Hot Surrender. CHARLOTTE LAMB

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