Hot Surrender

by Charlotte Lamb

  He had been in it with her when she went to sleep. She didn't need to look to know he wasn't there now.

  She slid out of bed and ran to the window. The tail-lights of his car were just disappearing through her gates.

  Leaning on the windowsill, Zoe stared after them, her mind dissolving in pain and bewilderment.

  Why was he going? Where was he going?

  After making love to her so passionately he had let her fall asleep, in his arms, then he had silently detached himself, stolen from her bed, got dressed in the dark, gone downstairs, let himself out of the front door and driven away.

  A cynical little voice inside her said—Well, he'd had what he wanted, hadn't he? Why should he stay around after that?

  From that first night when they met he had probably had his sights set on getting her. Remember what he had said? Remember the impression of her Hal Thaxford had given him? Connel had picked up the idea that she was some sort of challenge to his sex. Had he decided to take up that challenge, beat her at what he saw as her own game?

  All these weeks, had he been stalking her with the intention of getting her into bed?

  She closed her eyes, groaning, covered her face with her trembling hands.

  Hal had told him she dated men, then dumped them ruthlessly. Was that what Connel had planned for her?

  That wouldn't be enough for him, though, would it? Having beaten her at her own game, he would need to tell people. Tell Hal, anyway! The idea of the two men talking about her, laughing, gloating, made her sick.

  She couldn't bear it. Her mind cringed in misery and pain.

  There was no chance of sleep again. Putting on a warm, woollen dressing gown, because she was as cold as ice now, she went downstairs.

  Maybe he had left a note? A little spark of hope lit inside her, but there was nothing.

  She made herself a pot of coffee, sat up with it, crouching in front of the electric fire, staring into the glowing red bars, remembering and wincing at the pain of her memories, brooding on what Connel might do next, while she drank cup after cup of the strong, black coffee.

  She must not let him destroy her. Somehow she had to restore her pride, hide what she felt.

  Before the sun came up she had showered, dressed in her working clothes, and was on her way to the location site. She was tense at having gone without sleep, so wound up over how she felt about Connel she was like a puppet on wires, jangling mentally and physically. How was she going to get through the day?

  Will and the others were soon aware of her mood. They gave her wary looks as they jumped to obey her. The actors lurked in their caravans as much as possible; the production staff ran like rabbits, bolt-eyed in alarm in case she turned her icy rage on them. Luckily, there was a great deal to do that morning; she didn't have time to think about her personal life, because her work kept her fully occupied.

  As the day wore on she was so engrossed in the scene they were shooting that her mind never wandered from the usual problems of making sure the technical machinery was working perfectly. In filming, there was always something going wrong. The sound man kept complaining about traffic noise in the distance, about a plane flying overhead, about a flock of wood pigeons that flew into the trees and began cooing to each other. Will was groaning because although the sun was bright at times there were clouds passing overhead which kept the light changing every minute or so. A filter he used didn't help much, either. Then one of the cables suddenly started giving off sparks and burst into flames. Will rushed to grab a fire extinguisher, sprayed the burning cable with bubbling, white foam. The fire was put out, but that area of the location was then full of floating foam, and had to be cleared up before they could start filming.

  Before that, however, they broke for lunch—the catering van had thin slices of ham with salad, or spaghetti with tomato, red pepper and broccoli sauce for vegetarians. There were sandwiches, too, wrapped in plastic film. Zoe had a salad sandwich and an apple. She ate with Will, who had a huge plate of spaghetti, eying her sandwich with disapproval.

  'That won't give you much energy! You're too thin. A woman should have a few curves.'

  'Mind your own business and eat your own lunch. Now, listen, in the call sheet I noticed that…' She broke off, green eyes narrowing as she spotted Hal Thaxford peering at her from behind a group of other actors clustering around the food wagon. 'So he is here!' she muttered to herself.

  Giving her a surprised look, Will picked up his pink schedule, flicked an eye down the cast list pinned to it. 'Hal? Isn't he supposed to be working with us this week? He's on my list—we should get to his scene this afternoon, if we're lucky. At the rate we've been going so far! I thought we might have finished shooting Scene 43 by now.'

  'It's been one of those days,' she absently murmured, becoming aware that Hal was sidling towards them. Had Connel said anything to him when he arrived back at the party? Or had Hal gone by the time Connel got there? It must have been late. Half past eleven? She felt hot colour creeping up her face and bent her head over her script. She would know the minute she met Hal's eyes, but she was in no hurry to find out. If Hal did know what had happened last night he would have started spreading the gossip by now, and she would hear the echo of it sooner or later.

  Will gave her a sideways look, eyes concerned. 'Certainly has. What's wrong, Zoe? You've been snapping like a crocodile since you arrived.'

  She didn't deny it. 'Sorry. Just an off day, I guess.'

  'Private life or is it one of those female things?' grunted Will without looking at her again, concentrating on his spaghetti, which was disappearing at an amazing rate. For someone who was so thin and wiry, Will ate large amounts. He used up so many calories in his work; cameras were pretty heavy, although as Will often gratefully said they were much lighter today than they had been when he trained. Some of them were feather-light, in fact, but Will had developed enormous muscles from carrying cameras and equipment about when he was younger.

  She admired Will. He was good. Very good. He had worked with some amazing people: directors she respected, actors she would love to work with herself.

  'I have a personal problem,' she muttered.

  He looked up, watched her. 'Anything you can talk about?'

  She shook her head. 'No, too private.'

  'It helps to talk these things out Helps you think more clearly. I care a lot about you, Zoe, you know that.'

  She knew, and was sad. Will had teen chasing her for a long time but she would never see him as anything but a buddy.

  'Thanks, Will,' she said softly. 'You're one of my best friends, too.'

  He grimaced 'Just a friend, though?'

  She put a hand on top of one of his. 'What do you mean, just a friend? How many really good friends have you got? I know I haven't got many.'

  Will looked at her hand, took it into both his, looking at her soberly. 'You've changed lately. You're different. Gentler, sweeter…are you in love, Zoe? Is that it?'

  She flushed, then went white, pulling her hand free, but before she needed to answer someone else joined them.

  'Hi.'

  Hal's voice made her stiffen. She summoned up a cool smile, lifting her head to meet his eyes.

  She knew the second she looked into them that Connel hadn't yet told him. Hal couldn't act well enough to hide such knowledge. That handsome wooden face hid nothing.

  'Hi, Hal.' Her voice was rough with relief. She felt Will's attention. He had picked up on her tone, but he thought she was simply irritated by Hal, as usual. Out of the corner of her eye she caught his suppressed, amused smile.

  Hal was looking reproachful. 'I came over to tell you I managed to talk to Connel…' His expression glowed with self-satisfaction. 'And he will let us use the rose garden, so long as there's a written contract guaranteeing him against damage or expense.'

  She had forgotten all about that idea, and after last night was no longer sure she wanted to go ahead with it.

  'I'll talk to the company about a contr
act,' she slowly said, then smiled at Hal, deliberately using charm. 'Thanks, Hal. I'm very grateful.'

  'That's okay, my pleasure,' he said, then hesitated. 'When do you think you'll get round to my scene?'

  She waved a hand at Will. 'Ask the master.'

  'Later this afternoon,' guessed Will.

  Hal sighed, nodded. 'Well, I'll get into the card game, then.' A group of actors and crew not needed on set at the moment were playing cards in one of the caravans.

  Since it wasn't politic for Zoe to know about the card game, she didn't comment. If anyone from the film company found out she permitted it she would get a load of trouble. They would object to paying people to sit around playing cards, although they were aware of the long hours spent setting up every scene and must realise that the actors were often kept hanging, around waiting most of the day. Actors read, knitted, embroidered, exercised, gossiped, played cards or dominoes or chess, did anything to pass the time. As long as they didn't get in her way she didn't care what they did.

  When Hal had gone Will shot her a curious look. 'What was all that about?'

  She didn't quite meet his eyes. Casually, she said, 'Oh, I had an idea yesterday—Hal and I were at a party in his cousin's house…'

  Will's brows shot up. 'You and Hal went to a party together? I had no idea you were dating him. My God, don't tell me you're in love with Hal Thaxford! You can't be that stupid!'

  'That isn't funny!' She grimaced, flushing. 'You know what I think of Hal. We were both at the same party, that's all.'

  'Yeah?' drawled Will, and she laughed crossly.

  'Yes! I went with my sister and her husband, who works for Hal's cousin.' Why was she explaining? What had her private life to do with Will?

  'Who's that? The cousin?' Will had finished his spaghetti and was eating a pear which he had peeled carefully first.

  She took an unsteady breath, afraid that just saying his name might give her away.

  'His name's Hillier. Connel Hillier.' She had got the name out without stumbling or stammering; relief made her run on easily. 'He runs a civil engineering firm and he has this beautiful house, near a village called Rookby…'

  'Are there any?'

  'What?' Interrupted again, she was thrown, staring at Will blankly.

  'Rooks?'

  'I've no idea. It was dark when we got there, dark when we left Anyway, Hal and I talked about his part in the film, out in the garden…'

  'In the dark?' Will was amused, curious, teasing again.

  She glared. 'Don't try to make anything of it. There's nothing to make. There were other people exploring the garden, and it was very overcrowded in the house, so we went out for some fresh air and found this sunken rose garden.'

  'You're very touchy on the subject of Hal! You're making me jealous. Are you hiding something?'

  'Of course I'm not' Not about Hal, anyway. Luckily, it hadn't occurred to him that Hal's cousin might be behind her edginess. 'And I'm not touchy about Hal. Will you listen? This sunken garden had high red brick walls, trellises of roses, lots of them still in bloom—it was quite lovely, and it occurred to me that it would make a great; setting for the love scene between Hal and Lindsay.'

  Will flipped the pages of his shooting script, found the right scene, read it, frowning. 'Well, it would certainly be a good idea to vary the background; it adds depth. I always like a new background, myself, and it would fit the storyline. But can we afford it? How much will this guy charge? That's the question.'

  'Hal didn't mention money.'

  'If his cousin's a businessman, his lawyers will, when the contract is drawn up. What's it worth to get a different background?'

  'We'll see what he wants first, then decide. We won't get to that scene for about ten days.' She looked at her watch. 'Look at the time! Let's get on, Will.'

  When she got home that evening she was on tenterhooks, half expecting to see Connel's car parked outside, but there was no sign of him. The first thing she did, as usual, when she got inside, was to turn on the answer-machine for her messages.

  The calls were mostly work-related, but the third voice was Sancha's.

  'Okay, so what happened? Why did you run out like that? Mark was angry. We brought you and it was his boss's house—it was insulting to Connel, and the last thing he wants is for you to upset Connel. Ring me. I want to hear all about it, Zoe!'

  Not on your life, thought Zoe, as her sister's voice ended. She wasn't telling Sancha anything.

  The machine whirred and she found herself listening to Philip Cross, the company accountant, making his almost daily call of complaint about her spending.

  'You're over budget again, Zoe. We don't have unlimited cash; this isn't Hollywood That party scene, the fancy dress…who ran those costumes up? What do you have wardrobe women for if it isn't to make low-budget costumes? You didn't have to hire them from London. And there are too many vehicles being used. You can cut down the number of cars, surely…'

  Half-listening, half-wishing he was here and she could tell him what she thought of him, she sat down to eat her hurriedly assembled meal—a slice of grilled fresh salmon, some salad, some fruit.

  She had finished her fish by the time Philip had stopped moaning on about costs. Zoe reached for her glass of orange juice, only to have her hand start shaking and knock it over as Connel's voice came on the machine.

  Leaping up, she stood the glass upright again, grabbed a dishcloth and began moping the table, her pulses beating behind her ears, at her neck and wrists. She loved that deep, cool, male voice. The sound of it made her tremble.

  'Zoe, I have to go abroad,' he said curtly and impersonally, as if she was one of his office staff. 'No idea when I'll get back.' The answer-machine buzzed and whirred, breaking up into sea noises, out of which his distant voice said, 'See you.' Then the machine clicked off and Zoe sat down before her knees gave way under her.

  That wasn't how lovers spoke to each other. There had been nothing personal, nothing passionate, in that tone.

  He didn't care two pins about her.

  That was obvious. She had suspected it when she'd found he had gone without leaving a note. Now she was sure about it They had slept together, now he was walking out without looking back.

  Anger, shame, humiliation washed over her in hot waves. She couldn't sit there. Jumping up, she began clearing the table, tidying the kitchen. Then went up to bed and worked for an hour on tomorrow's scenes before she put out the light.

  Amazingly, she slept. Probably because she hadn't slept much last night and was so stressed and exhausted that she couldn't stay awake. She dreamt, though. All night she woke briefly from dreams of running after Connel as he vanished, hurrying through rooms she did not recognise, searching for him, seeing him at a distance, but always going away from her and not looking back. She always went back to sleep without difficulty, back to those dreams, that misery.

  She woke in tears, on a damp pillow, and sensed she had cried more than once during the night.

  Was this how it felt to have your heart broken? She had never believed in breaking hearts. She had laughed the idea to scorn. Hearts do not break. They are organs of the body; they function like machines; pump, pump, beat, beat, lubbadub, lubbadub, they go, sending the blood through your veins, keeping you alive. They do not break.

  But hers had. She was one of the walking dead, a zombie moving automatically without knowing what she was doing. Without a heart, without a brain.

  For the rest of that week she buried herself in work. She heard nothing from Connel, but the company lawyers let her know they had made a deal with Connel's lawyer over the use of the rose garden. He had asked only for a returnable deposit to cover possible damage or nuisance. If the film crew behaved impeccably the deposit would be paid back. The lawyers were pleased with their negotiations, and so was Philip Cross, the accountant.

  'Just make sure no damage is done and the man can't sue us!' his voice nagged on her answer-machine.

  Hal told her C
onnel was in the Argentine on business. 'And probably chatting up dark-eyed senoritas, if I know him!' he grinned.

  Zoe grinned back, the skin around her mouth stiff, jealousy burning inside her chest, although Hal couldn't know that, unless Connel had now told him about the night of the party, but she didn't think he had; she didn't read anything in Hal's manner or his eyes.

  Later she snapped at him, 'For God's sake, Hal, could you try to talk as if you were a man, not a recorded phone message!'

  He glared. Hal was good at glaring. He did it even when he wasn't trying. It was probably his natural expression. She wouldn't be surprised to hear that his face fell into glaring, brooding lines even when he was asleep. His fans loved it, loved the smouldering stares, the locked jawline, the rough masculine voice.

  'I'm only saying my lines!'

  She sweetened her voice, sarcastically said, 'I don't want you to only say them. I want you to act, Hal. I know it's hard—but could you try? I know you went to drama school. They must have taught you something.'

  There were indrawn breaths all round them. Eyes widened, people looked at each other, open-mouthed.

  How could she say such a thing to Hal? Of all people! One of the best-loved actors on TV? Hal's mouth had dropped open; he couldn't believe it, either.

  'We'll go again,' she said. 'Marks, everybody. Okay, Will? Okay, sound? Everybody ready? Hal, stop sulking.'

  'Stop nagging,' he muttered, so low she barely heard him.

  'What did you say?'

  'Nothing,' he said, acting—brilliantly, for once—the part of an innocent man wrongly accused. 'Just rehearsing my lines.'

  She knew she was behaving like a bear with a sore head. She couldn't help it Being in love, she discovered, is like toothache—once you've got it you can't forget it. It nags on and on in the back of your mind, whatever you're doing, hurting intolerably.

  It had never happened to Zoe before, and she didn't know how to cope. How did you disguise constant pain? How did you keep smiling when you wanted to cry? How did you stop yelling at people, complaining, losing your temper over nothing? Why had she never realised love could destroy you like this?