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asked, apparently hoping to prevent him from asking her any more questions, and he drew a breath.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜They don’t?’
    He wondered if her ingenuity was real or feigned. She certainly appeared to be interested. But then, he’d been flatteredtoo 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.’
    â€˜You didn’t enjoy teaching, then?’ suggested Matt mildly, and saw the way the colour seeped into her face at his words.
    â€˜That’s different,’ she said tightly. ‘I meant, it must be wonderful to have a—vocation.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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 they’d had before she’d collapsed. But as far as she was concerned her vehicle was unusable. Was she thinking she would have to make other arrangements before she could continue with her journey?
    â€˜I—I suppose I should ring the garage in—where was it you said? Saviour?’
    â€˜Saviour’s Bay.’ Matt regarded her levelly. ‘Actually, I did ring them myself.’
    â€˜You did?’ The relief in her eyes made him regret the lie he’d just told her. ‘What did they say? Are they sending somebody out?’
    Matt ignored his twingeing conscience. ‘Not until tomorrow. They’re pretty strapped today.’
    â€˜Oh, no!’ Her disappointment was