A Nanny for Christmas by Sara Craven

caricature of her own face in the mirror above the wash-basin, and was instantly and comprehensively sick.
    She had never been so ill. Each wave of nausea seemed more bitter, more all-engulfing than the last. And even when her stomach was empty she was still clinging to the lavatory bowl, retching weakly.
    Eventually, she levered herself to her feet, splashed her face with cold water and put on her underwear. She mentally recoiled when she came to the outer clothing, but there was nothing else to choose, so reluctantly she dragged on the skirt and fastened the bustier. Her shaking fingers could hardly cope with the myriad buttons, but she persevered, urged on by his threat of the police. That, she thought, visualising her father's horrified face, would be the ultimate degradation.
    She was ready at last—for whatever might be facing her, she thought, swallowing. Slowly, she opened the bathroom door and looked into the room beyond. It was empty. The bed, she saw, was stripped of everything— even the pillows and duvet. Gone to be decontaminated, no doubt, she thought, supporting herself against the doorframe, fighting another wave of nausea.
    She went out onto the landing and cautiously down the stairs. She felt raw and hollow inside, and her throat ached with vomiting.
    The house was ominously quiet. No music, no sound of voices. Where was everyone? she thought, fighting down a feeling of panic.
    He was waiting in the hall below, the dark face carved from stone.
    'Where are the others?' Her voice was hoarse and strained.
    'Long gone.'
    Gone? she thought numbly. Leaving her behind? But they couldn't...
    'Who are you?' she asked.
    He tutted. 'Didn't they tell you that? I'm Dominic Ashton, and this—shambles you're about to vacate is my property.' He tossed her bag to her. 'This must be yours.'
    Then he walked to the front door and opened it, letting in a wave of cold night air. Despite herself, Phoebe shivered.
    V 'A word of advice,' the hated, contemptuous voice went on. 'Next time you go whoring, try and stay sober. It makes a better impression on the client.'
    She said hoarsely, 'I'm not—what you think.'
    "You're certainly not very good at it.' He gestured impatiently. 'Now get out.'
    'But how am I going to get back?' She knew exactly what her bag contained—a lipstick, a comb, a hanky and a few coins. 'I've no transport. I haven't even got a jacket.'
    'That's your problem,' was the curt dismissal. 'Presumably you got paid for your—services tonight. There's a call box in the village with the names of local cab firms.'
    'I'm not a whore,' she said desperately. 'I swear I'm not. I—I was with—Tony. No one gave me any money.'
    There was a taut silence, then he reached inside his jacket, produced a wallet and extracted a twenty-pound note, which he dropped onto the carpet in front of her.
    'For the floorshow,' he said insolently, the grey eyes raking her, reminding her starkly of how he'd found her—stripped and vulnerable on his bed.
    She wanted to hit him, to lash out with her nails and wipe the mockery from his face. But she couldn't afford to. It was as simple as that. She had to accept this final humiliation at his hands.
    Every inch of her skin seemed to burn as she bent to pick up the note. Then, head bent, she went swiftly past him and out into the darkness. And heard the door slam behind her...
    There were tears on her face. Phoebe lifted her hands and wiped them angrily away. She hadn't cried then, so why was she allowing herself this weakness now?
    She supposed she must be weeping for her lost innocence. For the sheer cruelty of the betrayal she'd been subjected to.
    She remembered little of her journey back to the Bishops' house, except that the cab driver had been an older man who'd treated her with a mixture of kindness and disapproval, even offering her a rug to wrap round her.
    She'd been miserably ill for most of the following day, and, when she had emerged from her room, found herself the target of