down safely. Using any excuse to override her insistence that she wanted to be left completely alone while she was away.
‘You’ll have to call me at King’s Lacey,’ he said. ‘I’m going there tomorrow to start preparations for Christmas.’ Piling on yet more guilt. ‘And the Boxing Day shoot.’
As if he didn’t have a housekeeper, a gamekeeper, a houseful of staff who were perfectly capable of doing all that without him.
‘And of course there’s the Memorial Service. It will be twenty years this year and I want it to be special. You will be home for that?’
It was the unexpected touch of uncertainty in his voice that finally got to her.
‘I’ll be there,’ she murmured to herself, holding the phone to her chest long after the voicemail had ended.
It was twenty years since her parents had died in a hail of gunfire in the week before Christmas and every year she’d relived that terrible intermingling of grief and celebration that made the season an annual misery.
And worse, much worse, the centuries-old Boxing Day shoot that nothing was allowed to interfere with. Not even that first year. Cancelling it would have been letting her parents’ killers win, her grandfather had said when he’d found her hiding beneath the stairs, hands over her ears in terror as the guns had blasted away.
‘God help me,’ she said again, ‘I’ll be there.’
Then she straightened, refusing to waste another minute dwelling on it. Having come so close to losing this little bit of freedom, she was absolutely determined to make the most of every moment. Even something as simple, as unusual for her, as cooking dinner. But as she clicked to the Net to surf for cooking times, the sound of something hitting the floor made her jump practically out of her skin.
She spun round and saw George Saxon in the doorway, her bag at his feet.
How long had he been there? How much had he heard?
George hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but when he’d opened the door Annie had been half turned from him, so tense, the cellphone so tight to her ear that she hadn’t noticed him and he’d frozen, unable to advance or retreat.
He’d heard her promise to ‘be there’, but the ‘God help me…’ that had followed as she’d clutched the phone to her chest had been so deeply felt that any doubts about the kind of trouble she was in vanished as, for a moment, all control had slipped away and she’d looked simply desolate.
At that moment he’d wanted only to reach out to her, hold her. Which was when he’d dropped her bag at his feet.
And she’d visibly jumped.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Just shatter the spell that she seemed to be weaving around him.
‘You didn’t,’ she said, a little too fiercely. Then blushed at the lie. ‘Well, maybe just a bit.’
She looked down at the cellphone, then crammed it quickly into the back pocket of her jeans. Unlike her clothes or the holdall he’d just brought in from the car, which was definitely from the cheap-and-cheerful, market-stall end of the spectrum, it was the latest in expensive, top-end technology. He had one exactly like it himself and knew how much it had cost. And he wondered what kind of wardrobe she’d left behind in London, along with her driving licence, when she’d made her bid for freedom.
A woman whose partner could afford to employ a security company to keep an eye on her would be dressed from her skin up in designer labels. Silk, linen, cashmere. Would wear fine jewels.
What had he done to her to make her run? If not physical, then mental cruelty because she was running away from him, not to someone. His hands bunched into fists at the thought.
‘I was just catching up on my messages,’ she said.
‘Nothing you wanted to hear, by the look of you.’ For a moment she stared at him as if she wanted to say something, then shook her head. ‘You do know that you can be tracked by your phone signal?’ he asked.
Not that it was any of his business, he reminded himself, forcing his hands to relax.
‘It was only for a minute. I need to know what’s happening.’
Long enough. Who was important enough to her that she’d take the risk? Make that kind of promise?
A child?
No. She’d never have left a child behind.
‘Use some of that money you’ve got stashed away to buy the anonymity of a pay-as-you-go,’ he advised abruptly.
‘I will,’ she said, clearly as anxious as he was to change the subject. Then, lifting her chin, managing a smile, ‘I found a pie in the fridge so I’ve put that in the oven. I hope that’s all right?’
‘A pie?’
‘A meat pie.’
‘Ah…’
A tiny crease puckered the space between her beautifully arched brows.
‘Is that a good “ah” or a bad “ah”?’ she asked. Then, raising her hand to her mouth to display a set of perfectly manicured nails, she said, ‘Please don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian.’
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Have you got something against vegetarians?’
‘No, but…’
‘Relax. You’re safe. What you’ve found is the equivalent of the fatted calf…’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘For the prodigal son.’
‘I’m familiar with the metaphor.’ She regarded him intently. ‘Just how long is it since you’ve been home?’ she asked.
‘A while,’ he said.
Which was why his mother, even with his father in hospital, had taken the time to make him one of her special steak-and-mushroom pies, just as she’d been doing ever since he’d gone away on his first school trip. More to avoid his own sense of guilt than tease her, he said, ‘Judging by your reaction, I suspect we’ve both had something of a narrow escape.’
‘Escape?’ Annie, swiftly recovering from whatever had upset her, placed a hand against her breast in a gesture perfectly calculated to mime shocked surprise and said, ‘Are you suggesting that I can’t cook, Mr Saxon?’
Despite everything, he found himself grinning at her performance. ‘I sensed a lack of conviction in your assurance that you could do better than Xandra.’
‘That was no more than simple modesty,’ she declared.
‘You’ll forgive me if I reserve judgement until I’ve tasted your mashed potatoes.’
‘Mashed?’ The insouciant air vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘Is that another favourite?’
‘Food for the gods,’ he assured her. ‘At least it is the way my mother makes it.’
‘Well, I’m not your mother, for which I’m deeply grateful since you appear to be as casual a son as you are a father, but I’ll do my best not to disappoint.’ Then, as he scowled at her, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea how long it takes to boil potatoes?’
Which suggested he’d been right about the narrow escape.
‘Sorry. That’s not my area of expertise.’
‘No?’ She lifted those expressive brows, inviting him to tell her what he was an expert in, then, when he didn’t oblige, she gave a little shrug and said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s a lot of call for potato mashing on the beach.’
‘You know how it is with sand,’ he replied, wondering what kind of woman didn’t know how to cook something as basic as potatoes.
The kind who’d never had to cook, obviously. Or close car doors behind her.
Who the devil
‘It gets in everything?’ she offered. Then, because there really wasn’t anything else to say about potatoes, ‘Thanks for bringing in my bag.’
‘I didn’t make a special journey,’ he said and, irritated with himself for getting drawn into conversation, he took a glass from the dresser and crossed to the sink to fill it.
‘Thirsty work?’ she asked, watching him as he drained it.
‘No matter how much water I drink on long-haul flights, I still seem to get dehydrated.’
