.

to get involved. ‘How do you feel?’

      ‘Better,’ she said, with another of her guarded smiles. She edged onto the stool. ‘You didn’t have to do this, you know.’

      Yes, I did, thought Matt wryly, but he contented himself with a careless, ‘No problem.’ The eggs sizzled as he poured them into a hot pan. ‘There’s wine in the fridge, if you want it.’

      ‘Not for me, thank you.’ She was evidently trying to relax, but although she propped her elbows on the bar and looped her fingers together he could see she was on edge. Then, as if determined to behave naturally, she added, ‘You said you were a writer?’

      Matt cast her a sardonic glance. ‘Did I say that?’

      ‘Well, you implied as much,’ she said, looking embarrassed, and he took pity on her.

      ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘I write.’

      Her eyes widened, and he was struck anew at how lucid they were. But now that she’d removed her make-up he could see the dark shadows that surrounded them, noticed with his professional eye for observation that her skin was porcelain-fragile and almost transparent.

      Who the hell was she? he wondered. What was she really doing in this part of the country? And why did he feel such an unwarranted sense of responsibility for her?

      ‘What do you write?’ she asked, apparently hoping to prevent him from asking her any more questions, and he drew a breath.

      ‘Thrillers,’ he replied at last, deciding not to elaborate. She wouldn’t be interested in his background in psychology, or in the fact that the main character in his last three novels had used psychological profiling to catch his villains. Carol hadn’t been. She’d thought she’d married a doctor. She’d never been interested in his writing. He tipped half the cooked eggs onto Sara’s plate. ‘Okay?’

      She nodded her thanks for the golden-brown omelette he’d set in front of her. ‘Mmm, this looks delicious.’

      ‘So eat it,’ he advised, straddling the stool opposite as he’d done before. He pulled his own plate towards him and set a board with newly sliced French bread beside them. ‘Help yourself.’

      He noticed how long it took her to swallow just a few mouthfuls of the omelette. She asked if she could have a glass of water and punctuated every forkful with several generous gulps so that the glass was empty long before the eggs were eaten. Much against his better judgement, Matt refilled the glass and added a handful of ice cubes from the freezer. For that she offered him a smile that for once was totally sincere.

      ‘So—are you writing at the moment?’ she asked at last, seemingly conscious of the fact that he was watching her every move. She managed to meet his eyes, if only briefly. ‘It must be a fascinating occupation.’

      ‘It’s a living.’ Matt helped himself to a wedge of bread and spread it thickly with butter. He offered it to her, but she declined, and, taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully before continuing, ‘I’m lucky. I enjoy it. Not all writers do, you know.’

      ‘They don’t?’

      He wondered if her ingenuity was real or feigned. She certainly appeared to be interested. But then, he’d been flattered too many times before to take anything at face value. ‘No,’ he answered her now, forking the last of his omelette into his mouth. ‘To some people, it’s just a job. For me, it was a hobby long before I started to take it seriously.’

      Sara looked impressed. ‘It must be great to do something you really enjoy.’ She cupped her chin in her hand. ‘I envy you.’

      ‘You didn’t enjoy teaching, then?’ suggested Matt mildly, and saw the way the colour seeped into her face at his words.

      ‘That’s different,’ she said tightly. ‘I meant, it must be wonderful to have a—vocation.’

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it that. But I know what you mean.’ Matt shrugged and then directed his attention to her plate. ‘Is something wrong with your eggs?’

      ‘Oh—no.’ She hurried to reassure him. ‘You’re a good cook. I just—er—I don’t have much of an appetite, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.’

      Matt collected the plates and got up to pour the coffee. Then, setting a mug of the steaming liquid in front of her, he said, ‘So what are you going to do now?’

      She glanced half apprehensively towards the door and he wondered if she was remembering the argument they’d had before she’d collapsed. But as far as she was concerned her vehicle was unusable. Was she thinking she would have to make other arrangements before she could continue with her journey?

      ‘I—I suppose I should ring the garage in—where was it you said? Saviour?’

      ‘Saviour’s Bay.’ Matt regarded her levelly. ‘Actually, I did ring them myself.’

      ‘You did?’ The relief in her eyes made him regret the lie he’d just told her. ‘What did they say? Are they sending somebody out?’

      Matt ignored his twingeing conscience. ‘Not until tomorrow. They’re pretty strapped today.’

      ‘Oh, no!’ Her disappointment was evident. She ran slim fingers up into the hair at her temples, dragging several strands to curl about her jawline. ‘God, what am I going to do now?’

      He guessed the question was rhetorical, but he answered her anyway. ‘You could stay here overnight,’ he suggested, wondering why he was doing this. ‘I have a spare room. You’ve just spent a couple of hours in it.’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Why not?’ He hardened his tone. ‘You were quite prepared to stay if I offered you a job. What’s the difference?’

      She flushed. ‘That was a mistake.’

      ‘What was?’

      ‘Asking you for a job. I don’t know what possessed me.’

      ‘Try desperation?’ he suggested flatly. ‘Come on, Sara, we both know you don’t have anywhere else to go. And until your car’s fixed…’

      She shook her head. ‘I’ll find a hotel. A guesthouse. Something.’

      ‘Around here? I don’t think so. Not unless you’re prepared to hike several miles, as I said. And somehow, in those heels, I don’t think you’d make it.’

      ‘You don’t know what shoes I’ve brought with me. I have a suitcase in my car—’

      ‘No, you don’t. I checked.’ Matt didn’t go on to add that he’d started her car, too. She must have flooded the carburettor when it had stalled and she’d tried to start it again. ‘There’s nothing in the boot.’

      Her indignation was appealing. ‘You had no right to do that.’

      ‘No.’ He agreed with her. ‘But you had left the keys in the ignition. Anyone could have done the same.’

      She sniffed. ‘You can’t force me to stay here.’

      ‘I have no intention of forcing you to do anything,’ he declared dismissively. ‘And very shortly I’ll be leaving to pick up my daughter from school, so you’ll have every opportunity to walk out if you wish.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s your call.’

      Matt covered the distance between Seadrift and St Winifred’s Primary feeling a sense of incredulity. Had he really left Sara—if that really was her name—alone in his house? After spending the last few years isolating himself from everybody but his family and the people who worked for him, had he actually encouraged a complete stranger to spend the night in his home?

      Was he mad? He knew practically nothing about her, and what he did know was definitely suspect. She had no more decided on a change of life than he had. He’d bet his last cent that she was a runaway. But from whom? And from what?

      Whatever