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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.’
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 overnight 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 widespaced 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.
And how sensible was that?
Chapter Six
SARA 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.
