at him as if he was the intruder, and he gave a rueful shake of his head.
‘My name’s Quinn,’ he said, humouring her. ‘Who are you?’
‘Um—Nancy,’ she answered, after a moment. ‘Nancy—Drew.’ And then, before he could comment on her name, a frown creased her childish features. ‘Do you live here?’
‘I do now,’ said Quinn drily. ‘Is that a problem?’
Nancy shrugged. ‘No,’ she conceded, but she sounded less sure of herself now. ‘That is—you don’t have a dog, do you?’
Quinn grinned. He couldn’t help himself. ‘Not at present,’ he replied, considering it. ‘Do you like dogs?’
‘I do.’ Nancy sounded doubtful none the less. ‘Grandad has a dog. A retriever. But he’s very naughty.’
‘Who, your grandad?’
Quinn couldn’t help himself and Nancy gave him a reproving look. ‘No!’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘Harvey. He used to chase Buttons all around the garden. He was terrified!’
‘Harvey?’ asked Quinn innocently and Nancy’s face took on a suspicious stare.
‘Buttons,’ she corrected him. ‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you?’
Quinn sighed. ‘Just a little.’ He paused. ‘Who’s Buttons?’
‘My rabbit,’ said Nancy, squatting down again and pointing to what Quinn now saw was a cage, as he’d thought. ‘Mummy said I ought to find another home for him. So I did.’
Quinn suspected her mother had not meant in someone else’s garden, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he hunkered down beside her and saw the white nose of what appeared to be quite a large rabbit nuzzling at the wires of its cage.
‘This is Buttons,’ went on Nancy, performing the introduction. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’
‘I guess.’ Quinn knew nothing about rabbits so his opinion was limited. ‘But isn’t his cage rather small?’
‘Mmm,’ Nancy agreed. ‘That’s why I used to let him out. But as I said—’
‘Harvey chased him,’ Quinn finished for her and Nancy nodded.
‘He doesn’t realise that Buttons is frightened of him.’
‘Well, dogs chase rabbits,’ said Quinn matter-of-factly. ‘It’s what they do.’
‘So—can he stay here?’ asked Nancy quickly, and Quinn got abruptly to his feet.
‘I—maybe,’ he said slowly. ‘If your mother approves.’
‘Oh, she doesn’t know,’ said Nancy airily, standing up, too. Then, more anxiously, ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’
Fliss had opened her mouth to shout Amy’s name again when she saw her. The door to the Old Coaching House was open and a man was standing on the threshold talking to her daughter.
A relieved breath escaped her. She hadn’t really been worried, she assured herself, but you heard such awful stories these days about children being abducted and Amy was only nine years old.
Nevertheless, she didn’t approve of her coming here without permission, even if Amy was naturally familiar with the place. She’d accompanied her mother often enough during school holidays and the like and she knew the grounds almost as well as her own garden.
But that didn’t alter the fact that things had changed now. Old Colonel Phillips was dead and, although she hadn’t heard about it, the Old Coaching House had apparently been sold. To someone Amy didn’t know, Fliss reminded herself, quickening her step. How many times had she warned her daughter not to talk to strange men?
The man became aware of her presence before her daughter did. His head turned and she got a swift impression of a hard, uncompromising face with dark, deeply tanned features. He was tall, that much was obvious, but there didn’t appear to be an ounce of spare flesh on his leanly muscled frame.
He looked—dangerous, she thought fancifully, not liking the conclusion at all. He looked nothing like the people who usually retired to Mallon’s End, and she wondered why someone like him would choose to buy a house in such a quiet, unexciting place.
She got the distinct impression that he would have preferred to cut short his conversation with Amy and close the door before she reached them. But something, an unwilling acceptance of his responsibilities—or common decency, perhaps—persuaded him to at least acknowledge her before he made his escape.
For her part, Fliss was more curious than anything else. As she got nearer, she could see that he was younger than she’d imagined; possibly late thirties, she guessed, with very short dark hair that added to his harsh appearance.
But for someone who looked so menacing, he was absurdly attractive. Goodness! Fliss swallowed a little nervously, feeling butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Who on earth was he?
‘I—I’m sorry,’ she began, deciding an apology was in order. ‘If my daughter’s been troubling you—’
‘She hasn’t,’ he said, his voice low and a little hoarse, and Fliss saw the way Amy’s shoulders hunched in the way she had when her mother embarrassed her.
‘Oh, Mum!’ She grimaced, casting an impatient look in Fliss’s direction. ‘I’m not a baby, you know.’
Fliss reserved judgement on that one. In her opinion Amy was still young enough to warrant the anxiety she had felt at her disappearance.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said, deciding any chastisement could wait until later. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’
Amy shrugged now. ‘I might have done,’ she said airily, but Fliss wondered if it was only her imagination that made her think her daughter was looking slightly uneasy now. What had been going on, for heaven’s sake? What had this man been saying to her?
‘Well, why didn’t you answer, then?’ she demanded, before allowing their audience a slight smile. ‘I was worried.’
‘I’m sure Nancy didn’t mean to cause you any unnecessary distress, Mrs Drew,’ the man broke in abruptly, and if Fliss hadn’t been so shocked by the name he’d used, she’d have realised there was an increasing weariness in his harsh tone. ‘No harm done.’
‘You think not?’ Fliss couldn’t let it go. She looked down at her daughter. ‘Amy? Did you tell this—gentleman—that your name is Nancy Drew?’
Amy flushed now. ‘What if I did?’
Fliss shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
The man breathed heavily. ‘I gather that’s not her name?’
‘No.’ Fliss tried to control her temper. It wasn’t his fault, after all. ‘It’s Amy. Amy Taylor. Nancy Drew is just—’
‘Yeah, I know who Nancy Drew is.’ He
