Passionate Protectors?: Hot Pursuit / The Bedroom Barter / A Passionate Protector

Matt’s mouth turned down. ‘My daughter’s, actually,’ he said. Then, because she was looking as if the next puff of wind would knock her over, he added, ‘I was just about to make myself some coffee. Would you like a cup?’

‘Oh, please!’

If he was to speculate, Matt would have said she spoke like someone who hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in some time. There was such eagerness in her response, and once again he felt a renewal of his doubts about her. Who was she really? Where had she been heading on the coast road, which was usually only used by locals and holidaymakers? What did she really want?

‘I’ve got the number of the garage in Saviour’s Bay,’ he said as he spooned coffee into the filter. ‘I’ll just get this going and then I’ll find it for you.’

‘Thank you.’

She hovered by the door, one hand clutching the strap of her haversack, the other braced against the wall unit nearest to her. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was trembling, though whether that was because she was cold, despite the warmth of the Aga, or apprehensive, he wouldn’t like to say.

It was quite a novelty for Matt to face the fact that she might not trust him. Her question about whether the dogs belonged to him or his wife might just have been a rather clumsy attempt to discover if he was married. For the first time he realised how vulnerable she might feel.

‘Hey, why don’t you sit down?’ he suggested, pointing towards the two stools that were set at either side of the island bar. ‘This is going to take a few minutes.’

‘O—kay.’

With evident reluctance she crossed the room and, dropping her haversack onto the floor beside her, levered herself onto one of the tall stools. But he noticed she chose the one that put the width of the bar between them, before treating him to another of those polite smiles.

Matt pulled a wry face but he didn’t say anything. She’d learn soon enough that he wasn’t interested in her or anyone else. That was, if she bothered to check him out in whatever place she was heading for. Despite his fame, and the monetary success it had brought him, Matt had declined all opportunities to replace his ex-wife.

And he had had opportunities, he conceded without conceit. A man in his position always attracted a certain type of woman, even if he was as ugly as sin, and he wasn’t that. His features were harsh, maybe, but they weren’t totally unappealing. He’d been told when he was younger and less cynical that deep-set eyes, olive skin, and a nose that had been broken playing rugby were far more interesting than pretty-boy looks.

But who knew what the real truth was? He no longer cared. So long as Rosie loved him, that was all that mattered.

When he turned back to his visitor, however, he got a surprise. While he’d been speculating on the possibilities of her being afraid of him, she’d slumped in her seat, shoulders hunched, head resting on the arms she’d folded on the counter. She was either asleep or exhausted, he realised in amazement. And he’d bet money on the former. What the hell was going on?

The phone rang at that moment and at once she jerked awake. Cursing, Matt went to answer it, not knowing whether his irritation was caused by the fact that she’d fallen asleep or that the sound had awakened her. Looping the receiver off the wall, he jammed it to his ear. ‘Yeah?’

‘Matt?’

‘Emma!’ Matt expelled a long breath. ‘Hi! What can I do for you?’

‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

It would be all the same if she was, thought Matt ruefully. He owed Emma Proctor too much to resent the interruption and, aware that Sara was watching him with wary grey-green eyes, he said swiftly, ‘No, I just got back from taking Rosie to school. I’m in the middle of making some coffee, actually. I’m afraid we slept in this morning.’

Emma made a sympathetic sound. ‘Of course, it’s Mrs Webb’s day off, isn’t it? I gather you’ve had no luck with the agency?’

‘No.’ Matt didn’t particularly want to get into that now. ‘No luck at all.’

‘What about trying the local employment agency?’ Emma suggested helpfully. ‘They sometimes have childminders on their books.’

‘But I don’t want a childminder,’ declared Matt mildly. ‘I want someone with the proper training, not a girl who only wants to work here on a part-time basis. I need someone in the evenings, too, when I’m working. You know that.’

‘What you need is a surrogate mother for Rosie,’ said Emma a little tersely. ‘And the chances of finding someone like that who’s also prepared to live in rural Northumbria—’

‘I know, I know.’ He and Emma had had this conversation too many times for Matt to show much patience with it now. ‘Look, thanks for caring, but I’ve really got to work this out for myself.’

‘If you can,’ muttered Emma huffily. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t why I rang. I wondered if you wanted me to collect Rosie from school this afternoon. I’ve got to go to Berwick this morning, but I should be back by—’

‘It’s okay. I’ve told Rosie I’ll pick her up myself this afternoon,’ replied Matt quickly, wondering what his visitor was making of the one-sided conversation. He hesitated. ‘I appreciate the offer, Em. I really do. Some other time, yeah?’

‘I suppose so.’ To his relief, she didn’t pursue it. ‘Well, I’d better go. There’s nothing you want from Berwick, is there? I can always drop it off on my way home.’

‘Not that I can think of,’ said Matt politely. ‘Have a good day, Em. Speak to you soon.’

When he replaced the receiver he noticed that his visitor dropped her gaze, as if afraid of being caught out watching him. Frowning slightly, he turned back to the filter and saw that the jug was now full and steaming on the hotplate. Unhooking a couple of mugs from the rack, he looked at Sara again.

‘Black? White? With sugar or without?’

‘White with no sugar,’ she answered at once. ‘It smells delicious.’

Matt poured some for her and pushed the mug across the counter. Then, taking a carton of milk from the fridge, he passed that over, too. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thank you.’

Matt drew a breath. ‘You hungry?’

‘Hungry?’ For a moment she looked almost eager. Then those thick blonde lashes shaded her eyes again. ‘No,’ she responded carefully. ‘This is fine.’

Matt considered, and then pulled a large biscuit tin towards him. It was where Mrs Webb stored the muffins she made for his breakfast and, although these had been made the day before, they still smelled fresh and appetising. Heated in the microwave, they often made a meal for someone who often forgot about food altogether, and Matt offered the tin to Sara now.

‘Sure?’ he asked. ‘I usually heat a couple of these for my breakfast. I can recommend them.’

She looked as if she wanted to take one, but after a pregnant pause she shook her head. ‘The coffee is all I need,’ she assured him. And then, perhaps to divert herself, she added, ‘I gather you’re looking for a nursemaid for your daughter?’ Faint colour entered her cheeks. ‘How old is she?’

‘Rosie?’

Matt hesitated, closing the tin again. Then, deciding there was no harm in telling her, he added, ‘Seven.’ He shook his head. ‘I can hardly believe it. Time goes so fast.’

Sara moistened her lips. ‘Is your wife dead?’ she asked, and then lifted her hand in a gesture of remorse. ‘No. Don’t answer that. I had no right to ask.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ But Matt answered her just the same. ‘Carol left me when Rosie was a baby,’ he said flatly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not a secret.’

‘I see.’ Sara cradled her coffee mug between her palms. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah.’ Matt gave a wry smile. ‘But, believe me, it was the best thing for both of us.’

Sara looked up at him. ‘For you and your wife?’

‘For me and my daughter,’ Matt amended, hooking his heel around the stool opposite and straddling it to face her. He nodded to her cup. ‘Coffee all right?’

She drew back when he was seated, as if his nearness—or his bulk—intimidated her. It crossed his mind that someone must have done a number on her, must be responsible for her lack of confidence, but he didn’t say anything. In his professional experience it was wiser not to probe another person’s psyche. Not unless you had a reason for doing so, at least.

‘So you live here alone?’ she said at last, apparently deciding to pursue her enquiries, and he pulled a wry face.

‘I have Rosie,’ he said, his lips twitching. ‘Hey, are you sure you’re not a journalist? That’s the kind of question they ask.’