LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘I—maybe,’ he said slowly. ‘If your mother approves.’

      ‘Oh, she doesn’t know,’ said Nancy airily, standing up, too. Then, more anxiously, ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

      

      Fliss had opened her mouth to shout Amy’s name again when she saw her. The door to the Old Coaching House was open and a man was standing on the threshold talking to her daughter.

      A relieved breath escaped her. She hadn’t really been worried, she assured herself, but you heard such awful stories these days about children being abducted and Amy was only nine years old.

      Nevertheless, she didn’t approve of her coming here without permission, even if Amy was naturally familiar with the place. She’d accompanied her mother often enough during school holidays and the like and she knew the grounds almost as well as her own garden.

      But that didn’t alter the fact that things had changed now. Old Colonel Phillips was dead and, although she hadn’t heard about it, the Old Coaching House had apparently been sold. To someone Amy didn’t know, Fliss reminded herself, quickening her step. How many times had she warned her daughter not to talk to strange men?

      The man became aware of her presence before her daughter did. His head turned and she got a swift impression of a hard, uncompromising face with dark, deeply tanned features. He was tall, that much was obvious, but there didn’t appear to be an ounce of spare flesh on his leanly muscled frame.

      He looked—dangerous, she thought fancifully, not liking the conclusion at all. He looked nothing like the people who usually retired to Mallon’s End, and she wondered why someone like him would choose to buy a house in such a quiet, unexciting place.

      She got the distinct impression that he would have preferred to cut short his conversation with Amy and close the door before she reached them. But something, an unwilling acceptance of his responsibilities—or common decency, perhaps—persuaded him to at least acknowledge her before he made his escape.

      For her part, Fliss was more curious than anything else. As she got nearer, she could see that he was younger than she’d imagined; possibly late thirties, she guessed, with very short dark hair that added to his harsh appearance.

      But for someone who looked so menacing, he was absurdly attractive. Goodness! Fliss swallowed a little nervously, feeling butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Who on earth was he?

      ‘I—I’m sorry,’ she began, deciding an apology was in order. ‘If my daughter’s been troubling you—’

      ‘She hasn’t,’ he said, his voice low and a little hoarse, and Fliss saw the way Amy’s shoulders hunched in the way she had when her mother embarrassed her.

      ‘Oh, Mum!’ She grimaced, casting an impatient look in Fliss’s direction. ‘I’m not a baby, you know.’

      Fliss reserved judgement on that one. In her opinion Amy was still young enough to warrant the anxiety she had felt at her disappearance.

      ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said, deciding any chastisement could wait until later. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’

      Amy shrugged now. ‘I might have done,’ she said airily, but Fliss wondered if it was only her imagination that made her think her daughter was looking slightly uneasy now. What had been going on, for heaven’s sake? What had this man been saying to her?

      ‘Well, why didn’t you answer, then?’ she demanded, before allowing their audience a slight smile. ‘I was worried.’

      ‘I’m sure Nancy didn’t mean to cause you any unnecessary distress, Mrs Drew,’ the man broke in abruptly, and if Fliss hadn’t been so shocked by the name he’d used, she’d have realised there was an increasing weariness in his harsh tone. ‘No harm done.’

      ‘You think not?’ Fliss couldn’t let it go. She looked down at her daughter. ‘Amy? Did you tell this—gentleman—that your name is Nancy Drew?’

      Amy flushed now. ‘What if I did?’

      Fliss shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

      The man breathed heavily. ‘I gather that’s not her name?’

      ‘No.’ Fliss tried to control her temper. It wasn’t his fault, after all. ‘It’s Amy. Amy Taylor. Nancy Drew is just—’

      ‘Yeah, I know who Nancy Drew is.’ He interrupted her drily. ‘Way to go, Nancy. Solved any exciting cases lately?’

      Amy pursed her lips, but she reserved her anger for her mother. ‘Now see what you’ve done!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve made me look silly in front of Quinn!’

      ‘Quinn?’

      Fliss’s eyes moved to the man again and glimpsed the spasm of resignation that crossed his face. ‘Matthew Quinn,’ he agreed flatly. ‘I’ve bought this place.’

      ‘Oh.’ Fliss wondered why he seemed so reluctant to tell her that. ‘Oh, well—good,’ she murmured. ‘I hope you and your—er—family will be very happy here.’

      ‘I don’t have a family,’ he replied in that harsh, abrasive voice that Fliss found as sexy as his appearance. ‘But thanks.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      Fliss managed a polite smile and then caught her lower lip between her teeth. Would this be a good time to explain why Amy felt she had a right to enter his garden at will? Maybe he would need a housekeeper, too. If he didn’t have a wife…

      ‘Come on, Mum.’ Amy caught her arm now and attempted to pull her away. ‘It’s nearly time for school.’

      ‘Is it?’

      Fliss’s brows narrowed. Since when had Amy been so eager to go to school? Her suspicions resurfaced. What had she been doing? What had this man been saying to her that she didn’t want her mother to know about?

      Her eyes returned to his dark face, but when he met her gaze with a cool appraisal she was forced to look away. Her gaze dropped down over his tight-fitting T-shirt, over drawstring sweat pants that couldn’t hide the impressive bulge of his sex, the powerful length of his legs. And bare feet. Her skin prickled. He must have just got out of bed.

      Had Amy awakened him?

      And then she saw the box-like structure that was wedged beside the doorstep and comprehension dawned. The compulsive—if unwilling—awareness his hard male beauty had had on her disappeared beneath a sudden wave of frustration.

      Grasping Amy’s arm before she could get away from her, she pointed to the offending item. ‘What is Buttons’s hutch doing here?’ she demanded shortly. ‘Is he inside?’ She dipped her head. ‘Yes, I can see he is. Come on, Amy. What is he doing here?’

      Amy’s shoulders drooped and Fliss wasn’t at all surprised when her eyes moved appealingly to Matthew Quinn. Of course, she thought irritably. He must have known about this. That was what he and Amy had been talking about when she’d interrupted them. And he hadn’t said a word, even though he must have realised that she hadn’t been aware of what was going on.

      She turned on him then, prepared to voice her indignation—however unjustified that indignation might be—and found him leaning tiredly against the frame of the door. His face was drawn now and scored with a haunting weariness she was sure wasn’t just the result of lack of sleep.

      Immediately, all thought of reprimanding him fled. The man looked ill, for goodness’ sake. And exhausted. Or utterly bored by their exchange.

      ‘Um—are you all right?’ she ventured, and at her words he seemed to make a conscious effort to recover himself.

      ‘A little fatigued is all,’ he assured her firmly, but he backed into the kitchen as he spoke and now she could smell the acrid aroma of charred bacon. He glanced behind him, evidently

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