the basin and Sara examined her reflection with critical eyes. Fortunately, her face was unmarked. Max never left any visible signs of his cruelty, at least none that couldn’t be covered by her clothes. There had never been any obvious signs that he was anything other than an ideal husband. Even Hugo—gentle, bumbling Hugo—had never suspected what a monster his brother really was. And as for her mother…
Sara trembled. She was doing it again, concentrating all her attention on the past. She’d done what she could. She’d phoned the emergency services before she’d fled from the apartment. She’d ensured that Max was attended to. The only thing she hadn’t done was stay and be charged with his murder…
Expelling an unsteady breath, Sara ran some water into the basin and washed her face and hands with the creamy soap she found there. It was so good to get rid of the stale make-up she’d been wearing since the night before, and, after rescuing her haversack from the other room, she spent a few minutes applying moisturiser to her skin. She didn’t use any lipstick or mascara, but an eyeliner was necessary to draw attention away from the dark circles around her eyes. She looked pale, but she couldn’t help that. She had the feeling she’d never look normal again.
She found her brush and, loosening her hair, she got rid of the tangles before plaiting it again. Then, satisfied that she’d repaired the damage, she went back into the bedroom.
She found her hip was easier now that she was moving about again. In a few days the bruises would disappear, as they had done before. She’d be able to look at herself and pretend, as she had pretended so many times before, that Max had left no scars upon her. But the real scars went deeper, were longer lasting. Those scars were incapable of being destroyed.
She closed her eyes for a moment, preparing herself to meet the questions Matt Seton wasn’t going to forget he hadn’t had answers to. And, before she left the room, she took off her watch and her rings and slipped them into the bottom of her bag. One way or another she was no longer Max’s possession. She was on her own now, and, until she decided what she was going to do, she had to think on her feet.
There was still her mother, of course. But she doubted she would have any sympathy for her daughter. They had never been close, and in the older woman’s eyes the only sensible thing Sara had ever done was to marry Max Bradbury. It had always been the same. Max could do no wrong. And, because when they’d got married Max had moved her mother out of her run-down house in Greenwich and into a luxury apartment in Bloomsbury, Sara had never been able to appeal to her for help. God knew what she’d think when she discovered Max was dead and her daughter was missing. Sara doubted she would ever forgive her.
SARA looked even paler when she came downstairs, and Matt felt a heel for upsetting her. But, dammit, he hadn’t been born yesterday, and it was obvious that the story she’d told him wasn’t even close to the truth.
He had already beaten eggs for omelettes, and he set a bowl of freshly washed salad on the breakfast bar. Fresh coffee was simmering on the hob, and there was nearly half a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge—a hangover from his working jag of the night before.
‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating the stool she had occupied before. He had considered laying the table in the dining room, but that had seemed too formal. Besides, if he had any sense he’d feed her and send her on her way without any further nonsense. It wasn’t his problem if she was running away. He had been a fool 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