Hot Surrender

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.'

Trying not to sound anxious she snapped, 'That will take hours—and you're not staying here after you've eaten your food. I want to ring for a taxi for you.'

He took no notice, opening cupboards again, getting more stuff out. He looked at the foil-wrapped coffee beans he found, making a face. 'Not brilliant, but I suppose they'll do.'

A little flag of red burnt her cheeks. 'Oh, sorry my coffee doesn't meet your standard. I'll make sure I've got something better next time you break down near my house.'

Her sarcasm was water off a duck's back. He shook some coffee into the electric grinder he had found. 'I like using the traditional, wooden French coffee-grinders,' he told her conversationally. 'You feel you're really getting coffee—nothing else gives you that fresh-ground coffee smell. Instant is a last resort for me!'

'This machine is much quicker and less trouble,' Zoe resentfully told him. 'Like the microwave and the tumble dryer, it does the job in half the time, and saving time is important to me. I'm a career woman, not a housewife.'

He gave her a sardonic smile as he began to fill the percolator with cold water. 'No cream in your fridge, I see! Dieting, I suppose?' Another of those cool, assessing glances that made her spine shiver. 'Well, I'm not! I'll make do with black coffee, but I hope you've got some sugar.'

'Mr Hillier, I did not invite you to this house, but you are my guest so stop knocking the way I live!' She was really furious now. Who did he think he was? 'There's sugar in the far cupboard on the right.' She looked at her watch. 'Look, I'm exhausted. I've had a tough day and I want to get some sleep before I have to get up again in the morning. Would you please eat your meal and leave? I'm sure the taxi driver won't care what you're wearing.' An idea hit her and she hurried out into the hall, to come back with a long brown drover's mac which she had bought in Australia a couple of years ago.

'You could wear this! Nobody will notice what you're wearing under it.'

He was putting a plate under the oven grill, which he had turned on. He glanced at the coat, came over to take it, held it up against him, nodding. 'Terrific, thanks. At least you've got good taste in clothes. I'll borrow it, but I'll still want to wear my own clothes under it.'

'I'll post them on to you tomorrow.'

Shaking his head, he went over to the microwave as it began to bleep. 'No, I'll wait for them.'

Zoe was almost desperate to get rid of him. Her voice high, she yelled, 'This is my house, and I want you to go!'

He opened the curry and inhaled. 'Smells wonderful.' Switching off the grill, he used a teatowel to get the plate out, tipped the golden chicken and sauce out on to the plate, surrounded it with the fluffy white rice which had also been in the packet, sat down at the table and began to eat with a fork. 'Could you pour the coffee?'

'What did your last slave die of?'

'Delight,' he said, sliding her a wicked glance from under his extraordinarily long black lashes.

Zoe's rage wasn't as strong as her sense of humour; she couldn't help laughing, much though she wished she could.

He grinned at her. 'So you are human?'

'Human—and exhausted,' she told him, pouring coffee into the mugs. She might as well drink some herself—clearly she wasn't going to be able to get rid of him for quite a while, and she couldn't go to bed, leaving a total stranger in her house.

'How many hours did you work today?'

'I was up at five, at work by six,' she told him, sitting down opposite him at the table.

He studied her, brows lifted. 'Your eyes are red. They match your hair.'

Hushed, she crossly snapped, 'Thanks. That makes me feel really glamorous.'

He went on staring at her, his black lashes half down over his eyes. 'The jeans are pretty ancient, aren't they? But you still manage to make them look like high fashion. I'm not sure how. I suppose it's just that you're gorgeous, whatever you wear—even with red eyes! And I must be the millionth man to tell you so. I ought to get a prize for that.' He leaned over and kissed her mouth briefly, a mere brush of his lips, before she could draw back, and then went on coolly eating his chicken curry.

Zoe drew a shaken breath and was furious with herself. Anyone would think she had never been kissed before! That light touch of his mouth had lasted a second or two—she could almost believe she had imagined it except for this odd breathlessness. She rubbed her mouth, glaring. 'You take more liberties than any man I've ever met! What do you do for a living? D'you work in the media? Only reporters have that much gall.'

He laughed. 'No. I'm an explorer.'

She blinked, thinking she'd misheard. 'A what?' Maybe it was because she was so tired that she was feeling so disorientated, her ears and eyes playing tricks on her, her face flushed, as if she had a fever.

'Explorer.' He finished his meal and pushed it away. 'I'm just back from South America. I've been mapping the mountain ranges from Tierra del Fuego all along the coast to the Cord de Merida, right up in Venezuela. They run from one end of the continent to the other, just inland from the coast, over four thousand miles of mountains, many of them up to four thousand feet high. I've been out there for a year, climbing, filming, drawing.'

Open-mouthed, she asked, 'Alone?' and he laughed, white teeth showing against tanned skin.