Hot Surrender

Afterwards, Connel collapsed on top of her, his face against her neck, his chest rising and falling breathlessly.

Her bedroom was dark except for a faint glimmer of moonlight which slid across the carpet.

Her skin was damp with perspiration, her pulses hammered, her heart was beating like the drum of a retreating army, irregularly, too fast.

Connel slowly slid off her, stood up, pulled the duvet cover at the foot of the bed over her and got back on to the bed. Turning her slightly so that her back was towards him, he slid his arm around her waist, moving tightly in against her, a hand below her breasts, one thigh crossing hers, locking them together.

His voice whispered into her nape, his breath stirring the tendrils of red hair. Did you mean that?'

'What?' she drowsily asked, limp and warm in his embrace.

'Never mind, you can say it again in the morning.'

Zoe fell asleep, body and mind utterly exhausted.

CHAPTER TEN

Zoe woke up with a start and for a few seconds was disorientated. Her alarm wasn't ringing; the room was in pitch-darkness. What had woken her up? Yawning, she leaned over to pick up her clock, peered at the glowing phosphorescent hands and saw it was eleven o'clock.

Putting the clock down, she lay back, intending to sleep again, only to hear a car engine start outside on her drive. What on earth was that?

Her mind jangled with surprise and shock. She had forgotten last night until that instant, but now it all-rushed back—the party, driving here in Connel's car, and what had happened, in this room, in her bed.

He had been in it with her when she went to sleep. She didn't need to look to know he wasn't there now.

She slid out of bed and ran to the window. The tail-lights of his car were just disappearing through her gates.

Leaning on the windowsill, Zoe stared after them, her mind dissolving in pain and bewilderment.

Why was he going? Where was he going?

After making love to her so passionately he had let her fall asleep, in his arms, then he had silently detached himself, stolen from her bed, got dressed in the dark, gone downstairs, let himself out of the front door and driven away.

A cynical little voice inside her said—Well, he'd had what he wanted, hadn't he? Why should he stay around after that?

From that first night when they met he had probably had his sights set on getting her. Remember what he had said? Remember the impression of her Hal Thaxford had given him? Connel had picked up the idea that she was some sort of challenge to his sex. Had he decided to take up that challenge, beat her at what he saw as her own game?

All these weeks, had he been stalking her with the intention of getting her into bed?

She closed her eyes, groaning, covered her face with her trembling hands.

Hal had told him she dated men, then dumped them ruthlessly. Was that what Connel had planned for her?

That wouldn't be enough for him, though, would it? Having beaten her at her own game, he would need to tell people. Tell Hal, anyway! The idea of the two men talking about her, laughing, gloating, made her sick.

She couldn't bear it. Her mind cringed in misery and pain.

There was no chance of sleep again. Putting on a warm, woollen dressing gown, because she was as cold as ice now, she went downstairs.

Maybe he had left a note? A little spark of hope lit inside her, but there was nothing.

She made herself a pot of coffee, sat up with it, crouching in front of the electric fire, staring into the glowing red bars, remembering and wincing at the pain of her memories, brooding on what Connel might do next, while she drank cup after cup of the strong, black coffee.

She must not let him destroy her. Somehow she had to restore her pride, hide what she felt.

Before the sun came up she had showered, dressed in her working clothes, and was on her way to the location site. She was tense at having gone without sleep, so wound up over how she felt about Connel she was like a puppet on wires, jangling mentally and physically. How was she going to get through the day?

Will and the others were soon aware of her mood. They gave her wary looks as they jumped to obey her. The actors lurked in their caravans as much as possible; the production staff ran like rabbits, bolt-eyed in alarm in case she turned her icy rage on them. Luckily, there was a great deal to do that morning; she didn't have time to think about her personal life, because her work kept her fully occupied.