Hot Pursuit (9 page)

Matt's lips twisted. ‘Yes, I'd prefer you to go first,' he mimicked her prim tone. ‘And when we get back to the house you're going to let Mrs Webb take a look at that hip. I know it's hurting you, and the old lady used to be a nursing auxiliary until she had a family and had to give it up.'

Sara pressed her lips together. This wasn't the time to argue with him, as he'd said, but she hoped he didn't think the fact that he'd discovered who she was gave him the right to order
her about. She had no intention of letting Mrs Webb or anyone else examine her. If she was arrested— She licked her dry lips. Well, she'd face that problem when she came to it. Until then…

It was harder climbing the cliff path today than it had been the day before. She assumed fear—and the prospect of imminent exposure to the authorities—had stiffened her muscles, and it was difficult putting one foot in front of the other.

On top of that, her mind was buzzing with thoughts of what Matt intended to do with her. Had he already called the police? Or was he prepared to listen to her side of the story before turning her in? Although she knew there was no chance of her getting away, she couldn't help considering and discarding every option open to her.

Reaching the house, she had only Mrs Webb's ire to contend with, however. The housekeeper clicked her tongue when she saw Matt's wet clothes and said, ‘Go and get into a hot shower before you catch your death.' Then she turned on Sara. ‘You should have told me you were going out,' she exclaimed shortly. ‘I would have warned you about the tides.'

‘I know.'

Sara was contrite, but Matt chose to intervene. ‘Give her a break,' he said, heading for the hall. ‘She's had a shock. And, as far as getting wet is concerned, it is the middle of June, not November.'

‘And that water's warm, is it?' Mrs Webb enquired, with some sarcasm, and he sighed.

‘Warm enough,' he said, not to be outdone. ‘Right. I'll see you in about fifteen minutes.'

Sara knew this remark was addressed to her, but she had no intention of staying in the kitchen until he returned. It was to avoid the housekeeper's questions that she'd sneaked out in the first place, and although she was fairly sure Matt hadn't told Mrs Webb who she was, she wasn't prepared to take that chance.

She waited until Matt had disappeared upstairs before saying casually, ‘I'll be in my room, if anyone wants me.'

‘Why don't you stay here?' The housekeeper sounded put out. ‘Unless I'm not good enough for you, that is.'

Sara blew out a breath. ‘I need to use the bathroom,' she said evenly. ‘It has nothing to do with your company, I can assure you.'

Mrs Webb regarded her grudgingly. ‘Matt says you're staying until tomorrow,' she remarked conversationally. ‘Have you—er—have you known him long?'

Sara blinked. ‘Matt?' She shook her head ‘I only met him yesterday. I thought you knew.'

‘I know what he said,' declared the housekeeper narrowly, looking sceptical. ‘But he seems awfully concerned about someone he only met twenty-four hours ago.'

Sara wished she'd left when Matt had. Whatever she felt about it, Mrs Webb was determined to get her pound of flesh. ‘I meant it,' she said, ‘we barely know one another.'

But she couldn't help wondering what the housekeeper would say if she was honest. She and Matt might only have known one another for a short time, but their relationship couldn't be judged in terms of hours and minutes. Despite the shortness of their association, he probably knew her more intimately than anyone else.

Mrs Webb shrugged and returned to the casserole she'd been preparing before they came in, and Sara took the opportunity to get away. Favouring her uninjured leg, she left the kitchen, going as swiftly as she could up the stairs and along the gallery to her room.

It was amazing how quickly this room had become her refuge, she thought, sinking down onto the bed. It wasn't her room, and it certainly wasn't anything like the room she'd shared with Max. But it was bright and cheerful, and she felt at home there.

Which she had never done in the luxurious duplex apartment she shared with her husband. Situated in a fashionable part of the city, it had been decorated and furnished by a firm of interior designers that Max thought highly of. She'd had no say in any of it. The apartment was expensive and soulless, and she hated everything about it.

Or perhaps she'd simply hated the life she'd lived there, she acknowledged bitterly. Like his Rolex watch, his Armani suits
and his Bentley, she had been just another of Max's possessions. The only difference had been that he had treated his watch, his clothes and his car rather better than his wife.

Her hip throbbed, reminding her that she ought to check and see that it hadn't started bleeding. The skin had been seriously scrubbed in places, and it wouldn't be the first time that she'd had to repair the damage. But this time she didn't have a convenient wardrobe of clothes to change into, and she could imagine Matt's reaction if he saw blood on her dress.

Lifting the hem of her skirt, she examined the injury, noticing that the skin was badly inflamed. But that was because of the way Matt had carried her, and she could hardly blame him for trying to save her life.

Nevertheless, there was a faint trace of blood oozing from the point of her hip and she clicked her tongue in frustration. Now what was she going to do? She didn't carry any adhesive plasters in her haversack. Perhaps she'd find some in the bathroom cabinet. It was the kind of thing people did keep in case of emergency.

Holding her skirt to her waist, she got up from the bed and limped into the bathroom. Then, clutching her dress in one hand, she reached up to the cabinet with the other.

‘Sara?'

It was Matt's voice and she panicked. He mustn't see her like this. All right, so he probably knew about Max's accident, but there was no need for him to witness her humiliation. If he chose to call the police she couldn't stop him. But she could hold onto her dignity until then.

Pushing the bathroom door to with her uninjured hip, she called weakly, ‘What do you want?'

‘Can I come in?'

Sara breathed a little more easily. She'd thought at first that he was in. ‘Why?' she asked, suddenly remembering what he'd said about Mrs Webb. ‘I don't need any assistance.'

‘I'm not offering any,' he replied, his voice louder now. ‘I've brought you a gift.'

A gift!

Sara blinked. What kind of gift could he have brought her?
Some more of his old clothes? Or perhaps he wanted to show her the newspaper where he'd read about her? That seemed infinitely more likely.

‘I—just leave it on the bed,' she called, deciding there was no point in expecting him to go away without achieving his objective. ‘I'll be out in a minute.'

There was silence for a moment, and then she heard Matt's voice just outside the bathroom door. ‘What are you doing?' he exclaimed. ‘Is your hip all right?'

Sara trembled. ‘It's fine,' she insisted. ‘What do people usually do in the bathroom?' She closed the door of the cabinet, just in case he came to investigate, but that was a mistake. She had evidently dislodged the items inside and a tube of hair gel came clattering down into the basin in front of her.

‘What the—?' Without more ado, the bathroom door was forced open, and Matt stood on the threshold staring at her with bleak horrified eyes. ‘For God's sake,' he exclaimed, staring at her injury. ‘Did I do that?'

‘As if.' Sara managed the contemptuous rejoinder with amazing composure. But then, realising that her lacy briefs left very little to his imagination, she allowed her skirt to fall and sagged against the basin. ‘I had a fall before I came away.'

Matt gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You do a lot of falling in your house, don't you?'

‘What do you mean?' Sara stared at him with confused eyes.

‘Your husband,' he stated flatly, his eyes still fixed on the spot her skirt had now hidden from his gaze. ‘He fell, too. What a coincidence!'

Sara's shoulders slumped. ‘You don't know anything about it.'

‘No.' Matt agreed. ‘But I'm willing to listen if you want to tell me. I'm not jumping to conclusions here, but a simple fall wouldn't have caused that mess.'

‘It did.' Sara was desperate. ‘It was an accident. I didn't mean it to happen. And that's the truth.'

Matt's brows drew together. ‘Hey, I'm not accusing you of anything,' he protested. His eyes darkened. ‘I'd guess it had something to do with your running away, right?'

‘If you say so.' Sara spoke wearily. ‘So what now? Are you going to turn me in?'

Matt eyes sought hers. ‘Turn you in?' he echoed blankly. ‘You talk as if you're a criminal. The last I heard, running away isn't a capital offence.'

‘Running away?' She repeated his words barely audibly. ‘But you said you knew about—about Max having a fall.'

‘So?'

‘So—so what did it say about how they found him? Did it tell you the way he—he died?'

‘He's not dead!' Matt spoke harshly now. He stared at her. ‘Why would you think he was?' He shook his head. ‘He apparently had the presence of mind to call the emergency services before he passed out. He spent the night in hospital and discharged himself yesterday morning. That's when you were reported missing. According to the article I read, your husband's afraid you might have been kidnapped.'

M
ATT
wouldn't have believed Sara could get any paler, but she did. Every scrap of colour drained out of her face, leaving her unnaturally pallid. The circles around her eyes stood out in sharp relief and her mouth worked in silent consternation.

‘You're—you're lying,' she got out at last, and he wondered why, if she'd believed her husband was dead, the news that he wasn't should have such a shattering effect.

‘Why would I lie?' he reasoned, becoming anxious in spite of himself. ‘Sara—'

‘Max calls me Victoria,' she said dully. ‘You must know that.' Then she slid to the floor in a dead faint.

It was the second time he'd had to pick her unconscious body off the floor. Not that she weighed much. She felt wholly in-substantial in his arms. How long was it since she'd eaten a decent meal? he wondered. In the last twenty-four hours she'd only picked at her food, and he suspected her weakness was due in part to hunger.

So, why? Why had she been starving herself? Why had she run away? And how had she sustained such an ugly bruise on her hip? As Matt carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed his mind buzzed with a jumble of questions. The most obvious explanation was fear. But what was she afraid of?

He straightened and stood looking down at her. He wished he could believe she was a spoiled wife who had grown bored with her pampered existence and decided to give her husband a wake-up call. Could she really have been that self-indulgent? Somehow he didn't buy it.

Her eyelids were fluttering and, realising that in a short time she was going to be wide awake and denying everything he was thinking, Matt came to an abrupt decision. Hoping she wouldn't object too much, he took the hem of her skirt and drew it up to her waist.

He was shocked again by the sight of the ugly lesions on her hip, but he knew he didn't have time to examine them more closely right now. Instead, he slipped his arm beneath her and eased her dress out of the way.

She began to protest now as consciousness returned, trying to push his hands away without any success. Matt wasn't listening to her. Horror had replaced his concern and he sank down onto the bed beside her in speechless disbelief.

There was barely an inch of her torso that didn't bear the scars of injuries old and new. Some bruises were obviously more recent than others, the colours ranging from stark black and blue to a jaundiced yellow or brown. She'd been beaten, and beaten badly, and Matt wanted to take the man who'd done this to her and wring his cowardly neck.

His hands trembled as he eased the dress away. Sara seemed to realise there was no point in trying to stop him. It was too late; too late for both of them. Matt closed his eyes for a moment against the murderous rage that was demanding revenge.

‘Your husband did this to you?' he asked at last, when he had himself in control again, and she shrugged.

‘Does it matter?' She sighed. His hands lingered at her waist. ‘I think you'd better let me get up.'

‘And I think you ought to have that hip treated,' said Matt flatly. ‘From what I've seen, it needs medical attention.'

Her response was urgent. ‘I don't need a doctor,' she exclaimed fiercely, and he didn't think this was the time to tell her that that was what he had been before he'd become a writer.

He expelled an unsteady breath, hoping she wouldn't mistake his concern for something less commendable. ‘I've got some first aid stuff in my bathroom. I suggest you let me deal with your hip if you don't want me to involve anyone else.'

‘I can do it,' she protested, but once again he prevented her from getting off the bed.

‘I'm sure you can. I'm sure that's what you're used to,' he muttered harshly. ‘But in this instance I'd prefer it if you'd let me make sure there's no infection.'

Sara made a weary sound. ‘There is no infection,' she insisted. ‘It's just bleeding a bit, that's all.'

‘So I see,' he said grimly, unable to hide his reaction. And she suddenly seemed to realise that the lower half of her body was still exposed to his gaze.

‘Mr Seton—'

‘Don't call me that.' He was impatient. ‘It's too late for us to behave as if we're just casual acquaintances. We're not. I know it and you know it. Whether you like it not, I feel responsible for you.'

‘Don't patronise me!'

‘I won't if you'll do as you're told.'

Her eyes flashed with sudden spirit. ‘And I'm very good at doing as I'm told,' she told him bitterly, and he groaned at his own thoughtlessness.

‘Sara—'

‘Shouldn't that be Victoria?' she enquired painfully. And then, as if she'd just recalled why she was lying on the bed, ‘Did I pass out?'

Matt nodded. ‘Like a light.' He got up. ‘Stay here. Please. I'll be back in a few seconds.'

Sara looked up at him. ‘You did say—Max was alive?' she ventured.

‘Yes.' Matt hesitated. ‘Why would you think he wasn't? What happened before you ran away?'

Sara moved her head from side to side on the pillows. ‘He was so still,' she whispered, obviously thinking about it. ‘I couldn't find a pulse. I was sure—' She pressed her lips together. ‘Oh, God, he's going to be so mad when he finds out what I did.'

Matt felt his anger surfacing again, and determinedly forced it back. ‘I'll get my gear,' he said, heading for the door. ‘Just—relax, okay? I won't be long.'

She didn't answer, and he could only hope that she'd be too distracted by what he'd told her to disobey him. It wasn't just an excuse to get his hands on her again, he assured himself. She was in such a frail state she might pick up some infection without her being aware of it. He didn't want to think what the ravages of blood poisoning might do to her fragile system. He'd seen too many tragic cases in the past.

Without taking the time to check what was in the bag he kept in his bathroom, he simply snatched it out of the cupboard and charged back along the landing. Only to encounter Mrs Webb at the top of the stairs.

‘Something wrong?' she asked, her sharp eyes immediately noting the medical kit. ‘Do you need my help?'

Matt gave her a resigned look. ‘No help needed,' he said, aware that Sara's door was ajar and that she could probably hear everything that was being said. ‘Miss Victor just needs an adhesive plaster, that's all.'

‘Hurt her heel, has she?' Mrs Webb arched an enquiring brow. ‘I could have told her that those shoes she wears aren't suitable for around here.'

‘Something like that,' Matt agreed, his nerves screaming in frustration. ‘If you'll excuse me…?'

‘Very formal all of a sudden, aren't we?' remarked Mrs Webb with a sniff. ‘Oh, well.' To his relief she turned towards his daughter's bedroom. ‘I expect I'll hear all about it from Rosie. She seems to know what's going on.'

‘Nothing's going on,' said Matt, gritting his teeth, but he was talking to himself. The housekeeper was already out of earshot.

Aware of the tension in his shoulders, Matt determinedly tried to relax before going back into Sara's room. He half expected to find her locked in the bathroom, but, although she was sitting up, she was still on the bed.

‘I guess you heard that,' he said, hesitating only a moment before closing the door behind him. ‘My housekeeper likes to feel she's in the know.'

‘Yes.' Sara's tone was dry. ‘Well, I suppose it's only a matter of time before she realises who I am.'

Matt shrugged. ‘We'll deal with that when we have to,' he said, sitting down beside her and opening the leather bag. ‘Now, let's see: what have we got? Gauze; adhesive plasters; bandages.' His fingers hesitated over the syringe and the advantages of injection. But, dismissing the idea, he added, ‘And some antiseptic ointment. Good.'

‘This really isn't necessary,' she murmured, and he saw she was embarrassed all over again. She'd pulled her dress down,
too, even though she was running the risk of staining it. Her dignity still meant something to her, at least.

‘We have to talk,' said Matt, opening the packet of plasters and examining its contents. ‘Why don't you start by telling me why you thought your husband was dead?' He paused. ‘Did you try to kill him?'

‘No!'
Her denial was instantaneous, and, looking into her horrified eyes, he couldn't help but believe her. ‘I wouldn't do that,' she added, with a revealing tremor in her voice. ‘Max fell. Down the stairs in our apartment. I tried to find a pulse but I couldn't.' She took a breath. ‘It wasn't Max who called the emergency service. It was me.'

‘So why didn't you stay and speak to them?' Matt asked, hoping that by getting her to talk to him he could divert her attention. He urged her back against the pillows again, avoiding her eyes as he lifted the hem of her skirt. ‘I don't understand why you ran away.'

‘Don't you?' The laugh she gave was without humour. ‘No, well, perhaps it is hard for you to understand how I felt. I suppose the simple answer would be to say I panicked. I was afraid no one would believe my version of events.'

Matt frowned. ‘Okay,' he said evenly. ‘I'll buy that. Having seen what the bastard's done to you, you've got a point.' His jaw compressed as he cleaned the abrasion on her hip with a sterile wipe. ‘But for goodness' sake, Sara, why did you stay with him?'

Sara caught her breath, and he guessed her hip was stinging. ‘You don't know that Max did this to me,' she argued. ‘If you met him, you'd think he was a charming man. Hugo thinks so, and so does my mother. As far as she's concerned I'm an ungrateful wife.'

The area around the abrasion was clean now, and Matt stared at it for a long time, trying to contain his anger. Who the hell was Hugo? he wondered, resenting the thought that some other man might be involved. He didn't like the idea that there was someone else she cared about.

‘Who is Hugo?' he asked at last, when he had himself in
control again. But the question was too personal and he felt her eyes upon him.

‘Hugo is Max's brother,' she replied at last, and Matt cursed his own stupidity. He remembered now seeing the man's name in the article he'd read about her disappearance. Her lips twisted as she added, ‘He's harmless.'

‘But he doesn't stop his brother from beating up his wife every chance he gets,' pointed out Matt harshly, and she sighed.

‘I've told you,' she said, pressing a protective hand to her midriff. ‘Hugo doesn't know anything about it. He—he thinks Max and I have the ideal marriage. He's a hopeless romantic at heart.'

Hopeless? Right. Matt shook his head. But touching her was becoming the finest form of torture, and the idea that some man felt he had the right to brutalise her infuriated him anew. ‘What about your father?' he demanded roughly. ‘Doesn't he care?'

‘My father's dead and my mother wouldn't want to believe me. She has a very comfortable lifestyle, thanks to Max,' she said unsteadily. She looked down. ‘Have you finished?'

‘Not nearly,' retorted Matt, his tone savage. ‘Dammit, Sara, women don't have to put up with this sort of thing today. Why don't you get a divorce?'

She stiffened then. Her muscles locked, and he felt the withdrawal of a confidence he'd hardly begun to explore. ‘You don't understand,' she told him tersely, and he knew if he hadn't been applying a gauze coated with antiseptic ointment to her hip at that moment she'd have scrambled off the bed and left him. She licked her lips. ‘Thank you for doing this, but please don't think it gives you the right to offer me advice. I know what I'm doing—what I
have
to do. And getting a divorce isn't an option!'

‘Why the hell not?'

Matt was impatient, but she just regarded him with cool guarded eyes. ‘Well, your knowing who I am solves one problem,' she declared, ignoring his outburst. ‘I can't stay here now.' She hesitated. ‘I'll have to go back.'

‘No!'

The word was torn from him. She couldn't be serious. He
tried to concentrate on the two strips of adhesive he was smoothing over the gauze. To go back to a man who clearly had no respect—let alone any love—for her. For God's sake, after what she'd told him about the circumstances of her departure he had no doubt that Max Bradbury would have reserved some particularly unpleasant punishment for embarrassing him when she got back.

His hands trembled as he completed his task but he didn't immediately release her. Although he knew she was eager to end this awkward encounter, his hands lingered on her skin. He wasn't unaware of the impropriety of his actions. He was running the risk of her accusing him of God knew what! But at that moment it wasn't important. He simply didn't want to let her go.

His eyes drifted down, over the quivering muscles of her stomach. The dusky hollow of her navel tantalised him, made him catch his breath. Below her navel the lacy briefs offered little protection, the triangular shadow that marked the apex of her legs inviting his hungry gaze.

He wanted her, he realised, even as he rejected the thought as unworthy of him. This was no fantasy; this was real, this was honest—though he doubted she'd believe his feelings had no strings attached. She'd probably find any overture he made towards her, however innocent, utterly repulsive. He wasn't arrogant enough to think she felt any attraction to him.

Yet still he prolonged the moment. And, as if becoming aware that the atmosphere between them had changed, she struggled to get up. ‘Please,' she said, and although there was no fear in her eyes there was withdrawal. And a mute appeal he found hard to resist.

‘You do please—me,' he told her huskily. And despite herself, he was sure, she gave a helpless little moan.

‘Oh, Matt,' she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion.