Hot Surrender

“Don’t you like playing games, Zoe?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“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®.

Hot Surrender

Charlotte Lamb

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.’