Читать онлайн книгу «Hot Surrender» автора CHARLOTTE LAMB
Hot Surrender
CHARLOTTE LAMB
An Undeniable Attraction…Zoe was enraged by Connel Hillier's arrogance! He'd been direct, demanding and had even invited himself to her home! Well, other women might simper over his brooding good looks, but not Zoe! Who was she trying to fool?Connel had the monopoly on sex appeal, and Zoe couldn't deny their attraction to one another, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn't handle this man in her life, her feelings were too intense! But Connel always got what he wanted… and, this time, he was asking for Zoe's passionate surrender.
“Don’t you like playing games, Zoe?” (#u3316a771-1f75-5bf0-9bf2-d0562932bc27)About the Author (#u6b96cda4-552f-55da-bdc6-aa90773988a6)Title Page (#u8562229e-4bac-54f2-b614-7e1939e74c51)CHAPTER ONE (#ueceddb2e-781b-5659-b2a3-302596f07005)CHAPTER TWO (#u28e93f5a-0383-5a2a-a797-08f89207f87f)CHAPTER THREE (#u2c1ed6e9-ff29-5ed1-88aa-1a2799c6e246)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Don’t you like playing games, Zoe?”
Connel’s tone was soft, seductive, disturbing.
She refused to let it get to her. “No, I do not! And stop changing the subject.”
“I wasn’t. Isn’t that what we’re talking about? What else could I do but carry you up to bed?”
CHARLOTTE LAMB was born in London, England, in time for World War II, and spent most of it moving from relative to relative to escape bombing. Educated at a convent, she married a journalist, and now has five children. The family lives on the Isle of Man. Charlotte Lamb is the author of more than one hundred books for Harlequin Presents
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Hot Surrender
Charlotte Lamb
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
ZOE usually enjoyed driving home after a long day’s work. It gave her a chance to unwind, switch on to automatic pilot because she knew the route so well, then she could let her mind roam free. She often came up with exciting new ideas while she was driving. But tonight she was just that bit too tired, her face very pale against her flame-red hair, her green eyes sleepy. She had been up at five, at the location they were using by six, drinking a polystyrene cup of black coffee as she talked over the scene they were going to shoot with Will, the cameraman, who’d groaned as an ominous blood-red dawn swam up out of the veiled horizon, across misty, mysterious fields.
‘I knew it! Look at that sky—red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning! Yesterday was so humid, I had a gut feeling a storm was on the way.’
Will was usually right about the weather. Like an animal, he could smell rain coming or a storm brewing, so Zoe had decided to keep working for as long as the weather held off in case they couldn’t film outdoors next day. They had filmed until gone seven, when heavy rain began pouring down.
‘Have supper with me?’ Will had asked, his big blue eyes pleading.
Zoe had sighed, wishing he would stop pursuing her. She liked him a lot, but not in the way he wanted.
‘We’ll all have supper together,’ she’d diplomatically announced, and asked Catering to produce a hot meal.
Will had given her a reproachful look as they all tramped into the on-site caravan where Will slept with his precious cameras. A tall, thick-set man with amazingly well-developed muscles and a rugged face, he always said cameras were female and brooked no rivals which was why he had never married. He had occasionally dated one of the girls working on a film, but his relationships never lasted; his girlfriends always got bored with playing second fiddle to his job.
Zoe hoped that if she kept turning down his invitations he would give up on her. She didn’t believe Will was serious; he was just hoping to succeed where others had failed. Zoe’s reputation as someone who wasn’t a push-over made her a scalp some men would love to hang on their belts. It was getting very boring.
Catering had come up with chilli and rice for them all, perfect wet weather food. The crew had fallen upon it like hungry wolves, but Zoe hadn’t eaten; she was dieting. Now she was ravenous, of course. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food. What did she have in the kitchen which could be cooked in a couple of minutes and wasn’t too high in calories? Eggs? Soup?
Glancing at her illuminated dashboard, she saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. Which was more vital—food or sleep? She needed both, equally urgently.
Slowing to take the corner off the main road into the narrow lane leading to her home, she waited, yawning, for a couple of lorries to thunder past.
A man loomed up beside her window out of the dark and rainy night, making her start in shock. Where on earth had he come from?
For a second she thought he was a mirage, conjured up by her weary brain, then he bent down and tried to open her door.
Zoe was a tough, capable woman of thirty-two, used to authority, scared of very little...spiders, maybe, overshooting her budget, certainly, or running late on a film. Nothing much else—but, perhaps because she was tired, at that instant her nerve-ends prickled until she remembered that she had automatically locked her doors before she started driving.
Discovering this too, the stranger tapped on her window, saying something, mouth opening and shutting, rain running down his face, drowning out his voice.
Zoe leaned over to touch the button which unwound her window electronically just a fraction. ‘What do you want?’
His voice was very deep, faintly hoarse, as if he had a cold or smoked too many cigarettes. ‘My car has broken down. Could you give me a lift to a garage?’
He was a big man, his thick black hair half hidden by the hood of an old navy anorak, a curly black beard hiding most of his lower face, looking more like a tramp than someone who owned a car. Zoe looked him over, noting that his jeans were ragged and muddy. Even if her instincts hadn’t warned her not to trust him she would never have considered giving him a lift. A woman driving alone at night was crazy if she picked up a strange man. Zoe had heard too many horror stories of women who’d done that.
‘The nearest garage shuts at nine o’clock,’ she crisply told him. ‘There’s a telephone box opposite the church, just down the road; you can ring for a taxi from there.’
His black eyes insistently staring into hers, he bit out, ‘You can’t leave me out here in this rain. I’m already soaked to the skin. I tried the phone box—it’s been vandalised. I drove through a village a couple of miles back down this road and saw a pub which looked open. It wouldn’t take you long to give me a lift back there.’
‘I’ll find my mobile phone and ring for a taxi for you,’ Zoe said reluctantly.
Groping for her bag on the seat, she unzipped it and felt among the myriad objects she always took with her to work. She pulled out the phone, held it up, showing it to him.
The wind blew rain into his face. Shivering, he said, ‘Great Ask this firm to get here as soon as possible before I die of pneumonia.’
Zoe tapped in her personal code, only to discover that the phone needed charging.
‘Sorry, it isn’t working,’ she said offhandedly, holding it up to show him she wasn’t lying. ‘I haven’t used it since this morning, but the batteries run down even if you don’t use it.’ She watched rain running down his face like tears, and felt a flash of sympathy. She would hate to be in his position. If he was another woman she wouldn’t hesitate to give him a lift, but she wasn’t risking it with some strange man.
‘Look, I’ll ring for a taxi for you the minute I get home,’ she promised. ‘Just wait here; one will be along before too long.’
He grabbed her door and hung on to it, leaning into her car in what she felt to be a menacing way. ‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’
Zoe’s patience ran out. She was tired, her head was aching, she wanted to get home and into bed.
‘You’ll just have to trust me. Now, get out of my way or I’ll drive off with you hanging on to my door—and don’t think I won’t.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re capable of it!’ he muttered, still holding on to her door. ‘Have you thought how it will sound in the press, though?’
Zoe was sure he was too clever not to let go once she started driving away, but, just in case, she pressed the electronic button that wound her window up again.
He tried to hold the window down but couldn’t stop it closing, and had to snatch his hand away before it got crushed in the mechanism.
She put her foot down on the accelerator and drove off at speed across the main road. In her driving mirror she caught a brief glimpse of him standing in the torrential rain, glaring after her. From this distance he looked about seven foot tall, way over six foot, anyway, with wide shoulders and long, long legs, his wet jeans clamped to them, emphasising the muscled calves and thighs under the clinging cloth. She couldn’t deny he was sexy, in a glowering, thuggish sort of way.
She knew women who went wild about men like him. Women who should have more sense. She was not one of them, however.
He reminded her of someone, but she was too tired to work out who as she headed along the narrow country lane leading to her cottage. Within three minutes she saw the red roof of her cottage up ahead, half hidden by the trees shielding her garden.
She had bought Ivydene because of its peaceful setting and the wonderful view of fields and woods which gave you the impression of an uninhabited landscape. In fact there were other houses, hidden among trees and in folds of the countryside, but she had no close neighbours, could see no lighted windows. Tonight she wished she had. The brief encounter with that man had managed to knock her usual self-confidence a little.
Turning into her driveway, she parked right outside the cottage, jumped out, dashed under the shelter of the small, red-tiled porch built around her front door and locked her car from there with her electronic car key. Rain drummed on the porch roof, dripped off the ivy growing up the walls. Zoe stripped off her wax jacket and left it to drip on a hook in the wall. It was far too wet to take indoors. Stepping out of her boots, too, she stood them against the porch wall, then unlocked the front door and went into the cottage, switching on the light in the hall.
For a second she stood, listening, but apart from the sonorous tick of a large Victorian grandfather clock in the hall everything was quiet. She had been living here for three years now. When she’d bought it, the three-bedroomed cottage had been a mess; it had been uninhabited for a year, the roof had leaked, mould had grown on wallpaper, some of the windows had been broken by local boys.
Zoe couldn’t afford to pay workmen to renovate it, but whenever she had any free time she worked on it herself, painting, wallpapering, choosing new curtains and carpets. The cottage had been built in the Edwardian era, and the spacious rooms had high ceilings, decorated with plasterwork, elegant little ironwork fireplaces, and solid oak doors. There was a butler’s pantry, and a general air of being a miniature country house.
Padding through to the kitchen in her socks, she opened the fridge, quickly inspecting the contents, but nothing much appealed. She wouldn’t get to sleep if she ate a large or rich meal at this hour. It would have to be tomato soup and toast. It only took seconds to open a tin, pour the contents into a saucepan and start cooking it. She cut a couple of slices of bread once the soup was on the hob, and slipped them into the toaster.
After that she walked into the sitting room and switched on her answer-machine, smiling as her sister’s warm, cheerful voice filled the room.
‘Hi, it’s me—don’t forget the barbecue on Saturday, will you? Around six o‘clock. Bring somebody if you like—who’s the latest fella? And a bottle of something; lemonade, wine, anything you like.’
In the background the sound of high-pitched screeching rose, combined with a hammering, crashing sound.
‘Sing quietly, darling,’ Sancha said in the indulgent tone she always used to the little monster she called Flora. Was that ghastly racket meant to be singing? Zoe switched on the realistic electric log fire on the hearth—the central heating kicked in at six o’clock each evening, but it was only background heat and on a night like this she felt she needed more than that, not to mention the illusion of sitting in front of flames.
‘Zoe, I’ve got exciting news for you! I... Don’t do that to the cat!’ Sancha suddenly said sharply.
Do what, for heaven’s sake? The sounds of spitting and yowling competed with Flora’s so-called singing.
‘Got to go,’ Sancha hurriedly said. ‘She’s trying to pull the cat through the bars of her playpen. Zoe, don’t you dare forget and don’t be late! See you!’ She hung up; there was a whirring sound and another voice began.
‘Zoe, please, I’ve got to see you, surely we can talk this over?’
Zoe fast-forwarded the machine to get rid of the husky voice. It had been fun dating Larry for a few weeks, but that was all it had been for her. Just light-hearted fun. He was a nice enough guy—which was why as soon as he started to turn serious she had told him they must stop seeing each other. It was kinder to end it before his feelings got out of hand. In the past she had sometimes hesitated and let a relationship go on too long. Zoe didn’t want to hurt anyone, but neither was she being blackmailed into bed by someone she didn’t love.
The trouble was, Larry wouldn’t go away. Since she’d told him she didn’t want to see him again he had rung her several times a day, and kept writing her the sort of letters that burn the paper they’re written on but are embarrassing to read if you don’t feel the same way. Zoe was worried by the bitterness creeping in among the passionate prose.
It wasn’t as if she was the first woman in his life; he had had other girlfriends. She knew all about them because he had insisted on telling her every detail of his relationships before her. She hadn’t wanted to hear any of it.
She had liked Larry at first, he had seemed fun, but her discovery about his obsession with his past affairs was the first moment when she began to go off him. Zoe never talked about one man to another. She hated having the past hanging around; she switched off memories like a television set and walked away. Life was now, today, the future always beckoned—the past was another country, one she had left behind. Why waste time on what had gone and wouldn’t come back? she had told Larry, who had laughed, sounding almost triumphant, and asked her if she was jealous. She didn’t need to be, he’d said. None of his earlier girlfriends had meant as much to him as she did. She was the one he had been looking for all his life. He would die rather than lose her.
It was at that moment that Zoe had decided to tell him goodbye. It was all getting too intense for her. A pity she hadn’t picked up on his nature earlier. She would never have gone out with him in the first place if she’d known he was so obsessive. It was himself he was obsessed with, that she was sure about, but at the moment he was pinning his self-obsession on her, which was distinctly weird. She found weird people scary, and wished she had never met him.
But there was no point in wishing; you couldn’t rewrite history. The question now was: how was she going to persuade him to leave her alone?
She pushed back a windblown lock of red hair, sighing. Tomorrow she would write Larry a formal, very distant letter, asking him to stop ringing and writing. If he didn’t take any notice of that she would have to get her solicitor to deal with it.
It was a form of stalking, wasn’t it? It made life complicated and she wasn’t putting up with any more of it. If she couldn’t persuade him to stop, she would see what the law could do.
The next call on the answer-machine was from another man—but very different; his complaining voice made her laugh. ‘Zoe, I’m not happy with the way the budget is shaping...’
‘So what’s new?’ she sarcastically enquired, walking back into the kitchen, leaving the production company accountant fretfully going through a list of production costs so far while she rushed back to stop the soup burning, switched off the heat under the saucepan, set a tray, poured soup into a deep bowl, thinly buttered the toast and carried her meal into the sitting room.
Philip Cross was still talking in his gloomy way as she sat down in her armchair in front of the electric fire.
‘Please try to pare down wherever you can, Zoe. The bills for this production are unacceptably high. I’m faxing you a list of suggestions for cutting expenses. The transport costs are ludicrous, for instance—surely you can find cheaper ways of moving stuff? Please ring me when you’ve read it and let me know your thoughts.’
The answer-machine clicked off and Zoe made a face at it.
‘You stuffy little cheese mite! Get back in your biscuit! I’ll tell you what I think, all right, but you won’t like it!’
She settled down to eat her tomato soup and the fingers of buttered toast, pushing Philip Cross and his economy measures away for the moment. She didn’t want to think or start worrying. The heat of the fire was comforting; her weary body was slack and relaxed in the armchair.
When she had finished her meal she lay there for a moment, staring at the red glow of the artificial logs, eyes heavy, yawning widely every so often.
If she didn’t move soon she would fall asleep in the chair, and then she would be as stiff as a board in the morning.
Stretching, she made herself get out of the chair. What a day this had been, right up to the last, when that bearded guy had...
Oh, no! She’d forgotten all about him! Zoe looked at her watch and realised half an hour had gone by since she’d got home. Would he still be waiting there? Was there any point in ringing for a taxi for him now?
Well, she had given him her word. She had to keep it. Hurriedly picking up the phone, she dialled the local taxi firm she always used.
A man’s voice answered, slow, friendly, with a local burr.
‘Hallo, this is Zoe Collins,’ she said, and explained about the stranded motorist. ‘Could you get someone to drive out and see if he’s still there? If he isn’t, send me a bill for the call-out.’
‘Okay, Miss Collins, we’ll deal with it,’ the taxi operator said amiably, ringing off.
Zoe turned out the light and carried her tray through to the kitchen, loaded the used crockery in the dishwasher, then went upstairs to have a shower before bed. She had been working flat out all day, both physically and mentally, helping the crew shift heavy equipment, concentrating fiercely on the shoot, walking about, back and forth, trying to watch all her actors, check that they were coping, were giving her everything she wanted for the scene.
It was draining, tough, demanding work. Her body ached and smelt of perspiration. She needed to wash the day’s effects off her skin.
She stripped rapidly in her bedroom, then walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The warm water was deliciously sensual as it trickled down her back, over her breasts, the flat stomach, her hips, down into the valley between her thighs. Eyes closed, she lifted her damp hair back from her face, arms raised, sighing with pleasure. Now she felt more human. This was one of her favourite moments of the day.
After towelling herself dry she put on warm green brushed cotton pyjamas and was about to slip into bed when she realized she had left her script downstairs. Before she went to sleep she must check her notes on blocking out the scenes she was going to shoot tomorrow. She ran down the stairs and found the script on the kitchen table where she had left it.
Picking it up, Zoe turned to go back upstairs, then froze as she heard a sound outside in the hall. Stiffening, she listened, holding her breath. Floorboards creaked again. Was that the sound of quiet breathing?
The hair bristled on the back of her neck. She hadn’t imagined it. There was someone out there.
Hurriedly she looked around for a weapon. The wooden meat hammer? One of the razor-sharp kitchen knives she kept safely sheathed in a cupboard? No, too dangerous—he might take it away from her and use it on her. Her eye fell on the tray she had just used. It was made of varnished wood, was very heavy. Brought down on someone’s head, it would knock them out long enough for her to be able to ring the police.
Dropping her script back on the table, she picked up the tray and tiptoed towards the hall just as the handle turned silently and the door began to open. Raising her improvised weapon above her head, Zoe waited, not moving, trying to breathe soundlessly.
As soon as a dark shape loomed up in the doorway she made her move, slamming the tray downwards.
But he must have sensed her presence behind the door, or maybe seen her reflection in the window opposite. At the same instant that she moved, so did he, whirling to grab the tray from her hand as it flashed down towards his head. He threw it across the room to land with a crash that was deafening.
Zoe recognised him a second later, ice trickling down her back. Big, bearded, black-haired...oh, my God, it was the man who had tried to get into her car!
‘Don’t even try anything,’ she gasped, backing, reaching for a chair she could fend him off with. ‘I’ve had self-defence lessons.’
‘If you think I’m after your body you’re flattering yourself!’ His eyes had a derisory glitter that made her face burn.
But she kept her cool, holding the chair between them as a shield. ‘What are you after? And how did you get here?’
‘Walked. And I’m wetter than ever now, thanks to you.’
‘Why is it my fault? I didn’t make it rain!’
‘You promised to ring for a taxi!’
‘I did! Obviously you didn’t wait long enough.’ She met the insistent dark eyes and her conscience made her reluctantly admit the truth. ‘Okay, I forgot about you at first, but then I remembered, and I rang the taxi firm I always use, and asked them to go and get you.’
‘So why didn’t they turn up?’
‘How do I know? But I did ring them—go on, ring them and check! They can divert their driver here to pick you up. The phone’s in that room.’ She gestured to the sitting room door. ‘Their number is written on the pad next to it. Be my guest.’
‘I intend to be,’ he ominously drawled, still smiling, and her nerve-ends crackled with tension and uneasiness.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m soaked to the skin, cold and tired and very hungry. Having walked all the way here in that downpour, I don’t intend to hang around in these wet clothes waiting for a taxi. What I need right now is a hot bath, some dry, warm clothes and a meal, in that order, and as you didn’t keep your word and send me a taxi right away, I think you owe it to me to give me what I need.’
‘Look, I’m sorry I forgot about your taxi, but I am not responsible for your problems. I didn’t make your car break down; I didn’t make it rain. Stop blaming everything on me! How did you manage to follow me home, anyway? How did you know I lived here?’
She saw his eyes flicker, a shadow of evasion cross his face, and her instincts jangled an alarm. What did that look mean? She suddenly sensed that he knew her, or of her, at least, and had known just where she lived. What was going on here? Who was he?
‘Are you one of my neighbours?’ She knew most of the nearer neighbours by sight, if not by name, and she didn’t recognise him. If she had ever seen him before she was sure she would remember.
Taking a longer long at him, she thought, Hang on, though! Hadn’t she felt at one moment that there was something familiar about him? Zoe tried to hunt the memory down—had she seen him before? And if so, where?
But her mind couldn’t come up with anything, except the same uncertain feeling that somewhere, somehow, he was familiar.
‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘I have a flat in London.’
That didn’t explain how he had managed to find her cottage or get in, though, so she sharply asked, ‘You still haven’t told me how you got here, or got inside the cottage!’
He gave her a hostile stare. ‘I waited in that torrential downpour for twenty minutes before deciding that you hadn’t rung for a taxi for me. I followed you car down this lane because I guessed there must be houses down here and I might be able to get someone to let me use their phone. I saw the lights on in this cottage so I came up the drive, then I recognised your car parked outside. I knocked on the front door three or four times without getting a reply.’
She must have been in the shower, she realised. With the water running and the bathroom door shut she wouldn’t have heard him.
‘Then I realised the front door was open,’ he said.
‘That’s a lie! I locked it!’
‘No, you didn’t. It wasn’t locked—go and look!’ he tersely told her, his dark eyes hard.
She couldn’t remember whether or not she had locked it, actually, but she usually did. She had been in a tearing hurry to get indoors, though.
Absorbing the tired lines in his face, his saturated clothes, in a spasm of reluctant sympathy, she said, ‘I can certainly give you some food and a hot drink, but I don’t have any men’s clothes in my wardrobe. It would be stupid to have a bath and then go out into the rain again. I’ll ring the taxi firm, then get you a meal while we’re waiting for them—how’s that?’
‘Hal’s right; you are a cold-blooded little vixen!’ he said, and she stiffened, eyes narrowing on him.
‘Hal?’
‘My cousin Hal Thaxford.’
Light dawned. ‘Hal Thaxford? You’re his cousin?’ Her green eyes searched his face, and she finally realised why he had seemed so familiar. Oh, yes, she could see the likeness now—same colouring, same build, same shape of face, even the same frowning glare which had made Hal Thaxford one of the most popular TV stars today. She had a low opinion of Hal’s acting ability; he skated along on the surface of his roles, using his looks, his sex appeal, and his usual scowl instead of actually trying to act. Luckily for him, women swooned every time he glowered out of the screen. He got a lot of work and was highly paid, so why should he bother working at his craft?
‘Are you an actor?’
‘No,’ he bit out, white teeth tight. ‘I am not. I’m not involved in films in any capacity, but I know all about the tawdry world you live in. Hal has told me all about it—and he’s told me all about you, too.’
His hostile eyes ran down over her slender body in the loose cotton pyjamas which clung to her small, high breasts, flowed over her slim hips and the long, thin legs. She flushed at the mix of sexual assessment and cold derision in that look.
Okay, Hal didn’t like her much; it was mutual, she was not one of his fans—but what on earth could he have said to this man to make him eye her like that?
He told her a second later, his voice accusing her, judging her, finding her guilty all at once. ‘I know all about the manipulative, heartless games you play with men, flirting with them, letting them fall in love, and then dumping them ruthlessly once you’re tired of them. I took his stories with a pinch of salt at the time. I’d seen his photos of you and I couldn’t believe any woman who looked the way you do could be such a bitch, but now I’ve met you, it’s obvious Hal didn’t exaggerate an inch.’
She was so taken aback that when he walked past her into her sitting room it took her a moment or so to pull herself together and follow him.
‘What are you doing?’ she began, and stopped as she saw that he had pulled the telephone out of the wall. ‘Put that back!’
He whirled and grabbed her arm. ‘Come with me,’ he muttered, and she dug her heels into the carpet, refusing to move.
‘Let me go and get out of my house.’
‘I haven’t got time to argue with you,’ he said, put an arm round her waist and lifted her off the floor as if she was a child.
The breath driven out of her by shock, she gasped, ‘Put me down. Put me down! What do you think you’re doing?’
Ignoring her, he slung her over his shoulder, her head down his back, her feet drumming against his middle, her arms flailing impotently.
‘I’m taking you upstairs,’ he coolly informed her as he strode towards the hall, and Zoe felt icy fear trickling down her spine.
CHAPTER TWO
BY THE time he had got upstairs Zoe was recovering from her first shock and able to think clearly. Okay, he was bigger than her, and had a powerful, muscled physique, but she wasn’t just giving in or giving up. Her self-respect insisted she fight. As he carried her through the open door of her bedroom she grabbed a large handful of his hair and yanked hard.
‘Put me down!’
He dropped her. On the bed. She bounced, out of breath for a second, then, before he could stop her, rolled over to the far side, stood up with her back against the wall and reached for the nearest object she could use as a weapon—a large bronze statuette she had won for one of her TV documentaries years ago; the first award she’d ever been given. She kept it beside her bed, on a shelf on the wall, because winning it had made her so proud she hadn’t touched the ground for days. There had been many others since, but none that had given her so much pleasure, and when she was feeling low she still got the same buzz from looking at it.
Now she held it up like a club, meeting his quizzical eyes. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t use this! It’s very heavy. Solid bronze. If I hit you with it, believe me, it will hurt! So keep your distance, Mister, or I’ll use it. Don’t come any closer than you are now.’
Without answering, he turned towards the door but not, she discovered, to go out No, he closed, then locked the door, and slid the key into his pocket.
Zoe’s throat dried up. She watched him tensely, gripping the statuette even tighter. ‘I meant what I said! Stay away from me or you’ll be sorry!’
He began to walk across the room and she barely breathed, her chest hurting, poised for action—but he wasn’t heading for the bed; he was going towards the bathroom.
Still without looking at her, he opened the bathroom door, went in and closed the door behind him, then bolted it, while she stared incredulously. A moment later she heard the shower start running, the splashing of water, followed by a deep voice singing a very familiar song she couldn’t quite identify. She knew it... what was that?
Feeling ridiculous, standing in the corner holding her bronze statuette up in the air, she put it back in its usual place, climbed back over the bed and hurriedly got dressed again in her oldest pair of jeans and a very long grey sweater she had once borrowed from a guy she was dating. She had forgotten to give it back when she’d told him goodbye. Poor Jimmy. He had been rather like his sweater. long, thin and grey. Grey eyes, brown hair sprinkled with grey, a sad, depressed manner. She couldn’t remember why she had ever gone out with him in the first place.
She had only been twenty that year; he had been forty, twice her age, a documentary director with a TV company. His job had impressed the hell out of her, which was why she’d first accepted a date for dinner with him. After that he had pestered, on and on and on, simply hung around in the corners of her life like a mournful ghost, occasionally talking her into going to the theatre, or for a drive to the seaside on a warm Sunday afternoon.
Until she’d realised one day that she could end up being talked into marriage if she didn’t tell him firmly to go away. Jimmy had told her she had broken his heart, then he’d drifted sadly away.
Six months later he had married a girl called Fifi whom he had met on holiday in Paris, city of lovers; now they had three children, she had heard, and Jimmy had retired from TV to raise pigs in Normandy.
Hearts mend fast, Zoe thought, her mouth twisting cynically. They aren’t made of glass, they don’t shatter, no matter what people say. Perhaps they were made of rubber—they certainly bounced.
‘Danny Boy’! The name of the song came into her head at that second. That was what he was singing in her bathroom! Singing very pleasantly, too—not a professional voice, but it was good to listen to! She had always loved the old Irish song ‘Danny Boy’, poignant, sweet, so familiar she wondered she hadn’t recognised it earlier.
Suddenly she realised he had stopped singing, and the sound of the shower had stopped too.
What was he doing now? Drying himself, obviously—her imagination worked overtime on what he would look like naked; he had a body to die for, she thought, then pulled a face. Hey, now, stop thinking stuff like that! Are you asking for trouble?
She heard the bathroom door bolt slip back; the handle turned, out he came, wearing a black towelling robe which ended at his knees.
It was hers. He had taken it from the airing cupboard in the bathroom. He was so much bigger and taller than her that it only just met around his waist.
He’d knotted the belt to make sure it didn’t fall apart, but the robe was far too short for him. He looked funny. Zoe almost laughed until she realised he was naked under the robe; his long legs still damp, the dark hair clinging flat to his skin, his thin, muscular feet bare. God, he was sexy.
She was disturbed by the intimacy of having him so close to her when he had so little on, and even more disturbed by how it made her feel.
‘Put your clothes back on!’ she ordered, her skin prickling, and got a cool, level stare which seemed to go right through to her backbone.
‘You must be kidding. They’re wet and cold. Are you sure you haven’t got any men’s clothes around? One of your boyfriends didn’t leave any here?’
‘No, I already told you that!’
‘I guess you’re the type to chuck their clothes away once you’ve dumped the guys,’ he said derisively.
She resented that, her green eyes flashing. Wait till she saw Hal Thaxford! How dared he spread vicious rumours about her?
‘Look here...Mr—what’s your name...?’
‘Hillier. Connel Hillier,’ he said over his shoulder as he began going round the bedroom, opening her wardrobe, rummaging through her chest of drawers.
Unusual name, she thought. Connel. She liked it. ‘Well, Mr Hillier...’ She stopped, doing a double take as she realised what was happening. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? You’ve no right to search my room! And there’s no point in searching, anyway, you won’t find any men’s clothes!’
She went over to slam shut the open drawer he was hunting through. ‘I said, stop it!’
He straightened, turned, a pair of dark socks in his hand. Zoe wore socks whenever she wore boots to work, which, in winter or wet weather, happened frequently.
‘What size are these? Oh, never mind, they’re the type that stretch. I should be able to get into them.’
He sat down on her bed, swinging one knee over the other to lift a foot. Zoe looked away as she caught a shadowy glimpse of his thigh. A minute later he stood up, and now he was wearing the socks. ‘That’s better; my feet were freezing. I hope you’ve at least got food in the house. I’m starving. Let’s go downstairs and get cooking.’
His sheer gall left Zoe speechless, something that rarely happened to her. She hadn’t liked him much from the instant she’d set eyes on him; now she was beginning to detest him.
Recovering her breath, she burst out, ‘Look, you human steamroller, will you stop pushing me around?’
‘Steamrollers flatten people; they don’t push them around!’
‘Well, you aren’t flattening me!’
Ignoring her, he walked into the bathroom and came out carrying his wet clothes in a neat pile. Cool as a cucumber, he produced the key from his trouser pocket and unlocked the bedroom door.
Without looking back to check that she was coming, he vanished, and, discovering that he had left the key in the lock, she almost locked herself in, but on reflection decided that that would leave him free to ransack the rest of the house and make off with half her possessions.
Fuming, she followed him, wondering how on earth she was going to get rid of him. If only her mobile didn’t need charging!
Maybe while he was eating she might be able to get to the phone, plug it back in, and ring the police? So long as he didn’t hear her and strangle her before the police arrived.
Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, she told herself—he isn’t the type. If I was casting him I wouldn’t make him the murderer. A thug, maybe. A gangster. Somebody to be wary of, that was certain. She’d felt that the minute she saw him in the rainy night, peering into her car. There was something electric, powerful, dangerous about those eyes of his.
By the time she reached the kitchen he was chucking his clothes into her washing machine. He briefly looked at her over his shoulder with those dark, menacing eyes.
‘Where’s your soap powder?’
She almost said, I’ll do it for you, until she caught herself doing it. Female programming! she angrily thought. It’s put into us right from childhood—why the hell should I? Let him do his own washing.
‘Cupboard next to the machine,’ she bit out, and got a dry glance from him. No doubt he had been expecting her to offer to do it for him. Men always expected women to wait on them. That was their own programming. If she ever had a son she would make sure he wasn’t brought up to see women as potential servants or toys.
He bent again to open the cupboard and her eyes flicked round the kitchen in search of possible weapons. A glass rolling pin filled with dried flowers, from Greece, hung on the wall—how about that?
No, that was a souvenir of one of the best holidays she had ever had. She didn’t want to break that. One of the saucepans? Not heavy enough. That copper casserole would make quite a dent, though, she thought, gazing at the highly polished dish hanging close to the oven.
The washing machine started and she looked back at him warily. He was now busy inspecting the contents of the fridge and the freezer, taking stuff out and checking the cooking instructions.
‘There are plenty of soups,’ she offered.
He was reading a pack of microwave chicken curry and shrugged. ‘I’m too hungry for soup—this looks good. I see you’ve got a microwave. I’ll have this. Do you want some of it?’
She shuddered at the very idea at this hour. ‘No, thanks. I prefer not to eat rich food late at night, and, anyway, I’ve had some soup. Look, can I ring for a taxi for you now? You can eat your meal while you’re waiting.’
He popped the chicken curry into the microwave and punched the numbers at the side. The turntable inside began revolving. ‘I shall need my clothes before I leave. I see you’ve got a tumble dryer. When my things come out of the washing machine I’ll put them straight into the dryer.’
Trying not to sound anxious she snapped, ‘That will take hours—and you’re not staying here after you’ve eaten your food. I want to ring for a taxi for you.’
He took no notice, opening cupboards again, getting more stuff out. He looked at the foil-wrapped coffee beans he found, making a face. ‘Not brilliant, but I suppose they’ll do.’
A little flag of red burnt her cheeks. ‘Oh, sorry my coffee doesn’t meet your standard. I’ll make sure I’ve got something better next time you break down near my house.’
Her sarcasm was water off a duck’s back. He shook some coffee into the electric grinder he had found. ‘I like using the traditional, wooden French coffee-grinders,’ he told her conversationally. ‘You feel you’re really getting coffee—nothing else gives you that fresh-ground coffee smell. Instant is a last resort for me!’
‘This machine is much quicker and less trouble,’ Zoe resentfully told him. ‘Like the microwave and the tumble dryer, it does the job in half the time, and saving time is important to me. I’m a career woman, not a housewife.’
He gave her a sardonic smile as he began to fill the percolator with cold water. ‘No cream in your fridge, I see! Dieting, I suppose?’ Another of those cool, assessing glances that made her spine shiver. ‘Well, I’m not! I’ll make do with black coffee, but I hope you’ve got some sugar.’
‘Mr Hillier, I did not invite you to this house, but you are my guest so stop knocking the way I live!’ She was really furious now. Who did he think he was? ‘There’s sugar in the far cupboard on the right.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’m exhausted. I’ve had a tough day and I want to get some sleep before I have to get up again in the morning. Would you please eat your meal and leave? I’m sure the taxi driver won’t care what you’re wearing.’ An idea hit her and she hurried out into the hall, to come back with a long brown drover’s mac which she had bought in Australia a couple of years ago.
‘You could wear this! Nobody will notice what you’re wearing under it.’
He was putting a plate under the oven grill, which he had turned on. He glanced at the coat, came over to take it, held it up against him, nodding. ‘Terrific, thanks. At least you’ve got good taste in clothes. I’ll borrow it, but I’ll still want to wear my own clothes under it.’
‘I’ll post them on to you tomorrow.’
Shaking his head, he went over to the microwave as it began to bleep. ‘No, I’ll wait for them.’
Zoe was almost desperate to get rid of him. Her voice high, she yelled, ‘This is my house, and I want you to go!’
He opened the curry and inhaled. ‘Smells wonderful.’ Switching off the grill, he used a teatowel to get the plate out, tipped the golden chicken and sauce out on to the plate, surrounded it with the fluffy white rice which had also been in the packet, sat down at the table and began to eat with a fork. ‘Could you pour the coffee?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Delight,’ he said, sliding her a wicked glance from under his extraordinarily long black lashes.
Zoe’s rage wasn’t as strong as her sense of humour; she couldn’t help laughing, much though she wished she could.
He grinned at her. ‘So you are human?’
‘Human—and exhausted,’ she told him, pouring coffee into the mugs. She might as well drink some herself—clearly she wasn’t going to be able to get rid of him for quite a while, and she couldn’t go to bed, leaving a total stranger in her house.
‘How many hours did you work today?’
‘I was up at five, at work by six,’ she told him, sitting down opposite him at the table.
He studied her, brows lifted. ‘Your eyes are red. They match your hair.’
Flushed, she crossly snapped, ‘Thanks. That makes me feel really glamorous.’
He went on staring at her, his black lashes half down over his eyes. ‘The jeans are pretty ancient, aren’t they? But you still manage to make them look like high fashion. I’m not sure how. I suppose it’s just that you’re gorgeous, whatever you wear—even with red eyes! And I must be the millionth man to tell you so. I ought to get a prize for that.’ He leaned over and kissed her mouth briefly, a mere brush of his lips, before she could draw back, and then went on coolly eating his chicken curry.
Zoe drew a shaken breath and was furious with herself. Anyone would think she had never been kissed before! That light touch of his mouth had lasted a second or two—she could almost believe she had imagined it except for this odd breathlessness. She rubbed her mouth, glaring. ‘You take more liberties than any man I’ve ever met! What do you do for a living? D’you work in the media? Only reporters have that much gall.’
He laughed. ‘No. I’m an explorer.’
She blinked, thinking she’d misheard. ‘A what?’ Maybe it was because she was so tired that she was feeling so disorientated, her ears and eyes playing tricks on her, her face flushed, as if she had a fever.
‘Explorer.’ He finished his meal and pushed it away. ‘I’m just back from South America. I’ve been mapping the mountain ranges from Tierra del Fuego all along the coast to the Cord de Mérida, right up in Venezuela. They run from one end of the continent to the other, just inland from the coast, over four thousand miles of mountains, many of them up to four thousand feet high. I’ve been out there for a year, climbing, filming, drawing.’
Open-mouthed, she asked, ‘Alone?’ and he laughed, white teeth showing against tanned skin.
‘No, thank heavens. I was with an international expedition—Europeans, a couple of dozen of us, all specialists: photographers, a couple of doctors, scientists, geologists, biologists. But we were all climbers; that was essential. In those mountains you need to know what you’re doing and you need other people you can rely on. Lives could be lost otherwise.’ He yawned, got up, went to the washing machine and bent to look at the contents. ‘I’ll click this through the cycle now and get it on rinse, then we can pop the clothes into the dryer.’
‘You’re not married, are you?’ Zoe thoughtfully said, watching him deftly adjust the machine.
He turned, gave her a cynical look from those deep, dark eyes, shaking his head. ‘No. Don’t tell me you have scruples about getting involved with married men? Hal didn’t tell me that.’
‘Hal doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does!’ she broke out angrily. ‘He doesn’t really know me at all. We’ve never been what you could call friends!’
‘What does that mean? Translate for me. By “friends” do you actually mean lovers?’
‘No! I mean what most people mean by the word “friends”. Hal and I have worked together...’
‘And he never made a pass?’ Connel sounded disbelieving, and she could imagine why, knowing Hal Thaxford, who made a pass at any attractive woman he met.
‘He made them, yes,’ she said coldly.
‘And got slapped down?’
‘Hard. I told him I wasn’t interested, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer until I slapped his face too. He isn’t very bright, you know, or a very good actor. Too wooden. And typically he thinks he’s God’s gift. He has no idea he’s second-rate. When he finally took on board that I would not get involved with him he started sulking. ’
‘Hmm.’ Connel Hillier was eying her dryly. ‘Hal’s version of this story is somewhat different. In fact, he says it was the other way round—he wasn’t interested in you and you resented it.’
Zoe shrugged, unsurprised. ‘Well, you can make your own mind up which of us you believe! And, by the way, I’ve no intention of getting involved with you, either, Mr Hillier. I asked if you were married because it’s obvious you’re used to looking after yourself—you know how a washing machine works, and you can do your own cooking. If you were married, your wife would probably do all that.’
‘These days most men can take care of themselves, married or not.’
‘Some men can! Some men don’t see why they should bother, once they’re married!’
‘A few, maybe. But my brother, for instance, is as capable of cooking a three-course meal as his wife, because Cherry is a high-powered executive who often doesn’t get home until midnight, so Declan has to take care of himself when she’s busy.’
‘They don’t have children, presumably?’
He shook his head. ‘Cherry’s on the fast track at work; she doesn’t plan on having kids for years yet. But she’s only twenty-six; she has plenty of time.’
‘And your brother’s happy with that?’
‘He wants children one day, but he’s in no hurry. He and Cherry only got married a few months ago; they lead a pretty hectic social life: dinner parties, first nights, clubbing. They’re rarely at home in the evening unless they’re giving a party.’
Zoe was listening intently, but her eyelids were drooping wearily and she couldn’t stop yawning, hiding it behind her hand.
The washing machine was going into a spin now. Connel Hillier took the plastic washing basket down from the top of the machine, his back to her while he waited for the washing to come to a halt, but he went on talking about his brother, his voice low and soft. ‘De-clan isn’t ready for the responsibility of kids yet, anyway. He’s far too keen on his social life. I sometimes wonder why he and Cherry got married at all. They’re both so independent and busy, so involved with their own lives, they don’t seem like a pair, more like flat-mates. But then who knows what goes on inside a relationship? I often think...’
The quiet murmur of his voice was soothing. It blurred into the background, became soporific; Zoe yawned, listening to it, couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, she let them close, her head so heavy on her neck that she slowly bowed it on to her arms on the table in front of her.
She never knew when exactly she fell asleep.
The next she knew was when light flickered across her eyelids. Yawning, she stretched her arms above her head—then realised the light was sunlight. What time was it?
Usually when she woke up it was still dark, even in summer. Film-making began with first light and only ended when the light went. She should have been up hours ago. Sharply turning her head to look at her alarm clock, she saw it was eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock?
Horrified, she sat up—why hadn’t the alarm gone off? Surely she couldn’t have slept through it?
At the same instant her memory rushed in with images of what had happened last night, and she stiffened, her eyes flashing round the bedroom. How had she got here? For a second or two her head swam with bewilderment.
The last thing she remembered was sitting with her head on her arms, while behind her Connel Hillier talked about his brother.
She must have drifted off to sleep. Yes, but how had she got up here, into bed? Panic flooded her. Her heart beat like a steam hammer in her chest, behind her ribs. She couldn’t breathe. What had happened last night? After she fell asleep? She couldn’t remember coming upstairs; she hadn’t set her alarm. How had she got here?
She had been fully dressed, wearing that old grey sweater and her shabbiest pair of jeans—she lifted the sheet and looked down at herself, turned scarlet. She wasn’t wearing them now! All she had on was her bra and panties.
‘Oh, my God,’ she groaned aloud. He must have carried her up here, stripped her...and then...? What had happened then?
Heat burned in her face. She didn’t want to think about it. She flung back the covers and jumped out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown from her wardrobe and put it on, then crept out on to the landing, listening for sounds.
Where was he?
The house was silent; the familiar sounds were all she could hear: a Victorian clock she had bought in a junk shop ticking sonorously from her sitting room, the hum of electricity from the kitchen, and from the trees in the garden a whispering of autumn leaves, the sound of birds.
On tiptoe she went from room to room upstairs, but there was no sign of him, so she stole downstairs and began to search there, but he was nowhere in the house, and nothing seemed to be missing. She didn’t have anything very valuable in the way of antiques, of course, but her electrical equipment was all still in place—TV, video player, stereo equipment—none of it had gone.
The kitchen was spotless, the dishes he had used washed up and put away, the sink cleaned, the hob as clean as if he had never been there, and there was no sign of his clothes in the tumble dryer. He must have waited for them to dry properly, then put them on and gone.
Her car! she thought, hurrying to open the front door, but it still stood there, on the drive, where she had left it; the rain was drying on the glossy surface now, the chrome flashing in the sunlight.
She shut the front door again. He had gone, leaving no trace. She might almost have imagined the whole incident. She wished she could believe she had.
But the phone was still unplugged; she hadn’t invented him pulling it out of the wall! She bent to plug it back in, then went back upstairs and showered, got dressed, like a zombie, moving automatically in her usual routine before leaving for work, but with brow furrowed, eyes blank in deep thought.
He had carried her upstairs, taken her clothes off and put her into her bed. Was that all he had done?
Had he got in bed with her? Had he...?
No! she told herself fiercely. She would have woken up if he had tried to have sex with her. Of course she would!
She hadn’t woken up while he was carrying her upstairs, or taking off her jeans, though. It couldn’t have been easy to get her jeans off without disturbing her, could it?
Maybe he had woken her up, though? Maybe she had stirred, becoming aware, woken up? But... if she had, she would remember, wouldn’t she? And she didn’t recall a thing after she’d put her head on her arms and drifted off to sleep.
She didn’t want to think about it. Angrily she ran downstairs, made herself black coffee but didn’t eat anything. Her appetite had gone. In fact, she felt sick.
She stood by the window, drinking her hot coffee, staring out at the bright, autumn morning, making herself observe what she saw instead of thinking about last night. In her job that was vital, the act of observing, seeing, far more important than words, and it helped her to forget herself.
After all that torrential rain the sky was blue and cloudless; the sun shone as brilliantly as if it was summer again. Leaves blew across the damp grass of her lawns; orange, bronze, gold, dark brown, they heaped up behind her garden wall. She must get out there and rake them up on her next day off. There were few flowers around now: a bush of dark blood-red fuchsia, the bells drooping, still heavy with yesterday’s rain, pale blue and pink lace-capped hydrangeas, a few white winter roses. But autumn had other pleasures; she stared at spiders’ webs glittering on bushes, delicate, complex patterns filmed with dew, as bright as diamonds in this sunlight, and fluttering in the wind like ancient flags.
But however hard she tried to think about other things she kept coming back to last night. How was she going to work today? How could she concentrate when somewhere at the edge of her mind was a vague memory, like a dream, half remembered. Warm hands touching her, softly caressing...
Groaning again, she shook her head. No, she didn’t remember that. She didn’t remember anything.
Her nerves jumped as the telephone began to ring. She slowly went to pick it up, her fingers slippery with perspiration.
‘Hello?’ She couldn’t quite make her voice steady. It wouldn’t be him—why should he ring her? Yet somehow she didn’t feel she had seen the last of him. He had left her off balance, nervous, with this worrying feeling that something had happened last night that wasn’t going to be easy to forget.
‘Zoe?’ The voice at the other end was uncertain, but very familiar, and she relaxed. ‘Is that you? Are you okay?’ It was her production runner, Barbara, a lively, eager, hard-working girl in her early twenties, who was normally full of bounce, but this morning sounded faintly anxious.
Pulling herself together, Zoe huskily reassured her. ‘Of course I am—what do you mean?’
‘You sounded breathless. Did I wake you up? Had you forgotten you called an early start, for five-thirty? Or did you oversleep?’
‘Yes, sorry, my alarm didn’t go off.’ They must all be cursing her, getting them there so early and then not turning up, and she couldn’t blame them; she would feel just the same in their shoes. ‘I’m just leaving, Barbara. I should be there in half an hour. Has Will started work? Is he setting up the cameras?’
‘Yes, he’s more or less ready, I think. He just broke to have some breakfast, and there’s a crowd of extras milling around eating sausage baps.’
‘Okay. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
Zoe hung up, locked the cottage, got behind the wheel of her car and started the engine, pushing away the memory of what had—or hadn’t—happened last night.
She would think about that some other time. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by anything, or anyone, until this film was finished.
With any luck she would never set eyes on Connel Hillier again, anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
THE following Saturday Zoe wasn’t working—she often worked seven days a week, but officially it was six days. The film unions wouldn’t permit their members to work all week without a day off, not that that applied to a director, who could work whenever she chose, planning, rewriting, working out shots in a model of the set. Without her film crew, of course. They usually crashed out for hours, so sleep-starved after working long hours every other day that they rarely surfaced again until the evening when they headed for bright lights and some fun.
Zoe got up at eleven that Saturday, had a real breakfast for once, a bowl of fresh fruit and a boiled egg with toast, listening to local radio. Someone had rung her a couple of times without leaving a message on her answer-machine. Who had that been? she wondered, and hoped it hadn’t been Larry again. He was becoming a nuisance.
Her sister’s voice came on next. ‘Aren’t you ever at home? Look, tonight, six o’clock, don’t forget, or else! Oh, and bring a bottle, preferably red wine. It goes so well with steak.’
After tidying the kitchen and making her bed, Zoe went to the hairdresser, then ate lunch in the local pub, which did a wonderful mushroom risotto, played a concentrated game of dominoes with friends. At two-thirty she drove to the local supermarket and did her weekend shopping, then went home to put it all away before doing an hour’s housework. She enjoyed Saturday; it was peaceful and restful not to have to tell anyone else what to do, and to be able to sleep as late as she liked and be as lazy as she chose.
At four she stripped down to her bra and panties and went back to bed for an hour, setting her alarm to make sure she woke up in time to go to her sister’s barbecue.
The alarm going off was a shock to her system. She was dragged out of a dream, her nerves jangling, but that was normal to her. Eyes still shut, she groped her way to the clock, to push down the button, then swung her legs out of bed to make sure she didn’t fall asleep again.
Yawning and flushed, she stretched, stood up, opened her eyes and made her way to the bathroom to shower before getting dressed. The lukewarm water was refreshing, cooling down her skin, waking her properly. Standing by the window later, she saw that the wind and rain had passed. The weather had warmed up, the late-evening sun was shining, the sky was blue and clear, not a cloud in sight. It could be summer instead of autumn. A perfect evening for a barbecue.
She put on her favourite casual outfit, a jade-green-trouser suit. Under the jacket she wore a bronze silk sleeveless tunic so fine it could be drawn through the exactly matching bronze Celtic bracelet she wore on one arm. She had bought this replica at the British Museum shop; it was inscribed with runic writing.
It was nearly six-thirty by the time she got to her sister’s house and the barbecue was already crowded and noisy, mostly with children, Zoe was sorry to see. Her nephews rushed at her, pink and excited.
‘A balloon landed on the barbie and blew up!’
‘Dad went crazy!’
‘You should have heard him shouting!’
They both giggled, looking at each other. ‘It really made him jump!’
Zoe eyed them shrewdly. ‘It wouldn’t have been you two who lobbed the balloon on to the barbie, by any chance?’
‘Us?’ The eldest, seven-year-old Felix, said innocently, his eyes reminding her of his father. You could see already what Felix would look like when he was Mark’s age—he was going to be tall, dark, bony, very attractive.
‘It just blew down from a tree, honestly!’ six-year-old Charlie said, but a dimple in his cheek and a chuckle in his voice gave him away. He wasn’t yet quite out of babyhood, face and body still soft and downy, but he tumbled in his big brother’s wake everywhere, falling over, bruising himself, but determined to do everything Felix did. He wasn’t as much like his father. Zoe saw her sister in him, Sancha’s warmth, her tenderness, her sensitivity. No need to worry about Felix; he was as tough as a tree and full of confidence. But Charlie was different. Zoe knew Sancha worried about him.
‘Oh, there you are! I said six, not half past!’ Sancha gave her a quick hug, then looked her up and down, making a face. ‘You look as if you’re dressed for a nightclub. I suppose you bought that outfit in Paris when you went there last month?’
‘No, London, and it’s a year old! Sorry I’m late. I had so much to do. My one day off! I’ve been rushing about, shopping, doing housework. Here, my contribution to the bar!’ Zoe handed her sister the two bottles of red Chianti she was carrying.
‘Chianti! Lovely. Thanks. It will remind us of our wonderful Tuscan holiday—it was quite a wrench to come back. We loved it, didn’t we, boys?’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie said blissfully. ‘I drank lots of wine.’
‘You had a sip from your father’s glass once or twice!’ Sancha rephrased, smiling indulgently.
‘It was really cool!’ Felix said nostalgically. ‘We had a pool and swam every day. I taught Flora to swim.’
‘To float, anyway.’ His mother nodded. ‘She looked so sweet, paddling around in a plastic duck boat. Did I show you the photos, Zoe? I must get them out later.’
‘I can’t wait. Talking of monsters, where is she?’ Zoe looked around warily.
At once alarmed, Sancha looked around too. ‘Boys, where is she? I told you to look after her.’
‘Under that bush,’ Charlie told her, pointing a stubby pink finger at a blue hydrangea covered in great, lacy heads of sky-blue flowers. Flora, in pink dungarees and a pink sweater, her red hair tousled and stuck with several of the bright blue flower-heads, lay on her back under the branches, fast asleep, her mouth open, snoring loudly, a piece of doughnut clutched in one hand.
Sancha’s face glowed with mother love. ‘Doesn’t she look adorable?’
‘That’s not a word I’d ever apply to Flora, but that’s how I like her best, fast asleep and not doing anything,’ Zoe admitted. ‘It’s when she wakes up and starts getting about that I get nervous.’
The boys grinned. ‘Me, too,’ Charlie agreed.
‘She always wants to play with us,’ Felix complained. ‘And she’s too little and keeps falling over, and screaming, then we get blamed.’
‘You’re the oldest; you should take care of your baby sister,’ their mother scolded, and the boys grimaced at their aunt.
From the barbecue site Mark waved, calling, ‘Come and help, boys!’
‘We have to be waiters,’ Felix gloomily said. ‘And give out the food to people. It’s boring.’
‘Off you go,’ their mother insisted, however, so they trudged off reluctantly, as if there was lead in their shoes.
‘So what’s the great news you mentioned?’ Zoe asked her sister, and Sancha beamed.
‘I’m going to start my own firm!’
Amazed, Zoe asked, ‘Doing what?’
‘Photography, stupid! I’ve taken a lease on a shop in Abbot Street, just behind the High Street. It will take a couple of months to make some essential changes to the shop fittings, so I’ll open up around Christmas, spacialising in children and make-overs.’
‘Make-overs?’
‘Oh, you know—a woman comes in wanting a photo that makes her look better than she usually does! Martha is going to do the hair and make-up; we’re going into partnership. When she’s transformed the client I take a series of soft-focus shots.’
‘You should make millions,’ Zoe said, laughing.
‘You may laugh. You don’t need a helping hand—some women do! I did myself a year ago, remember.’
‘Well, you don’t need one now; you look terrific!’ Zoe said, smiling at her. ‘And I’ll keep my fingers crossed your new venture is a huge success. Is Mark okay about it?’
‘Very supportive—in fact, he put up half the money. He insisted. He thinks I’ve had a brilliant idea and he wanted to back me. Mark’s very shrewd, too, so it was very encouraging to know he approved of my concept.’
‘Amazing,’ Zoe murmured. ‘The man surprises me sometimes. But then all men give you surprises, not all of them pleasant.’
‘Talking about men, where’s yours?’ asked Sancha.
‘Who?’ Zoe stared at her in bafflement.
‘Whoever you’re seeing at the moment—I told you to bring a guy.’
Zoe shrugged. ‘I’m not seeing anyone. I’m too busy for a social life.’
‘What happened to...was it... Harry? No, Larry? He was the last one I met.’
‘He turned out to be a bit weird, so I broke it off.’
Sighing heavily, Sancha told her, ‘Zoe, if you keep dumping men like this you’ll end up a lonely spinster!’
‘I’ve heard that a hundred times! And I’m not lonely, nor do I spin. Or sew, come to that. Women don’t have to marry these days to enjoy life. I’ve got a career that’s more important to me than any man I ever meet. I earn a lot of money and have a lot of fun, and above all I love my work. I enjoy men’s company when I’m in the mood but I don’t need a man to make my life complete.’
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CHARLOTTE LAMB
An Undeniable Attraction…Zoe was enraged by Connel Hillier's arrogance! He'd been direct, demanding and had even invited himself to her home! Well, other women might simper over his brooding good looks, but not Zoe! Who was she trying to fool?Connel had the monopoly on sex appeal, and Zoe couldn't deny their attraction to one another, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn't handle this man in her life, her feelings were too intense! But Connel always got what he wanted… and, this time, he was asking for Zoe's passionate surrender.
“Don’t you like playing games, Zoe?” (#u3316a771-1f75-5bf0-9bf2-d0562932bc27)About the Author (#u6b96cda4-552f-55da-bdc6-aa90773988a6)Title Page (#u8562229e-4bac-54f2-b614-7e1939e74c51)CHAPTER ONE (#ueceddb2e-781b-5659-b2a3-302596f07005)CHAPTER TWO (#u28e93f5a-0383-5a2a-a797-08f89207f87f)CHAPTER THREE (#u2c1ed6e9-ff29-5ed1-88aa-1a2799c6e246)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Don’t you like playing games, Zoe?”
Connel’s tone was soft, seductive, disturbing.
She refused to let it get to her. “No, I do not! And stop changing the subject.”
“I wasn’t. Isn’t that what we’re talking about? What else could I do but carry you up to bed?”
CHARLOTTE LAMB was born in London, England, in time for World War II, and spent most of it moving from relative to relative to escape bombing. Educated at a convent, she married a journalist, and now has five children. The family lives on the Isle of Man. Charlotte Lamb is the author of more than one hundred books for Harlequin Presents
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Hot Surrender
Charlotte Lamb
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
ZOE usually enjoyed driving home after a long day’s work. It gave her a chance to unwind, switch on to automatic pilot because she knew the route so well, then she could let her mind roam free. She often came up with exciting new ideas while she was driving. But tonight she was just that bit too tired, her face very pale against her flame-red hair, her green eyes sleepy. She had been up at five, at the location they were using by six, drinking a polystyrene cup of black coffee as she talked over the scene they were going to shoot with Will, the cameraman, who’d groaned as an ominous blood-red dawn swam up out of the veiled horizon, across misty, mysterious fields.
‘I knew it! Look at that sky—red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning! Yesterday was so humid, I had a gut feeling a storm was on the way.’
Will was usually right about the weather. Like an animal, he could smell rain coming or a storm brewing, so Zoe had decided to keep working for as long as the weather held off in case they couldn’t film outdoors next day. They had filmed until gone seven, when heavy rain began pouring down.
‘Have supper with me?’ Will had asked, his big blue eyes pleading.
Zoe had sighed, wishing he would stop pursuing her. She liked him a lot, but not in the way he wanted.
‘We’ll all have supper together,’ she’d diplomatically announced, and asked Catering to produce a hot meal.
Will had given her a reproachful look as they all tramped into the on-site caravan where Will slept with his precious cameras. A tall, thick-set man with amazingly well-developed muscles and a rugged face, he always said cameras were female and brooked no rivals which was why he had never married. He had occasionally dated one of the girls working on a film, but his relationships never lasted; his girlfriends always got bored with playing second fiddle to his job.
Zoe hoped that if she kept turning down his invitations he would give up on her. She didn’t believe Will was serious; he was just hoping to succeed where others had failed. Zoe’s reputation as someone who wasn’t a push-over made her a scalp some men would love to hang on their belts. It was getting very boring.
Catering had come up with chilli and rice for them all, perfect wet weather food. The crew had fallen upon it like hungry wolves, but Zoe hadn’t eaten; she was dieting. Now she was ravenous, of course. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food. What did she have in the kitchen which could be cooked in a couple of minutes and wasn’t too high in calories? Eggs? Soup?
Glancing at her illuminated dashboard, she saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. Which was more vital—food or sleep? She needed both, equally urgently.
Slowing to take the corner off the main road into the narrow lane leading to her home, she waited, yawning, for a couple of lorries to thunder past.
A man loomed up beside her window out of the dark and rainy night, making her start in shock. Where on earth had he come from?
For a second she thought he was a mirage, conjured up by her weary brain, then he bent down and tried to open her door.
Zoe was a tough, capable woman of thirty-two, used to authority, scared of very little...spiders, maybe, overshooting her budget, certainly, or running late on a film. Nothing much else—but, perhaps because she was tired, at that instant her nerve-ends prickled until she remembered that she had automatically locked her doors before she started driving.
Discovering this too, the stranger tapped on her window, saying something, mouth opening and shutting, rain running down his face, drowning out his voice.
Zoe leaned over to touch the button which unwound her window electronically just a fraction. ‘What do you want?’
His voice was very deep, faintly hoarse, as if he had a cold or smoked too many cigarettes. ‘My car has broken down. Could you give me a lift to a garage?’
He was a big man, his thick black hair half hidden by the hood of an old navy anorak, a curly black beard hiding most of his lower face, looking more like a tramp than someone who owned a car. Zoe looked him over, noting that his jeans were ragged and muddy. Even if her instincts hadn’t warned her not to trust him she would never have considered giving him a lift. A woman driving alone at night was crazy if she picked up a strange man. Zoe had heard too many horror stories of women who’d done that.
‘The nearest garage shuts at nine o’clock,’ she crisply told him. ‘There’s a telephone box opposite the church, just down the road; you can ring for a taxi from there.’
His black eyes insistently staring into hers, he bit out, ‘You can’t leave me out here in this rain. I’m already soaked to the skin. I tried the phone box—it’s been vandalised. I drove through a village a couple of miles back down this road and saw a pub which looked open. It wouldn’t take you long to give me a lift back there.’
‘I’ll find my mobile phone and ring for a taxi for you,’ Zoe said reluctantly.
Groping for her bag on the seat, she unzipped it and felt among the myriad objects she always took with her to work. She pulled out the phone, held it up, showing it to him.
The wind blew rain into his face. Shivering, he said, ‘Great Ask this firm to get here as soon as possible before I die of pneumonia.’
Zoe tapped in her personal code, only to discover that the phone needed charging.
‘Sorry, it isn’t working,’ she said offhandedly, holding it up to show him she wasn’t lying. ‘I haven’t used it since this morning, but the batteries run down even if you don’t use it.’ She watched rain running down his face like tears, and felt a flash of sympathy. She would hate to be in his position. If he was another woman she wouldn’t hesitate to give him a lift, but she wasn’t risking it with some strange man.
‘Look, I’ll ring for a taxi for you the minute I get home,’ she promised. ‘Just wait here; one will be along before too long.’
He grabbed her door and hung on to it, leaning into her car in what she felt to be a menacing way. ‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’
Zoe’s patience ran out. She was tired, her head was aching, she wanted to get home and into bed.
‘You’ll just have to trust me. Now, get out of my way or I’ll drive off with you hanging on to my door—and don’t think I won’t.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re capable of it!’ he muttered, still holding on to her door. ‘Have you thought how it will sound in the press, though?’
Zoe was sure he was too clever not to let go once she started driving away, but, just in case, she pressed the electronic button that wound her window up again.
He tried to hold the window down but couldn’t stop it closing, and had to snatch his hand away before it got crushed in the mechanism.
She put her foot down on the accelerator and drove off at speed across the main road. In her driving mirror she caught a brief glimpse of him standing in the torrential rain, glaring after her. From this distance he looked about seven foot tall, way over six foot, anyway, with wide shoulders and long, long legs, his wet jeans clamped to them, emphasising the muscled calves and thighs under the clinging cloth. She couldn’t deny he was sexy, in a glowering, thuggish sort of way.
She knew women who went wild about men like him. Women who should have more sense. She was not one of them, however.
He reminded her of someone, but she was too tired to work out who as she headed along the narrow country lane leading to her cottage. Within three minutes she saw the red roof of her cottage up ahead, half hidden by the trees shielding her garden.
She had bought Ivydene because of its peaceful setting and the wonderful view of fields and woods which gave you the impression of an uninhabited landscape. In fact there were other houses, hidden among trees and in folds of the countryside, but she had no close neighbours, could see no lighted windows. Tonight she wished she had. The brief encounter with that man had managed to knock her usual self-confidence a little.
Turning into her driveway, she parked right outside the cottage, jumped out, dashed under the shelter of the small, red-tiled porch built around her front door and locked her car from there with her electronic car key. Rain drummed on the porch roof, dripped off the ivy growing up the walls. Zoe stripped off her wax jacket and left it to drip on a hook in the wall. It was far too wet to take indoors. Stepping out of her boots, too, she stood them against the porch wall, then unlocked the front door and went into the cottage, switching on the light in the hall.
For a second she stood, listening, but apart from the sonorous tick of a large Victorian grandfather clock in the hall everything was quiet. She had been living here for three years now. When she’d bought it, the three-bedroomed cottage had been a mess; it had been uninhabited for a year, the roof had leaked, mould had grown on wallpaper, some of the windows had been broken by local boys.
Zoe couldn’t afford to pay workmen to renovate it, but whenever she had any free time she worked on it herself, painting, wallpapering, choosing new curtains and carpets. The cottage had been built in the Edwardian era, and the spacious rooms had high ceilings, decorated with plasterwork, elegant little ironwork fireplaces, and solid oak doors. There was a butler’s pantry, and a general air of being a miniature country house.
Padding through to the kitchen in her socks, she opened the fridge, quickly inspecting the contents, but nothing much appealed. She wouldn’t get to sleep if she ate a large or rich meal at this hour. It would have to be tomato soup and toast. It only took seconds to open a tin, pour the contents into a saucepan and start cooking it. She cut a couple of slices of bread once the soup was on the hob, and slipped them into the toaster.
After that she walked into the sitting room and switched on her answer-machine, smiling as her sister’s warm, cheerful voice filled the room.
‘Hi, it’s me—don’t forget the barbecue on Saturday, will you? Around six o‘clock. Bring somebody if you like—who’s the latest fella? And a bottle of something; lemonade, wine, anything you like.’
In the background the sound of high-pitched screeching rose, combined with a hammering, crashing sound.
‘Sing quietly, darling,’ Sancha said in the indulgent tone she always used to the little monster she called Flora. Was that ghastly racket meant to be singing? Zoe switched on the realistic electric log fire on the hearth—the central heating kicked in at six o’clock each evening, but it was only background heat and on a night like this she felt she needed more than that, not to mention the illusion of sitting in front of flames.
‘Zoe, I’ve got exciting news for you! I... Don’t do that to the cat!’ Sancha suddenly said sharply.
Do what, for heaven’s sake? The sounds of spitting and yowling competed with Flora’s so-called singing.
‘Got to go,’ Sancha hurriedly said. ‘She’s trying to pull the cat through the bars of her playpen. Zoe, don’t you dare forget and don’t be late! See you!’ She hung up; there was a whirring sound and another voice began.
‘Zoe, please, I’ve got to see you, surely we can talk this over?’
Zoe fast-forwarded the machine to get rid of the husky voice. It had been fun dating Larry for a few weeks, but that was all it had been for her. Just light-hearted fun. He was a nice enough guy—which was why as soon as he started to turn serious she had told him they must stop seeing each other. It was kinder to end it before his feelings got out of hand. In the past she had sometimes hesitated and let a relationship go on too long. Zoe didn’t want to hurt anyone, but neither was she being blackmailed into bed by someone she didn’t love.
The trouble was, Larry wouldn’t go away. Since she’d told him she didn’t want to see him again he had rung her several times a day, and kept writing her the sort of letters that burn the paper they’re written on but are embarrassing to read if you don’t feel the same way. Zoe was worried by the bitterness creeping in among the passionate prose.
It wasn’t as if she was the first woman in his life; he had had other girlfriends. She knew all about them because he had insisted on telling her every detail of his relationships before her. She hadn’t wanted to hear any of it.
She had liked Larry at first, he had seemed fun, but her discovery about his obsession with his past affairs was the first moment when she began to go off him. Zoe never talked about one man to another. She hated having the past hanging around; she switched off memories like a television set and walked away. Life was now, today, the future always beckoned—the past was another country, one she had left behind. Why waste time on what had gone and wouldn’t come back? she had told Larry, who had laughed, sounding almost triumphant, and asked her if she was jealous. She didn’t need to be, he’d said. None of his earlier girlfriends had meant as much to him as she did. She was the one he had been looking for all his life. He would die rather than lose her.
It was at that moment that Zoe had decided to tell him goodbye. It was all getting too intense for her. A pity she hadn’t picked up on his nature earlier. She would never have gone out with him in the first place if she’d known he was so obsessive. It was himself he was obsessed with, that she was sure about, but at the moment he was pinning his self-obsession on her, which was distinctly weird. She found weird people scary, and wished she had never met him.
But there was no point in wishing; you couldn’t rewrite history. The question now was: how was she going to persuade him to leave her alone?
She pushed back a windblown lock of red hair, sighing. Tomorrow she would write Larry a formal, very distant letter, asking him to stop ringing and writing. If he didn’t take any notice of that she would have to get her solicitor to deal with it.
It was a form of stalking, wasn’t it? It made life complicated and she wasn’t putting up with any more of it. If she couldn’t persuade him to stop, she would see what the law could do.
The next call on the answer-machine was from another man—but very different; his complaining voice made her laugh. ‘Zoe, I’m not happy with the way the budget is shaping...’
‘So what’s new?’ she sarcastically enquired, walking back into the kitchen, leaving the production company accountant fretfully going through a list of production costs so far while she rushed back to stop the soup burning, switched off the heat under the saucepan, set a tray, poured soup into a deep bowl, thinly buttered the toast and carried her meal into the sitting room.
Philip Cross was still talking in his gloomy way as she sat down in her armchair in front of the electric fire.
‘Please try to pare down wherever you can, Zoe. The bills for this production are unacceptably high. I’m faxing you a list of suggestions for cutting expenses. The transport costs are ludicrous, for instance—surely you can find cheaper ways of moving stuff? Please ring me when you’ve read it and let me know your thoughts.’
The answer-machine clicked off and Zoe made a face at it.
‘You stuffy little cheese mite! Get back in your biscuit! I’ll tell you what I think, all right, but you won’t like it!’
She settled down to eat her tomato soup and the fingers of buttered toast, pushing Philip Cross and his economy measures away for the moment. She didn’t want to think or start worrying. The heat of the fire was comforting; her weary body was slack and relaxed in the armchair.
When she had finished her meal she lay there for a moment, staring at the red glow of the artificial logs, eyes heavy, yawning widely every so often.
If she didn’t move soon she would fall asleep in the chair, and then she would be as stiff as a board in the morning.
Stretching, she made herself get out of the chair. What a day this had been, right up to the last, when that bearded guy had...
Oh, no! She’d forgotten all about him! Zoe looked at her watch and realised half an hour had gone by since she’d got home. Would he still be waiting there? Was there any point in ringing for a taxi for him now?
Well, she had given him her word. She had to keep it. Hurriedly picking up the phone, she dialled the local taxi firm she always used.
A man’s voice answered, slow, friendly, with a local burr.
‘Hallo, this is Zoe Collins,’ she said, and explained about the stranded motorist. ‘Could you get someone to drive out and see if he’s still there? If he isn’t, send me a bill for the call-out.’
‘Okay, Miss Collins, we’ll deal with it,’ the taxi operator said amiably, ringing off.
Zoe turned out the light and carried her tray through to the kitchen, loaded the used crockery in the dishwasher, then went upstairs to have a shower before bed. She had been working flat out all day, both physically and mentally, helping the crew shift heavy equipment, concentrating fiercely on the shoot, walking about, back and forth, trying to watch all her actors, check that they were coping, were giving her everything she wanted for the scene.
It was draining, tough, demanding work. Her body ached and smelt of perspiration. She needed to wash the day’s effects off her skin.
She stripped rapidly in her bedroom, then walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The warm water was deliciously sensual as it trickled down her back, over her breasts, the flat stomach, her hips, down into the valley between her thighs. Eyes closed, she lifted her damp hair back from her face, arms raised, sighing with pleasure. Now she felt more human. This was one of her favourite moments of the day.
After towelling herself dry she put on warm green brushed cotton pyjamas and was about to slip into bed when she realized she had left her script downstairs. Before she went to sleep she must check her notes on blocking out the scenes she was going to shoot tomorrow. She ran down the stairs and found the script on the kitchen table where she had left it.
Picking it up, Zoe turned to go back upstairs, then froze as she heard a sound outside in the hall. Stiffening, she listened, holding her breath. Floorboards creaked again. Was that the sound of quiet breathing?
The hair bristled on the back of her neck. She hadn’t imagined it. There was someone out there.
Hurriedly she looked around for a weapon. The wooden meat hammer? One of the razor-sharp kitchen knives she kept safely sheathed in a cupboard? No, too dangerous—he might take it away from her and use it on her. Her eye fell on the tray she had just used. It was made of varnished wood, was very heavy. Brought down on someone’s head, it would knock them out long enough for her to be able to ring the police.
Dropping her script back on the table, she picked up the tray and tiptoed towards the hall just as the handle turned silently and the door began to open. Raising her improvised weapon above her head, Zoe waited, not moving, trying to breathe soundlessly.
As soon as a dark shape loomed up in the doorway she made her move, slamming the tray downwards.
But he must have sensed her presence behind the door, or maybe seen her reflection in the window opposite. At the same instant that she moved, so did he, whirling to grab the tray from her hand as it flashed down towards his head. He threw it across the room to land with a crash that was deafening.
Zoe recognised him a second later, ice trickling down her back. Big, bearded, black-haired...oh, my God, it was the man who had tried to get into her car!
‘Don’t even try anything,’ she gasped, backing, reaching for a chair she could fend him off with. ‘I’ve had self-defence lessons.’
‘If you think I’m after your body you’re flattering yourself!’ His eyes had a derisory glitter that made her face burn.
But she kept her cool, holding the chair between them as a shield. ‘What are you after? And how did you get here?’
‘Walked. And I’m wetter than ever now, thanks to you.’
‘Why is it my fault? I didn’t make it rain!’
‘You promised to ring for a taxi!’
‘I did! Obviously you didn’t wait long enough.’ She met the insistent dark eyes and her conscience made her reluctantly admit the truth. ‘Okay, I forgot about you at first, but then I remembered, and I rang the taxi firm I always use, and asked them to go and get you.’
‘So why didn’t they turn up?’
‘How do I know? But I did ring them—go on, ring them and check! They can divert their driver here to pick you up. The phone’s in that room.’ She gestured to the sitting room door. ‘Their number is written on the pad next to it. Be my guest.’
‘I intend to be,’ he ominously drawled, still smiling, and her nerve-ends crackled with tension and uneasiness.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m soaked to the skin, cold and tired and very hungry. Having walked all the way here in that downpour, I don’t intend to hang around in these wet clothes waiting for a taxi. What I need right now is a hot bath, some dry, warm clothes and a meal, in that order, and as you didn’t keep your word and send me a taxi right away, I think you owe it to me to give me what I need.’
‘Look, I’m sorry I forgot about your taxi, but I am not responsible for your problems. I didn’t make your car break down; I didn’t make it rain. Stop blaming everything on me! How did you manage to follow me home, anyway? How did you know I lived here?’
She saw his eyes flicker, a shadow of evasion cross his face, and her instincts jangled an alarm. What did that look mean? She suddenly sensed that he knew her, or of her, at least, and had known just where she lived. What was going on here? Who was he?
‘Are you one of my neighbours?’ She knew most of the nearer neighbours by sight, if not by name, and she didn’t recognise him. If she had ever seen him before she was sure she would remember.
Taking a longer long at him, she thought, Hang on, though! Hadn’t she felt at one moment that there was something familiar about him? Zoe tried to hunt the memory down—had she seen him before? And if so, where?
But her mind couldn’t come up with anything, except the same uncertain feeling that somewhere, somehow, he was familiar.
‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘I have a flat in London.’
That didn’t explain how he had managed to find her cottage or get in, though, so she sharply asked, ‘You still haven’t told me how you got here, or got inside the cottage!’
He gave her a hostile stare. ‘I waited in that torrential downpour for twenty minutes before deciding that you hadn’t rung for a taxi for me. I followed you car down this lane because I guessed there must be houses down here and I might be able to get someone to let me use their phone. I saw the lights on in this cottage so I came up the drive, then I recognised your car parked outside. I knocked on the front door three or four times without getting a reply.’
She must have been in the shower, she realised. With the water running and the bathroom door shut she wouldn’t have heard him.
‘Then I realised the front door was open,’ he said.
‘That’s a lie! I locked it!’
‘No, you didn’t. It wasn’t locked—go and look!’ he tersely told her, his dark eyes hard.
She couldn’t remember whether or not she had locked it, actually, but she usually did. She had been in a tearing hurry to get indoors, though.
Absorbing the tired lines in his face, his saturated clothes, in a spasm of reluctant sympathy, she said, ‘I can certainly give you some food and a hot drink, but I don’t have any men’s clothes in my wardrobe. It would be stupid to have a bath and then go out into the rain again. I’ll ring the taxi firm, then get you a meal while we’re waiting for them—how’s that?’
‘Hal’s right; you are a cold-blooded little vixen!’ he said, and she stiffened, eyes narrowing on him.
‘Hal?’
‘My cousin Hal Thaxford.’
Light dawned. ‘Hal Thaxford? You’re his cousin?’ Her green eyes searched his face, and she finally realised why he had seemed so familiar. Oh, yes, she could see the likeness now—same colouring, same build, same shape of face, even the same frowning glare which had made Hal Thaxford one of the most popular TV stars today. She had a low opinion of Hal’s acting ability; he skated along on the surface of his roles, using his looks, his sex appeal, and his usual scowl instead of actually trying to act. Luckily for him, women swooned every time he glowered out of the screen. He got a lot of work and was highly paid, so why should he bother working at his craft?
‘Are you an actor?’
‘No,’ he bit out, white teeth tight. ‘I am not. I’m not involved in films in any capacity, but I know all about the tawdry world you live in. Hal has told me all about it—and he’s told me all about you, too.’
His hostile eyes ran down over her slender body in the loose cotton pyjamas which clung to her small, high breasts, flowed over her slim hips and the long, thin legs. She flushed at the mix of sexual assessment and cold derision in that look.
Okay, Hal didn’t like her much; it was mutual, she was not one of his fans—but what on earth could he have said to this man to make him eye her like that?
He told her a second later, his voice accusing her, judging her, finding her guilty all at once. ‘I know all about the manipulative, heartless games you play with men, flirting with them, letting them fall in love, and then dumping them ruthlessly once you’re tired of them. I took his stories with a pinch of salt at the time. I’d seen his photos of you and I couldn’t believe any woman who looked the way you do could be such a bitch, but now I’ve met you, it’s obvious Hal didn’t exaggerate an inch.’
She was so taken aback that when he walked past her into her sitting room it took her a moment or so to pull herself together and follow him.
‘What are you doing?’ she began, and stopped as she saw that he had pulled the telephone out of the wall. ‘Put that back!’
He whirled and grabbed her arm. ‘Come with me,’ he muttered, and she dug her heels into the carpet, refusing to move.
‘Let me go and get out of my house.’
‘I haven’t got time to argue with you,’ he said, put an arm round her waist and lifted her off the floor as if she was a child.
The breath driven out of her by shock, she gasped, ‘Put me down. Put me down! What do you think you’re doing?’
Ignoring her, he slung her over his shoulder, her head down his back, her feet drumming against his middle, her arms flailing impotently.
‘I’m taking you upstairs,’ he coolly informed her as he strode towards the hall, and Zoe felt icy fear trickling down her spine.
CHAPTER TWO
BY THE time he had got upstairs Zoe was recovering from her first shock and able to think clearly. Okay, he was bigger than her, and had a powerful, muscled physique, but she wasn’t just giving in or giving up. Her self-respect insisted she fight. As he carried her through the open door of her bedroom she grabbed a large handful of his hair and yanked hard.
‘Put me down!’
He dropped her. On the bed. She bounced, out of breath for a second, then, before he could stop her, rolled over to the far side, stood up with her back against the wall and reached for the nearest object she could use as a weapon—a large bronze statuette she had won for one of her TV documentaries years ago; the first award she’d ever been given. She kept it beside her bed, on a shelf on the wall, because winning it had made her so proud she hadn’t touched the ground for days. There had been many others since, but none that had given her so much pleasure, and when she was feeling low she still got the same buzz from looking at it.
Now she held it up like a club, meeting his quizzical eyes. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t use this! It’s very heavy. Solid bronze. If I hit you with it, believe me, it will hurt! So keep your distance, Mister, or I’ll use it. Don’t come any closer than you are now.’
Without answering, he turned towards the door but not, she discovered, to go out No, he closed, then locked the door, and slid the key into his pocket.
Zoe’s throat dried up. She watched him tensely, gripping the statuette even tighter. ‘I meant what I said! Stay away from me or you’ll be sorry!’
He began to walk across the room and she barely breathed, her chest hurting, poised for action—but he wasn’t heading for the bed; he was going towards the bathroom.
Still without looking at her, he opened the bathroom door, went in and closed the door behind him, then bolted it, while she stared incredulously. A moment later she heard the shower start running, the splashing of water, followed by a deep voice singing a very familiar song she couldn’t quite identify. She knew it... what was that?
Feeling ridiculous, standing in the corner holding her bronze statuette up in the air, she put it back in its usual place, climbed back over the bed and hurriedly got dressed again in her oldest pair of jeans and a very long grey sweater she had once borrowed from a guy she was dating. She had forgotten to give it back when she’d told him goodbye. Poor Jimmy. He had been rather like his sweater. long, thin and grey. Grey eyes, brown hair sprinkled with grey, a sad, depressed manner. She couldn’t remember why she had ever gone out with him in the first place.
She had only been twenty that year; he had been forty, twice her age, a documentary director with a TV company. His job had impressed the hell out of her, which was why she’d first accepted a date for dinner with him. After that he had pestered, on and on and on, simply hung around in the corners of her life like a mournful ghost, occasionally talking her into going to the theatre, or for a drive to the seaside on a warm Sunday afternoon.
Until she’d realised one day that she could end up being talked into marriage if she didn’t tell him firmly to go away. Jimmy had told her she had broken his heart, then he’d drifted sadly away.
Six months later he had married a girl called Fifi whom he had met on holiday in Paris, city of lovers; now they had three children, she had heard, and Jimmy had retired from TV to raise pigs in Normandy.
Hearts mend fast, Zoe thought, her mouth twisting cynically. They aren’t made of glass, they don’t shatter, no matter what people say. Perhaps they were made of rubber—they certainly bounced.
‘Danny Boy’! The name of the song came into her head at that second. That was what he was singing in her bathroom! Singing very pleasantly, too—not a professional voice, but it was good to listen to! She had always loved the old Irish song ‘Danny Boy’, poignant, sweet, so familiar she wondered she hadn’t recognised it earlier.
Suddenly she realised he had stopped singing, and the sound of the shower had stopped too.
What was he doing now? Drying himself, obviously—her imagination worked overtime on what he would look like naked; he had a body to die for, she thought, then pulled a face. Hey, now, stop thinking stuff like that! Are you asking for trouble?
She heard the bathroom door bolt slip back; the handle turned, out he came, wearing a black towelling robe which ended at his knees.
It was hers. He had taken it from the airing cupboard in the bathroom. He was so much bigger and taller than her that it only just met around his waist.
He’d knotted the belt to make sure it didn’t fall apart, but the robe was far too short for him. He looked funny. Zoe almost laughed until she realised he was naked under the robe; his long legs still damp, the dark hair clinging flat to his skin, his thin, muscular feet bare. God, he was sexy.
She was disturbed by the intimacy of having him so close to her when he had so little on, and even more disturbed by how it made her feel.
‘Put your clothes back on!’ she ordered, her skin prickling, and got a cool, level stare which seemed to go right through to her backbone.
‘You must be kidding. They’re wet and cold. Are you sure you haven’t got any men’s clothes around? One of your boyfriends didn’t leave any here?’
‘No, I already told you that!’
‘I guess you’re the type to chuck their clothes away once you’ve dumped the guys,’ he said derisively.
She resented that, her green eyes flashing. Wait till she saw Hal Thaxford! How dared he spread vicious rumours about her?
‘Look here...Mr—what’s your name...?’
‘Hillier. Connel Hillier,’ he said over his shoulder as he began going round the bedroom, opening her wardrobe, rummaging through her chest of drawers.
Unusual name, she thought. Connel. She liked it. ‘Well, Mr Hillier...’ She stopped, doing a double take as she realised what was happening. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? You’ve no right to search my room! And there’s no point in searching, anyway, you won’t find any men’s clothes!’
She went over to slam shut the open drawer he was hunting through. ‘I said, stop it!’
He straightened, turned, a pair of dark socks in his hand. Zoe wore socks whenever she wore boots to work, which, in winter or wet weather, happened frequently.
‘What size are these? Oh, never mind, they’re the type that stretch. I should be able to get into them.’
He sat down on her bed, swinging one knee over the other to lift a foot. Zoe looked away as she caught a shadowy glimpse of his thigh. A minute later he stood up, and now he was wearing the socks. ‘That’s better; my feet were freezing. I hope you’ve at least got food in the house. I’m starving. Let’s go downstairs and get cooking.’
His sheer gall left Zoe speechless, something that rarely happened to her. She hadn’t liked him much from the instant she’d set eyes on him; now she was beginning to detest him.
Recovering her breath, she burst out, ‘Look, you human steamroller, will you stop pushing me around?’
‘Steamrollers flatten people; they don’t push them around!’
‘Well, you aren’t flattening me!’
Ignoring her, he walked into the bathroom and came out carrying his wet clothes in a neat pile. Cool as a cucumber, he produced the key from his trouser pocket and unlocked the bedroom door.
Without looking back to check that she was coming, he vanished, and, discovering that he had left the key in the lock, she almost locked herself in, but on reflection decided that that would leave him free to ransack the rest of the house and make off with half her possessions.
Fuming, she followed him, wondering how on earth she was going to get rid of him. If only her mobile didn’t need charging!
Maybe while he was eating she might be able to get to the phone, plug it back in, and ring the police? So long as he didn’t hear her and strangle her before the police arrived.
Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, she told herself—he isn’t the type. If I was casting him I wouldn’t make him the murderer. A thug, maybe. A gangster. Somebody to be wary of, that was certain. She’d felt that the minute she saw him in the rainy night, peering into her car. There was something electric, powerful, dangerous about those eyes of his.
By the time she reached the kitchen he was chucking his clothes into her washing machine. He briefly looked at her over his shoulder with those dark, menacing eyes.
‘Where’s your soap powder?’
She almost said, I’ll do it for you, until she caught herself doing it. Female programming! she angrily thought. It’s put into us right from childhood—why the hell should I? Let him do his own washing.
‘Cupboard next to the machine,’ she bit out, and got a dry glance from him. No doubt he had been expecting her to offer to do it for him. Men always expected women to wait on them. That was their own programming. If she ever had a son she would make sure he wasn’t brought up to see women as potential servants or toys.
He bent again to open the cupboard and her eyes flicked round the kitchen in search of possible weapons. A glass rolling pin filled with dried flowers, from Greece, hung on the wall—how about that?
No, that was a souvenir of one of the best holidays she had ever had. She didn’t want to break that. One of the saucepans? Not heavy enough. That copper casserole would make quite a dent, though, she thought, gazing at the highly polished dish hanging close to the oven.
The washing machine started and she looked back at him warily. He was now busy inspecting the contents of the fridge and the freezer, taking stuff out and checking the cooking instructions.
‘There are plenty of soups,’ she offered.
He was reading a pack of microwave chicken curry and shrugged. ‘I’m too hungry for soup—this looks good. I see you’ve got a microwave. I’ll have this. Do you want some of it?’
She shuddered at the very idea at this hour. ‘No, thanks. I prefer not to eat rich food late at night, and, anyway, I’ve had some soup. Look, can I ring for a taxi for you now? You can eat your meal while you’re waiting.’
He popped the chicken curry into the microwave and punched the numbers at the side. The turntable inside began revolving. ‘I shall need my clothes before I leave. I see you’ve got a tumble dryer. When my things come out of the washing machine I’ll put them straight into the dryer.’
Trying not to sound anxious she snapped, ‘That will take hours—and you’re not staying here after you’ve eaten your food. I want to ring for a taxi for you.’
He took no notice, opening cupboards again, getting more stuff out. He looked at the foil-wrapped coffee beans he found, making a face. ‘Not brilliant, but I suppose they’ll do.’
A little flag of red burnt her cheeks. ‘Oh, sorry my coffee doesn’t meet your standard. I’ll make sure I’ve got something better next time you break down near my house.’
Her sarcasm was water off a duck’s back. He shook some coffee into the electric grinder he had found. ‘I like using the traditional, wooden French coffee-grinders,’ he told her conversationally. ‘You feel you’re really getting coffee—nothing else gives you that fresh-ground coffee smell. Instant is a last resort for me!’
‘This machine is much quicker and less trouble,’ Zoe resentfully told him. ‘Like the microwave and the tumble dryer, it does the job in half the time, and saving time is important to me. I’m a career woman, not a housewife.’
He gave her a sardonic smile as he began to fill the percolator with cold water. ‘No cream in your fridge, I see! Dieting, I suppose?’ Another of those cool, assessing glances that made her spine shiver. ‘Well, I’m not! I’ll make do with black coffee, but I hope you’ve got some sugar.’
‘Mr Hillier, I did not invite you to this house, but you are my guest so stop knocking the way I live!’ She was really furious now. Who did he think he was? ‘There’s sugar in the far cupboard on the right.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’m exhausted. I’ve had a tough day and I want to get some sleep before I have to get up again in the morning. Would you please eat your meal and leave? I’m sure the taxi driver won’t care what you’re wearing.’ An idea hit her and she hurried out into the hall, to come back with a long brown drover’s mac which she had bought in Australia a couple of years ago.
‘You could wear this! Nobody will notice what you’re wearing under it.’
He was putting a plate under the oven grill, which he had turned on. He glanced at the coat, came over to take it, held it up against him, nodding. ‘Terrific, thanks. At least you’ve got good taste in clothes. I’ll borrow it, but I’ll still want to wear my own clothes under it.’
‘I’ll post them on to you tomorrow.’
Shaking his head, he went over to the microwave as it began to bleep. ‘No, I’ll wait for them.’
Zoe was almost desperate to get rid of him. Her voice high, she yelled, ‘This is my house, and I want you to go!’
He opened the curry and inhaled. ‘Smells wonderful.’ Switching off the grill, he used a teatowel to get the plate out, tipped the golden chicken and sauce out on to the plate, surrounded it with the fluffy white rice which had also been in the packet, sat down at the table and began to eat with a fork. ‘Could you pour the coffee?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Delight,’ he said, sliding her a wicked glance from under his extraordinarily long black lashes.
Zoe’s rage wasn’t as strong as her sense of humour; she couldn’t help laughing, much though she wished she could.
He grinned at her. ‘So you are human?’
‘Human—and exhausted,’ she told him, pouring coffee into the mugs. She might as well drink some herself—clearly she wasn’t going to be able to get rid of him for quite a while, and she couldn’t go to bed, leaving a total stranger in her house.
‘How many hours did you work today?’
‘I was up at five, at work by six,’ she told him, sitting down opposite him at the table.
He studied her, brows lifted. ‘Your eyes are red. They match your hair.’
Flushed, she crossly snapped, ‘Thanks. That makes me feel really glamorous.’
He went on staring at her, his black lashes half down over his eyes. ‘The jeans are pretty ancient, aren’t they? But you still manage to make them look like high fashion. I’m not sure how. I suppose it’s just that you’re gorgeous, whatever you wear—even with red eyes! And I must be the millionth man to tell you so. I ought to get a prize for that.’ He leaned over and kissed her mouth briefly, a mere brush of his lips, before she could draw back, and then went on coolly eating his chicken curry.
Zoe drew a shaken breath and was furious with herself. Anyone would think she had never been kissed before! That light touch of his mouth had lasted a second or two—she could almost believe she had imagined it except for this odd breathlessness. She rubbed her mouth, glaring. ‘You take more liberties than any man I’ve ever met! What do you do for a living? D’you work in the media? Only reporters have that much gall.’
He laughed. ‘No. I’m an explorer.’
She blinked, thinking she’d misheard. ‘A what?’ Maybe it was because she was so tired that she was feeling so disorientated, her ears and eyes playing tricks on her, her face flushed, as if she had a fever.
‘Explorer.’ He finished his meal and pushed it away. ‘I’m just back from South America. I’ve been mapping the mountain ranges from Tierra del Fuego all along the coast to the Cord de Mérida, right up in Venezuela. They run from one end of the continent to the other, just inland from the coast, over four thousand miles of mountains, many of them up to four thousand feet high. I’ve been out there for a year, climbing, filming, drawing.’
Open-mouthed, she asked, ‘Alone?’ and he laughed, white teeth showing against tanned skin.
‘No, thank heavens. I was with an international expedition—Europeans, a couple of dozen of us, all specialists: photographers, a couple of doctors, scientists, geologists, biologists. But we were all climbers; that was essential. In those mountains you need to know what you’re doing and you need other people you can rely on. Lives could be lost otherwise.’ He yawned, got up, went to the washing machine and bent to look at the contents. ‘I’ll click this through the cycle now and get it on rinse, then we can pop the clothes into the dryer.’
‘You’re not married, are you?’ Zoe thoughtfully said, watching him deftly adjust the machine.
He turned, gave her a cynical look from those deep, dark eyes, shaking his head. ‘No. Don’t tell me you have scruples about getting involved with married men? Hal didn’t tell me that.’
‘Hal doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does!’ she broke out angrily. ‘He doesn’t really know me at all. We’ve never been what you could call friends!’
‘What does that mean? Translate for me. By “friends” do you actually mean lovers?’
‘No! I mean what most people mean by the word “friends”. Hal and I have worked together...’
‘And he never made a pass?’ Connel sounded disbelieving, and she could imagine why, knowing Hal Thaxford, who made a pass at any attractive woman he met.
‘He made them, yes,’ she said coldly.
‘And got slapped down?’
‘Hard. I told him I wasn’t interested, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer until I slapped his face too. He isn’t very bright, you know, or a very good actor. Too wooden. And typically he thinks he’s God’s gift. He has no idea he’s second-rate. When he finally took on board that I would not get involved with him he started sulking. ’
‘Hmm.’ Connel Hillier was eying her dryly. ‘Hal’s version of this story is somewhat different. In fact, he says it was the other way round—he wasn’t interested in you and you resented it.’
Zoe shrugged, unsurprised. ‘Well, you can make your own mind up which of us you believe! And, by the way, I’ve no intention of getting involved with you, either, Mr Hillier. I asked if you were married because it’s obvious you’re used to looking after yourself—you know how a washing machine works, and you can do your own cooking. If you were married, your wife would probably do all that.’
‘These days most men can take care of themselves, married or not.’
‘Some men can! Some men don’t see why they should bother, once they’re married!’
‘A few, maybe. But my brother, for instance, is as capable of cooking a three-course meal as his wife, because Cherry is a high-powered executive who often doesn’t get home until midnight, so Declan has to take care of himself when she’s busy.’
‘They don’t have children, presumably?’
He shook his head. ‘Cherry’s on the fast track at work; she doesn’t plan on having kids for years yet. But she’s only twenty-six; she has plenty of time.’
‘And your brother’s happy with that?’
‘He wants children one day, but he’s in no hurry. He and Cherry only got married a few months ago; they lead a pretty hectic social life: dinner parties, first nights, clubbing. They’re rarely at home in the evening unless they’re giving a party.’
Zoe was listening intently, but her eyelids were drooping wearily and she couldn’t stop yawning, hiding it behind her hand.
The washing machine was going into a spin now. Connel Hillier took the plastic washing basket down from the top of the machine, his back to her while he waited for the washing to come to a halt, but he went on talking about his brother, his voice low and soft. ‘De-clan isn’t ready for the responsibility of kids yet, anyway. He’s far too keen on his social life. I sometimes wonder why he and Cherry got married at all. They’re both so independent and busy, so involved with their own lives, they don’t seem like a pair, more like flat-mates. But then who knows what goes on inside a relationship? I often think...’
The quiet murmur of his voice was soothing. It blurred into the background, became soporific; Zoe yawned, listening to it, couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, she let them close, her head so heavy on her neck that she slowly bowed it on to her arms on the table in front of her.
She never knew when exactly she fell asleep.
The next she knew was when light flickered across her eyelids. Yawning, she stretched her arms above her head—then realised the light was sunlight. What time was it?
Usually when she woke up it was still dark, even in summer. Film-making began with first light and only ended when the light went. She should have been up hours ago. Sharply turning her head to look at her alarm clock, she saw it was eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock?
Horrified, she sat up—why hadn’t the alarm gone off? Surely she couldn’t have slept through it?
At the same instant her memory rushed in with images of what had happened last night, and she stiffened, her eyes flashing round the bedroom. How had she got here? For a second or two her head swam with bewilderment.
The last thing she remembered was sitting with her head on her arms, while behind her Connel Hillier talked about his brother.
She must have drifted off to sleep. Yes, but how had she got up here, into bed? Panic flooded her. Her heart beat like a steam hammer in her chest, behind her ribs. She couldn’t breathe. What had happened last night? After she fell asleep? She couldn’t remember coming upstairs; she hadn’t set her alarm. How had she got here?
She had been fully dressed, wearing that old grey sweater and her shabbiest pair of jeans—she lifted the sheet and looked down at herself, turned scarlet. She wasn’t wearing them now! All she had on was her bra and panties.
‘Oh, my God,’ she groaned aloud. He must have carried her up here, stripped her...and then...? What had happened then?
Heat burned in her face. She didn’t want to think about it. She flung back the covers and jumped out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown from her wardrobe and put it on, then crept out on to the landing, listening for sounds.
Where was he?
The house was silent; the familiar sounds were all she could hear: a Victorian clock she had bought in a junk shop ticking sonorously from her sitting room, the hum of electricity from the kitchen, and from the trees in the garden a whispering of autumn leaves, the sound of birds.
On tiptoe she went from room to room upstairs, but there was no sign of him, so she stole downstairs and began to search there, but he was nowhere in the house, and nothing seemed to be missing. She didn’t have anything very valuable in the way of antiques, of course, but her electrical equipment was all still in place—TV, video player, stereo equipment—none of it had gone.
The kitchen was spotless, the dishes he had used washed up and put away, the sink cleaned, the hob as clean as if he had never been there, and there was no sign of his clothes in the tumble dryer. He must have waited for them to dry properly, then put them on and gone.
Her car! she thought, hurrying to open the front door, but it still stood there, on the drive, where she had left it; the rain was drying on the glossy surface now, the chrome flashing in the sunlight.
She shut the front door again. He had gone, leaving no trace. She might almost have imagined the whole incident. She wished she could believe she had.
But the phone was still unplugged; she hadn’t invented him pulling it out of the wall! She bent to plug it back in, then went back upstairs and showered, got dressed, like a zombie, moving automatically in her usual routine before leaving for work, but with brow furrowed, eyes blank in deep thought.
He had carried her upstairs, taken her clothes off and put her into her bed. Was that all he had done?
Had he got in bed with her? Had he...?
No! she told herself fiercely. She would have woken up if he had tried to have sex with her. Of course she would!
She hadn’t woken up while he was carrying her upstairs, or taking off her jeans, though. It couldn’t have been easy to get her jeans off without disturbing her, could it?
Maybe he had woken her up, though? Maybe she had stirred, becoming aware, woken up? But... if she had, she would remember, wouldn’t she? And she didn’t recall a thing after she’d put her head on her arms and drifted off to sleep.
She didn’t want to think about it. Angrily she ran downstairs, made herself black coffee but didn’t eat anything. Her appetite had gone. In fact, she felt sick.
She stood by the window, drinking her hot coffee, staring out at the bright, autumn morning, making herself observe what she saw instead of thinking about last night. In her job that was vital, the act of observing, seeing, far more important than words, and it helped her to forget herself.
After all that torrential rain the sky was blue and cloudless; the sun shone as brilliantly as if it was summer again. Leaves blew across the damp grass of her lawns; orange, bronze, gold, dark brown, they heaped up behind her garden wall. She must get out there and rake them up on her next day off. There were few flowers around now: a bush of dark blood-red fuchsia, the bells drooping, still heavy with yesterday’s rain, pale blue and pink lace-capped hydrangeas, a few white winter roses. But autumn had other pleasures; she stared at spiders’ webs glittering on bushes, delicate, complex patterns filmed with dew, as bright as diamonds in this sunlight, and fluttering in the wind like ancient flags.
But however hard she tried to think about other things she kept coming back to last night. How was she going to work today? How could she concentrate when somewhere at the edge of her mind was a vague memory, like a dream, half remembered. Warm hands touching her, softly caressing...
Groaning again, she shook her head. No, she didn’t remember that. She didn’t remember anything.
Her nerves jumped as the telephone began to ring. She slowly went to pick it up, her fingers slippery with perspiration.
‘Hello?’ She couldn’t quite make her voice steady. It wouldn’t be him—why should he ring her? Yet somehow she didn’t feel she had seen the last of him. He had left her off balance, nervous, with this worrying feeling that something had happened last night that wasn’t going to be easy to forget.
‘Zoe?’ The voice at the other end was uncertain, but very familiar, and she relaxed. ‘Is that you? Are you okay?’ It was her production runner, Barbara, a lively, eager, hard-working girl in her early twenties, who was normally full of bounce, but this morning sounded faintly anxious.
Pulling herself together, Zoe huskily reassured her. ‘Of course I am—what do you mean?’
‘You sounded breathless. Did I wake you up? Had you forgotten you called an early start, for five-thirty? Or did you oversleep?’
‘Yes, sorry, my alarm didn’t go off.’ They must all be cursing her, getting them there so early and then not turning up, and she couldn’t blame them; she would feel just the same in their shoes. ‘I’m just leaving, Barbara. I should be there in half an hour. Has Will started work? Is he setting up the cameras?’
‘Yes, he’s more or less ready, I think. He just broke to have some breakfast, and there’s a crowd of extras milling around eating sausage baps.’
‘Okay. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
Zoe hung up, locked the cottage, got behind the wheel of her car and started the engine, pushing away the memory of what had—or hadn’t—happened last night.
She would think about that some other time. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by anything, or anyone, until this film was finished.
With any luck she would never set eyes on Connel Hillier again, anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
THE following Saturday Zoe wasn’t working—she often worked seven days a week, but officially it was six days. The film unions wouldn’t permit their members to work all week without a day off, not that that applied to a director, who could work whenever she chose, planning, rewriting, working out shots in a model of the set. Without her film crew, of course. They usually crashed out for hours, so sleep-starved after working long hours every other day that they rarely surfaced again until the evening when they headed for bright lights and some fun.
Zoe got up at eleven that Saturday, had a real breakfast for once, a bowl of fresh fruit and a boiled egg with toast, listening to local radio. Someone had rung her a couple of times without leaving a message on her answer-machine. Who had that been? she wondered, and hoped it hadn’t been Larry again. He was becoming a nuisance.
Her sister’s voice came on next. ‘Aren’t you ever at home? Look, tonight, six o’clock, don’t forget, or else! Oh, and bring a bottle, preferably red wine. It goes so well with steak.’
After tidying the kitchen and making her bed, Zoe went to the hairdresser, then ate lunch in the local pub, which did a wonderful mushroom risotto, played a concentrated game of dominoes with friends. At two-thirty she drove to the local supermarket and did her weekend shopping, then went home to put it all away before doing an hour’s housework. She enjoyed Saturday; it was peaceful and restful not to have to tell anyone else what to do, and to be able to sleep as late as she liked and be as lazy as she chose.
At four she stripped down to her bra and panties and went back to bed for an hour, setting her alarm to make sure she woke up in time to go to her sister’s barbecue.
The alarm going off was a shock to her system. She was dragged out of a dream, her nerves jangling, but that was normal to her. Eyes still shut, she groped her way to the clock, to push down the button, then swung her legs out of bed to make sure she didn’t fall asleep again.
Yawning and flushed, she stretched, stood up, opened her eyes and made her way to the bathroom to shower before getting dressed. The lukewarm water was refreshing, cooling down her skin, waking her properly. Standing by the window later, she saw that the wind and rain had passed. The weather had warmed up, the late-evening sun was shining, the sky was blue and clear, not a cloud in sight. It could be summer instead of autumn. A perfect evening for a barbecue.
She put on her favourite casual outfit, a jade-green-trouser suit. Under the jacket she wore a bronze silk sleeveless tunic so fine it could be drawn through the exactly matching bronze Celtic bracelet she wore on one arm. She had bought this replica at the British Museum shop; it was inscribed with runic writing.
It was nearly six-thirty by the time she got to her sister’s house and the barbecue was already crowded and noisy, mostly with children, Zoe was sorry to see. Her nephews rushed at her, pink and excited.
‘A balloon landed on the barbie and blew up!’
‘Dad went crazy!’
‘You should have heard him shouting!’
They both giggled, looking at each other. ‘It really made him jump!’
Zoe eyed them shrewdly. ‘It wouldn’t have been you two who lobbed the balloon on to the barbie, by any chance?’
‘Us?’ The eldest, seven-year-old Felix, said innocently, his eyes reminding her of his father. You could see already what Felix would look like when he was Mark’s age—he was going to be tall, dark, bony, very attractive.
‘It just blew down from a tree, honestly!’ six-year-old Charlie said, but a dimple in his cheek and a chuckle in his voice gave him away. He wasn’t yet quite out of babyhood, face and body still soft and downy, but he tumbled in his big brother’s wake everywhere, falling over, bruising himself, but determined to do everything Felix did. He wasn’t as much like his father. Zoe saw her sister in him, Sancha’s warmth, her tenderness, her sensitivity. No need to worry about Felix; he was as tough as a tree and full of confidence. But Charlie was different. Zoe knew Sancha worried about him.
‘Oh, there you are! I said six, not half past!’ Sancha gave her a quick hug, then looked her up and down, making a face. ‘You look as if you’re dressed for a nightclub. I suppose you bought that outfit in Paris when you went there last month?’
‘No, London, and it’s a year old! Sorry I’m late. I had so much to do. My one day off! I’ve been rushing about, shopping, doing housework. Here, my contribution to the bar!’ Zoe handed her sister the two bottles of red Chianti she was carrying.
‘Chianti! Lovely. Thanks. It will remind us of our wonderful Tuscan holiday—it was quite a wrench to come back. We loved it, didn’t we, boys?’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie said blissfully. ‘I drank lots of wine.’
‘You had a sip from your father’s glass once or twice!’ Sancha rephrased, smiling indulgently.
‘It was really cool!’ Felix said nostalgically. ‘We had a pool and swam every day. I taught Flora to swim.’
‘To float, anyway.’ His mother nodded. ‘She looked so sweet, paddling around in a plastic duck boat. Did I show you the photos, Zoe? I must get them out later.’
‘I can’t wait. Talking of monsters, where is she?’ Zoe looked around warily.
At once alarmed, Sancha looked around too. ‘Boys, where is she? I told you to look after her.’
‘Under that bush,’ Charlie told her, pointing a stubby pink finger at a blue hydrangea covered in great, lacy heads of sky-blue flowers. Flora, in pink dungarees and a pink sweater, her red hair tousled and stuck with several of the bright blue flower-heads, lay on her back under the branches, fast asleep, her mouth open, snoring loudly, a piece of doughnut clutched in one hand.
Sancha’s face glowed with mother love. ‘Doesn’t she look adorable?’
‘That’s not a word I’d ever apply to Flora, but that’s how I like her best, fast asleep and not doing anything,’ Zoe admitted. ‘It’s when she wakes up and starts getting about that I get nervous.’
The boys grinned. ‘Me, too,’ Charlie agreed.
‘She always wants to play with us,’ Felix complained. ‘And she’s too little and keeps falling over, and screaming, then we get blamed.’
‘You’re the oldest; you should take care of your baby sister,’ their mother scolded, and the boys grimaced at their aunt.
From the barbecue site Mark waved, calling, ‘Come and help, boys!’
‘We have to be waiters,’ Felix gloomily said. ‘And give out the food to people. It’s boring.’
‘Off you go,’ their mother insisted, however, so they trudged off reluctantly, as if there was lead in their shoes.
‘So what’s the great news you mentioned?’ Zoe asked her sister, and Sancha beamed.
‘I’m going to start my own firm!’
Amazed, Zoe asked, ‘Doing what?’
‘Photography, stupid! I’ve taken a lease on a shop in Abbot Street, just behind the High Street. It will take a couple of months to make some essential changes to the shop fittings, so I’ll open up around Christmas, spacialising in children and make-overs.’
‘Make-overs?’
‘Oh, you know—a woman comes in wanting a photo that makes her look better than she usually does! Martha is going to do the hair and make-up; we’re going into partnership. When she’s transformed the client I take a series of soft-focus shots.’
‘You should make millions,’ Zoe said, laughing.
‘You may laugh. You don’t need a helping hand—some women do! I did myself a year ago, remember.’
‘Well, you don’t need one now; you look terrific!’ Zoe said, smiling at her. ‘And I’ll keep my fingers crossed your new venture is a huge success. Is Mark okay about it?’
‘Very supportive—in fact, he put up half the money. He insisted. He thinks I’ve had a brilliant idea and he wanted to back me. Mark’s very shrewd, too, so it was very encouraging to know he approved of my concept.’
‘Amazing,’ Zoe murmured. ‘The man surprises me sometimes. But then all men give you surprises, not all of them pleasant.’
‘Talking about men, where’s yours?’ asked Sancha.
‘Who?’ Zoe stared at her in bafflement.
‘Whoever you’re seeing at the moment—I told you to bring a guy.’
Zoe shrugged. ‘I’m not seeing anyone. I’m too busy for a social life.’
‘What happened to...was it... Harry? No, Larry? He was the last one I met.’
‘He turned out to be a bit weird, so I broke it off.’
Sighing heavily, Sancha told her, ‘Zoe, if you keep dumping men like this you’ll end up a lonely spinster!’
‘I’ve heard that a hundred times! And I’m not lonely, nor do I spin. Or sew, come to that. Women don’t have to marry these days to enjoy life. I’ve got a career that’s more important to me than any man I ever meet. I earn a lot of money and have a lot of fun, and above all I love my work. I enjoy men’s company when I’m in the mood but I don’t need a man to make my life complete.’
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