Anne Mather - Hot Pursuit

But the house had appeared to be empty. She remembered hearing dogs barking, and she’d been on her way back to the road when one of those big Range Rovers had pulled into the yard. Even then she’d hoped that it might be a woman driving the vehicle. At that time of the morning mothers were often employed on the school run. But the man who’d swung open the door and pushed jean-clad legs out of the car had been anything but feminine.

Matt Seton.

She swallowed, wondering if Max would have heard of him. Probably, she decided. Max had always prided himself on being familiar with every facet of the arts, and although she’d never read any of his books Seton had projected such an image of power and self-confidence that she was sure that anything he produced would be a success.

But Max was dead, she reminded herself once more, feeling a sense of panic creeping over her. In any case, she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Max right now. She was trying to work out how she came to be in Matt Seton’s bedroom.

Well, maybe not his bedroom, she conceded, determinedly concentrating on the room instead of letting her thoughts numb her mind to the exclusion of anything else. She had the feeling that Matt Seton’s bedroom would look nothing like this. This room was too light, too feminine. His daughter’s, perhaps? He’d said he had a daughter. Did she really want to know?

Still, he had been kind to her, she acknowledged. Initially, anyway. Despite the fact that when he’d emerged from the Range Rover her primary instinct had been to run. She hadn’t wanted to speak to him, hadn’t wanted to put her trust—however fleetingly—into another man’s hands. But common sense had won out over panic and she’d been quite proud of the way she’d handled herself then.

Until the idea of asking him for a job had occurred to her. That had been a crazy notion. She realised it now, had realised it as soon as he’d started asking questions she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. But the thought of staying here, of blending into the landscape so that no one would find her until she wanted them to, had seemed, momentarily at least, the perfect solution.

A dog barked again. Closer at hand this time. She guessed it must be just beneath the window and she heard a man bidding it to be quiet. The man’s voice was familiar, strong and attractive, and she had no difficulty in identifying it as belonging to her unwilling host.

Which brought the realisation that Matt Seton must have carried her upstairs and put her to bed. He must have removed her shoes and jacket and covered her with the quilted spread. Why? Had she fainted? Had she fallen and hit her head? No, that simply wouldn’t happen. Not today. Not after…

Her bag? Alarm gripped her again. Where was her bag? Her haversack? She’d had it with her when she’d been feeling so dizzy downstairs, but she couldn’t see it now. What was in it? What could Matt Seton have found if he’d looked through it? Anything incriminating? Oh, she hated that word. But was there anything to prove that her name wasn’t really Sara Victor?

Throwing the coverlet aside, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and choked back a gasp of pain. Her hip throbbed abominably, and even if the room hadn’t spun briefly about her she’d still have had to remain motionless until the pain subsided.

Finally it did, and, drawing up the skirt of her dress, she examined the ugly bruise that was visible below the high-cut hem of her briefs. Circles of black and blue spread out from a central contusion where ruptured blood vessels were discernible beneath the skin. It was nasty, but not life-threatening, and she touched it with cold, unsteady fingers before pulling her skirt down again.

‘So you’re awake!’

The voice she’d heard a few minutes before seemed to be right behind her, and she swung apprehensively towards the sound. Matt Seton was standing in the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb, his eyes dark and shrewd, surveying her. How long had he been there? she wondered anxiously. Had he seen—?

She expelled an uneven breath. She was unwillingly aware that long ago, before her marriage to Max, she’d have considered Matt Seton quite a dish. Even wary and suspicious of her as he was, he still possessed the kind of animal magnetism that most women found irresistible. He wasn’t handsome, though his lean hard features did have a rough appeal. But it was more than that. A combination of strength and vulnerability that she was sure had all his female acquaintances falling over themselves to help him. A subtle power that was all about sex.

She bent her head, and, as if sensing she was still not entirely recovered from her loss of consciousness, he went on, ‘When did you last have a meal?’

Sara’s eyes went automatically to her watch, but she saw to her dismay that it wasn’t working. A crack bisected the glass and one of the hands was bent. She must have done it when she fell against the table the night before, but because until now she hadn’t wanted to know what time it was she hadn’t noticed.

‘I—what time is it?’ she asked, without answering him, and Matt pulled a wry face.

‘Why? Will that change anything?’ Then, when her eyes registered some anxiety, he added shortly, ‘It’s after one o’clock. I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you want some?’

One o’clock! Sara was horrified. She must have been unconscious for over three hours.

‘You fainted,’ he said, as if reading the consternation in her face. ‘And then I guess, because you were exhausted, you fell asleep. Do you feel better?’

Did she? Sara had the feeling she’d never feel better again. What was going on back home? Did Hugo know Max was dead yet? Of course he must. He had been going to join them for supper after the show…

‘Hello? Are you still with us?’

She must have been staring into space for several seconds, because she realised that her host had moved to the foot of the bed and was now regarding her with narrowed assessing eyes. What was he thinking? she pondered apprehensively. Why couldn’t she stop giving him reasons to suspect her of God knew what? Yet, whatever he suspected, it couldn’t be worse than the truth.

‘I’m sorry.’ She eased herself to the edge of the bed, trying not to jar her injured hip. ‘When I asked to use the phone I didn’t expect to make such a nuisance of myself.’

He didn’t argue with her. There was no insincere attempt to put her at her ease. Just a silent acknowledgement of the statement she had made and a patient anticipation of an answer to the question he had asked earlier.

‘Lunch,’ he prompted her at last. ‘I think we need to talk, and I’ll be happier doing it when you’ve got some solid food inside you.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want to talk to you,’ she retorted, getting to her feet. Without her heels he seemed that much taller, easily six feet, with a powerful muscular body that bore no resemblance to Max’s more bulky frame. ‘Where’s my bag?’

His expression was cynical. ‘There,’ he said flatly, indicating a spot beside the loveseat. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t been rummaging through your belongings while you’ve been unconscious. What do you take me for?’

Sara’s pale cheeks deepened with embarrassed colour. ‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’ But she did. Max wouldn’t have hesitated in using any situation to his advantage. ‘I—just wanted a tissue.’

‘Yeah, right.’ He was sardonic. Then his brows drew together as she stepped rather stiffly into her shoes. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ But she wasn’t. She’d been stiff getting out of the car, but she’d still been running on adrenalin and the ache in her hip had been bearable. Now, after resting, after giving in to her exhaustion, her senses were no longer dulled by over-active hormones and she could hardly move without wincing. ‘I’m still a bit unsteady, that’s all.’