Passionate Protectors?: Hot Pursuit / The Bedroom Barter / A Passionate Protector. Anne Mather
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her teeth. ‘Can I go and ask her?’
Matt glanced at the clock on the cabinet beside the bed. ‘Not yet,’ he said heavily, already regretting his generosity. ‘It’s barely seven o’clock. We’ll discuss it some more at breakfast.’
He let the little girl go, but now Rosie hesitated. ‘You won’t put her off, will you, Daddy?’ she persisted. ‘I mean, you will let her know that we—that we’d both like her to stay?’
Matt stifled an oath. ‘Don’t push your luck, Rosie,’ he said, without making any promises. ‘Go get your wash, and clean your teeth. As I say, we’ll talk about this later. If that’s not good enough for you we’d better forget the whole thing.’
Rosie’s chin wobbled again, but she managed to control it. ‘All right, Daddy,’ she said huskily, and with a tearful smile she made good her escape before he changed his mind again.
Mrs Webb had arrived by the time Matt came downstairs.
The housekeeper, who was in her middle fifties, had worked at Seadrift for as long as Matt had owned the house, and there was usually an easy familiarity between them that wasn’t much in evidence this morning.
However, there was a welcome pot of coffee simmering on the hob and, after giving her his usual greeting, Matt went to help himself to a cup. He hoped the caffeine would kick-start his brain, which seemed to have blanked during his conversation with Rosie. Why, in God’s name, had he given in to her? What had possessed him to agree to asking Sara to stay?
‘I understand you’ve got a new nanny,’ said Mrs Webb suddenly, turning from the fridge and confronting him with accusing eyes. ‘You didn’t tell me you were interviewing anyone yesterday.’
Matt expelled a disbelieving breath. ‘Who told you we had a new nanny?’ he demanded, but he already knew. Gloria Armstrong would have lost no time in ringing his housekeeper to hear all the lurid details. He only hoped Mrs Webb hadn’t said anything to expose the lie.
He was wrong, however. ‘Rosie, actually,’ she replied huffily, peeling the plastic wrap from a packet of bacon. ‘She couldn’t wait to tell me the woman had stayed the night.’
Matt gave an inward groan. ‘Well—it’s not settled yet,’ he said lamely, silently berating his daughter for her big mouth. ‘And—and the reason I didn’t tell you I was interviewing anyone yesterday was because I didn’t have any plans to do so.’
‘Oh, right.’ Mrs Webb regarded him sceptically. ‘So she just turned up out of the blue?’ She grimaced. ‘How convenient.’
Matt’s patience grew taut. ‘Actually, it wasn’t convenient at all,’ he declared tersely. ‘And, as I say, I’m not absolutely sure I’m going to employ her.’
‘So where did she come from? The agency?’
‘No.’ Matt blew out a breath. ‘As a matter of fact, her car broke down at the bottom of the road. Didn’t you see it as you came by?’
Mrs Webb looked surprised. ‘So that’s her car. I assumed some kids had stolen it and abandoned it when it ran out of petrol.’
‘No.’ But Matt was determined not to be drawn into telling the housekeeper the whole story. Not yet, anyway. ‘She—she came to the house, wanting to use the phone, and when she discovered I was looking for a nanny she offered herself for the job.’ He paused, and then went on doggedly, ‘She used to be a primary school teacher.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Matt wondered why it sounded so much more convincing the second time around. ‘Now, where is Rosie? I want to speak to her.’
‘Oh, I think she went upstairs again,’ said Mrs Webb, obviously mollified by his explanation. ‘She said something about waking—Sara, is it?’
Dammit! Matt suppressed another oath. What in hell’s name did Rosie think she was up to? He’d told her he’d discuss Sara’s employment at breakfast. He just hoped she hadn’t jumped the gun.
Snatching up the morning newspaper that Mrs Webb always brought for him, he stalked out of the kitchen and into the library. Seating himself in the hide-covered chair beside the desk which he used for his research, he took another long swig of his coffee and then turned to stare broodingly out of the windows.
Beyond the cliffs, the sun had already spread its bounty across the dark blue waters of the bay. Whereas the day before it had been cloudy, this morning the sky was high and clear. Seagulls soared effortlessly on the thermals, their haunting cries mingling with the muted roar of the surf. In an ideal world he shouldn’t have a care in the world, beyond the problems facing the protagonist in his current manuscript. Indeed, after taking Rosie to school he’d intended to spend the whole day finalising the book’s denouement. Instead he had to deal with a situation that he very much suspected was far more complex than his uninvited guest was letting on.
Scowling, he flipped open the newspaper that he’d dropped on the desk. The latest images from a middle-eastern war he felt he had no part of dominated the front page. There’d been a derailment in southeast London, a well-known politician had been discovered in compromising circumstances, and someone who’d won the lottery six months ago was now broke again.
So what’s new? thought Matt cynically, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. Why did journalists feel the need to fill their columns with negative news items? he wondered. Was it because stories about other people’s problems, particularly the rich and famous, made the average reader feel better about their own lives?
Probably, he decided, flicking the pages. There was nothing like learning about someone else’s misfortunes to make some people feel good.
He heard Rosie come scampering down the stairs and remembered he had his own problems to deal with. He’d half risen from his chair to go after her when a small picture towards the bottom of page four caught his eye. Sinking back into his seat, he stared at it disbelievingly. It was a picture of Sara, he saw incredulously. Only her name wasn’t Sara; it was Victoria. Victoria Bradbury, actually. The wife of the entrepreneur Max Bradbury, and she was missing.
Victoria, he thought, acknowledging the connotation. Miss Victor hadn’t wanted to stray too far from the truth. But no wonder she didn’t want to tell him who she was. Although Matt had only heard Max Bradbury’s name in passing, she didn’t know that.
He read the article through, his brows drawing together as he assessed its content. According to the writer, Victoria Bradbury had disappeared two nights ago, and both her husband and her mother were frantic with worry. Mr Bradbury had apparently had a fall the same evening, which was why his wife’s disappearance hadn’t been noted until the following morning.
Luckily Mr Bradbury had been able to crawl to a phone and summon assistance before losing consciousness. His brother, the actor Hugo Bradbury, had said it was most unlike Victoria to leave the apartment without informing her husband where she was going. Fears were being expressed that she might have been kidnapped. Mr Bradbury had been detained in hospital overnight for tests, but had discharged himself the following morning to conduct the search for his wife personally. Max Bradbury was an extremely wealthy man and he intended to use all means at his disposal to find her.
The article ended with an appeal that anyone who might have seen Mrs Bradbury or knew of her whereabouts should contact the police and a London number was supplied.
Matt blew out a breath, slumping back in his chair and staring incredulously out of the window. Then, snatching up the newspaper again, he examined Sara’s—Victoria’s—picture more closely. It had to be her. He would swear it.
It was a more sophisticated Victoria than he was used to seeing, of course. For one thing she wasn’t wearing her hair in a plait. Instead, it was coiled into a knot on top of her head. The carefully coaxed strands that framed her face and curved so confidingly beneath her jawline were familiar, and the widespaced eyes, the high cheekbones, the generous, yet curiously vulnerable