by Anne Mather
Sara’s eyes had widened. ‘A trained psychologist?’ she echoed. ‘He didn’t tell me that.’
‘No, well, it’s not something he likes me to gossip about either,’ said Mrs Webb drily. ‘Now, I must get on…’
‘Why did he give it up?’ asked Sara, unable to stop herself, and the housekeeper sighed.
‘Can’t you guess? To pursue his writing career, of course. Rosie was just a baby at the time.’
Sara bit her lip. ‘Was that—was that when his wife left him?’
‘Miss Victor—’
‘Call me Sara, please!’
‘Sara, then.’ Mrs Webb folded her lips together for a moment before continuing, ‘Don’t you think you ought to ask Matt these questions, not me?’
Sara flushed, but she stood her ground. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No—’ Mrs Webb turned towards the house, only to pause with her foot on the bottom step. ‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm to tell you that Carol—that’s his ex-wife—wasn’t prepared to give up the comfortable existence she’d had as a doctor’s wife. There was no certainty Matt would have any success as a writer.’
‘But she left her baby behind,’ protested Sara, unable to conceive of any woman doing such a thing, and the housekeeper nodded.
‘Yes, well, she married one of Matt’s partners in the practice just a week after their divorce became absolute,’ she conceded with a grimace. ‘Rosie would have been in the way.’
Then, as if she realising she had already said too much, Mrs Webb disappeared into the house.
Chapter Nine
MATT stared at the blank computer screen in front of him and scowled. For the first time in his writing career he was finding it almost impossible to concentrate on his work, and it irritated the hell out of him.
He knew what was wrong with him, of course. He was getting far too involved in Sara’s life. Despite the fact that he’d promised her not to say or do anything to alert Max Bradbury to her whereabouts, the temptation to let the bastard know exactly what he thought of him was hard to resist. More than that, he itched to bury his fist in Bradbury’s face, which was totally unlike him.
He’d always considered himself a reasonable man. Hell, when Carol had first left him and shacked up with Philip Arnold he’d never even thought of resorting to violence. Which probably said more about his relationship with his ex-wife than his own character, he conceded ruefully. In all honesty, if it hadn’t been for Rosie they’d have probably split up long before they had.
So what did that say about the present situation? Why did he feel this overpowering need to protect Sara? And what had possessed him to tell Emma Proctor that she was Rosie’s new nanny? By now the news was probably common knowledge throughout the county.
Yet, during the three days that had passed since Emma’s visit, he had to admit that the demands on his time had been eased. Although he hadn’t allowed Sara to pick Rosie up from school, there was no doubt that she had taken much of the responsibility for entertaining his daughter once she was home off his shoulders.
Of course, Sara wasn’t a nanny. But he believed her story about being a teacher now. She was good with the little girl and Rosie liked her. In normal circumstances he’d have considered himself very lucky to have her, but these circumstances were anything but normal.
His scowl deepened. One of his main sources of discontent was the fact that Sara had resisted all his efforts to find out why she stayed with her husband. She insisted that in a few more days she would have to go back, and that was the real cause of his writer’s block. Why did she feel any allegiance towards him? What twisted hold did the man have over her life?
Dammit! Leaving his desk, he walked to the windows, looking out on the scene that usually never failed to soothe his troubled psyche. The North Sea was grey today, reflecting the clouds that hovered over the headland. The mournful sound of a ship’s foghorn seemed to echo his mood, and he lifted both hands to massage the taut muscles at the back of his neck.
He had to stop this, he told himself savagely. He had to stop behaving as if he had any role to play in Sara’s future. Despite that emotional scene in her bedroom, when he’d made such a pathetic fool of himself, their association remained very much that of an employer and an employee. She’d accepted his excuse for staying on with obvious gratitude, but there’d been no further intimacy between them. Indeed, there were times when Matt wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing.
But then he’d remember the bruises he’d seen on her body and know he hadn’t.
He swore again, balling a fist and pressing it hard against the windowframe. He increased the pressure until all the blood had left his fingers and his hand was numb. And then, with an angry exclamation, he withdrew it and thrust it into his pocket, finding a masochistic pleasure in the pain he’d inflicted upon himself.
At least he’d done as he’d promised and let Bradbury know that his wife was safe and well. Or as safe and well as a woman who’d been brutalised could be, he amended grimly. He had a friend at the London Chronicle and he’d merely called in a favour by getting him to deliver the note Sara had written. Of course he hadn’t told her that he’d made the note public property, but there’d been no way he could have risked Max Bradbury burying it and continuing with his bogus concern.
As it was, there’d been a small item in yesterday’s papers. News of the letter had evidently circulated round the tabloid editors, as he’d hoped it would, and Bradbury had had to come up with a convincing explanation.
His story was that the blow he’d suffered to his head when he fell had temporarily robbed him of his memory. Thanks to Matt’s friend, he was able to claim that he’d contacted the Chronicle himself, as soon as he’d remembered that Victoria had told him she was going to visit a schoolfriend in the north of England. He’d had a letter from her now, he said, and all was well.
Until she went back, thought Matt, feeling his muscles tighten again. He’d probably done her no favours by holding Bradbury’s name up to possible ridicule, but it was too late now. It was just something else ‘Victoria’ would have to pay for.
Victoria!
His jaw clenched. One thing she had told him was that Victoria wasn’t her real name. She’d been christened Sara, she said, and Matt could only assume that it hadn’t been sophisticated enough for Max Bradbury’s wife. Not that she’d complained about it to him. Despite the fear she obviously had of her husband, she was absurdly loyal. Even though she must know that by changing her name he had removed another of the props that had made her who she was.
Matt had decided not to show Sara the article in the newspaper. He hadn’t wanted her to be concerned because Bradbury had implied that he knew where she was. The fact that he’d chosen to tell the media that she was in the north of England was just a coincidence. It had to be. But it was another example of how everything seemed to work to Bradbury’s advantage.
Sara’s rental car was no longer advertising her presence, at least. He’d had the garage in Saviour’s Bay pick it up and return it to the local franchise in Ellsmoor, and, although he’d been forced to admit that there’d been nothing wrong with it in the first place, Sara hadn’t complained. Whatever she chose to do after she left here, for the moment she seemed happy to be free of all obligations.
The phone rang before he could indulge in any further introspection, and, tamping down his resentment, he went to answer it.
‘Yeah?’
‘Matt?’
He recognised the voice at once. It was his agent, Rob Marco, and he pulled a wry face. He could guess what Rob wanted: some kind of timeframe for the completion of the new manuscript. The fact that he should have been in the final stages by now was just another cause for his tension.
‘Hi, Rob,’ he answered now, dropping down into his leather chair and propping his feet on the edge of his desk. He glanced at his watch. ‘How are things with you?’
‘They could
be better,’ replied Rob, with just the trace of an edge to his voice. ‘How are things with you, Matt? When can I expect the new manuscript?’
Matt gave a sardonic snort. ‘I should have guessed this wasn’t a social call,’ he said, hooking the phone between his ear and his shoulder and pulling open the bottom drawer of the desk. ‘I don’t work well with deadlines, Rob. You know that.’
There was a moment’s silence while the other man considered his response and Matt used it to lift the half-empty bottle of whisky from the drawer. Unscrewing the cap, he treated himself to a healthy swig before setting it down beside the computer. He deserved some consolation, he told himself defensively. It was lunchtime, after all, and problems were assaulting him on all sides.
‘I’m not giving you a deadline,’ said Rob at last, his tone infinitely more conciliatory. ‘But, as you know, your next book is due for publication in the spring. Your publishers would just like to be able to announce the date of publication of the new novel on the flyleaf.’
‘What you mean is, they’re hoping I’ll sign a new contract,’ remarked Matt drily. ‘Have they come to you with any figures? I assume they’ve got an offer in mind?’
Rob sighed. ‘We haven’t gone into specifics, Matt. I wouldn’t do that without your say-so. But Nash is a good publisher. They’ve done pretty well by you in the past.’
‘In other words, you’re interested,’ said Matt, studying the toes of his loafers. Rob was a good agent, and if he was recommending another deal it meant Nash had come up with a pretty spectacular sum. Of course, the book Nash was hoping to negotiate for wasn’t his current work in progress. Their interest had been prompted by his next project, an outline of which had been with his publishers for the past three weeks.
‘It’s inviting,’ affirmed Rob. ‘I doubt if you’d get a better offer.’ He paused. ‘They’re hoping they can persuade you to sign a three-book deal this time. They’re talking seven figures. That’s as much as I’m going to say.’
Matt shook his head. ‘Seven figures,’ he echoed wryly, wishing he felt more enthusiasm for Rob’s news. But right now getting his current manuscript finished and ready for despatch seemed an insurmountable task. The idea of committing himself to writing three more books, even with a seven-figure advance, sounded almost impossible to achieve.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rob was nothing if not intuitive. ‘Isn’t it enough?’
‘More than enough,’ responded Matt, blowing out a breath. ‘Thanks, Rob. As I’ve said before, you’re the best agent in the business.’
‘But you’re not happy.’ Rob wasn’t deceived. ‘Come on, Matt. What’s your problem? Is it Rosie?’
‘Rosie’s fine.’ Matt chose to answer his last question first.
‘You got her a nanny, right?’
Matt hesitated. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly?’ Rob was curious. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Either you got her a nanny or you didn’t.’
Matt wished he’d just answered in the negative and been done with it. ‘I’ve got a temporary nanny,’ he said at last. Then, hoping Rob would take the hint, ‘Thanks for calling, Rob. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have some definite news.’
Rob sounded put out. ‘Is that all you’re going to say?’ he exclaimed. ‘You haven’t even told me how the new manuscript is coming along.’
‘It’s getting there,’ said Matt evasively. ‘I’m sorry if you think I’m ungrateful. I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment.’
‘Including the temporary nanny?’ suggested Rob shrewdly. ‘Who is she, Matt? A girlfriend? I tell you, pal, that’s not a good idea. You should never mix business with pleasure.’
If only he could, thought Matt bitterly, and then chided himself for the thought. Just because Sara was grateful for his protection it did not mean she spent her time fantasising about what he’d be like in bed. After her experiences, sex would be the last thing on her mind. Besides, however unhappily, she was married. And at no time had she let him think that anything else was on the cards.
It was pathetic. He was pathetic, he thought irritably. At the first opportunity he should find himself another woman and get a life. There was always Emma. Since her husband had died she’d made no secret of the fact that she’d be willing to advance their relationship. But he wasn’t attracted to Emma; he hadn’t been attracted to anyone for a long time. So why the hell was Sara Bradbury playing havoc with his hormones?
‘It’s nothing like that,’ he told Rob shortly. ‘She’s just someone I met recently who was looking for a job. But she’s not staying. As I said before, it’s just a temporary arrangement. But Rosie likes her. And that’s what matters.’
‘So what’s she like?’ Rob was trying to sound casual and failing abysmally. He’d probably made the connection between his evasion and Sara’s arrival, thought Matt grimly. ‘Is she young? Attractive? Married?’
A knock at the study door interrupted Matt’s concentration. ‘Come in,’ he called impatiently, guessing it was Mrs Webb with a sandwich for his lunch. Then, to Rob. ‘I’m not getting into what she looks like. She’s—passable, okay? But in any case she doesn’t interest me.’
It was only as he was completing this sentence that he looked up and realised it wasn’t the housekeeper who was hovering in the doorway. With an inward groan, he let his eyes meet Sara’s across the width of the room. She had evidently heard what he was saying to Rob and taken exception to it. He was devastated by the injured look that crossed her face.
‘Ah. Damn—’ His exclamation was audible to both Sara and Rob, but he didn’t have time to spare his agent’s feelings right now. ‘Speak to you later, Rob,’ he said quickly. ‘Something’s come up.’ And, slamming down the phone, he got to his feet. ‘Sara—’
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said, the stiffness of her words only equalled by the rigidity of her stance. Matt closed his eyes for a moment against the almost irresistible impulse he had to leap across his desk and take her in his arms. ‘I could have come back.’
She looked so delicate standing there, so fragile. Only yesterday he’d thought she was losing that look of vulnerability; that the time she’d spent outdoors with Rosie and the dogs had added a glow of health to her pale skin. She was still far too thin, of course, but her appetite was definitely improving. She’d been gaining in confidence, too. He could have sworn it.
Now his careless words had spoiled everything. And he could hardly tell her he’d only said what he had to put Rob off the scent. She wouldn’t want to know why he’d said it. It wasn’t her fault that she was having such a stressful effect on his life.
‘Sara—’ he began again, but she wouldn’t let him finish.
‘I only came to ask if you’d like your lunch now,’ she continued, in the same unyielding tone. ‘I heard the phone and it seemed a good opportunity to interrupt you.’
‘I don’t mind—’
‘That’s all right, then, isn’t it?’ She took a breath. ‘I’ll get your tray. Mrs Webb left it ready.’
‘Dammit!’ Matt swore. He’d forgotten that the housekeeper had told him she had a dental appointment at twelve o’clock. ‘There’s no need for you to run around after me. I don’t expect it. I’m not your husband.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Sara was already retreating through the door when Matt went
after her. He didn’t know what had made him say what he had, but it was obvious she’d been hurt by his words. The trouble was, it was becoming more and more difficult not to show how he was feeling, and he wished he could explain it to her.
He caught her in the hall outside his study, his hand closing round her arm and bringing her to a halt. ‘Sara,’ he started again. ‘I’m sorry if I was short with you. When Rob gets on the phone it’s usually because he wants something that I can’t give him.’
‘I’m really not interested,’ she said, making an effort to release herself from his hold, and Matt gave an impatient sigh.
&
nbsp; ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Rob Marco is my agent. He was ringing to ask why he hasn’t had the new manuscript. I was making the excuse that I still didn’t have a permanent nanny for Rosie.’
Sara’s brows arched scornfully. ‘So?’
‘So that’s why I said what I did,’ exclaimed Matt doggedly. ‘You probably thought I was criticising you. I wasn’t, whatever it sounded like. I was just trying to distract Rob from his impression that you’re really my girlfriend.’
‘Look, I really don’t care—’
‘No, but I do,’ muttered Matt, his patience wearing thin. ‘I’m telling you the truth, dammit. If I’d finished the damn manuscript we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
‘I hope you’re not implying that I’m to blame for that,’ she countered coldly, stiffening her back, and Matt expelled a long breath.
He was trying hard not to be aware of her small breasts rising and falling in tempo with her increasing indignation, the widening gap between her tee shirt and jeans exposing the intriguing hollow of her navel. She was so incredibly sexy, with her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with aggravated fire. He could feel a sensuous warmth spreading from his fingers to every erogenous nerve in his body, and he knew he was getting dangerously close to combustion.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he said now, struggling to contain his frustration, and she uttered a triumphant snort.
‘Good,’ she said fiercely, and he had the sudden suspicion that she was using her anger to put a barrier between them. ‘Because I suggest that bottle of whisky on your desk is far more culpable than me!’
Matt choked on an oath. ‘Are you kidding?’ he gasped. ‘I’ve had one mouthful of Scotch and that’s all.’
‘So you say.’
‘It’s the truth.’ He was aware of a growing sense of outrage. ‘I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘Well, it isn’t even lunchtime yet,’ she persisted, and he shook his head in angry disbelief.
