by Anne Mather
He’d agreed with her for the most part. He didn’t want Rosie’s life controlled by either a bimbo or a martinet. And, although he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in any attachment, he’d always been aware of the dangers inherent in having a younger woman living in his house.
And now Rosie had formed an attachment of her own.
He’d seen it happening, of course. All last evening he’d been forced to watch his daughter falling more and more deeply under Sara’s unconscious spell. And it was unconscious. He knew that. Sara hadn’t set out to entrance the little girl; she just couldn’t help doing so.
She had the knack of drawing Rosie out of herself. Without talking down to her, she was able to put herself on the child’s level, and Rosie had responded in kind. Matt hadn’t been aware that his daughter was missing anything until he’d heard her discussing her dolls’ outfits with Sara. What did he know of women’s fashions, or of the most attractive shades of lipstick and nail varnish? He hadn’t even known Rosie knew about such things until she’d produced a bottle of some glittery substance, which had apparently come as a free gift with one of the preteen magazines he’d bought for her, and proceeded to paint Sara’s nails with it.
When he’d protested that Miss Victor couldn’t possibly want her nails painted that particular shade of pink, Sara had insisted she didn’t mind.
‘It’s okay,’ she’d assured him lightly. ‘It washes off.’ Then she’d given a wry smile. ‘At least I hope it does.’ She’d held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. ‘Do you like it?’
Matt didn’t remember what he’d said. Whatever it was, it had made no lasting impression on him. What he did remember was that she disturbed him; that he’d been far too aware of her as a woman ever since she’d appeared downstairs wearing his old chambray shirt and sweats.
When he’d left the clothes on her bed he’d never dreamt that he’d have such a powerful reaction to her wearing them. But the knowledge that she’d obviously not been wearing a bra had aroused the most unsettling images in his head. He’d found himself wondering whether she’d bothered to put on the briefs he’d found in Rosie’s drawer. Or had they been too small for her? The possibility that she might be naked beneath the baggy trousers was all he’d needed to fuel his imagination.
He reluctantly recalled how he’d felt when Rosie had crept into his room after he’d retired, begging him to ask Sara to stay. ‘Just for a few days, Daddy,’ she’d entreated him appealingly, and, although Matt had told her no, he couldn’t help the treacherous thought that employing Sara could be beneficial to both of them.
But that wasn’t an option. Rolling onto his stomach, Matt was aware that his morning erection hadn’t subsided. Hard and insistent, it throbbed against his stomach, and he was irritably aware that it was thinking about his house guest that had caused it. It was all too easy to imagine how delightful it would have been to strip the sweat pants from her and sate his burning flesh between her thighs. He could almost feel those long slim legs wrapped around his waist, her firm breasts crushed against his chest. When he brought them both to a shuddering climax she’d sob her gratitude in his ear, whispering how much she’d wanted him, how amazing their lovemaking had been…
‘Are you awake, Daddy?’
The stage whisper sent Matt’s senses reeling. And aroused an immediate feeling of self-disgust. Dammit, what was wrong with him? he asked himself irritably. What on earth was there about Sara Victor that aroused the kind of fantasies he hadn’t had since he was a teenager? It wasn’t as if she was incredibly beautiful. She was good-looking, yeah, but she was no supermodel. Nor did she behave in a way designed to provoke such a reaction. If he was feeling in need of a woman it was his fault, not hers. He needed to get laid, and quick. Before he was tempted to do something they would all regret.
But right now Rosie took precedence, and, rolling onto his side to face her, he contrived a smile. ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he said, with what he thought was admirable self-restraint. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
Rosie was hovering by the door. In cropped Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, her cheeks pink, her hair tousled, she looked adorable, and Matt thought again how lucky he was to have her. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder half apprehensively. ‘I want to talk to you.’
Matt compressed his lips. ‘That sounds ominous,’ he remarked drily, guessing the topic. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like what you have to say?’
‘Oh, Daddy!’ Rosie took his response as an invitation to join him and came to climb onto the bottom of the bed. Then, realising she’d left the door open, she scrambled down again and went to close it. After she’d resumed her position against the footboard, she declared urgently, ‘It’s about Sara.’
Matt had assumed as much, but he didn’t let on. Instead, he pushed himself up against his pillows and regarded his daughter enquiringly. ‘Don’t you mean Miss Victor?’
‘She said I could call her Sara,’ protested Rosie at once. ‘Last night. When she came to say goodnight. She said that calling her Miss Victor made her feel as if she was back in school again.’ She paused. ‘Did you know she used to be a schoolteacher, Daddy?’
Matt blew out a breath. So she’d told Rosie she used to teach, had she? He would like to think it had just been a casual admission, but he couldn’t help wondering if she’d said it deliberately. To persuade him that she hadn’t been lying about that, at least. Or to get the child to speak to him on her behalf.
‘I believe she said something about it,’ he admitted now. ‘So—is that all you wanted to tell me?’
‘Hardly,’ said Rosie indignantly. ‘I just wondered if you knew, that’s all.’
‘Well, I do.’ Matt arched his dark brows. ‘What else is new?’
‘Daddy!’ Rosie looked red-faced now. ‘Give me a chance! I can’t think of everything all at once.’
‘Okay.’ Matt contained his amusement. ‘It must be something serious to get you out of bed before seven o’clock.’
‘Oh, Daddy.’ Rosie gazed at him impatiently. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’ She paused. ‘Why can’t you ask Sara to stay?’
Matt sighed. ‘We talked about this last night, Rosie.’
‘But you need a nanny. You said so yourself. Or I mean I do. Why can’t it be Sara?’
‘Rosie—’
‘Please!’
‘Look,’ he said, trying to reason with her. ‘We know nothing about Sara. We don’t even know where she came from.’
‘Then ask her,’ said Rosie practically. ‘I’m sure she’d tell you if you did. She told me I was very lucky to live by the seaside. She said that when she was just a little girl she had to live in the town.’
‘Did she now?’ Matt absorbed this information, wondering how true it was. He hesitated, loath to pump the child, but compelled to do so anyway, ‘Did she tell you anything else?’
‘Just that she never had a dog when she was little,’ said Rosie thoughtfully. ‘I’ll ask her where she came from, if you like.’
‘No.’ Matt spoke sharply and the little girl’s jaw quivered in response.
‘All right,’ she said, getting down from the bed. ‘I won’t say anything. But I think you’re really—really mean.’
‘Ah, Rosie—’ Matt rolled to the side of the bed and grabbed his daughter’s arm before she could get away. ‘Honey, try to understand. You’re very precious. How can I leave you with someone I hardly know?’
‘You didn’t know any of the other girls who came for the job,’ replied Rosie tremulously, and Matt groaned.
‘Baby, they came from an agency.’
‘So?’
‘So—’ He pulled her towards the bed and swung his feet to the floor. Then, placing a hand on either side of her small waist, he gave her a gentle shake. ‘Try to understand, sweetheart. I don’t like disappointing you, but—’
‘Then don’t,’ pleaded Rosie, seizing the opportunity. ‘Give Sara a chance, please!
I promise I’ll be good. I won’t play her up like I used to with Hester.’
‘It’s not you I’m worried about,’ muttered Matt, but he was hesitating. His common sense was telling him to stick to his guns, to ignore the emotional demands his daughter was making on him, but his instincts were telling him something else.
All right, he knew nothing about Sara, but he’d bet his last cent that, whatever she was running away from, she was not a bad person. There was something innately honest about her, an integrity that was at odds with all he knew and suspected about her.
‘Daddy…’
Rosie’s wheedling voice made his decision for him. ‘All right,’ he said, praying he wouldn’t have cause to regret the impulse. ‘We’ll give her a few days’ trial—’
‘Hurray!’ Rosie was excited.
‘—but I’m making no promises beyond the weekend, right?’
‘All right.’ Rosie clasped her hands together. ‘Can I go and ask her? Can I? Can I? I’m sure when she knows that you want her to stay she’ll change her mind—’
‘Hold on.’ Matt held on to the little girl when she would have darted towards the door. ‘What do you mean, you’re sure she’ll change her mind? What have you been saying to her, Rosie? Come on. I want to know.’
Rosie heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Nothing much,’ she mumbled, the sulkiness returning to her expression. ‘I just said I wished she could stay, that’s all.’ She gave a jerky shrug. ‘If you want to know, she said she couldn’t.’ And then, as her father gave her a stunned look, she added, ‘But I know she wanted to, Daddy. Only she thought you didn’t want her here.’
Matt stared. ‘Did she say that?’
‘No.’ Rosie spoke crossly. ‘I’ve told you what she said.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Rosie was indignant. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
Matt pulled a wry face. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘So?’ Rosie pulled her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Can I go and ask her?’
Matt glanced at the clock on the cabinet beside the bed. ‘Not yet,’ he said heavily, already regretting his generosity. ‘It’s barely seven o’clock. We’ll discuss it some more at breakfast.’
He let the little girl go, but now Rosie hesitated. ‘You won’t put her off, will you, Daddy?’ she persisted. ‘I mean, you will let her know that we—that we’d both like her to stay?’
Matt stifled an oath. ‘Don’t push your luck, Rosie,’ he said, without making any promises. ‘Go get your wash, and clean your teeth. As I say, we’ll talk about this later. If that’s not good enough for you we’d better forget the whole thing.’
Rosie’s chin wobbled again, but she managed to control it. ‘All right, Daddy,’ she said huskily, and with a tearful smile she made good her escape before he changed his mind again.
Mrs Webb had arrived by the time Matt came downstairs.
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?
