Hot Pursuit (7 page)

Matt's patience grew taut. ‘Actually, it wasn't convenient at all,' he declared tersely. ‘And, as I say, I'm not absolutely sure I'm going to employ her.'

‘So where did she come from? The agency?'

‘No.' Matt blew out a breath. ‘As a matter of fact, her car broke down at the bottom of the road. Didn't you see it as you came by?'

Mrs Webb looked surprised. ‘So that's
her
car. I assumed
some kids had stolen it and abandoned it when it ran out of petrol.'

‘No.' But Matt was determined not to be drawn into telling the housekeeper the whole story. Not yet, anyway. ‘She—she came to the house, wanting to use the phone, and when she discovered I was looking for a nanny she offered herself for the job.' He paused, and then went on doggedly, ‘She used to be a primary school teacher.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really.' Matt wondered why it sounded so much more convincing the second time around. ‘Now, where is Rosie? I want to speak to her.'

‘Oh, I think she went upstairs again,' said Mrs Webb, obviously mollified by his explanation. ‘She said something about waking—Sara, is it?'

Dammit! Matt suppressed another oath. What in hell's name did Rosie think she was up to? He'd told her he'd discuss Sara's employment at breakfast. He just hoped she hadn't jumped the gun.

Snatching up the morning newspaper that Mrs Webb always brought for him, he stalked out of the kitchen and into the library. Seating himself in the hide-covered chair beside the desk which he used for his research, he took another long swig of his coffee and then turned to stare broodingly out of the windows.

Beyond the cliffs, the sun had already spread its bounty across the dark blue waters of the bay. Whereas the day before it had been cloudy, this morning the sky was high and clear. Seagulls soared effortlessly on the thermals, their haunting cries mingling with the muted roar of the surf. In an ideal world he shouldn't have a care in the world, beyond the problems facing the protagonist in his current manuscript. Indeed, after taking Rosie to school he'd intended to spend the whole day finalising the book's denouement. Instead he had to deal with a situation that he very much suspected was far more complex than his uninvited guest was letting on.

Scowling, he flipped open the newspaper that he'd dropped on the desk. The latest images from a middle-eastern war he
felt he had no part of dominated the front page. There'd been a derailment in southeast London, a well-known politician had been discovered in compromising circumstances, and someone who'd won the lottery six months ago was now broke again.

So what's new? thought Matt cynically, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. Why did journalists feel the need to fill their columns with negative news items? he wondered. Was it because stories about other people's problems, particularly the rich and famous, made the average reader feel better about their own lives?

Probably, he decided, flicking the pages. There was nothing like learning about someone else's misfortunes to make some people feel good.

He heard Rosie come scampering down the stairs and remembered he had his own problems to deal with. He'd half risen from his chair to go after her when a small picture towards the bottom of page four caught his eye. Sinking back into his seat, he stared at it disbelievingly. It was a picture of Sara, he saw incredulously. Only her name wasn't Sara; it was Victoria. Victoria Bradbury, actually. The wife of the entrepreneur Max Bradbury, and she was missing.

Victoria
, he thought, acknowledging the connotation. Miss
Victor
hadn't wanted to stray too far from the truth. But no wonder she didn't want to tell him who she was. Although Matt had only heard Max Bradbury's name in passing, she didn't know that.

He read the article through, his brows drawing together as he assessed its content. According to the writer, Victoria Bradbury had disappeared two nights ago, and both her husband and her mother were frantic with worry. Mr Bradbury had apparently had a fall the same evening, which was why his wife's disappearance hadn't been noted until the following morning.

Luckily Mr Bradbury had been able to crawl to a phone and summon assistance before losing consciousness. His brother, the actor Hugo Bradbury, had said it was most unlike Victoria to leave the apartment without informing her husband where she was going. Fears were being expressed that she might have been kidnapped. Mr Bradbury had been detained in hospital over
night for tests, but had discharged himself the following morning to conduct the search for his wife personally. Max Bradbury was an extremely wealthy man and he intended to use all means at his disposal to find her.

The article ended with an appeal that anyone who might have seen Mrs Bradbury or knew of her whereabouts should contact the police and a London number was supplied.

Matt blew out a breath, slumping back in his chair and staring incredulously out of the window. Then, snatching up the newspaper again, he examined Sara's—
Victoria's
—picture more closely. It had to be her. He would swear it.

It was a more sophisticated Victoria than he was used to seeing, of course. For one thing she wasn't wearing her hair in a plait. Instead, it was coiled into a knot on top of her head. The carefully coaxed strands that framed her face and curved so confidingly beneath her jawline were familiar, and the wide-spaced eyes, the high cheekbones, the generous, yet curiously vulnerable mouth were unmistakable. Unless she had an identical twin, he was looking at a picture of the woman who had spent last night in his spare room. Dammit, what was she playing at?

Anger gripped him. It infuriated him that he'd been taken in by her air of vulnerability. Hell, he'd felt sorry for her. He hadn't believed her story, of course, and that was one thing in his favour, but he had felt a sense of responsibility for her which he realised now had been totally misplaced. She must have been laughing at him all along.

Max Bradbury's wife. He scowled. He wondered how long they'd been married. To his knowledge Bradbury was at least fifty, which must make him more than twenty years older than his wife. So what had gone wrong? Had she become bored with the old man? Hadn't he been giving her enough attention? Was this escapade intended to remind him how lucky he was to have such a young and attractive wife?

And, if so, what was the idea of asking for a job? Of pretending that she'd once been a primary school teacher. For God's sake, a man like Max Bradbury wouldn't have married
a schoolteacher. No, she had to have been some kind of party girl or socialite. How else could she have met a man like him?

‘Breakfast's ready, Daddy.'

Rosie's voice calling his name alerted him to the fact that it wasn't only his feelings Victoria Bradbury had insulted. It was his daughter's, too, and he dreaded having to tell the little girl that ‘Sara' wouldn't be staying.

But he couldn't do that now. Before he made any decisions he might later regret he was going to have a frank discussion with his house guest and find out where the hell she got off, making a fool of him and his daughter. And after that he was going to ring the number they'd given in the newspaper. It would give him great satisfaction to send Victoria Bradbury back where she belonged.

Or would it?

His scowl deepened, and he quickly folded the newspaper and stuffed it into one of the drawers of the desk just as Rosie appeared in the doorway.

‘Are you coming, Daddy?' she exclaimed, though there was a tentative note in her voice, and he remembered what he'd been going to do before the article in the newspaper had distracted him. ‘Mrs Webb says breakfast is ready.'

‘Is—Sara—up?' he asked, guessing his daughter would assume he was angry with her for disobeying him, and she gave a nervous shrug.

‘She's in the dining room,' she said. And then added quickly, ‘I haven't told her anything about what we were talking about, Daddy. Honestly. I just wanted to—to—'

‘To see if she'd slept all right?' suggested Matt, helping her out, and Rosie gave a relieved nod.

‘That's right,' she said. ‘Are you coming?'

‘I'm coming.' Matt paused only long enough to swallow the last dregs of coffee in his mug. ‘You lead the way.'

Mrs Webb had laid the table in the dining room and was fussing about with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and a rack of toast. Matt guessed she was curious about their guest, too, and she was asking her what had gone wrong with her car when he entered the room.

Although she was answering the housekeeper's question at the time, Matt noticed the way Sara-Victoria's eyes darted to his face when he appeared. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a definite trace of trepidation in her gaze, and he wondered if she'd realised that her disappearance might have warranted media attention.

‘Good morning,' he said, deliberately adopting an upbeat tone, and he saw the relieved hint of colour that entered her pale cheeks at his words.

She was wearing her own clothes again this morning, and Matt's eyes were irresistibly drawn to the taut breasts pushing at the semi-transparent fabric of her dress. Its shades of blue and green matched the luminescence of her eyes, which he was aware were watching him with wary intensity. Slim arms were wrapped protectively about her midriff, and he wondered if she realised what a giveaway that was.

‘Um—good morning,' she responded at last, and Matt despised the sudden surge of blood that her husky voice caused to rush to his groin. All of a sudden he was remembering the sexual fantasies he'd been having about her earlier, and even the fact that he now knew she was another man's wife didn't make them any the easier to dismiss.

‘Sit here, Daddy.'

Rosie pulled him to the seat beside hers, and Matt strove to act naturally. Hell, he thought, he was behaving as if he'd never been with a woman before. What was there about Victoria Bradbury that struck such a chord in his subconscious? What was there about her wary face that inspired thoughts of naked bodies and sweat-soaked sheets?

‘Did you sleep well?' he asked at length, realising that, however much he might want to, he couldn't broach the subject of her identity while Rosie and Mrs Webb were present. In fact, he wouldn't be able to speak to her at all until Rosie had been delivered to school, and that might prove something of a problem. After all, he'd promised his daughter to discuss the subject of Sara's employment at breakfast.

‘Very well,' she replied politely, evidently taking her cue from him, though he doubted she was being entirely honest.
Although she'd done her best to disguise them, there were still dark rings around her eyes, and, knowing what he knew now, he wasn't really surprised. ‘It's so peaceful here.'

‘Sara likes the seaside, Daddy,' put in Rosie eagerly, evidently hoping to prompt him into saying something positive, but it was Mrs Webb who spoke next.

‘You're not from around here, are you, Miss Victor?' she observed, setting a bowl of cornflakes in front of Rosie. ‘If I'm not mistaken, that's a southern accent.'

Matt saw the way the younger woman stiffened at these words, but she managed to produce a tight smile. ‘I—yes. You're right. I'm from London,' she admitted, with obvious reluctance. Then, changing the subject, ‘Just toast for me, please.'

‘Are you sure?'

Mrs Webb was persistent and, taking pity on his guest, Matt intervened. ‘I think we're all set here,' he said, regarding his own plate of bacon and eggs without enthusiasm. ‘If we need anything else I'll come and find you. Okay?'

‘Well—if you say so.' Mrs Webb wasn't giving up without a struggle. ‘Couldn't I tempt you with an omelette, Miss Victor?'

Matt felt Sara's eyes dart to his again, and he guessed she was remembering the lunch he had made her the previous day. ‘Toast is fine,' she insisted, and the housekeeper had to accept defeat.

‘I'll leave you, then,' she said, giving Matt a speaking look. ‘Remember, Rosie's got to leave for school in less than twenty minutes.'

‘I haven't forgotten,' said Matt drily. ‘Thank you.'

Mrs Webb pursed her lips and left the room, and as soon as the door had banged behind her Rosie made a face. ‘She's cross because Daddy didn't ask her to sit with us and have her coffee,' she confided, with a giggle. ‘We usually have breakfast in the kitchen, you see.'

‘Oh.'

Sara looked to Matt for confirmation and he sighed. ‘She does like to share all the village gossip,' he agreed, wishing
Rosie wasn't quite so candid. He pushed the toast rack towards Sara. ‘Help yourself.'

‘Thanks.'

She took a slice of toast and spread it thinly with butter, but once again Matt noticed that she barely touched it. At this rate she'd be just skin and bone in no time, he mused unwillingly. But it wasn't his concern. If she'd lost her appetite, it was doubtless because she was terrified he was going to find out what a liar she was. But why was she lying? Why had she run away? What the hell was she playing at?

‘You don't have to leave today, do you, Sara?' Rosie asked now, nudging her father's ankle with her foot. And, although he gave her a warning look, she went on bravely, ‘Sara could stay—' she faltered ‘—stay until tomorrow, couldn't she?'

‘I don't think so,' Sara began, and although Matt was tempted to let her leave and be done with it, he saw his daughter's face and relented.

‘Yes, stay,' he said flatly, deciding that she deserved the chance to explain why she'd been lying. And this way he could ensure that she'd still be here when he got back from taking Rosie to school. ‘At least until tomorrow.'

He could see her indecision. She was probably weighing the advantages of staying here, where she believed no one knew who she was, against moving on and risking inevitable exposure. He was also aware that his own feelings were just as ambivalent. Dammit, he didn't owe her a thing, he told himself savagely. Yet he couldn't deny he felt sorry for her.