Hot Pursuit (8 page)

And how sensible was that?

S
ARA
went back to her room after Matt had left to take Rosie to school. She wanted to avoid giving Mrs Webb the chance to ask any more questions. She was unpleasantly surprised to find that the bed she'd slept in had already been made.

Which meant the housekeeper must have accomplished this task while they were downstairs having breakfast. She didn't for one minute think that Matt would have made her bed, and she wondered uneasily what the woman had thought of the fact that she didn't have any luggage.

For she had no doubt that Mrs Webb would have noticed. She might not have actually interfered with any of her belongings, but in the course of her work she was bound to have opened the bathroom door and seen that there was no toothbrush on the shelf.

Closing the door behind her, Sara leaned heavily back against the panels. Why had she agreed to stay on for another day? Why, when she'd realised what a gossip Mrs Webb was, hadn't she made her excuses and left? Because her car was still not fixed, she reminded herself impatiently. Perhaps she should contact the rental agency, which was a countrywide operation after all, and ask them to supply her with a new car?

But, no. That would be foolish, she realised at once. At the moment all anyone knew was that she'd left the apartment. She'd deliberately not taken her own car because registration plates were so easy to trace. In time they might get around to checking with the rental agencies, but by then she intended to have abandoned the car in favour of some other form of transport.

The trouble was, she needed money. She hadn't thought of that when she'd left London, and although she'd used her credit card to hire the car she hadn't considered using a cash machine until she'd been forced to stop for petrol. Then she'd realised
that to do so would alert the authorities to her current whereabouts and she'd used most of her cash for the fill-up.

Working for Matt Seton would have solved all her problems, she thought regretfully. But she should have known that any legitimate employer would want the kind of personal details that she couldn't supply. Not to mention references, she remembered wearily. And who could blame him for that?

She knew the most sensible thing would be to leave now, before she said or did something to betray herself. Before she got in too deep, she acknowledged tensely. Last night there'd been times when she'd almost forgotten the events that had brought her here, when she'd begun to relax and enjoy herself. Did that make her a bad person? she wondered. Was the fact that for the first time in years she'd been able to be herself without fear of retribution a cause for self-disgust?

Max would have thought so. Max would have been incensed at her behaviour. He didn't like children and he'd have accused her of using Rosie to get to Matt. He'd have said that allowing the little girl to paint her nails had just been a way of attracting Matt's attention. Max had been insanely jealous, as she knew to her cost, and he'd have turned an innocent game into something ugly.

Yet had it been so innocent? she fretted uneasily. Perhaps she was the provocative little tease that Max had always accused her of being. It was certainly true that she'd been acutely aware of Matt Seton ever since he'd emerged from his Range Rover the day before. In spite of her apprehension she'd recognised him at once for what he was: a disturbingly attractive man who she had soon realised was nothing like Max.

Thank God!

She didn't know how she had been so sure of that. It wasn't as if she was a terrifically good judge of character. She'd married Max Bradbury, hadn't she? Her lips twisted. She'd thought he was a good man. Because he was so much older than she was, she'd trusted him. She'd actually believed that his promise to take her away from what he'd convinced her was a boring existence had been inspired by love and not by an unnatural
desire for possession. Instead, he'd turned her life into a nightmare, and even now he was still controlling her from the grave.

She shuddered. What was she doing, thinking about Matt Seton when it was because of her that her husband was lying cold on some mortuary slab? She could imagine how Matt would feel about her when he found out who she really was. However reluctant he'd been to offer her his hospitality up to this point would be as nothing compared to his revulsion when he discovered the truth. She was a murderess—well, she'd be convicted of manslaughter at the very least, she amended. He wouldn't want someone like her associating with his daughter.

And as for anything else… She gave a bitter smile. There were no men in a women's prison.

She moved away from the door, wincing as once again her hip reminded her of its presence. If only her car was operational, she thought fiercely. She really believed she might have made her getaway while Matt was out. It wasn't fair to involve him in her troubles. And if the police ever discovered that he'd allowed her to stay here he might be charged with harbouring a wanted criminal.

But he didn't know who she was, she assured herself, disliking that word ‘criminal' again. Although she guessed it was only a matter of time before he found out. Max's death was bound to make news eventually. And, although she hadn't seen a television since she'd arrived, he was bound to have a set somewhere.

She walked restlessly to the windows. It was such a beautiful morning, she thought. She longed to get out of the house and escape her anxieties in the simple delight of feeling the wind in her hair and the sun on her face. Who knew how much longer she'd be free to enjoy such simple pleasures? Oughtn't she to make the most of it while she had the chance?

Despite being reluctant to meet Mrs Webb again, she opened her door and stepped out onto the landing. A railed gallery overlooked the main entrance and she saw to her relief that there was no sign of the housekeeper in the hall below.

Matt hadn't used this door the day before, but, having descended the stairs on tiptoe, Sara prayed it wouldn't present any
problems now. She was unutterably relieved when the key turned and the handle yielded to her touch. Stepping outside, into the sunshine, she took a deep breath of the salt-laden air.

She heard the dogs barking as she walked across the forecourt. Their hearing was obviously sharper than Mrs Webb's, and Sara hoped the housekeeper would be too busy quieting them to notice her slipping out of the gates.

She wanted to go down to the beach if she could, but, remembering the steepness of the path they'd used the afternoon before, she guessed that was the only means of access. It meant circling the house again, but luckily the track beyond the gates led onto the cliffs without having to re-enter the property.

All the same, she was glad when she started down the path and the cliff face hid her descent from view. It wasn't that she was afraid of being seen, she assured herself. She wasn't a prisoner yet, for heaven's sake. She just needed a little time alone to think about what she was going to do next.

She must have walked at least a quarter of a mile along the beach when she heard someone calling her name.

She had been enjoying the unaccustomed freedom. The breeze was warmer today, and she could smell the sea. The damp sand had been totally untouched when she'd started along the shoreline, and she knew her footprints would soon be washed away by the incoming tide.

Hearing her name, however, she expelled a sigh and stopped. She didn't even have to turn to know who it was. Only Matt Seton knew she was staying here; only he was likely to come after her.

Stifling her resentment, she turned. As if he couldn't have allowed her to finish her walk in peace, she was thinking half irritably. For heaven's sake, he wasn't her keeper.

The sight that met her startled eyes caused her to quickly revise her opinion, however. Matt was still some distance away, but between them lapped a rapidly expanding stretch of water that successfully trapped her between the incoming tide and the cliffs. Fairly deep water, too, she saw, trying not to panic. It had already covered the rocks that formed a sort of breakwater at the foot of the headland.

As she watched, she saw Matt break into a run, splashing into the water that divided them with grim determination. ‘Stay where you are,' he yelled, wading towards her, and Sara stood there, dry-mouthed, as he closed the space between them. The water came up to his thighs, she saw, soaking his jeans and plastering them to the powerful muscles of his legs. Despite the sunshine, she felt sure the water must be icy. It was far too early in the day for the sun to have gained any strength.

She watched his approach anxiously, wondering what she would have done if he hadn't appeared. She could keep herself afloat, but she wasn't a strong swimmer. If Max were here, he'd tell her how stupid she was.

Matt reached her without too much difficulty and she looked up at him with apologetic eyes. ‘I should have told Mrs Webb where I was going, shouldn't I?' she began, before he could say a word. ‘I'm sorry. I just wanted a walk. I had no idea—'

Her voice trailed away and Matt expelled a resigned sigh. ‘Yeah, well, let's get you back before we start the inquest, shall we?' he suggested flatly. ‘Here: there's no point in both of us getting soaked to the skin. I'll carry you.'

‘Oh, that's not necess—' she started, but Matt wasn't listening to her. Before she knew what was happening, he'd swung her up into his arms. But she couldn't prevent the groan of agony that escaped her lips when his thoughtless handling brought her bruised hip into sharp contact with his pelvis. The pain was sharper than ever and it was difficult to get her breath.

Matt was instantly aware of her reaction. ‘Did I hurt you?' he asked, frowning, and she guessed he'd seen the way the colour had drained out of her face.

‘I—it's nothing,' she assured him quickly, not wanting to arouse his curiosity. ‘You gave me a shock. I could have walked, you know.'

Matt looked as if that was open to discussion. But once again the precariousness of their situation forced him to put his own feelings on hold. ‘Hang on,' was all he permitted himself, before plunging back into the water, heading for the dry sand further along the beach.

She put her arms around his neck, unafraid that they wouldn't
make it. She trusted Matt implicitly, she realised, more aware of the strength of his arms supporting her than the chilly waters of the North Sea surging below. And, although every movement he made caused the fabric of her dress to chafe her sore skin, she bore it gratefully. The warmth of his body soothed her like nothing else she could remember.

Which was crazy, she chided herself impatiently, trying not to notice the length of his eyelashes or the darkening line of stubble on his jaw. Such a strong jawline, she mused, aware of him with every cell in her being. This close, she could see every pore and bristle, was only inches away from the sensual curve of his mouth.

His breath fanned her temple, warm and only slightly flavoured with the strong black coffee he'd drunk at breakfast. She could smell the soap he used, smell his sweat. And was helplessly aware of her own reactions to him.

She was instantly ashamed. She had no right to be speculating on what it would be like to be in his arms because he wanted her there. It was useless to wonder how she'd feel if he touched her, touched her intimately. But, if he allowed her slim frame to slide against him, would she find he was aroused?

She sucked in her breath. This had to stop, she told herself fiercely. She'd never had thoughts like this before. She'd certainly never considered herself a sexual woman. The only man she'd ever known intimately was Max.

Her husband's name acted like a douche of cold water. She shivered violently and Matt, misunderstanding, said sharply, ‘Are you getting wet?'

‘No.'

Her response was sharper than it might have been because of the way she was feeling, and Matt arched an ironic brow. ‘Well, we're nearly there,' he said, nodding towards the dry sand directly ahead of them. ‘I should have warned you about the tides around here. They can be dangerous.'

Sara shook her head. ‘It wasn't your fault,' she said, turning to see the cliff path just a few yards away. ‘You can put me down now.'

‘Perhaps I don't want to,' remarked Matt, stepping out of the
water onto the patch of sand that was still uncovered by the tide. He looked down into her startled face and she was uneasily aware of how emotionally vulnerable she was. ‘I think you and I need to have a little talk, Mrs Bradbury.' He allowed her name to register with her. ‘Don't you?'

 

Sara could scarcely breathe. ‘How do you know who I am?' she asked, not bothering to try and deny it, and Matt hesitated only a moment before setting her on her feet.

‘How do you think?' he asked, stepping away from her. ‘I saw your picture in a newspaper, of course.' He paused, looking back at her. ‘Look, do you mind if we continue this after I've got out of these wet clothes?'

Sara's mouth felt so dry she doubted her ability to speak. But she had to say something in her own defence. Swallowing, she whispered, ‘It—it was an accident, you know. It wasn't my fault.' She drew a breath. ‘I—I didn't mean to—'

‘Deceive me?' Matt finished the sentence he thought she'd started in a dry, cynical voice. ‘Yeah, right.' He glanced towards the path again. ‘Well, like I say, I'd prefer to have this conversation when I'm not in danger of freezing my butt, okay?'

He attempted to pull the soaked jeans away from his legs, but only succeeded in drawing Sara's eyes to the way the denim was drawn taut over the swell of his sex. He intercepted her stare and gave a wry grimace. ‘Sorry if I'm embarrassing you, Mrs Bradbury,' he added mockingly. ‘I guess I'm not as cold as I thought.'

Sara's face flamed. ‘You're not embarrassing me,' she exclaimed, even though her face was bright red. Now she looked anywhere but at his crotch. ‘Would you prefer me to go first?'