sense. Arrogant selfassurance rode on slanting cheekbones, on the long straight line of his nose, the determined sweep of his jaw, while the incisive moulding of his mouth was an essay in cruel sensuality and the gleam of his eyes was pure, unadulterated cynicism.
Wide shoulders swooped as he bent to pick up her coat, flinging it at her, dark hair gleaming in the lights.
‘Cover yourself. If you’ve got a shred of sense you’ll get back home, out of harm’s way. How old are you, anyway? Fifteen?’ He didn’t wait for an answer; his sort never did, she thought as she clutched the edges of her coat tightly together and heard him ask, ‘Where do you live?’
‘Peckham Rye,’ she managed squeakily, because this time it seemed he did expect an answer and if he thought she would accept his offer to take her there then he would have to think again. She’d rather take her chances and walk. She had never felt so demeaned in the whole of her life.
The offer, however, failed to materialise. He told her instead, ‘I’ll get you a taxi. I take it you’ve earned enough to cover the fare.’
He strode away and, her cheeks burning beneath her heavy make-up, she teetered after him, her mental faculties regrouping at long last. She was going to tell him a thing or two! What gave him the all-fired right to sit in judgement?
But he was feeding terse directions into the handset of his car phone and when he had finished she spluttered out, ‘The way I earn my living is nothing to do with you! And anyway, you’ve got everything wrong. I’m—’
‘Save the justifications. I don’t want to know. A taxi should be here in a matter of minutes. I’ll wait until it gets here.’ He left the car again, towering above her, his features a mask of bored indifference now as he told her, ‘Next time you let yourself get into the kind of trouble you were in tonight just remember that the odds against someone happening by to pick up the pieces are extremely long. A million to one, at a guess.’
He looked as if he deeply regretted the impulse to stop and investigate, to make sure that the tarty object he’d witnessed being hurled out of a barely stationary car hadn’t sustained any incapacitating injuries.
Zoe turned huffily away, uncomfortably aware that the few words he’d allowed her to get out must have reinforoed his definition of her morals. Non-existent. She was not going to thank him for finding her a taxi. Why should she? The opening to lecture and moralise, jump up on his high horse, was all the recompense he could look for. She was far too sore in mind and body to look at the situation from his point of view.
Too drained by events to argue further, she waited in defeated silence until the black cab arrived, gave the driver her home address and climbed into the back with her nose at a haughty angle, not looking at her pious knight-errant because she knew she would die of embarrassment if she did. And sat in the back devising a hundred and one ways of doing Gary Fletcher to death.
‘When I agreed to rent part of your house I didn’t know I’d be sharing with a low-down, rotten, treacherous fink!’ Zoe limped into the kitchen, her mane of blonde hair still wet from the shower and thankfully free of last night’s riotous curls.
‘And good morning to you, too.’ Gary was deep in the morning edition of the tabloid he worked on and his bluntly good looking features wore a beatific expression as he hitched it down and smiled at her over the top. ‘Breakfast?’
‘An abject apology would be preferable,’ Zoe grumbled. She hadn’t slept, she’d been too embarrassed by recent events, and just to pile on the agony she was sore all over this morning. ‘But if that’s too much to expect from a hard-nosed reporter I’ll settle for coffee. Fresh, black and strong.’ She swivelled back towards the door. ‘In ten minutes.’ Adding darkly, ‘I’m due at the office by ten, but I’ll speak to you later!’
‘But you don’t work on Saturdays,’ Gary objected, patting a vacant stool at the breakfast bar. ‘Come and tell me what’s put vinegar in your pretty mouth this morning.’
‘But I am today,’ she countered with heavy, forced patience. ‘Special clients get special concessions. Which was one of the too-numerous-to-mention reasons why I didn’t want to go to that dreadful party last night.’ Which he had conveniently forgotten. He only remembered what he wanted to, and what he had forgotten he made up. Which was what made him such a good reporter, she supposed, earning him his byline with a tabloid which was openly derided and universally read.
‘But it was a beautiful party, sweetheart.’ Gary’s grin threatened to split his face. ‘Hannah’s agreed to give it another go. We’re back together again and—even better—she’s going to move in with me. If it works out we’re going to make it legal.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ Zoe’s small, triangular face warmed into a lovely smile. She had forgotten to be cross. She was generously pleased for him, despite what he had put her through.
During the three years they’d shared this house she had watched the arrivals and departures of Gary’s girlfriends with a fairly impartial eye. But Hannah had been special, she had been able to tell that by the way he looked at her, the way he never stopped talking about her. And then there had been the row, the big one. Zoe had never learned the reason, but the upshot had been an abrupt break-off of the relationship. And the upshot of that had been Gary’s long face and heartrending sighs, his sudden lack of interest in anything.
And that was why, after a great deal of persuasion, she’d agreed to go to that party. Because he’d begged. It was an annual thing, a fancy dress thrash for the members—and their guests—of the tennis club he’d recently joined because Hannah was a staunch member herself and where she was, Gary needed to be. And if Hannah could see him with another woman—a gorgeous woman—she might just be jealous. And if she was jealous he could work on it, persuade her to come back to him. That had been the theory.
The theme of Tarts and Vicars hadn’t appealed, though. Zoe was something of a blue-stocking and not ashamed of it, and she’d spent most of her life being sensible and responsible. So she’d said, ‘It won’t work. Hannah knows me. I’m your tenant, that’s all.’ But Gary had had an answer for that.
‘Don’t you believe it! Hannah never did like the idea of my sharing a pad with two gorgeous females. She was always the teeniest bit miffed by the intimacies she imagined we shared.’
‘I suppose I could always go as a Vicar,’ Zoe had offered, not seeing herself as the other, and Gary had scorned,
‘If you think Hannah will see you as sexy competition dressed up as a clerical gent, you’re off your trolley.’
And Jenna, the third inhabitant of the tall, early Victorian brown-brick terraced house, had echoed his scorn.
‘You’d defeat the object of the exercise. I’d go myself if I didn’t already have a heavy date. It’ll be fun, and I’ll help you. Make-up, hair, clothes—leave it to me.’ As an aspiring actress with her first TV part firmly in her pocket, Jenna exuded the type of confidence that was enough to persuade anyone to do anything.
So Zoe had agreed to go, for the sake of Gary’s love-life. He’d been impossible since Hannah had given him the elbow. And even though she’d hated the way Jenna had made her look, she’d decided it might be fun as long as she forgot she was Zoe Kilgerran, one of the junior partners in a firm of big city accountants, responsible, sensible and—let’s face it—a tiny bit dull.
‘So you’ll understand if I ask if
