneath what were obviously his chambray shirt and sweat pants. The shirt and sweat pants were freshly laundered, but it was obvious that the package containing the briefs hadn't been opened. Where had they come from? she wondered. He hadn't mentioned a girlfriend. But a man like him was bound to have women friends. Hadn't he been speaking to one of them—Emma—earlier on?

Still, the idea that he might have contacted one of his girlfriends for help didn't sit well with her, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she turned the packet over in her hands. And discovered that the label indicated that they were suitable for a nine-to ten-year-old!

Rosie! she thought incredulously, a gulp of laughter escaping her. They had obviously been bought for Rosie, but just as obviously they were too big for her. Ripping open the cellophane, Sara pulled them out and examined them more closely. Made of white cotton, they looked plain and practical, and, although they'd probably be a tight fit, she thought they'd do very well.

A feeling of gratitude filled her, and with it a sense of shame at her own presumption. Matt was trying to help her; that was obvious. She had to stop believing that all men were like Max.
They weren't. He had been the exception. Was it evil to be glad he was finally out of her life?

The briefs were barely decent, but Sara didn't care. With Matt's sweat pants bulking around her thighs, and the ends of his shirt tied at her waist, she looked anything but provocative. He'd also left a pair of sports socks, which she found worked equally well as slippers. After she'd rinsed out her own bra and panties, and hung them on the radiator in the bathroom to dry, all that was left for her to do was brush out her hair and plait it again. She was sitting at the dressing table, securing it with an elasticated band, when there was another knock at her door.

She stiffened. She couldn't help it. Old habits die hard, she thought, taking a deep breath and calling, ‘Who is it?'

‘It's me. Rosie.' The little girl needed no further bidding before opening the door and putting her head round it. ‘Can I come in?'

Sara found herself smiling. ‘It looks as if you are in,' she remarked mildly. ‘But, yes. Come in. What can I do for you?'

Rosie entered the room, revealing that she'd changed out of her school clothes into cut-off jeans and a pink tee shirt. She had evidently washed her face, too, though Sara could see the telltale smears of what appeared to be chocolate around her mouth. But she looked sweet and wholesome, and Sara wanted to hug her.

‘Daddy says supper will be ready in ten minutes,' she declared, regarding her father's guest with interest. ‘Are those Daddy's clothes?'

‘Yes.' Sara nodded. ‘He was kind enough to lend them to me.' She got up from the stool. ‘How do I look?'

‘We—ll.' Rosie was thoughtful. ‘They look a bit big,' she confessed at last. Then, glancing about her, ‘Don't you have any clothes of your own?'

‘Not here,' replied Sara, determinedly suppressing thoughts of where the rest of her clothes were. ‘Oh, and your father gave me these.' She held up the packet that had contained the bikini briefs. ‘I hope you don't mind.'

‘Oh, no!' Rosie giggled. ‘Daddy's Aunt Margaret sent them
last Christmas. She's ever so old, and Daddy says her eyes aren't as good as they used to be.'

‘Ah.' Sara screwed the packet into a ball, preparatory to taking it downstairs to throw away. ‘Well, I'm very grateful for that.'

‘Do they really fit you?' asked Rosie, staring at her critically, as if trying to imagine how they might look on an adult, and Sara grimaced.

‘Just about,' she answered, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips. ‘Shall we go down?'

Rosie hesitated. ‘Have you changed your mind? About staying, I mean? I wish you would.'

Sara sighed. ‘Rosie—'

‘'Cos Daddy really needs someone. We slept in this morning, and I was nearly late for school.'

Sara shook her head. ‘I don't think we should be having this conversation, Rosie.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because—because, like your Daddy said, I've got to leave tomorrow.'

Rosie's lips pursed. ‘Don't you like it here, either?'

‘Of course I do.' Sara wished she didn't have to lie to the child. ‘I think you're very lucky to live so close to the sea.'

‘Most people don't.'

‘Well, I do.'

‘Then—'

‘I think we should go down for supper,' Sara insisted firmly. She pulled a face at her reflection, knowing the little girl could see her. ‘I just hope your father isn't expecting any visitors tonight.'

M
ATT
came awake slowly, staring up at the ceiling that was striped with bars of sunlight. He'd left the window open the night before, he remembered, and the slats of the blind were moving in the breeze.

He often left his window open. He liked to come awake to the muted roar of the sea. The constant movement of the tides gave him a feeling of constancy, a sense of knowing that in this world not everything was subject to change.

So why did he have such a feeling of unease this morning? he wondered, pushing the sheet back to his waist and running an exploratory hand over the rough pelt of hair that angled down to his navel and beyond. And then he remembered his uninvited visitor. Sara Victor, if that really was her name. And why should he care, anyway? She was leaving this morning. When he got back from taking Rosie to school he'd pretend to check her car and miraculously find that it was working. Then she'd have no excuse to hang about any longer, and he could get back to doing the job he loved.

Only it wasn't quite that simple. Rosie had taken an instant liking to her, which was unusual in itself. Since Hester had retired the little girl had been introduced to many of the would-be nannies who had turned up at his door, and she hadn't been impressed with any of them. Granted, most of the younger ones hadn't wanted to live in the area, but even those who had had left a lot to be desired so far as Rosie was concerned.

He'd agreed with her for the most part. He didn't want Rosie's life controlled by either a bimbo or a martinet. And, although he'd made it clear that he wasn't interested in any attachment, he'd always been aware of the dangers inherent in having a younger woman living in his house.

And now Rosie had formed an attachment of her own.

He'd seen it happening, of course. All last evening he'd been
forced to watch his daughter falling more and more deeply under Sara's unconscious spell. And it was unconscious. He knew that. Sara hadn't set out to entrance the little girl; she just couldn't help doing so.

She had the knack of drawing Rosie out of herself. Without talking down to her, she was able to put herself on the child's level, and Rosie had responded in kind. Matt hadn't been aware that his daughter was missing anything until he'd heard her discussing her dolls' outfits with Sara. What did he know of women's fashions, or of the most attractive shades of lipstick and nail varnish? He hadn't even known Rosie knew about such things until she'd produced a bottle of some glittery substance, which had apparently come as a free gift with one of the preteen magazines he'd bought for her, and proceeded to paint Sara's nails with it.

When he'd protested that Miss Victor couldn't possibly want her nails painted that particular shade of pink, Sara had insisted she didn't mind.

‘It's okay,' she'd assured him lightly. ‘It washes off.' Then she'd given a wry smile. ‘At least I hope it does.' She'd held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. ‘Do you like it?'

Matt didn't remember what he'd said. Whatever it was, it had made no lasting impression on him. What he did remember was that she disturbed him; that he'd been far too aware of her as a woman ever since she'd appeared downstairs wearing his old chambray shirt and sweats.

When he'd left the clothes on her bed he'd never dreamt that he'd have such a powerful reaction to her wearing them. But the knowledge that she'd obviously not been wearing a bra had aroused the most unsettling images in his head. He'd found himself wondering whether she'd bothered to put on the briefs he'd found in Rosie's drawer. Or had they been too small for her? The possibility that she might be naked beneath the baggy trousers was all he'd needed to fuel his imagination.

He reluctantly recalled how he'd felt when Rosie had crept into his room after he'd retired, begging him to ask Sara to stay. ‘Just for a few days, Daddy,' she'd entreated him appealingly, and, although Matt had told her no, he couldn't help the treach
erous thought that employing Sara could be beneficial to both of them.

But that wasn't an option. Rolling onto his stomach, Matt was aware that his morning erection hadn't subsided. Hard and insistent, it throbbed against his stomach, and he was irritably aware that it was thinking about his house guest that had caused it. It was all too easy to imagine how delightful it would have been to strip the sweat pants from her and sate his burning flesh between her thighs. He could almost feel those long slim legs wrapped around his waist, her firm breasts crushed against his chest. When he brought them both to a shuddering climax she'd sob her gratitude in his ear, whispering how much she'd wanted him, how amazing their lovemaking had been…

‘Are you awake, Daddy?'

The stage whisper sent Matt's senses reeling. And aroused an immediate feeling of self-disgust. Dammit, what was wrong with him? he asked himself irritably. What on earth was there about Sara Victor that aroused the kind of fantasies he hadn't had since he was a teenager? It wasn't as if she was incredibly beautiful. She was good-looking, yeah, but she was no super-model. Nor did she behave in a way designed to provoke such a reaction. If he was feeling in need of a woman it was his fault, not hers. He needed to get laid, and quick. Before he was tempted to do something they would all regret.

But right now Rosie took precedence, and, rolling onto his side to face her, he contrived a smile. ‘Hey, sweetheart,' he said, with what he thought was admirable self-restraint. ‘What are you doing up so early?'

Rosie was hovering by the door. In cropped Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, her cheeks pink, her hair tousled, she looked adorable, and Matt thought again how lucky he was to have her. ‘Can I come in?' she asked, glancing over her shoulder half apprehensively. ‘I want to talk to you.'

Matt compressed his lips. ‘That sounds ominous,' he remarked drily, guessing the topic. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like what you have to say?'

‘Oh, Daddy!' Rosie took his response as an invitation to join him and came to climb onto the bottom of the bed. Then, real
ising she'd left the door open, she scrambled down again and went to close it. After she'd resumed her position against the footboard, she declared urgently, ‘It's about Sara.'

Matt had assumed as much, but he didn't let on. Instead, he pushed himself up against his pillows and regarded his daughter enquiringly. ‘Don't you mean Miss Victor?'

‘She said I could call her Sara,' protested Rosie at once. ‘Last night. When she came to say goodnight. She said that calling her Miss Victor made her feel as if she was back in school again.' She paused. ‘Did you know she used to be a schoolteacher, Daddy?'

Matt blew out a breath. So she'd told Rosie she used to teach, had she? He would like to think it had just been a casual admission, but he couldn't help wondering if she'd said it deliberately. To persuade him that she hadn't been lying about that, at least. Or to get the child to speak to him on her behalf.

‘I believe she said something about it,' he admitted now. ‘So—is that all you wanted to tell me?'

‘Hardly,' said Rosie indignantly. ‘I just wondered if you knew, that's all.'

‘Well, I do.' Matt arched his dark brows. ‘What else is new?'

‘Daddy!' Rosie looked red-faced now. ‘Give me a chance! I can't think of everything all at once.'

‘Okay.' Matt contained his amusement. ‘It must be something serious to get you out of bed before seven o'clock.'

‘Oh, Daddy.' Rosie gazed at him impatiently. ‘You know what I'm going to say.' She paused. ‘Why can't you ask Sara to stay?'

Matt sighed. ‘We talked about this last night, Rosie.'

‘But you need a nanny. You said so yourself. Or I mean I do. Why can't it be Sara?'

‘Rosie—'

‘Please!'

‘Look,' he said, trying to reason with her. ‘We know nothing about Sara. We don't even know where she came from.'

‘Then ask her,' said Rosie practically. ‘I'm sure she'd tell you if you did. She told me I was very lucky to live by the
seaside. She said that when she was just a little girl she had to live in the town.'

‘Did she now?' Matt absorbed this information, wondering how true it was. He hesitated, loath to pump the child, but compelled to do so anyway, ‘Did she tell you anything else?'

‘Just that she never had a dog when she was little,' said Rosie thoughtfully. ‘I'll ask her where she came from, if you like.'

‘No.' Matt spoke sharply and the little girl's jaw quivered in response.

‘All right,' she said, getting down from the bed. ‘I won't say anything. But I think you're really—really mean.'

‘Ah, Rosie—' Matt rolled to the side of the bed and grabbed his daughter's arm before she could get away. ‘Honey, try to understand. You're very precious. How can I leave you with someone I hardly know?'

‘You didn't know any of the other girls who came for the job,' replied Rosie tremulously, and Matt groaned.

‘Baby, they came from an agency.'

‘So?'

‘So—' He pulled her towards the bed and swung his feet to the floor. Then, placing a hand on either side of her small waist, he gave her a gentle shake. ‘Try to understand, sweetheart. I don't like disappointing you, but—'

‘Then don't,' pleaded Rosie, seizing the opportunity. ‘Give Sara a chance, please! I promise I'll be good. I won't play her up like I used to with Hester.'

‘It's not you I'm worried about,' muttered Matt, but he was hesitating. His common sense was telling him to stick to his guns, to ignore the emotional demands his daughter was making on him, but his instincts were telling him something else.

All right, he knew nothing about Sara, but he'd bet his last cent that, whatever she was running away from, she was not a bad person. There was something innately honest about her, an integrity that was at odds with all he knew and suspected about her.

‘Daddy…'

Rosie's wheedling voice made his decision for him. ‘All
right,' he said, praying he wouldn't have cause to regret the impulse. ‘We'll give her a few days' trial—'

‘Hurray!' Rosie was excited.

‘—but I'm making no promises beyond the weekend, right?'

‘All right.' Rosie clasped her hands together. ‘Can I go and ask her? Can I? Can I? I'm sure when she knows that you want her to stay she'll change her mind—'

‘Hold on.' Matt held on to the little girl when she would have darted towards the door. ‘What do you mean, you're sure she'll change her mind? What have you been saying to her, Rosie? Come on. I want to know.'

Rosie heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Nothing much,' she mumbled, the sulkiness returning to her expression. ‘I just said I wished she could stay, that's all.' She gave a jerky shrug. ‘If you want to know, she said she couldn't.' And then, as her father gave her a stunned look, she added, ‘But I know she wanted to, Daddy. Only she thought you didn't want her here.'

Matt stared. ‘Did she say that?'

‘No.' Rosie spoke crossly. ‘I've told you what she said.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes.' Rosie was indignant. ‘Don't you believe me?'

Matt pulled a wry face. ‘Do I have a choice?'

‘So?' Rosie pulled her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Can I go and ask her?'

Matt glanced at the clock on the cabinet beside the bed. ‘Not yet,' he said heavily, already regretting his generosity. ‘It's barely seven o'clock. We'll discuss it some more at breakfast.'

He let the little girl go, but now Rosie hesitated. ‘You won't put her off, will you, Daddy?' she persisted. ‘I mean, you will let her know that we—that we'd
both
like her to stay?'

Matt stifled an oath. ‘Don't push your luck, Rosie,' he said, without making any promises. ‘Go get your wash, and clean your teeth. As I say, we'll talk about this later. If that's not good enough for you we'd better forget the whole thing.'

Rosie's chin wobbled again, but she managed to control it. ‘All right, Daddy,' she said huskily, and with a tearful smile she made good her escape before he changed his mind again.

 

Mrs Webb had arrived by the time Matt came downstairs.

The housekeeper, who was in her middle fifties, had worked at Seadrift for as long as Matt had owned the house, and there was usually an easy familiarity between them that wasn't much in evidence this morning.

However, there was a welcome pot of coffee simmering on the hob and, after giving her his usual greeting, Matt went to help himself to a cup. He hoped the caffeine would kick-start his brain, which seemed to have blanked during his conversation with Rosie. Why, in God's name, had he given in to her? What had possessed him to agree to asking Sara to stay?

‘I understand you've got a new nanny,' said Mrs Webb suddenly, turning from the fridge and confronting him with accusing eyes. ‘You didn't tell me you were interviewing anyone yesterday.'

Matt expelled a disbelieving breath. ‘Who told you we had a new nanny?' he demanded, but he already knew. Gloria Armstrong would have lost no time in ringing his housekeeper to hear all the lurid details. He only hoped Mrs Webb hadn't said anything to expose the lie.

He was wrong, however. ‘Rosie, actually,' she replied huffily, peeling the plastic wrap from a packet of bacon. ‘She couldn't wait to tell me the woman had stayed the night.'

Matt gave an inward groan. ‘Well—it's not settled yet,' he said lamely, silently berating his daughter for her big mouth. ‘And—and the reason I didn't tell you I was interviewing anyone yesterday was because I didn't have any plans to do so.'

‘Oh, right.' Mrs Webb regarded him sceptically. ‘So she just turned up out of the blue?' She grimaced. ‘How convenient.'