by Anne Mather
Matt reached her without too much difficulty and she looked up at him with apologetic eyes. ‘I should have told Mrs Webb where I was going, shouldn’t I?’ she began, before he could say a word. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted a walk. I had no idea—’
Her voice trailed away and Matt expelled a resigned sigh. ‘Yeah, well, let’s get you back before we start the inquest, shall we?’ he suggested flatly. ‘Here: there’s no point in both of us getting soaked to the skin. I’ll carry you.’
‘Oh, that’s not necess—’ she started, but Matt wasn’t listening to her. Before she knew what was happening, he’d swung her up into his arms. But she couldn’t prevent the groan of agony that escaped her lips when his thoughtless handling brought her bruised hip into sharp contact with his pelvis. The pain was sharper than ever and it was difficult to get her breath.
Matt was instantly aware of her reaction. ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked, frowning, and she guessed he’d seen the way the colour had drained out of her face.
‘I—it’s nothing,’ she assured him quickly, not wanting to arouse his curiosity. ‘You gave me a shock. I could have walked, you know.’
Matt looked as if that was open to discussion. But once again the precariousness of their situation forced him to put his own feelings on hold. ‘Hang on,’ was all he permitted himself, before plunging back into the water, heading for the dry sand further along the beach.
She put her arms around his neck, unafraid that they wouldn’t make it. She trusted Matt implicitly, she realised, more aware of the strength of his arms supporting her than the chilly waters of the North Sea surging below. And, although every movement he made caused the fabric of her dress to chafe her sore skin, she bore it gratefully. The warmth of his body soothed her like nothing else she could remember.
Which was crazy, she chided herself impatiently, trying not to notice the length of his eyelashes or the darkening line of stubble on his jaw. Such a strong jawline, she mused, aware of him with every cell in her being. This close, she could see every pore and bristle, was only inches away from the sensual curve of his mouth.
His breath fanned her temple, warm and only slightly flavoured with the strong black coffee he’d drunk at breakfast. She could smell the soap he used, smell his sweat. And was helplessly aware of her own reactions to him.
She was instantly ashamed. She had no right to be speculating on what it would be like to be in his arms because he wanted her there. It was useless to wonder how she’d feel if he touched her, touched her intimately. But, if he allowed her slim frame to slide against him, would she find he was aroused?
She sucked in her breath. This had to stop, she told herself fiercely. She’d never had thoughts like this before. She’d certainly never considered herself a sexual woman. The only man she’d ever known intimately was Max.
Her husband’s name acted like a douche of cold water. She shivered violently and Matt, misunderstanding, said sharply, ‘Are you getting wet?’
‘No.’
Her response was sharper than it might have been because of the way she was feeling, and Matt arched an ironic brow. ‘Well, we’re nearly there,’ he said, nodding towards the dry sand directly ahead of them. ‘I should have warned you about the tides around here. They can be dangerous.’
Sara shook her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said, turning to see the cliff path just a few yards away. ‘You can put me down now.’
‘Perhaps I don’t want to,’ remarked Matt, stepping out of the water onto the patch of sand that was still uncovered by the tide. He looked down into her startled face and she was uneasily aware of how emotionally vulnerable she was. ‘I think you and I need to have a little talk, Mrs Bradbury.’ He allowed her name to register with her. ‘Don’t you?’
Sara could scarcely breathe. ‘How do you know who I am?’ she asked, not bothering to try and deny it, and Matt hesitated only a moment before setting her on her feet.
‘How do you think?’ he asked, stepping away from her. ‘I saw your picture in a newspaper, of course.’ He paused, looking back at her. ‘Look, do you mind if we continue this after I’ve got out of these wet clothes?’
Sara’s mouth felt so dry she doubted her ability to speak. But she had to say something in her own defence. Swallowing, she whispered, ‘It—it was an accident, you know. It wasn’t my fault.’ She drew a breath. ‘I—I didn’t mean to—’
‘Deceive me?’ Matt finished the sentence he thought she’d started in a dry, cynical voice. ‘Yeah, right.’ He glanced towards the path again. ‘Well, like I say, I’d prefer to have this conversation when I’m not in danger of freezing my butt, okay?’
He attempted to pull the soaked jeans away from his legs, but only succeeded in drawing Sara’s eyes to the way the denim was drawn taut over the swell of his sex. He intercepted her stare and gave a wry grimace. ‘Sorry if I’m embarrassing you, Mrs Bradbury,’ he added mockingly. ‘I guess I’m not as cold as I thought.’
Sara’s face flamed. ‘You’re not embarrassing me,’ she exclaimed, even though her face was bright red. Now she looked anywhere but at his crotch. ‘Would you prefer me to go first?’
Matt’s lips twisted. ‘Yes, I’d prefer you to go first,’ he mimicked her prim tone. ‘And when we get back to the house you’re going to let Mrs Webb take a look at that hip. I know it’s hurting you, and the old lady used to be a nursing auxiliary until she had a family and had to give it up.’
Sara pressed her lips together. This wasn’t the time to argue with him, as he’d said, but she hoped he didn’t think the fact that he’d discovered who she was gave him the right to order her about. She had no intention of letting Mrs Webb or anyone else examine her. If she was arrested— She licked her dry lips. Well, she’d face that problem when she came to it. Until then…
It was harder climbing the cliff path today than it had been the day before. She assumed fear—and the prospect of imminent exposure to the authorities—had stiffened her muscles, and it was difficult putting one foot in front of the other.
On top of that, her mind was buzzing with thoughts of what Matt intended to do with her. Had he already called the police? Or was he prepared to listen to her side of the story before turning her in? Although she knew there was no chance of her getting away, she couldn’t help considering and discarding every option open to her.
Reaching the house, she had only Mrs Webb’s ire to contend with, however. The housekeeper clicked her tongue when she saw Matt’s wet clothes and said, ‘Go and get into a hot shower before you catch your death.’ Then she turned on Sara. ‘You should have told me you were going out,’ she exclaimed shortly. ‘I would have warned you about the tides.’
‘I know.’
Sara was contrite, but Matt chose to intervene. ‘Give her a break,’ he said, heading for the hall. ‘She’s had a shock. And, as far as getting wet is concerned, it is the middle of June, not November.’
‘And that water’s warm, is it?’ Mrs Webb enquired, with some sarcasm, and he sighed.
‘Warm enough,’ he said, not to be outdone. ‘Right. I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.’
Sara knew this remark was addressed to her, but she had no intention of staying in the kitchen until he returned. It was to avoid the housekeeper’s questions that she’d sneaked out in the first place, and although she was fairly sure Matt hadn’t told Mrs Webb who she was, she wasn’t prepared to take that chance.
She waited until Matt had disappeared upstairs before saying casually, ‘I’ll be in my room, if anyone wants me.’
‘Why don’t you stay here?’ The housekeeper sounded put out. ‘Unless I’m not good enough for you, that is.’
Sara blew out a breath. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she said evenly. ‘It has nothing to do with your company, I can assure you.’
Mrs Webb regarded her grudgingly. ‘Matt says you’re staying until tomorrow,’ she remarked conversationally. ‘Have you—er—have you known him long?’
Sara bli
nked. ‘Matt?’ She shook her head ‘I only met him yesterday. I thought you knew.’
‘I know what he said,’ declared the housekeeper narrowly, looking sceptical. ‘But he seems awfully concerned about someone he only met twenty-four hours ago.’
Sara wished she’d left when Matt had. Whatever she felt about it, Mrs Webb was determined to get her pound of flesh. ‘I meant it,’ she said, ‘we barely know one another.’
But she couldn’t help wondering what the housekeeper would say if she was honest. She and Matt might only have known one another for a short time, but their relationship couldn’t be judged in terms of hours and minutes. Despite the shortness of their association, he probably knew her more intimately than anyone else.
Mrs Webb shrugged and returned to the casserole she’d been preparing before they came in, and Sara took the opportunity to get away. Favouring her uninjured leg, she left the kitchen, going as swiftly as she could up the stairs and along the gallery to her room.
It was amazing how quickly this room had become her refuge, she thought, sinking down onto the bed. It wasn’t her room, and it certainly wasn’t anything like the room she’d shared with Max. But it was bright and cheerful, and she felt at home there.
Which she had never done in the luxurious duplex apartment she shared with her husband. Situated in a fashionable part of the city, it had been decorated and furnished by a firm of interior designers that Max thought highly of. She’d had no say in any of it. The apartment was expensive and soulless, and she hated everything about it.
Or perhaps she’d simply hated the life she’d lived there, she acknowledged bitterly. Like his Rolex watch, his Armani suits and his Bentley, she had been just another of Max’s possessions. The only difference had been that he had treated his watch, his clothes and his car rather better than his wife.
Her hip throbbed, reminding her that she ought to check and see that it hadn’t started bleeding. The skin had been seriously scrubbed in places, and it wouldn’t be the first time that she’d had to repair the damage. But this time she didn’t have a convenient wardrobe of clothes to change into, and she could imagine Matt’s reaction if he saw blood on her dress.
Lifting the hem of her skirt, she examined the injury, noticing that the skin was badly inflamed. But that was because of the way Matt had carried her, and she could hardly blame him for trying to save her life.
Nevertheless, there was a faint trace of blood oozing from the point of her hip and she clicked her tongue in frustration. Now what was she going to do? She didn’t carry any adhesive plasters in her haversack. Perhaps she’d find some in the bathroom cabinet. It was the kind of thing people did keep in case of emergency.
Holding her skirt to her waist, she got up from the bed and limped into the bathroom. Then, clutching her dress in one hand, she reached up to the cabinet with the other.
‘Sara?’
It was Matt’s voice and she panicked. He mustn’t see her like this. All right, so he probably knew about Max’s accident, but there was no need for him to witness her humiliation. If he chose to call the police she couldn’t stop him. But she could hold onto her dignity until then.
Pushing the bathroom door to with her uninjured hip, she called weakly, ‘What do you want?’
‘Can I come in?’
Sara breathed a little more easily. She’d thought at first that he was in. ‘Why?’ she asked, suddenly remembering what he’d said about Mrs Webb. ‘I don’t need any assistance.’
‘I’m not offering any,’ he replied, his voice louder now. ‘I’ve brought you a gift.’
A gift!
Sara blinked. What kind of gift could he have brought her? Some more of his old clothes? Or perhaps he wanted to show her the newspaper where he’d read about her? That seemed infinitely more likely.
‘I—just leave it on the bed,’ she called, deciding there was no point in expecting him to go away without achieving his objective. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
There was silence for a moment, and then she heard Matt’s voice just outside the bathroom door. ‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is your hip all right?’
Sara trembled. ‘It’s fine,’ she insisted. ‘What do people usually do in the bathroom?’ She closed the door of the cabinet, just in case he came to investigate, but that was a mistake. She had evidently dislodged the items inside and a tube of hair gel came clattering down into the basin in front of her.
‘What the—?’ Without more ado, the bathroom door was forced open, and Matt stood on the threshold staring at her with bleak horrified eyes. ‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, staring at her injury. ‘Did I do that?’
‘As if.’ Sara managed the contemptuous rejoinder with amazing composure. But then, realising that her lacy briefs left very little to his imagination, she allowed her skirt to fall and sagged against the basin. ‘I had a fall before I came away.’
Matt gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You do a lot of falling in your house, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Sara stared at him with confused eyes.
‘Your husband,’ he stated flatly, his eyes still fixed on the spot her skirt had now hidden from his gaze. ‘He fell, too. What a coincidence!’
Sara’s shoulders slumped. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’
‘No.’ Matt agreed. ‘But I’m willing to listen if you want to tell me. I’m not jumping to conclusions here, but a simple fall wouldn’t have caused that mess.’
‘It did.’ Sara was desperate. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean it to happen. And that’s the truth.’
Matt’s brows drew together. ‘Hey, I’m not accusing you of anything,’ he protested. His eyes darkened. ‘I’d guess it had something to do with your running away, right?’
‘If you say so.’ Sara spoke wearily. ‘So what now? Are you going to turn me in?’
Matt eyes sought hers. ‘Turn you in?’ he echoed blankly. ‘You talk as if you’re a criminal. The last I heard, running away isn’t a capital offence.’
‘Running away?’ She repeated his words barely audibly. ‘But you said you knew about—about Max having a fall.’
‘So?’
‘So—so what did it say about how they found him? Did it tell you the way he—he died?’
‘He’s not dead!’ Matt spoke harshly now. He stared at her. ‘Why would you think he was?’ He shook his head. ‘He apparently had the presence of mind to call the emergency services before he passed out. He spent the night in hospital and discharged himself yesterday morning. That’s when you were reported missing. According to the article I read, your husband’s afraid you might have been kidnapped.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
MATT wouldn’t have believed Sara could get any paler, but she did. Every scrap of colour drained out of her face, leaving her unnaturally pallid. The circles around her eyes stood out in sharp relief and her mouth worked in silent consternation.
‘You’re—you’re lying,’ she got out at last, and he wondered why, if she’d believed her husband was dead, the news that he wasn’t should have such a shattering effect.
‘Why would I lie?’ he reasoned, becoming anxious in spite of himself. ‘Sara—’
‘Max calls me Victoria,’ she said dully. ‘You must know that.’ Then she slid to the floor in a dead faint.
It was the second time he’d had to pick her unconscious body off the floor. Not that she weighed much. She felt wholly in-substantial in his arms. How long was it since she’d eaten a decent meal? he wondered. In the last twenty-four hours she’d only picked at her food, and he suspected her weakness was due in part to hunger.
So, why? Why had she been starving herself? Why had she run away? And how had she sustained such an ugly bruise on her hip? As Matt carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed his mind buzzed with a jumble of questions. The most obvious explanation was fear. But what was she afraid of?
He straightened and stood looking down at her. He wished he could believe she w
as a spoiled wife who had grown bored with her pampered existence and decided to give her husband a wake-up call. Could she really have been that self-indulgent? Somehow he didn’t buy it.
Her eyelids were fluttering and, realising that in a short time she was going to be wide awake and denying everything he was thinking, Matt came to an abrupt decision. Hoping she wouldn’t object too much, he took the hem of her skirt and drew it up to her waist.
He was shocked again by the sight of the ugly lesions on her hip, but he knew he didn’t have time to examine them more closely right now. Instead, he slipped his arm beneath her and eased her dress out of the way.
She began to protest now as consciousness returned, trying to push his hands away without any success. Matt wasn’t listening to her. Horror had replaced his concern and he sank down onto the bed beside her in speechless disbelief.
There was barely an inch of her torso that didn’t bear the scars of injuries old and new. Some bruises were obviously more recent than others, the colours ranging from stark black and blue to a jaundiced yellow or brown. She’d been beaten, and beaten badly, and Matt wanted to take the man who’d done this to her and wring his cowardly neck.
His hands trembled as he eased the dress away. Sara seemed to realise there was no point in trying to stop him. It was too late; too late for both of them. Matt closed his eyes for a moment against the murderous rage that was demanding revenge.
‘Your husband did this to you?’ he asked at last, when he had himself in control again, and she shrugged.
‘Does it matter?’ She sighed. His hands lingered at her waist. ‘I think you’d better let me get up.’
‘And I think you ought to have that hip treated,’ said Matt flatly. ‘From what I’ve seen, it needs medical attention.’
Her response was urgent. ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she exclaimed fiercely, and he didn’t think this was the time to tell her that that was what he had been before he’d become a writer.
