Hot Pursuit

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Hot Pursuit

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘WE’RE going to be late, Daddy.’

‘I know that.’

Matt Seton managed not to sound as frustrated as he felt. It wasn’t Rosie’s fault that he’d overslept on the very morning that Mrs Webb wasn’t here, or that his head was still buzzing with the effort of falling out of bed just a couple of hours after he’d flaked out.

‘Mrs Sanders says that there’s no excuse for sleeping in these days,’ continued Rosie primly, and Matt could hear the echo of his ex-wife Carol’s peevish tones in his daughter’s voice.

‘I know. I know. I’m sorry.’ Clenching his teeth, Matt tightened his hands on the wheel of the powerful Range Rover. The temptation was to step down hard on the accelerator, but he didn’t think that risking another ticket for speeding would improve his standing with Mrs Sanders either.

‘So who’s going to pick me up this afternoon?’ Rosie asked, a little anxiously now, and Matt turned to give his daughter a reassuring look.

‘I will,’ he told the seven-year-old firmly. ‘And if I can’t make it I’ll ask Auntie Emma to collect you. How’s that?’

Rosie seemed slightly mollified, but as her small hands curved around the bag containing her pencil case and schoolbooks she cast her father an appealing look. ‘You won’t forget, will you, Daddy? I don’t like having to ask Mrs Sanders to ring you.’

Matt expelled a long sigh. ‘You’ve only had to do that once, Rosie,’ he protested. And then, because it was obviously a cause of some concern to the child, his lean mouth parted in a rueful grin. ‘I’ll be there,’ he promised. ‘I can’t have my best girl waiting around in the playground.’

‘Mrs Sanders doesn’t let us wait in the playground,’ Rosie told him pedantically. ‘We have to stay in school if our Mummys or Daddys aren’t there when school’s over.’

‘Right.’ Matt’s mouth compressed. ‘Well, as I say, I won’t let you down. Okay?’

‘Okay!’

Rosie’s eyes brightened in anticipation and Matt felt a heel for even comparing her to her mother. Rosemary was nothing like Carol, thank God, and it was up to him to organise a more stable structure in his daughter’s life.

And he was trying, goodness knew. Since ill-health had forced Rosie’s original nanny to retire he had interviewed a number of applicants for the position without any lasting success. Few younger women wanted to live in a remote area of Northumbria, far from the nearest town, and the older nannies who’d applied had, for the most part, appeared far too strict for his taste. He didn’t want Rosie’s confidence, already fragile because of her mother’s abandonment, shattered by some fire-breathing dragon who saw the unconventionality of Matt’s lifestyle as an opportunity to terrorise the little girl.

In consequence, he was seriously considering contacting an agency in London, in the hope that someone there might be professional enough about their career not to care about living in such rural surroundings. Saviour’s Bay wasn’t the back of beyond, after all. It was a wild and beautiful area of the Northumbrian coast, whose history was as turbulent as the seas that lashed the rocks below the cliffs. Its moors and hamlets were the haunt of archaeologists and naturalists, and from Matt’s point of view it was the ideal place to escape the demands that being a successful writer had put on him. Few people knew where he lived these days, and that suited him very well.

But it didn’t suit everyone, he acknowledged, and until the day came when he was forced to consider sending Rosie away to school he had to persist in his search for a suitable replacement for the woman who had virtually brought her up.

Not her mother, needless to say, he added to himself. Carol’s indifference, not just to him but also to their daughter, had long since lost its power to hurt him. There were times when he wondered why they’d ever married at all, but Carol had given him Rosie, and he could never regret that. He adored his small daughter and he’d do whatever it took to keep her with him.

Matt appreciated that his success had given him certain advantages. When Carol had left him for another man he’d been the author of two moderately successful novels, but that was all. It was his third book that had hit the big time, and his fourth and fifth novels had sold in their millions. Subsequent sales of screen rights to a hotshot Hollywood director had helped, and these days he could virtually name his price.

But being photographed wherever he went, having his picture exhibited in magazines and periodicals, being invited onto television talk shows and the like, was not what he’d had in mind when he’d written his first book. As a doctor, specialising in psychology, he knew exactly what other people thought he’d expected from his change of career. The truth was, he had never been interested in becoming famous. And these days he just wanted to be left alone to get on with his next manuscript.

Which was why he’d bought Seadrift, the sprawling house overlooking the bay that he’d fallen in love with the first time he’d seen it. It served the dual purpose of giving him the peace he needed to work and the opportunity to put several hundred miles between him and the London media.

The gates of St Winifred’s Primary loomed ahead and Matt breathed a sigh of relief. A glance at his watch told him it was still a minute or two to nine o’clock, and if Rosie got her skates on she should make it into class in time for registration.

‘Have a good day, angel,’ he said, exchanging a swift kiss with his daughter before she thrust open her door and clambered down onto the kerb.

‘Bye, Daddy,’ she called, her face briefly exhibiting a little of the anxiety she’d exhibited earlier. Then, cramming her grey hat with its upturned brim and distinctive red band down onto her sooty bob, to prevent the wind from taking it, she raised a hand in farewell and raced across the playground to the doors, where one or two stragglers were still entering the building.

Matt waited until the swirling hem of Rosie’s pleated skirt had disappeared from view before putting the Range Rover into drive again and moving away. He couldn’t prevent the sigh of relief he felt at knowing that she was in safe hands for a few hours at least. When he was working he could easily forget the time, and it wasn’t fair on his daughter that she should have to spend her days worrying that he might not be there when she came out of school.

That was why he needed someone—nursemaid, nanny, whatever—to take up the slack. He had a housekeeper, Mrs Webb, who came in most days to cook and clean and do the ironing, but he’d never realised how much he’d depended on Hester Gibson until she’d been forced to retire. But then, Hester had been so much more than a nanny. From the very beginning she’d been more of a mother to Rosie than Carol had ever been, and when Carol had moved in with her lover Hester had taken Matt under her wing, too.

They had been living in London at that time, but Hester had had no qualms when Matt had suggested moving to the wilds of Northumbria. Like Matt, she had been an exile from the northeast of England herself, only living in the south because she hadn’t been able to find suitable employment in her home town of Newcastle. It had been like coming home for both of them, and the house at Saviour’s Bay had offered space and comfort.

Matt sighed again, and, turning the heavy vehicle in the yard of the village pub, drove back the way he’d come. The roads between Saviour’s Bay and the village of Ellsmoor, where Rosie’s school was situated, were narrow, with high, untrimmed hedges on either side. He supposed the state of the hedges was due to the local farmers, who were having a hard time of it at present, but it meant it was impossible to see far enough ahead to overtake the slow-moving hay wagon in front of him. But Matt was in no hurry now. He had the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon to himself, and as he’d worked half the night he thought he deserved a break.

Of course, he needed a shave, he conceded, running a hand over the stubble on his jawline. And some coffee, he thought eagerly, having only had time to pour milk onto Rosie’s cornflakes and fill her glass with fresh orange juice before charging out to the car. Yes, some strong caffeine was just what he needed. It might clear his head and provide him with the impetus to get this nanny business sorted.

He made reasonably good time back to the house. Saviour’s Bay was a village, too, but a much smaller community than that of Ellsmoor. In recent weeks he’d toyed with the idea of buying an apartment in Newcastle that they could use in term time. A would-be employee would obviously find the city more appealing. But the idea of living in town—any town—even for a limited period wasn’t appealing to him. He loved Seadrift, loved its isolation too much to consider any alternative at present. And Rosie loved it, too. She couldn’t remember living anywhere else.

As he swung onto the private road that led up to the house he noticed a car parked at an angle at the side of the road just before the turning. He slowed, wondering if the driver had missed his way, but the vehicle appeared to be deserted. Whoever owned the car had either abandoned it to walk back to the village, or had gone up to the house, he decided. There were no other houses along this stretch of the cliffs, which was why he’d bought Seadrift in the first place.

He frowned, looking back the way he’d come, but there was no one in sight. He wasn’t worried. He’d had too many skirmishes with the press in the past to be concerned about some rogue reporter who might have hopes of finding a novel perspective on his present situation. Thankfully the press in this area accepted his presence without much hassle, and were usually too busy following up local issues to trouble him. But the car was there and it had to belong to someone.

So who?

Scowling, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator and quickened his pace. The pleasant anticipation he’d been feeling of making coffee and reading his mail was dissipating, and he resented whoever it was for ruining his mood.

The gates to the house appeared on the right. They were open, as usual, and Matt drove straight through and up the white gravelled drive to the house. Long and low and sprawling, Seadrift looked solidly inviting, even on this overcast June morning. Its walls were shadowed with wisteria, its tall windows reflecting the light of the watery sun that was trying to push between the clouds.

There was a block-paved turning circle in front of the double doors, flanked by outbuildings that had now been put to a variety of uses. A triple garage had been converted from a low barn, and another of the sheds was used to store gardening equipment.

Parking the Range Rover to one side of the doors, Matt sat for a moment, waiting to see if his arrival elicited any response from whoever it was he suspected had invaded his territory. And, sure enough, a figure did appear from around the corner of the barn. But it wasn’t the man he’d expected; it was a woman. And as far as he could see she was carrying nothing more incriminating than the handbag-size haversack that was looped over one shoulder.

She was young, too, he noticed, watching her as she saw the car and after only a momentary hesitation came towards him. She was reasonably tall and slim, with long light brown hair streaked with blonde and confined in a chunky braid. She didn’t look any older than her mid-twenties, and he wondered what she was doing, wandering around a stranger’s property. Hadn’t she heard of the dangers that could face young women like her in remote areas? Hell, in not so remote ones, too. For God’s sake, she knew nothing about him.

Of course, she might have expected there to be a woman at the house, he was reminding himself, when another thought struck him. She could be from the agency. Just because he hadn’t heard from them recently it didn’t mean they didn’t still have his name on their books. Here he was, suspecting the worst, and she could be the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. A nanny for Rosie. Someone to look after her and care for her; to give her her meals and be company for her when he was working. Someone to take her to school and pick her up again on those occasions when he couldn’t. Could he be that lucky?

Collecting his thoughts, Matt pushed open the door of the Range Rover and stepped out onto the forecourt. Then, replacing his scowl with a polite look of enquiry, he went towards her and said, ‘Are you looking for me?’

‘Oh—’ The girl seemed taken aback by his sudden appearance and Matt had a moment to assess the quality of the cream leather jacket she had slung about her shoulders. It had obviously not been bought off the peg at some department store, and the voile dress she was wearing with it seemed unsuitable for a morning interview with a prospective employer. But what the hell? he thought. Professionally trained nannies could command generous salaries these days, and what did he know about women’s fashions anyway?

Apparently deciding he meant her no harm, in spite of the stubble on his chin, she gave a nervous smile. ‘I—yes,’ she said, answering his question. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. If—if you live here.’

‘I do.’ Matt held out his hand. ‘Matt Seton. And you are…?’

She seemed disconcerted by his introduction. Had she recognised his name? Whatever, she was definitely reluctant to shake his hand. But eventually she allowed him to enclose her fingers in his much larger ones and said, ‘I’m—Sara.’ And, when he arched his brow, ‘Um—Sara Victor.’

‘Ah.’ Matt liked her name. It sounded solid; old-fashioned. Having interviewed a series of Hollys and Jades and Pippas, it was refreshing to meet someone whose parents hadn’t been influenced by television soaps. ‘So, Miss Victor: have you come far?’

She seemed surprised at his question, withdrawing her hand from his with unflattering haste. Dammit, surely she wasn’t scared of him.

‘Er—not far,’ she said at last. Then, when it was obvious that something more was expected, she added, ‘I—I stayed at a guesthouse in Morpeth last night.’

‘Really?’ Matt revised his opinion. The agency must have cast its net far and wide. She’d hardly have stayed in Morpeth if she lived in Newcastle. There was only a handful of miles between the two.

‘Is that your car at the end of the road?’ he asked now, and she nodded.

‘It’s a hired car,’ she told him swiftly. ‘But there seems to be something wrong with it. It gave up down there, as you can see.’

‘Lucky you made it this far, then,’ remarked Matt neutrally. ‘I’ll have the garage in Saviour’s Bay pick it up later. They can return it to the agency when it’s fixed.’

‘But I don’t—’ She broke off, staring at him as if he was speaking in a foreign language. ‘There’s no need for you to do that. If I could just use your phone—’

Her voice trailed away and Matt’s brows drew together in sudden suspicion. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you?’ he exclaimed. ‘I should have known. You’re another bloody reporter, aren’t you?’ He gave her a scathing look. ‘They must be desperate if they’re sending bimbos to do the job!’

‘I am not a bimbo!’ For once he had stung her into an unconsidered retort. She straightened her spine, as if she could add to her height. But she was still several inches shorter than Matt’s six feet plus and her frustration showed in her face. ‘And I never claimed to be from any agency.’

‘Whatever.’ Matt’s jaw compressed. ‘So, what are you doing here? I notice you haven’t denied being a reporter.’

‘A reporter?’ She stared at him, thick blonde lashes shading eyes of a misty grey-green. ‘I don’t understand. Were you expecting a reporter?’ Her face paled a little. ‘Why would a reporter come here?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am.’

‘I don’t.’ She frowned. ‘Well, I know your name is Seton. You told me that.’

‘Matt Seton?’ prompted Matt caustically. ‘Ring any bells?’

‘Actually, no.’ She looked troubled. ‘Who are you?’

Matt swayed back on his heels. Was she serious? She certainly looked as if she was, and if he’d had any conceit to speak of she’d have certainly exploded it with her innocent words. If they were innocent, he amended. Or could she really be that good?

‘You don’t go to bookshops, then?’ he enquired drily, aware of a totally unfamiliar sensation of pique. ‘You’ve never heard of my work?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ She looked a little relieved now, but hardly apologetic. ‘Are you famous?’

Matt couldn’t prevent an ironic laugh. ‘Moderately so,’ he said mildly. ‘So…’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I told you. My car broke down.’ She paused. ‘I was hoping to use your phone, as I said.’

‘Really?’ Matt considered her.

‘Yes, really.’ She shivered suddenly, and, although it was hardly a cold morning, Matt noticed how pale she was. ‘Um, would you mind?’

Matt hesitated. It could still be a clever ruse on her part to get inside his house. But he was beginning to doubt that. Nevertheless, no one apart from his friends and family had ever got beyond his door, and he was loath to invite any stranger, however convincing, into his home.

‘Don’t you have a mobile?’ he said, and she gave a weary sigh.

‘I don’t have my mobile with me,’ she told him tiredly. ‘But if helping me is a problem just tell me where I can find the nearest garage. I assume the one you mentioned isn’t far away.’

‘Far enough,’ muttered Matt heavily. ‘Can you walk the best part of three miles?’

‘If I have to,’ she replied, lifting her head. ‘Just point me in the right direction.’

But he couldn’t do it. Berating himself for being a fool, he slammed the door of the Range Rover and gestured towards the house. ‘You can use the phone,’ he said, striding past her. He led the way through an archway that gave access to the back of the building, hoping he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life. ‘Follow me.’

Immediately, his two retrievers set up an excited barking, and he wondered if she’d heard them earlier. Although the dogs themselves were just big pussy-cats, really, the noise they made had scared off tougher intruders than her.

‘Do you like dogs?’ he asked, glancing over his shoulder, and she gave an uncertain shrug.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Are yours dangerous?’

‘Oh, yeah!’ Matt gave a wry grin. Then, realising she was taking him literally, he added. ‘Dangerously friendly, I mean. If you’re not careful they’ll lick you to death.’

Her smile appeared again, a more open one this time, and Matt was amazed at the difference it made to her thin features. For a moment she looked really beautiful, but then the smile disappeared again and he was left with the knowledge that for someone who had supposedly only been driving for about an hour that morning she looked exhausted.

Opening the door into the boot room, Matt weathered the assault of the two golden retrievers with good-natured indulgence. They were Rosie’s dogs, really, but as they spent as much time with him as they did with her they tended to share their affections equally.

It took them only a few moments to discover he wasn’t alone, however, and he had to grab them by the scruffs of their necks before they knocked his guest over. As it was, she swayed a little under the onslaught, and he was forced to lock the dogs in their compound in the yard before opening the door into the kitchen.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, glancing ruefully about him. Their plates from the previous night’s supper still lay on the drainer, waiting to be put into the dishwasher, and Rosie’s breakfast bowl and glass occupied a prominent position on the island bar. If Mrs Webb had been working that morning the place would have looked much different, and Matt thought how typical it was that the one morning he had a visitor the kitchen should look like a tip.

‘They’re very friendly, aren’t they?’ she said, speaking about the dogs, but he knew she’d noticed the mess. ‘Are they yours or your wife’s?’

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?