Passionate Protectors?. Maggie Cox
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got her skates on she should make it into class in time for registration.
‘Have a good day, angel,’ he said, exchanging a swift kiss with his daughter before she thrust open her door and clambered down onto the kerb.
‘Bye, Daddy,’ she called, her face briefly exhibiting a little of the anxiety she’d exhibited earlier. Then, cramming her grey hat with its upturned brim and distinctive red band down onto her sooty bob, to prevent the wind from taking it, she raised a hand in farewell and raced across the playground to the doors, where one or two stragglers were still entering the building.
Matt waited until the swirling hem of Rosie’s pleated skirt had disappeared from view before putting the Range Rover into drive again and moving away. He couldn’t prevent the sigh of relief he felt at knowing that she was in safe hands for a few hours at least. When he was working he could easily forget the time, and it wasn’t fair on his daughter that she should have to spend her days worrying that he might not be there when she came out of school.
That was why he needed someone—nursemaid, nanny, whatever—to take up the slack. He had a housekeeper, Mrs Webb, who came in most days to cook and clean and do the ironing, but he’d never realised how much he’d depended on Hester Gibson until she’d been forced to retire. But then, Hester had been so much more than a nanny. From the very beginning she’d been more of a mother to Rosie than Carol had ever been, and when Carol had moved in with her lover Hester had taken Matt under her wing, too.
They had been living in London at that time, but Hester had had no qualms when Matt had suggested moving to the wilds of Northumbria. Like Matt, she had been an exile from the northeast of England herself, only living in the south because she hadn’t been able to find suitable employment in her home town of Newcastle. It had been like coming home for both of them, and the house at Saviour’s Bay had offered space and comfort.
Matt sighed again, and, turning the heavy vehicle in the yard of the village pub, drove back the way he’d come. The roads between Saviour’s Bay and the village of Ellsmoor, where Rosie’s school was situated, were narrow, with high, untrimmed hedges on either side. He supposed the state of the hedges was due to the local farmers, who were having a hard time of it at present, but it meant it was impossible to see far enough ahead to overtake the slow-moving hay wagon in front of him. But Matt was in no hurry now. He had the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon to himself, and as he’d worked half the night he thought he deserved a break.
Of course, he needed a shave, he conceded, running a hand over the stubble on his jawline. And some coffee, he thought eagerly, having only had time to pour milk onto Rosie’s cornflakes and fill her glass with fresh orange juice before charging out to the car. Yes, some strong caffeine was just what he needed. It might clear his head and provide him with the impetus to get this nanny business sorted.
He made reasonably good time back to the house. Saviour’s Bay was a village, too, but a much smaller community than that of Ellsmoor. In recent weeks he’d toyed with the idea of buying an apartment in Newcastle that they could use in term time. A would-be employee would obviously find the city more appealing. But the idea of living in town—any town—even for a limited period wasn’t appealing to him. He loved Seadrift, loved its isolation too much to consider any alternative at present. And Rosie loved it, too. She couldn’t remember living anywhere else.
As he swung onto the private road that led up to the house he noticed a car parked at an angle at the side of the road just before the turning. He slowed, wondering if the driver had missed his way, but the vehicle appeared to be deserted. Whoever owned the car had either abandoned it to walk back to the village, or had gone up to the house, he decided. There were no other houses along this stretch of the cliffs, which was why he’d bought Seadrift in the first place.
He frowned, looking back the way he’d come, but there was no one in sight. He wasn’t worried. He’d had too many skirmishes with the press in the past to be concerned about some rogue reporter who might have hopes of finding a novel perspective on his present situation. Thankfully the press in this area accepted his presence without much hassle, and were usually too busy following up local issues to trouble him. But the car was there and it had to belong to someone.
So who?
Scowling, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator and quickened his pace. The pleasant anticipation he’d been feeling of making coffee and reading his mail was dissipating, and he resented whoever it was for ruining his mood.
The gates to the house appeared on the right. They were open, as usual, and Matt drove straight through and up the white gravelled drive to the house. Long and low and sprawling, Seadrift looked solidly inviting, even on this overcast June morning. Its walls were shadowed with wisteria, its tall windows reflecting the light of the watery sun that was trying to push between the clouds.
There was a block-paved turning circle in front of the double doors, flanked by outbuildings that had now been put to a variety of uses. A triple garage had been converted from a low barn, and another of the sheds was used to store gardening equipment.
Parking the Range Rover to one side of the doors, Matt sat for a moment, waiting to see if his arrival elicited any response from whoever it was he suspected had invaded his territory. And, sure enough, a figure did appear from around the corner of the barn. But it wasn’t the man he’d expected; it was a woman. And as far as he could see she was carrying nothing more incriminating than the handbag-size haversack that was looped over one shoulder.
She was young, too, he noticed, watching her as she saw the car and after only a momentary hesitation came towards him. She was reasonably tall and slim, with long light brown hair streaked with blonde and confined in a chunky braid. She didn’t look any older than her mid-twenties, and he wondered what she was doing, wandering around a stranger’s property. Hadn’t she heard of the dangers that could face young women like her in remote areas? Hell, in not so remote ones, too. For God’s sake, she knew nothing about him.
Of course, she might have expected there to be a woman at the house, he was reminding himself, when another thought struck him. She could be from the agency. Just because he hadn’t heard from them recently it didn’t mean they didn’t still have his name on their books. Here he was, suspecting the worst, and she could be the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. A nanny for Rosie. Someone to look after her and care for her; to give her her meals and be company for her when he was working. Someone to take her to school and pick her up again on those occasions when he couldn’t. Could he be that lucky?
Collecting his thoughts, Matt pushed open the door of the Range Rover and stepped out onto the forecourt. Then, replacing his scowl with a polite look of enquiry, he went towards her and said, ‘Are you looking for me?’
‘Oh—’ The girl seemed taken aback by his sudden appearance and Matt had a moment to assess the quality of the cream leather jacket she had slung about her shoulders. It had obviously not been bought off the peg at some department store, and the voile dress she was wearing with it seemed unsuitable for a morning interview with a prospective employer. But what the hell? he thought. Professionally trained nannies could command generous salaries these days, and what did he know about women’s fashions anyway?
Apparently deciding he meant her no harm, in spite of the stubble on his chin, she gave a nervous smile. ‘I—yes,’ she said, answering his question. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. If—if you live here.’
‘I do.’ Matt held out his hand. ‘Matt Seton. And you are…?’
She seemed disconcerted by his introduction. Had she recognised his name? Whatever, she was definitely reluctant to shake his hand. But eventually she allowed him to enclose her fingers in his much larger ones and said, ‘I’m—Sara.’ And, when he arched his brow, ‘Um—Sara Victor.’
‘Ah.’ Matt liked her name. It sounded solid; old-fashioned. Having interviewed a series of Hollys and Jades and Pippas, it was refreshing to meet someone whose parents hadn’t been influenced by television soaps. ‘So, Miss Victor: have you come far?’
She seemed surprised at his question, withdrawing her hand from his