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 with unflattering haste. Dammit, surely she wasn’t scared of him.
‘Er—not far,’ she said at last. Then, when it was obvious that something more was expected, she added, ‘I—I stayed at a guesthouse in Morpeth last night.’
‘Really?’ Matt revised his opinion. The agency must have cast its net far and wide. She’d hardly have stayed in Morpeth if she lived in Newcastle. There was only a handful of miles between the two.
‘Is that your car at the end of the road?’ he asked now, and she nodded.
‘It’s a hired car,’ she told him swiftly. ‘But there seems to be something wrong with it. It gave up down there, as you can see.’
‘Lucky you made it this far, then,’ remarked Matt neutrally. ‘I’ll have the garage in Saviour’s Bay pick it up later. They can return it to the agency when it’s fixed.’
‘But I don’t—’ She broke off, staring at him as if he was speaking in a foreign language. ‘There’s no need for you to do that. If I could just use your phone—’
Her voice trailed away and Matt’s brows drew together in sudden suspicion. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you?’ he exclaimed. ‘I should have known. You’re another bloody reporter, aren’t you?’ He gave her a scathing look. ‘They must be desperate if they’re sending bimbos to do the job!’
‘I am not a bimbo!’ For once he had stung her into an unconsidered retort. She straightened her spine, as if she could add to her height. But she was still several inches shorter than Matt’s six feet plus and her frustration showed in her face. ‘And I never claimed to be from any agency.’
‘Whatever.’ Matt’s jaw compressed. ‘So, what are you doing here? I notice you haven’t denied being a reporter.’
‘A reporter?’ She stared at him, thick blonde lashes shading eyes of a misty grey-green. ‘I don’t understand. Were you expecting a reporter?’ Her face paled a little. ‘Why would a reporter come here?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am.’
‘I don’t.’ She frowned. ‘Well, I know your name is Seton. You told me that.’
‘Matt Seton?’ prompted Matt caustically. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘Actually, no.’ She looked troubled. ‘Who are you?’
Matt swayed back on his heels. Was she serious? She certainly looked as if she was, and if he’d had any conceit to speak of she’d have certainly exploded it with her innocent words. If they were innocent, he amended. Or could she really be that good?
‘You don’t go to bookshops, then?’ he enquired drily, aware of a totally unfamiliar sensation of pique. ‘You’ve never heard of my work?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She looked a little relieved now, but hardly apologetic. ‘Are you famous?’
Matt couldn’t prevent an ironic laugh. ‘Moderately so,’ he said mildly. ‘So…’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I told you. My car broke down.’ She paused. ‘I was hoping to use your phone, as I said.’
‘Really?’ Matt considered her.
‘Yes, really.’ She shivered suddenly, and, although it was hardly a cold morning, Matt noticed how pale she was. ‘Um, would you mind?’
Matt hesitated. It could still be a clever ruse on her part to get inside his house. But he was beginning to doubt that. Nevertheless, no
