Hot Pursuit by Anne Mather

was coiled into a knot on top of her head. The carefully coaxed strands that framed her face and curved so confidingly beneath her jawline were familiar, and the wide-spaced eyes, the high cheekbones, the generous, yet curiously vulnerable mouth were unmistakable. Unless she had an identical twin, he was looking at a picture of the woman who had spent last night in his spare room. Dammit, what was she playing at?
    Anger gripped him. It infuriated him that he’d been taken in by her air of vulnerability. Hell, he’d felt sorry for her. He hadn’t believed her story, of course, and that was one thing in his favour, but he had felt a sense of responsibility for her which he realised now had been totally misplaced. She must have been laughing at him all along.
    Max Bradbury’s wife. He scowled. He wondered how long they’d been married. To his knowledge Bradbury was at least fifty, which must make him more than twenty years older than his wife. So what had gone wrong? Had she become bored with the old man? Hadn’t he been giving her enough attention? Was this escapade intended to remind him how lucky he was to have such a young and attractive wife?
    And, if so, what was the idea of asking for a job? Of pretending that she’d once been a primary school teacher. For God’s sake, a man like Max Bradbury wouldn’t have marrieda schoolteacher. No, she had to have been some kind of party girl or socialite. How else could she have met a man like him?
    â€˜Breakfast’s ready, Daddy.’
    Rosie’s voice calling his name alerted him to the fact that it wasn’t only his feelings Victoria Bradbury had insulted. It was his daughter’s, too, and he dreaded having to tell the little girl that ‘Sara’ wouldn’t be staying.
    But he couldn’t do that now. Before he made any decisions he might later regret he was going to have a frank discussion with his house guest and find out where the hell she got off, making a fool of him and his daughter. And after that he was going to ring the number they’d given in the newspaper. It would give him great satisfaction to send Victoria Bradbury back where she belonged.
    Or would it?
    His scowl deepened, and he quickly folded the newspaper and stuffed it into one of the drawers of the desk just as Rosie appeared in the doorway.
    â€˜Are you coming, Daddy?’ she exclaimed, though there was a tentative note in her voice, and he remembered what he’d been going to do before the article in the newspaper had distracted him. ‘Mrs Webb says breakfast is ready.’
    â€˜Is—Sara—up?’ he asked, guessing his daughter would assume he was angry with her for disobeying him, and she gave a nervous shrug.
    â€˜She’s in the dining room,’ she said. And then added quickly, ‘I haven’t told her anything about what we were talking about, Daddy. Honestly. I just wanted to—to—’
    â€˜To see if she’d slept all right?’ suggested Matt, helping her out, and Rosie gave a relieved nod.
    â€˜That’s right,’ she said. ‘Are you coming?’
    â€˜I’m coming.’ Matt paused only long enough to swallow the last dregs of coffee in his mug. ‘You lead the way.’
    Mrs Webb had laid the table in the dining room and was fussing about with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and a rack of toast. Matt guessed she was curious about their guest, too, and she was asking her what had gone wrong with her car when he entered the room.
    Although she was answering the housekeeper’s question at the time, Matt noticed the way Sara-Victoria’s eyes darted to his face when he appeared. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a definite trace of trepidation in her gaze, and he wondered if she’d realised that her disappearance might have warranted media attention.
    â€˜Good morning,’ he said, deliberately adopting an upbeat tone, and he saw the relieved