by Anne Mather
Sara licked her dry lips. She didn’t want to talk about Gloria Armstrong, she thought impatiently. What she really wanted was for Matt to tell her how he really felt about her being here. Yet, as he’d said, she had no right to expect anything more from him. He’d done what he could to help her and that ought to be enough.
But it wasn’t. She wanted so much more.
He was waiting for her answer, and her heart gave an odd little flutter at the strangely vulnerable look on his face. He was a tall man, strong and virile, his dark hair tumbled by the restless invasion of his hands. Even with the shadow of stubble on his jawline and his mouth set in a grim line he set her pulses racing. She had no fear of him. He’d taught her that strength could be tempered not with violence, but love.
But she couldn’t tell him that. Shaking her head, she struggled to remember what they’d been talking about before she’d been distracted. ‘I—I’ve told you all I know,’ she submitted at last. And then, to assuage her own frustration, she added, ‘Is Mrs Armstrong another of your admirers?’
‘Another of my—’ Matt’s eyes darkened. ‘I don’t have admirers, Sara. Gloria Armstrong’s husband farms the land north of here. They have two boys who are in Rosie’s class.’
Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘I see.’
‘Do you?’ Matt turned away from her again and stared broodingly out of the window. ‘What did you think? That I have a covey of women I can call on when I want to get laid?’
Sara couldn’t prevent herself. ‘And do you?’
‘Oh, sure.’ Matt scowled at her over his shoulder. ‘I’m a regular stud!’
Sara pressed her lips together, not sure how to take him now. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ she muttered, and he made an exasperated sound.
‘I won’t dignify that comment with a response,’ he stated harshly. ‘Dammit, Sara, don’t you know me better than that? And before you start on Emma, I’ll tell you that she and I are just good friends.’
‘Her husband, too?’
‘What’s it to you?’ Matt swung round. Then, as if taking pity on her, he made an impatient gesture. ‘She’s a widow,’ he said. ‘Her husband was killed in a car crash about two years ago, leaving her with a ten-year-old son to raise on her own.’
Sara frowned. ‘This would be—Darren, yes?’
‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ Matt was ironic. ‘But, yeah. Darren’s her son.’
‘I suppose—I suppose she depends on you,’ ventured Sara cautiously, not quite sure where she was going with this. ‘Are you—very close?’
‘I told you—’
‘I know what you said,’ said Sara quickly, ‘but you have to admit Mrs Proctor doesn’t behave like a—a casual acquaintance.’
Matt groaned. ‘What does it matter to you?’
Sara stared at him. ‘It matters,’ she said huskily, and then, shaking her head, she started towards the door. ‘I—I’ll see what Rosie’s doing.’
‘Don’t!’
His hoarse command resonated through every nerve in her body, but before she could do anything more than register the fact that Matt was as aroused by their exchange as she was they heard the sound of Rosie’s footsteps scampering along the hall towards them.
At once, Matt turned back to the window, adjusting the fit of his shorts with an unsteady hand. By the time Rosie appeared in the doorway he had control of himself again, but Sara couldn’t forget the smouldering look he had cast in her direction in the seconds before Rosie burst into the room.
‘Daddy, Daddy!’
Rosie’s excitement was palpable and, however he was really feeling, Matt managed a tolerant smile for his daughter. ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘what on earth’s going on? What did Mrs Webb say?’
Rosie shook her head, her sooty bob bouncing about her face. ‘Mrs Webb didn’t say anything,’ she exclaimed, wrapping her arms about his waist. ‘Uncle Rob is here. He came in a taxi. Didn’t you hear it?’
‘Rob?’ Matt was clearly shocked. ‘Rob’s here?’
‘That’s what the lady said,’ remarked a drawling voice behind them, and Sara swung round to find a tall fair-haired man standing in the doorway. ‘Hey, Matt! Long time, no see.’
Sara saw Matt register the complications that the other man’s arrival might represent before he could control his features. Already the man’s eyes were turning in her direction, and there was speculation as well as admiration in his gaze.
‘And you must be the temporary nanny,’ he declared lightly. ‘I should have known Seton would fall on his feet.’
‘That’s Sara,’ said Rosie at once, letting go of her father to skip across the room to take her hand. But Matt had recovered now, and his harsh voice overrode the little girl’s introduction.
‘What are you doing here, Rob?’ he asked with obvious exasperation. ‘I said I’d be in touch.’
‘And you know what they said about the mountain and Mohammed?’ Rob was sardonic. ‘I thought you might be pleased to see me.’ He held up the leather attaché case in his hand. ‘I come bearing gifts.’
‘I don’t care what the hell you come bearing,’ retorted Matt flatly. ‘You should have let me know you were coming.’
‘Yeah.’ Rob pulled a face. ‘Well, I can see you’re pretty tied up at the moment.’ He looked at Sara again. ‘Nice to meet you, Sara. Nannies are getting better-looking all the time. I’m Rob Marco, by the way. Matt’s agent, in case he hasn’t mentioned me. I must say, you must have some patience to deal with this bad-tempered bast—guy!’
‘Oh—’ Sara exchanged an awkward look with Matt. ‘We get along,’ she said. Then, nervously, ‘If you’ll excuse me—’
‘Me and Sara are going for a walk,’ declared Rosie, who hadn’t forgotten anything. ‘You don’t mind, Daddy, do you? Not now you’ve got Uncle Rob to talk to.’
Sara thought there was a lot Matt would have liked to say but his daughter had effectively silenced him. Instead, it was left to Rob Marco to remark drily, ‘Shouldn’t that be Sara and I, Rosie?’ He gave Sara a mocking grin. ‘Aren’t nannies supposed to notice stuff like that?’
‘Cut it out, Rob.’ Matt spoke before Sara could attempt to defend herself. Then, to his daughter, ‘You can go for a walk. But only as far as the cliff path, okay?’
Rosie pursed her lips. ‘But, Daddy—’
‘Take it or leave it.’
Matt was unyielding, but Sara’s attention was suddenly riveted by the speculative expression on Rob Marco’s face. ‘Hey,’ he exclaimed, staring at her, ‘I know you.’ His brows drew together consideringly. ‘You’re Victoria Bradbury, aren’t you? Max Bradbury’s wife. I’d recognise those classy features anywhere.’
Sara’s face drained of colour. ‘No, I—’
‘Sure you are.’ Rob was adamant. ‘Hell, I saw your picture in the paper just a few days ago.’ He snorted. ‘Your husband was insisting you’d been kidnapped. I might have known the guy was just covering his backside.’
‘Please—’
Sara didn’t realise she was begging him not to go on, but it did no good.
‘Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. Not this time,’ Rob continued, apparently indifferent to the dismay on her face. ‘Bradbury had apparently had a fall and banged his head, and a couple of days later he claimed it was all a mistake. He said he’d now had a letter from you and that you were staying with a schoolfriend. He reckoned he’d forgotten all about it, but it got people talking, I can tell you. I mean, after what happened to his first wife, it would have been quite a coincidence if you’d disappeared, too.’
Sara’s lips parted. ‘Max’s first wife drowned,’ she said, hardly realising she was confirming his suspicions by admitting as much, and Rob pulled a wry face.
‘Well, that’s the story, anyway,’ he agreed drily. ‘But there have always been doubts that that was the truth.’ Then, as if belatedly acknowledging the upheaval he was causing, he added, ‘Well, no worries. I can see you’re okay. But—’ his eyes
switched to Matt ‘—don’t tell me you’re the old schoolfriend, pal, ’cos I won’t believe it.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MOONLIGHT streamed into the bedroom. Sara hadn’t drawn her curtains deliberately. She’d left the window ajar, too, so that she could hear the ceaseless boom of the sea. It might be the last time she could indulge herself in this way, and, although she was tired, she was too unsettled to sleep.
Rob Marco’s presence weighed heavily on her mind. Matt’s agent was going back to London the next day, and although she had no doubt that Matt would impress on him the need to keep her whereabouts a secret she didn’t altogether trust him. She guessed he resented her just as much as she resented his intrusion into their lives. As far as he was concerned she was the reason Matt hadn’t finished his new manuscript, and was it that unreasonable to wonder if he might not drop a hint in certain circles, enabling Max to find her?
He had the right connections, after all. He’d admitted that he and Max’s brother belonged to the same club, and it would be so easy for him to mention to Hugo that she was staying with a client of his. She could hardly blame him. Matt’s sales provided a large part of his income and, if what he’d been saying at supper was true, there was a rather impressive contract in the offing, only awaiting Matt’s signature.
So what was she thinking? That she’d have to go back to London, too? The very idea terrified her, but she knew that the longer she put it off, the harder it was going to be.
The news that Max had made her letter public was daunting. She wondered if that had been Hugo’s idea. It simply wasn’t like her husband to admit that he’d made a mistake. Of course, it was possible that he was still suffering concussion from the fall, and perhaps if she could get back before Max had totally recovered from his injuries he might be persuaded that she’d meant no harm.
Yeah, right.
A shudder racked her slim body, and even though it wasn’t a cold night she pulled the sheet more closely about her. Since she had no nightwear, she was obliged to sleep in the nude, and tonight, for the first time since she’d come here, she felt exposed and vulnerable.
Dear Lord, Max was going to be so angry with her. He’d been angry in the past, frequently, but he’d never had such an excuse for punishing her before. She should never have run away as she had; she should have stayed and faced the consequences. The excuse she’d given Matt for her flight seemed such a pitiable thing now that she knew Max was alive and well. Who would believe her story? Her mother? Unlikely. Max? No chance.
Besides, it had been an unforgivable thing to do and she knew it. What kind of a woman was she that she should leave her husband’s unconscious body lying unattended at the foot of the stairs? What kind of wife didn’t care if her husband was alive or dead?
An abused one, she answered herself bitterly. Only an abused woman would have run as she had. Only an abused wife would have believed that her word would mean less than nothing to the people who mattered. Only someone who was used to being tortured for the mildest transgression would have expected to be punished for a simple accident.
And she hadn’t left him completely alone. She’d called the emergency services and left the apartment unlocked so that they could get in and attend to him.
Yet, with hindsight, she realised that that was just another rod for Max to beat her with. He was a wealthy man. A connoisseur of beautiful things. The apartment was full of porcelain and artwork that was totally irreplaceable. He’d accuse her of caring so little for his possessions that she’d been prepared to invite a thief into their home.
Sara expelled a long shuddering sigh. It seemed that everything she’d done since Max’s accident had been designed to condemn her. She wondered now what he’d told her mother. If past experience was anything to go by he’d have aroused her sympathy for the mistake he was supposed to have made, at the same time leaving her with the distinct impression that Sara was to blame. Perhaps he’d also implied that she’d left without giving him any warning—which was true!—and in his confused state, he’d naturally jumped to the wrong conclusion.
Oh, yes, she was sure Max’s story would exonerate him. And, because her mother thought the sun shone out of his eyes, she’d have swallowed it hook, line and sinker.
Sara sniffed, feeling the hot tears behind her eyes. She despised people who felt sorry for themselves, but right now she couldn’t help it. Her mother had always taken Max’s side against her, had never been willing to listen to any complaint her daughter attempted to make. Right now, Sara knew, it would be incredibly easy to convince herself that without her mother’s encouragement she would never have married Max in the first place, even if that wasn’t entirely fair.
Nevertheless, it was true that since her father’s death some fifteen years ago her mother had depended on her daughter more and more. The fact that Mr Fielding had died in the course of his work as a police constable had caused her mother both bitterness and grief. She’d been sorry he was dead, but she’d resented the fact that he’d left her with only his police pension to live on. Sara could do nothing to change her mother’s belief that she’d been badly let down.
She could never remember her mother speaking of her father without that thread of bitterness running through her words. And although another woman might have gone out and made an alternative life for herself, Mrs Fielding had chosen to stay at home feeling sorry for herself.
Sara had worked to support herself through college. She’d gained admission to a local university, which had enabled her to continue to live at home. She’d done her best to make life comfortable for her mother. But it had never been enough. She had never done enough. Until Max Bradbury came on the scene.
Sara still didn’t know why he’d taken such a fancy to her. She was totally unaware that her pale oval features possessed a subtle beauty that Max had insisted was only evident to the discerning eye. She had been flattered by his attentions; she admitted it. And the idea that her mother would never have to worry about money again had been appealing.
Oh, she’d been attracted by his money, too, she conceded wearily. In the weeks before their marriage she’d only had to mention that she needed something and it had been hers. Gifts of cosmetics and lingerie had arrived daily, and she’d learned not to confide her wishes to him. It wasn’t that she hadn’t appreciated what he was doing for her. It was just that she hadn’t liked the feelings of obligation she’d started to have.
Her mother had been in seventh heaven, of course. Max owned property in Bloomsbury, and he’d suggested that Mrs Fielding might prefer to live in a comfortable apartment, free of rent, after they were married, instead of staying on alone in the small townhouse she and Sara had shared.
Max had known what he was doing, Sara thought now. With Mrs Fielding ensconced in her new home there’d been no way she could back out. Besides, she hadn’t wanted to. She’d convinced herself she was a very lucky woman, indeed.
Max was older, of course, and he’d told her his first wife had died in tragic circumstances. But that had only aroused her sympathy. She’d believed him when he’d said he’d never expected to fall in love again.
It hadn’t been until after the wedding was over that she’d come to realise that Max’s interest in her had been inspired by other, less flattering motives. He had seen her as a woman without any protection. A possession he could use in any way he chose.
From the very beginning he’d known she was at his mercy. Even when he’d told her he was sorry for hurting her he hadn’t meant it. He’d enjoyed brutalising her too much to abandon his cruelty. There had seemed no way she could escape the hell her life had become.
She shivered now, in spite of the warm summer air drifting in through the open window. Not for the first time she wondered if Max’s first wife’s death had been the accident he claimed. Perhaps the poor woman had killed herself. If he had hurt her, too, why not?
She so much didn’t want to go back to London. But God help her, what else could she do? She was
Max’s wife; Max’s possession. And he was never going to let her go.
Realising she wouldn’t sleep in her present state of mind, Sara pushed back the covers and got out of bed. Not bothering with underwear, she pulled on one of her tee shirts and Matt’s old sweat pants. The fleecy lining of the pants was warm against her bare legs and she was comforted by the knowledge that they belonged to Matt, that they’d clung to his long legs as they were clinging to hers.
Then, opening her bedroom door, she went out onto the landing. The house appeared to be in darkness. Mrs Webb was long gone and Rosie would be fast asleep, clutching the furry bunny that always shared her bed.
Sara’s lips twitched at the thought of the little girl. She would have so much liked a little girl like Rosie herself. But even if Max had wanted a child she would have done her best to avoid giving him that hold over her. It was bad enough knowing that her mother was at his mercy. She would never have forgiven herself if she’d caused a child to suffer because of her.
She was barefoot and her feet made no sound on the stairs. She didn’t know which room Rob Marco was occupying, but she guessed he would be fast asleep, too. He’d delivered his small bombshell and she doubted he had any feelings of remorse to keep him awake.
She was crossing the hall to the library when she became aware that someone was standing in the passageway that led to the kitchen. Her heart leapt into her throat and she was half afraid that Rob Marco had had the same problem as herself. But then Matt said roughly, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ and the breath gushed out of her lungs in a rush.
‘I—I can’t sleep,’ she replied in a strained voice. ‘I came to get something to read.’ Then, more defensively, ‘What are you doing?’
Matt’s shoulders lifted. He was just a shadow in the darkness, but, as if wanting to reassure her, he moved into the shaft of moonlight that speared through the fan-shaped window above the door.
‘Would you believe getting a drink?’ he asked, pushing his hands into the pockets of the black jeans he’d worn at supper. His action drew her attention to the fact that the jeans weren’t fastened. They looked as if, like hers, they’d been pulled on for decency’s sake and little else. He wasn’t wearing a shirt either, and his chest gleamed like copper in the pale light.