A Nanny For Christmas. Sara Craven

reason—Mr Ashton—is called Tara, and for the past week she’s been spending a regular part of the day totally unsupervised in Westcombe.’

      The dark brows snapped together. ‘What kind of dangerous nonsense is this?’

      Phoebe shook her head steadily. ‘No nonsense at all. I only wish it were. The girl who looks after her has been allowing her to have tea on her own in the café where I work while she meets her boyfriend.’ She paused. ‘He has a motorcycle,’ she added without expression.

      There was a heavy silence. Dominic Ashton was still staring at her, but Phoebe had the feeling that he wasn’t seeing her at all.

      He said, half to himself, ‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this,’ and strode towards the door.

      Phoebe put up a detaining hand. ‘If you’re going to look for Cindy, she’s not here. At least I don’t think she is. She didn’t turn up to collect Tara as arranged. And her car is still in the market car park.’

      He stopped. Looked down at her. Aware and refocusing, his face suddenly haggard.

      She had hated him for six years, for his lack of under-standing—and compassion. She had never in the whole of her life expected to feel sorry for him, yet, somehow, she did.

      Here he was, in the middle of some business empire, with computers, modems and machinery as far as the eye could see, and just briefly he’d lost his power. He too was naked and bewildered, in a situation he couldn’t control.

      His voice was quiet. ‘I accept what you say—everything you say. But I still think I should check—don’t you?’ He hesitated. ‘Please sit down, Miss—?’

      ‘Grant,’ she said. ‘Phoebe Grant.’

      He nodded, as if storing it for future reference. ‘I’ll have my housekeeper bring you some coffee.’

      ‘I think she’s got her hands full giving Tara her supper.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ he said abruptly. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’ He looked at her again, frowning as if puzzled. ‘Where exactly did you say you’d met my daughter?’

      ‘In the Clover Tea Rooms. I’m a waitress there. She sits at one of my tables.’ She hesitated. ‘I followed her out one afternoon and saw Cindy meet her. That’s how I know about the boyfriend. Not through Tara.’

      He looked at her as if she were mad. ‘What possible difference can that make?’

      ‘Tara promised not to say anything. She’s frightened of breaching a confidence.’

      ‘My God,’ he said. He pointed at a cupboard. ‘You’ll find a decanter and glasses. Help yourself to some brandy, and pour one for me. You look as if you need it, and I know I do.’

      She said huskily, ‘I’m afraid I don’t drink.’

      ‘Then perhaps you should start.’ The grey eyes examined her critically. ‘Or are you always this pale?’

      Phoebe looked down at her feet. ‘I have a taxi waiting. I’d really like to leave.’

      ‘And I’d be obliged if you’d stay. After all, you marched in, issuing some pretty dire and extremely personal accusations. I’d like the chance to defend myself. But first I need to talk to Tara.’ He paused. ‘Well?’

      Still avoiding his gaze, Phoebe nodded jerkily, and walked to an armchair beside the cheerful fire burning in the grate.

      As she heard the door close she felt herself go limp.

      ‘He doesn’t remember me,’ she whispered to herself. ‘He didn’t even recognise my name, although in fairness I only gave half of it.’

      ‘Who are you?’ he’d demanded with bitter intensity six years before.

      And, through a haze of shame and nausea, she’d mumbled, ‘Phoebe.’

      Of course, she’d looked very different too. Her nondescript brown bob had been concealed under a curly blonde wig then, and her skin had been plastered with make-up.

      I thought I looked so glamorous—so sophisticated, she thought sorrowfully. And, instead, I was just being set up.

      She shivered, and stretched out her hands to the fire. The burning logs smelled sweet, and the chair was deep and magically comfortable. It would have been very easy to lean back and give herself up to the luxury of the moment. But she couldn’t afford to relax.

      Dominic Ashton might not have recognised her, but she knew him down to the marrow of her bones. And, when she left here tonight, she wanted him out of her system for good.

      If Tara had admitted from the first that her name was really Ashton, would she have the guts to come here and face him tonight? she wondered. Probably not.

      But why had Tara told such a pointless fib in the first place? And where had the name ‘Vane’ come from ?

      I don’t need to know, she reminded herself firmly. I did what I set out to do and made sure Tara was safe. That’s as far as it goes. The state of the relationships in this house is none of my business.

      But she couldn’t help reflecting that clearly the last time she’d seen Dominic Ashton he’d been a married man—Tara would already have been born. Now, it seemed, he was a widower. He’d had more to concern him in the past six years than a trivial prank, however cruel. And the damage caused to herself seemed positively inconsequential compared with what he must have suffered.

      Oh, pull yourself together, she thought impatiently. You’ve allowed yourself the statutory glimmer of compassion. The fact remains that Dominic Ashton was a sadistic, heartless swine six years ago, and the evidence suggests he hasn’t undergone any material alteration.

      It seemed an eternity before he came back. And, she saw, he was carrying a tray with a silver coffee-pot and two cups which he set down on the desk.

      He said, ‘I think we should both take a deep breath and start again from scratch.’

      Phoebe scrambled awkwardly to her feet, aware that her skirt had ridden up, revealing more of her long black-clad legs than she wished.

      She said rather breathlessly, ‘There’s really no need for that, Mr Ashton. I did what I thought was necessary, and now I’d just like to leave. My taxi’s waiting.’

      He shook his head. ‘I paid him and sent him away.’

      ‘You did what?’ Her voice rose. The realisation that she was as good as trapped here with him made her shake inside. ‘You had no right...’

      ‘Oh, please,’ he said impatiently. ‘Clearly I have every right to establish just what’s being going on. And when we’ve talked I’ll run you home myself. It’s the least I can do.’

      My God, she thought. That’s one positively diametric change from our last meeting. You tossed me out then without any regard for what might happen to me. I was little more than a child, and you treated me like a whore.

      She said crisply, ‘Another cab will be fine. I don’t want to drag you away from your important business.’ She put ironic emphasis on the last two words.

      His brows lifted in swift acknowledgement. ‘You really don’t think a great deal of me, do you, Miss Grant? Would it earn me some Brownie points if I swore to you that I truly believed when I came home tonight that Tara was safely upstairs in the care of her highly paid nanny?’

      ‘Nevertheless,’ Phoebe said stiffly, ‘she wasn’t your first priority. You didn’t actually check.’

      ‘Touché,’ he said gravely. ‘Now, would you like to drink this coffee, or throw it over me?’

      In spite of herself, she felt her lips twitch. He grinned back at her, and she realised it was the first time she’d ever seen him smile.

      Realised, too, with a sense of shock, what a powerful attraction he could put out when he tried.