CHARLOTTE LAMB - Hot Surrender

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 beginning 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.

He bent again to open the cupboard and her eyes flicked round the kitchen in search of possible weapons. A glass rolling pin filled with dried flowers, from Greece, hung on the wall—how about that?

No, that was a souvenir of one of the best holidays she had ever had. She didn’t want to break that. One of the saucepans? Not heavy enough. That copper casserole would make quite a dent, though, she thought, gazing at the highly polished dish hanging close to the oven.

The washing machine started and she looked back at him warily. He was now busy inspecting the contents of the fridge and the freezer, taking stuff out and checking the cooking instructions.

‘There are plenty of soups,’ she offered.

He was reading a pack of microwave chicken curry and shrugged. ‘I’m too hungry for soup—this looks good. I see you’ve got a microwave. I’ll have this. Do you want some of it?’

She shuddered at the very idea at this hour. ‘No, thanks. I prefer not to eat rich food late at night, and, anyway, I’ve had some soup. Look, can I ring for a taxi for you now? You can eat your meal while you’re waiting.’

He popped the chicken curry into the microwave and punched the numbers at the side. The turntable inside began revolving. ‘I shall need my clothes before I leave. I see you’ve got a tumble dryer. When my things come out of the washing machine I’ll put them straight into the dryer.’