Hot Pursuit. Anne Mather

far too important to me. I’m sorry.’

      He didn’t look sorry. On the contrary, he looked as if he’d be glad to see the back of her, and she pushed the remains of her coffee aside and got to her feet.

      ‘So am I,’ she said, barely audibly, bending to pick up her bag. ‘If—if I could just use your phone…’

      ‘Wait.’ To her dismay he stood also, successfully putting himself between her and the door. ‘Tell me something: did you really spend the night in Morpeth, or was that a lie, too?’

      ‘Does it matter?’

      She was trying to remain calm, but she was suddenly conscious of how vulnerable she was here. So long as they’d been discussing the job she’d felt a certain amount of control over the situation. But he’d made it plain that he didn’t believe her and now she was uneasily aware that he held her fate in his hands. What did he intend to do with that knowledge? What if he decided to report her to the authorities? How long would she remain free if he gave her description to the police?

      ‘Humour me,’ he said, pushing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Jeans that fit him so closely that they were worn almost white in places, she noticed inconsequentially, running her tongue over her dry lips.

      ‘I—all right, no,’ she conceded unwillingly. ‘May I use the phone now?’

      ‘So—you’ve been driving since late last night or early this morning?’

      Sara sighed. ‘Something like that.’

      ‘You must be exhausted.’

      She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘What’s it to you?’

      He was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. Then he said flatly, ‘I’m not completely heartless. I know a runaway when I see one. Why don’t you sit down again and I’ll make you some breakfast? You might even like to rest for a while before contacting the garage about your car.’

      Sara stared at him. ‘I didn’t come down with the last shower either,’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘And where do you get off, calling me a runaway? I told you, I decided I needed a change of scene—’

      ‘I know what you said,’ he interrupted her blandly. ‘But you don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?’

      ‘I don’t give a—a flying flea what you believe!’

      ‘Oh, I think you do.’ He was smug.

      ‘Why should I?’

      ‘Because it must have occurred to you that I could decide to keep you here until I had your story checked out.’

      Sara gasped. ‘You wouldn’t do that!’

      ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.’

      ‘Because—because you have no right. I’m not a child; I’m not even a teenager. I can please myself what I do.’

      ‘Possibly.’ He paused. ‘But you must admit that someone who suddenly decides they need a change of scene wouldn’t leave in the middle of the night. Particularly as you appear to have left without bringing any papers, any references, anything to prove you are who you say you are.’

      Sara felt totally defeated. ‘Just let me go,’ she said wearily. ‘Please.’ She paused. ‘Forget the phone. I’ll check the car myself, and if it still doesn’t start I’ll make some other arrangement. Just forget you ever saw me.’

      Matt sighed. ‘I can’t do that.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I think you need some help,’ he said gently. ‘Why don’t you tell me what really happened? My guess is that you had a row with your husband and decided to take off. I don’t know where the hired car comes in, but that’s not important. Am I somewhere near the truth?’

      ‘I told you.’ She spoke doggedly. ‘I don’t have a husband.’

      ‘Right.’ His mouth thinned. ‘So why are you still wearing both your wedding and engagement rings? For sentimental reasons?’

      Sara sagged. She’d forgotten about the rings. She was so used to wearing them, so used to Max’s anger if she ever dared to take them off, that she hadn’t even thought about them or what they might mean to someone else.

      She swayed. She felt so dizzy suddenly. When had she last had anything to eat? she wondered. Not today, certainly. And she couldn’t recall eating much the previous day either. She’d missed dinner, of course, but had she had any lunch? She wished she could remember. But everything that had happened before Max came home remained a blank.

      Not the memory of Max lying at the foot of the stairs, however. She recalled that, and recalled herself rushing down the stairs after him, kneeling at his side, desperately trying to find a pulse. But her hand had been shaking so much she hadn’t been able to feel anything. In any case, he hadn’t been breathing. And surely that could mean only one thing.

      He was dead!

      She swayed again, and saw Matt put out his hand towards her. He was going to touch her, she thought, jerking back from the contact as if she was stung. Her legs felt like jelly. Dear God, what was happening to her? She mustn’t pass out here. She knew nothing about this man except that he was threatening to expose her.

      She should never have come here; never have asked for his help. She was on her own now. That was what she wanted. The only person she could rely on was herself…

      Sara opened her eyes to curtains moving in the breeze from the open window behind them. Sunlight dappled peach-coloured walls, laid yellow fingers over a tall armoire and a matching chest of drawers, added warmth to the lime-green quilted bedspread that covered her. Somewhere a tractor was droning its way across a field, a dog was barking, and the plaintive sound of gulls was overlaid by the dull thunder of the sea.

      Where was she?

      Propping herself up on her elbows, she frowned as she looked around the pretty bedroom. Nothing was familiar to her—except her jacket folded over the back of a rose-pink loveseat, and her strappy high heels standing beside the chair.

      Then it all came rushing back. Max’s fall, and her escape; the car she’d hired that had stalled just after she’d turned onto the sea road; the many futile attempts she’d made to start it again.

      A shiver crept down her spine. But that still didn’t explain how she came to be here, lying in a strange bed, fully clothed except for her jacket and shoes. What had happened? She put a confused hand to her head. She had to remember.

      There’d been a house, she thought, her head throbbing with the effort to recall the morning’s events. She’d been so relieved to find it on this lonely stretch of the coast. She’d hoped that whoever owned the house might let her use their phone to call a garage. She’d doubted she’d find a phone box this far from the village.

      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,