She was hot again right now, her face burning, her body shaking as if in fever. She yelled at him in shame and humiliation. 'Shut up. Shut up, will you? I don't want to talk about it any more. I just want you to get out of my house and leave me alone!' She ran over to her mobile, which lay on the bedside table, picked it up and began clicking in numbers. I'm calling the police. You've got ten seconds to get out of here.'
For a second she thought he was going to defy her and stay, go on arguing, but after giving her a long, hard stare she could not decipher he turned on his heel and walked out without another word.
She heard him go down the stairs, heard him slam out of the house. Standing by the window, she watched him drive away, his tail-lights winking red as he disappeared down the drive and out into the lane beyond.
Only then did she break down, burst into tears. Connel had got too close, emotionally and physically. He had come close to taking off her clothes and entering her. She had come close to letting him do whatever he liked. She had wanted him—with a need that was almost pain.
Now she felt grief, an aching loss, as if something world-shattering, something explosively important, had almost happened to her, then at the last minute been snatched away.
It had been her decision. She had stopped him. So why did she feel guilty? Why was she standing here with tears running down her face?
It was time she made up her mind—how did she really feel about Connel Hillier?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Next morning she got up late, enjoying even more than usual the pleasure of being able to stay in bed as long as she liked. After a breakfast of porridge cooked in the microwave, which made life so much simpler than having to cook it in a saucepan and keep stirring it to make sure it didn't burn, she went shopping and had coffee in the village pub, The White Swan, which was no longer the sole haunt of men but had become something of a meeting place for both sexes, and all ages. This social revolution meant that she had found the bar packed with other women who had done their weekend shopping and were now sitting together, gossiping and having coffee; some of them eating hot croissants or toast, too. Some of them had children with them—if food was being eaten children were allowed in the bar, but had to leave once food was no longer served. The arrival of women in pubs had brought about a big improvement in decor. Carpets on the floor, where once there had been sawdust, comfortable couches instead of wooden benches, bright colour schemes and ornaments and pictures on the walls.
It was a bright, cold day; Zoe sat in a windowseat so that she could gaze out at the little garden running beside the pub. There were few flowers around at this late date in autumn, and the deciduous trees might be almost leafless, but a holly tree still had its dark green leaves, and was also covered in scarlet berries. Country people said that meant a hard winter ahead. Nature provided food for birds in bad weather when the ground was too frozen for them to find insects easily.
There were other bushes in flower: a Viburnum shrub covered in pink flowers, some white winter-flowering roses, a few orange chrysanthemums and some rather scrubby-looking purple Michaelmas daisies. Those splashes of colour lifted Zoe's spirits, which had been rather low from the minute she got up and remembered what had happened yesterday.
She was depressed Oh, not because Connel had made that pass. Men were always doing that She coped with them casually, easily. She didn't resent passes—in some ways they were flattering, so long as they could be fended off without trouble. When someone weird like Larry made a pass it could be scary, of course, because he wouldn't give up, lie turned nasty when you rejected him, but most men took no for an answer and backed off.
Last night she hadn't been afraid Connel might be dangerous, might try force or turn nasty. That wasn't what was worrying her, dragging her spirits down.
The trouble was, she had wanted him, even though she had said no. For the first time in her life she had really wanted a man so badly that it had been very hard to stop him, and she wasn't sure what that meant.
In fact, she was confused, bewildered, uneasy, her thoughts went round and round in circles whenever she tried to think it all out, but worst of all her brain appeared to turn to melting ice cream the instant images of Connel entered her head.
Am I in love? she wondered one minute, then the next angrily thought, No! Of course she wasn't In love! The very idea made her laugh.
Except, of course, that it didn't Because she wasn't laughing. She was far too depressed even to smile.
Some Saturdays she had lunch out, met neighbours and friends and chatted to them, but today she wasn't staying here for lunch with the regulars. She decided to have cheese, salad and a slab of French bread at home instead, so she headed for her cottage after leaving the pub.
While she was unpacking her groceries she switched on the answer-machine.
'Hallo, Zoe.' Connel's voice made her start so violently that she dropped a box of eggs on the floor.
'Damn, damn, damn,' Zoe muttered, looking down at the mess. Luckily, her kitchen floor was tiled and easy to clean, but even so what a nuisance to have that to clear up!
Connel's voice was deep and husky. 'I'm sorry about last night. Can we start again? I'm having a party this evening—Mark and Sancha are coming. Will you come with them? Please, Zoe.'
His voice vanished, the machine switched off, and Zoe leaned on the kitchen wall, breathless.
Should she go?
No. Not on your life. Only an idiot would risk seeing him again; she was staying away from him in future.
She looked at her reflection in the chrome fitting of the oven: green eyes huge and glowing, with dilated pupils; face flushed, mouth parted and trembling. Who do you think you're kidding? she asked her mirror image.
Wild horses couldn't drag you away from the chance to see him again.
You're hooked, addicted. A sad case. Hadn't she always despised women who got themselves into this state of hopeless dependence on one man? Well, now she could despise herself.
She turned away and set about clearing up the broken eggs before she finished unpacking the groceries.
A quarter of an hour later, while she was. eating her cheese, French bread, and salad, Sancha rang, her brisk voice making it clear she was in a combative mood. 'Are you coming tonight or not?'