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 deliriously 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 th
em, 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 beginn
ing 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.
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