Kitabı oku: «Passionate Protectors?», sayfa 2

Sara looked up at him. ‘For you and your wife?’

‘For me and my daughter,’ Matt amended, hooking his heel around the stool opposite and straddling it to face her. He nodded to her cup. ‘Coffee all right?’

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?’

Chapter Two

HE 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.

Until the idea of asking him for a job had occurred to her. That had been a crazy notion. She realised it now, had realised it as soon as he’d started asking questions she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. But the thought of staying here, of blending into the landscape so that no one would find her until she wanted them to, had seemed, momentarily at least, the perfect solution.

A dog barked again. Closer at hand this time. She guessed it must be just beneath the window and she heard a man bidding it to be quiet. The man’s voice was familiar, strong and attractive, and she had no difficulty in identifying it as belonging to her unwilling host.

Which brought the realisation that Matt Seton must have carried her upstairs and put her to bed. He must have removed her shoes and jacket and covered her with the quilted spread. Why? Had she fainted? Had she fallen and hit her head? No, that simply wouldn’t happen. Not today. Not after…

Her bag? Alarm gripped her again. Where was her bag? Her haversack? She’d had it with her when she’d been feeling so dizzy downstairs, but she couldn’t see it now. What was in it? What could Matt Seton have found if he’d looked through it? Anything incriminating? Oh, she hated that word. But was there anything to prove that her name wasn’t really Sara Victor?

Throwing the coverlet aside, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and choked back a gasp of pain. Her hip throbbed abominably, and even if the room hadn’t spun briefly about her she’d still have had to remain motionless until the pain subsided.

Finally it did, and, drawing up the skirt of her dress, she examined the ugly bruise that was visible below the high-cut hem of her briefs. Circles of black and blue spread out from a central contusion where ruptured blood vessels were discernible beneath the skin. It was nasty, but not life-threatening, and she touched it with cold, unsteady fingers before pulling her skirt down again.

‘So you’re awake!’

The voice she’d heard a few minutes before seemed to be right behind her, and she swung apprehensively towards the sound. Matt Seton was standing in the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb, his eyes dark and shrewd, surveying her. How long had he been there? she wondered anxiously. Had he seen—?

She expelled an uneven breath. She was unwillingly aware that long ago, before her marriage to Max, she’d have considered Matt Seton quite a dish. Even wary and suspicious of her as he was, he still possessed the kind of animal magnetism that most women found irresistible. He wasn’t handsome, though his lean hard features did have a rough appeal. But it was more than that. A combination of strength and vulnerability that she was sure had all his female acquaintances falling over themselves to help him. A subtle power that was all about sex.

She bent her head, and, as if sensing she was still not entirely recovered from her loss of consciousness, he went on, ‘When did you last have a meal?’

Sara’s eyes went automatically to her watch, but she saw to her dismay that it wasn’t working. A crack bisected the glass and one of the hands was bent. She must have done it when she fell against the table the night before, but because until now she hadn’t wanted to know what time it was she hadn’t noticed.

‘I—what time is it?’ she asked, without answering him, and Matt pulled a wry face.

‘Why? Will that change anything?’ Then, when her eyes registered some anxiety, he added shortly, ‘It’s after one o’clock. I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you want some?’

One o’clock! Sara was horrified. She must have been unconscious for over three hours.

‘You fainted,’ he said, as if reading the consternation in her face. ‘And then I guess, because you were exhausted, you fell asleep. Do you feel better?’

Did she? Sara had the feeling she’d never feel better again. What was going on back home? Did Hugo know Max was dead yet? Of course he must. He had been going to join them for supper after the show…

‘Hello? Are you still with us?’

She must have been staring into space for several seconds, because she realised that her host had moved to the foot of the bed and was now regarding her with narrowed assessing eyes. What was he thinking? she pondered apprehensively. Why couldn’t she stop giving him reasons to suspect her of God knew what? Yet, whatever he suspected, it couldn’t be worse than the truth.

‘I’m sorry.’ She eased herself to the edge of the bed, trying not to jar her injured hip. ‘When I asked to use the phone I didn’t expect to make such a nuisance of myself.’

He didn’t argue with her. There was no insincere attempt to put her at her ease. Just a silent acknowledgement of the statement she had made and a patient anticipation of an answer to the question he had asked earlier.

‘Lunch,’ he prompted her at last. ‘I think we need to talk, and I’ll be happier doing it when you’ve got some solid food inside you.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want to talk to you,’ she retorted, getting to her feet. Without her heels he seemed that much taller, easily six feet, with a powerful muscular body that bore no resemblance to Max’s more bulky frame. ‘Where’s my bag?’

His expression was cynical. ‘There,’ he said flatly, indicating a spot beside the loveseat. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t been rummaging through your belongings while you’ve been unconscious. What do you take me for?’

Sara’s pale cheeks deepened with embarrassed colour. ‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’ But she did. Max wouldn’t have hesitated in using any situation to his advantage. ‘I—just wanted a tissue.’

‘Yeah, right.’ He was sardonic. Then his brows drew together as she stepped rather stiffly into her shoes. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ But she wasn’t. She’d been stiff getting out of the car, but she’d still been running on adrenalin and the ache in her hip had been bearable. Now, after resting, after giving in to her exhaustion, her senses were no longer dulled by over-active hormones and she could hardly move without wincing. ‘I’m still a bit unsteady, that’s all.’

Matt regarded her dourly. ‘I’d say that was the understatement of the year,’ he remarked, forestalling her when she would have reached for her jacket. ‘You won’t be needing this. Not yet, anyway. You’re going to have something to eat, even if I have to feed you myself.’

Sara’s cheeks flushed. ‘You can’t force me!’

‘Don’t make me prove it,’ remarked Matt, making for the door, her jacket looped over one shoulder. He nodded towards a door beside the armoire. ‘There’s a bathroom through there. Why don’t you freshen up before the meal?’ He paused. ‘Oh, and there are tissues in there, too. If you really need them.’

Sara pressed her lips together as he left the room. Once again, he’d caught her out in a lie. But then, she was no good at lying. She never had been. It might have been easier for her if she had. If Max—

But she had to stop thinking about Max. Had to stop remembering how he’d humiliated and terrified her for almost three years. Why had she stayed with him? Why had she put up with his moods, his tempers? Because she’d been too much of a coward to break away from him? Or because she’d known what he’d do to her and her mother if she dared to try and leave him?

And now he was dead…

Her throat felt dry, and after ensuring that Matt had left the room she shuffled across to the bathroom. Like the bedroom, it was predominantly peach and green in colour. Pale green bath and basin; cream tiles with a peach flower decorating the centre; thick peach and green towels set on a stainless steel rack.

There was a mirror above the basin and Sara examined her reflection with critical eyes. Fortunately, her face was unmarked. Max never left any visible signs of his cruelty, at least none that couldn’t be covered by her clothes. There had never been any obvious signs that he was anything other than an ideal husband. Even Hugo—gentle, bumbling Hugo—had never suspected what a monster his brother really was. And as for her mother…

Sara trembled. She was doing it again, concentrating all her attention on the past. She’d done what she could. She’d phoned the emergency services before she’d fled from the apartment. She’d ensured that Max was attended to. The only thing she hadn’t done was stay and be charged with his murder…

Expelling an unsteady breath, Sara ran some water into the basin and washed her face and hands with the creamy soap she found there. It was so good to get rid of the stale make-up she’d been wearing since the night before, and, after rescuing her haversack from the other room, she spent a few minutes applying moisturiser to her skin. She didn’t use any lipstick or mascara, but an eyeliner was necessary to draw attention away from the dark circles around her eyes. She looked pale, but she couldn’t help that. She had the feeling she’d never look normal again.

She found her brush and, loosening her hair, she got rid of the tangles before plaiting it again. Then, satisfied that she’d repaired the damage, she went back into the bedroom.

She found her hip was easier now that she was moving about again. In a few days the bruises would disappear, as they had done before. She’d be able to look at herself and pretend, as she had pretended so many times before, that Max had left no scars upon her. But the real scars went deeper, were longer lasting. Those scars were incapable of being destroyed.

She closed her eyes for a moment, preparing herself to meet the questions Matt Seton wasn’t going to forget he hadn’t had answers to. And, before she left the room, she took off her watch and her rings and slipped them into the bottom of her bag. One way or another she was no longer Max’s possession. She was on her own now, and, until she decided what she was going to do, she had to think on her feet.

There was still her mother, of course. But she doubted she would have any sympathy for her daughter. They had never been close, and in the older woman’s eyes the only sensible thing Sara had ever done was to marry Max Bradbury. It had always been the same. Max could do no wrong. And, because when they’d got married Max had moved her mother out of her run-down house in Greenwich and into a luxury apartment in Bloomsbury, Sara had never been able to appeal to her for help. God knew what she’d think when she discovered Max was dead and her daughter was missing. Sara doubted she would ever forgive her.