'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.'