Hot Surrender

Zoe hung up, locked the cottage, got behind the wheel of her car and started the engine, pushing away the memory of what had—or hadn't—happened last night.

She would think about that some other time. She couldn't afford to be distracted by anything, or anyone, until this film was finished.

With any luck she would never set eyes on Connel Hillier again, anyway.

CHAPTER THREE

The following Saturday Zoe wasn't working—she often worked seven days a week, but officially it was six days. The film unions wouldn't permit their members to work all week without a day off, not that that applied to a director, who could work whenever she chose, planning, rewriting, working out shots in a model of the set. Without her film crew, of course. They usually crashed out for hours, so sleep-starved after working long hours every other day that they rarely surfaced again until the evening when they headed for bright lights and some fun.

Zoe got up at eleven that Saturday, had a real breakfast for once, a bowl of fresh fruit and a boiled egg with toast, listening to local radio. Someone had rung her a couple of times without leaving a message on her answer-machine. Who had that been? she wondered, and hoped it hadn't been Larry again. He was becoming a nuisance.

Her sister's voice came on next. 'Aren't you ever at home? Look, tonight, six o'clock, don't forget, or else! Oh, and bring a bottle, preferably red wine. It goes so well with steak.'

After tidying the kitchen and making her bed, Zoe went to the hairdresser, then ate lunch in the local pub, which did a wonderful mushroom risotto, played a concentrated game of dominoes with friends. At two-thirty she drove to the local supermarket and did her weekend shopping, then went home to put it all away before doing an hour's housework. She enjoyed Saturday; it was peaceful and restful not to have to tell anyone else what to do, and to be able to sleep as late as she liked and be as lazy as she chose.

At four she stripped down to her bra and panties and went back to bed for an hour, setting her alarm to make sure she woke up in time to go to her sister's barbecue.

The alarm going off was a shock to her system. She was dragged out of a dream, her nerves jangling, but that was normal to her. Eyes still shut, she groped her way to the clock, to push down the button, then swung her legs out of bed to make sure she didn't fall asleep again.

Yawning and flushed, she stretched, stood up, opened her eyes and made her way to the bathroom to shower before getting dressed. The lukewarm water was refreshing, cooling down her skin, waking her properly. Standing by the window later, she saw that the wind and rain had passed. The weather had warmed up, the late-evening sun was shining, the sky was blue and clear, not a cloud in sight. It could be summer instead of autumn. A perfect evening for a barbecue.

She put on her favourite casual outfit, a jade-green trouser suit. Under the jacket she wore a bronze silk sleeveless tunic so fine it could be drawn through the exactly matching bronze Celtic bracelet she wore on one arm. She had bought this replica at the British Museum shop; it was inscribed with runic writing.

It was nearly six-thirty by the time she got to her sister's house and the barbecue was already crowded and noisy, mostly with children, Zoe was sorry to see. Her nephews rushed at her, pink and excited.

'A balloon landed on the barbie and blew up!'

'Dad went crazy!'

'You should have heard him shouting!'

They both giggled, looking at each other. 'It really made him jump!'

Zoe eyed them shrewdly. 'It wouldn't have been you two who lobbed the balloon on to the barbie, by any chance?'

'Us?' The eldest, seven-year-old Felix, said innocently, his eyes reminding her of his father. You could see already what Felix would look like when he was Mark's age—he was going to be tall, dark, bony, very attractive.

'It just blew down from a tree, honestly!' six-year-old Charlie said, but a dimple in his cheek and a chuckle in his voice gave him away. He wasn't yet quite out of babyhood, face and body still soft and downy, but he tumbled in his big brother's wake everywhere, falling over, bruising himself, but determined to do everything Felix did. He wasn't as much like his father. Zoe saw her sister in him, Sancha's warmth, her tenderness, her sensitivity. No need to worry about Felix; he was as tough as a tree and full of confidence. But Charlie was different. Zoe knew Sancha worried about him.

'Oh, there you are! I said six, not half past!' Sancha gave her a quick hug, then looked her up and down, making a face. 'You look as if you're dressed for a nightclub. I suppose you bought that outfit in Paris when you went there last month?'

'No, London, and it's a year old! Sorry I'm late. I had so much to do. My one day off! I've been rushing about, shopping, doing housework. Here, my contribution to the bar!' Zoe handed her sister the two bottles of red Chianti she was carrying.

'Chianti! Lovely. Thanks. It will remind us of our wonderful Tuscan holiday—it was quite a wrench to come back. We loved it, didn't we, boys?'

'Yeah,' Charlie said blissfully. 'I drank lots of wine.'

'You had a sip from your father's glass once or twice!' Sancha rephrased, smiling indulgently.

'It was really cool!' Felix said nostalgically. 'We had a pool and swam every day. I taught Flora to swim.'

'To float, anyway.' His mother nodded. 'She looked so sweet, paddling around in a plastic duck boat. Did I show you the photos, Zoe? I must get them out later.'

'I can't wait. Talking of monsters, where is she?' Zoe looked around warily.

At once alarmed, Sancha looked around too. 'Boys, where is she? I told you to look after her.'

'Under that bush,' Charlie told her, pointing a stubby pink finger at a blue hydrangea covered in great, lacy heads of sky-blue flowers. Flora, in pink dungarees and a pink sweater, her red hair tousled and stuck with several of the bright blue flower-heads, lay on her back under the branches, fast asleep, her mouth open, snoring loudly, a piece of doughnut clutched in one hand.