was him? The man she’d come to see?
Her feet sank further into the mud and she listened to the sound of her own breath. He didn’t even notice her. He just loaded a large cardboard box into the back of a Range Rover and disappeared back inside the house.
He looked different. Leaner. Harder.
His sandy hair was longer and messier and he obviously hadn’t been near a razor in a couple of days. Gone was the respectable-looking doctor, replaced by a wilder, more rugged-looking man. Oh, yes, five years in prison had definitely changed Luke Armstrong.
Suddenly he reappeared. And this time he saw her.
At first his face registered surprise, but it quickly hardened into something else. He dumped the box he was carrying in the boot of the car and strode towards her.
‘What do you want?’
He barked the question out and her heart started to gallop inside her chest. She’d never been very good at confrontation and he seemed ready for a fight. As she struggled to make her lips form her own name, he looked her up and down. And if looks were anything to go by, she knew she’d been fired even before the interview.
‘Mr Armstrong?’ she stammered.
‘You know full well who I am.’
Well, of course she did! She was hoping to be his new nanny.
‘I’m sure you know what brand of toothpaste I use, so don’t turn up here looking all innocent and pretend you’ve lost your way. I’ve heard that one before.’
She certainly didn’t know what toothpaste he used! What was he trying to imply? A sudden rush of heat behind her eyes told her she was more ready for confrontation than she’d suspected. ‘Mr Armstrong, I assure you—’
‘I wouldn’t believe a word that came out of your lying mouth.’ The fury in his eyes stopped any retort she might have had to hand. His face twisted as he shook his head, then he just turned and walked back towards the house. Gaby was so shocked that it didn’t even occur to her to move.
Just before he disappeared from view, he turned to look over his shoulder. ‘You’ll just have to tell your editor you blew it,’ he yelled. And then he was gone.
Editor? He’d said editor, she was sure of it.
Oh…
Now she got it. He thought she was a journalist. She looked down and tried to see what it was about her appearance that had set him down that path. Slightly ageing fleece, go-with-anything black trousers and a pair of comfy driving shoes under a layer of mud. Didn’t look much like a journalist to her. But then, she didn’t look much like a top-notch nanny either.
She let out a long breath and her anger turned tide. No wonder he’d reacted the way he had. The tabloids had given him a really rough ride before, during and after his trial. She’d followed the story in the papers and it hadn’t been pretty.
Luke Armstrong had been charged with his wife’s murder after she’d been found dead in a hotel room in Kent. Each gory detail had been received more thirstily than the last.
‘DOCTOR KILLS WIFE IN CRIME OF PASSION!’ the headline had screamed.
The prosecution had argued that he’d followed her, leaving his young daughter in the care of a neighbour, and found his wife enjoying the luxuries of a country house hotel with another man. In a fit of rage he’d struck out. Mrs Armstrong had fallen and hit her head. And, while she lay bleeding all over the Chinese rug, he’d fled and hadn’t returned home for hours.
Of course, he’d denied it. And he’d been so convincing in court the jury would probably have acquitted him if it hadn’t been for the forensic evidence. When he’d stood in the witness stand, he’d sworn he’d only got as far as the hotel lobby, where he’d seen his wife and her lover lace fingers and climb the stairs together. He said he’d driven off on to the North Downs and sat in his car, trying to work out what to do next.
But DNA evidence had made his words into a fairy tale. He’d been in the hotel room the night his wife had died.
Then, five years later, when the public had forgotten all about the doctor in his prison cell, there had been another headline:
‘DOCTOR CLEARED OF WIFE’S MURDER!’
She remembered something about cross-contamination of samples at the lab.
Of course, now the nation was truly sorry. Never had believed it anyway. He’d always looked like such a nice man…
But he didn’t look so nice any more, thought Gaby, as she remembered the way he’d towered over her only seconds before.
It was strange. After reading all the newspaper reports, even though they’d never been introduced, had never chatted, she felt as if she knew this man. Not the stupid details, like his favourite colour or how he liked his coffee. But she knew he was honest and caring and fiercely loyal to those he loved. She knew the things that mattered.
And it was for this reason, and this reason alone, she was going to make him listen to her, rather than walk back down the lane and head home.
CHAPTER TWO
WELL, if she was going to face him, she couldn’t just stand here getting muddier by the second. But, as much as she wanted to help, she didn’t relish facing the snarling man who’d just stomped into the house, either. It was that look in his eyes, the look that said she was worthless, stupid and way out of her league.
Of course, the look really wasn’t for her. It was for the phantom journalist he’d taken her for. But she’d seen the same look in David’s eyes many a time, and it made something inside her wither. When her ex-husband had looked at her like that, he’d known exactly who he was talking to.
Gaby smoothed her hair back with her hands and walked up to the front door. Her heart pounded in time with the three sharp raps she gave with the knocker. She waited, ears straining for a sound, but there was nothing. Just as she was about to knock again, she heard a door slam somewhere inside, and she thought better of it.
He knew she was out here; he was just ignoring her.
She sighed and rubbed her face with her hands. She’d driven for over seven hours to get here. She was cold and her feet were soggy, and she wasn’t going to just turn round and go home again because Luke Armstrong was in a strop.
She followed his footprints round to the back of the house, where she found the back door slightly ajar. He’d probably been too fired up to make sure it had clicked shut behind him.
It gave a creak as she nudged it with her fingertips. ‘Mr Armstrong?’
She peered inside and found a small room, with an even smaller window, full of sturdy boots and sensible-looking coats on hooks.
‘Mr—’ She swallowed the rest of her sentence as the door leading into the rest of the house crashed open.
‘You
