“Don’t you like playing games, Zoe?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright
“Don’t you like playing games, Zoe?”
Connel’s tone was soft, seductive, disturbing.
She refused to let it get to her. “No, I do not! And stop changing the subject.”
“I wasn’t. Isn’t that what we’re talking about? What else could I do but carry you up to bed?”
CHARLOTTE LAMB was born in London, England, in time for World War II, and spent most of it moving from relative to relative to escape bombing. Educated at a convent, she married a journalist, and now has five children. The family lives on the Isle of Man. Charlotte Lamb is the author of more than one hundred books for Harlequin Presents®.
Hot Surrender
Charlotte Lamb
CHAPTER ONE
ZOE usually enjoyed driving home after a long day’s work. It gave her a chance to unwind, switch on to automatic pilot because she knew the route so well, then she could let her mind roam free. She often came up with exciting new ideas while she was driving. But tonight she was just that bit too tired, her face very pale against her flame-red hair, her green eyes sleepy. She had been up at five, at the location they were using by six, drinking a polystyrene cup of black coffee as she talked over the scene they were going to shoot with Will, the cameraman, who’d groaned as an ominous blood-red dawn swam up out of the veiled horizon, across misty, mysterious fields.
‘I knew it! Look at that sky—red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning! Yesterday was so humid, I had a gut feeling a storm was on the way.’
Will was usually right about the weather. Like an animal, he could smell rain coming or a storm brewing, so Zoe had decided to keep working for as long as the weather held off in case they couldn’t film outdoors next day. They had filmed until gone seven, when heavy rain began pouring down.
‘Have supper with me?’ Will had asked, his big blue eyes pleading.
Zoe had sighed, wishing he would stop pursuing her. She liked him a lot, but not in the way he wanted.
‘We’ll all have supper together,’ she’d diplomatically announced, and asked Catering to produce a hot meal.
Will had given her a reproachful look as they all tramped into the on-site caravan where Will slept with his precious cameras. A tall, thick-set man with amazingly well-developed muscles and a rugged face, he always said cameras were female and brooked no rivals which was why he had never married. He had occasionally dated one of the girls working on a film, but his relationships never lasted; his girlfriends always got bored with playing second fiddle to his job.
Zoe hoped that if she kept turning down his invitations he would give up on her. She didn’t believe Will was serious; he was just hoping to succeed where others had failed. Zoe’s reputation as someone who wasn’t a push-over made her a scalp some men would love to hang on their belts. It was getting very boring.
Catering had come up with chilli and rice for them all, perfect wet weather food. The crew had fallen upon it like hungry wolves, but Zoe hadn’t eaten; she was dieting. Now she was ravenous, of course. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food. What did she have in the kitchen which could be cooked in a couple of minutes and wasn’t too high in calories? Eggs? Soup?
Glancing at her illuminated dashboard, she saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. Which was more vital—food or sleep? She needed both, equally urgently.
Slowing to take the corner off the main road into the narrow lane leading to her home, she waited, yawning, for a couple of lorries to thunder past.
A man loomed up beside her window out of the dark and rainy night, making her start in shock. Where on earth had he come from?
For a second she thought he was a mirage, conjured up by her weary brain, then he bent down and tried to open her door.
Zoe was a tough, capable woman of thirty-two, used to authority, scared of very little...spiders, maybe, overshooting her budget, certainly, or running late on a film. Nothing much else—but, perhaps because she was tired, at that instant her nerve-ends prickled until she remembered that she had automatically locked her doors before she started driving.
Discovering this too, the stranger tapped on her window, saying something, mouth opening and shutting, rain running down his face, drowning out his voice.
Zoe leaned over to touch the button which unwound her window electronically just a fraction. ‘What do you want?’
His voice was very deep, faintly hoarse, as if he had a cold or smoked too many cigarettes. ‘My car has broken down. Could you give me a lift to a garage?’
He was a big man, his thick black hair half hidden by the hood of an old navy anorak, a curly black beard hiding most of his lower face, looking more like a tramp than someone who owned a car. Zoe looked him over, noting that his jeans were ragged and muddy. Even if her instincts hadn’t warned her not to trust him she would never have considered giving him a lift. A woman driving alone at night was crazy if she picked up a strange man. Zoe had heard too many horror stories of women who’d done that.
‘The nearest garage shuts at nine o’clock,’ she crisply told him. ‘There’s a telephone box opposite the church, just down the road; you can ring for a taxi from there.’
His black eyes insistently staring into hers, he bit out, ‘You can’t leave me out here in this rain. I’m already soaked to the skin. I tried the phone box—it’s been vandalised. I drove through a village a couple of miles back down this road and saw a pub which looked open. It wouldn’t take you long to give me a lift back there.’
‘I’ll find my mobile phone and ring for a taxi for you,’ Zoe said reluctantly.
Groping for her bag
