CHARLOTTE LAMB - Hot Surrender

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?’