the police? So long as he didn’t hear her and strangle her before the police arrived.
Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, she told herself—he isn’t the type. If I was casting him I wouldn’t make him the murderer. A thug, maybe. A gangster. Somebody to be wary of, that was certain. She’d felt that the minute she saw him in the rainy night, peering into her car. There was something electric, powerful, dangerous about those eyes of his.
By the time she reached the kitchen he was chucking his clothes into her washing machine. He briefly looked at her over his shoulder with those dark, menacing eyes.
‘Where’s your soap powder?’
She almost said, I’ll do it for you, until she caught herself doing it. Female programming! she angrily thought. It’s put into us right from childhood—why the hell should I? Let him do his own washing.
‘Cupboard next to the machine,’ she bit out, and got a dry glance from him. No doubt he had been expecting her to offer to do it for him. Men always expected women to wait on them. That was their own programming. If she ever had a son she would make sure he wasn’t brought up to see women as potential servants or toys.
He bent again to open the cupboard and her eyes flicked round the kitchen in search of possible weapons. A glass rolling pin filled with dried flowers, from Greece, hung on the wall—how about that?
No, that was a souvenir of one of the best holidays she had ever had. She didn’t want to break that. One of the saucepans? Not heavy enough. That copper casserole would make quite a dent, though, she thought, gazing at the highly polished dish hanging close to the oven.
The washing machine started and she looked back at him warily. He was now busy inspecting the contents of the fridge and the freezer, taking stuff out and checking the cooking instructions.
‘There are plenty of soups,’ she offered.
He was reading a pack of microwave chicken curry and shrugged. ‘I’m too hungry for soup—this looks good. I see you’ve got a microwave. I’ll have this. Do you want some of it?’
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.’
Flushed, 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
