She was so taken aback that when he walked past her into her sitting room it took her a moment or so to pull herself together and follow him.
'What are you doing?' she began, and stopped as she saw that he had pulled the telephone out of the wall. 'Put that back!'
He whirled and grabbed her arm. 'Come with me,' he muttered, and she dug her heels into the carpet, refusing to move.
'Let me go and get out of my house.'
'I haven't got time to argue with you,' he said, put an arm round her waist and lifted her off the floor as if she was a child.
The breath driven out of her by shock, she gasped, 'Put me down. Put me down! What do you think you're doing?'
Ignoring her, he slung her over his shoulder, her head down his back, her feet drumming against his middle, her arms flailing impotently.
'I'm taking you upstairs,' he coolly informed her as he strode towards the hall, and Zoe felt icy fear trickling down her spine.
CHAPTER TWO
By the time he had got upstairs Zoe was recovering from her first shock and able to think clearly. Okay, he was bigger than her, and had a powerful, muscled physique, but she wasn't just giving in or giving up. Her self-respect insisted she fight. As he carried her through the open door of her bedroom she grabbed a large handful of his hair and yanked hard.
'Put me down!'
He dropped her. On the bed. She bounced, out of breath for a second, then, before he could stop her, rolled over to the far side, stood up with her back against the wall and reached for the nearest object she could use as a weapon—a large bronze statuette she had won for one of her TV documentaries years ago; the first award she'd ever been given. She kept it beside her bed, on a shelf on the wall, because winning it had made her so proud she hadn't touched the ground for days. There had been many others since, but none that had given her so much pleasure, and when she was feeling low she still got the same buzz from looking at it.
Now she held it up like a club, meeting his quizzical eyes. 'Don't think I wouldn't use this! It's very heavy. Solid bronze. If I hit you with it, believe me, it will hurt! So keep your distance, Mister, or I'll use it. Don't come any closer than you are now.'
Without answering, he turned towards the door but not, she discovered, to go out. No, he closed, then locked the door, and slid the key into his pocket.
Zoe's throat dried up. She watched him tensely, gripping the statuette even tighter. 'I meant what I said! Stay away from me or you'll be sorry!'
He began to walk across the room and she barely breathed, her chest hurting, poised for action—but he wasn't heading for the bed; he was going towards the bathroom.
Still without looking at her, he opened the bathroom door, went in and closed the door behind him, then bolted it, while she stared incredulously. A moment later she heard the shower start running, the splashing of water, followed by a deep voice singing a very familiar song she couldn't quite identify. She knew it… what was that?
Feeling ridiculous, standing in the corner holding her bronze statuette up in the air, she put it back in its usual place, climbed back over the bed and hurriedly got dressed again in her oldest pair of jeans and a very long grey sweater she had once borrowed from a guy she was dating. She had forgotten to give it back when she'd told him goodbye. Poor Jimmy. He had been rather like his sweater: long, thin and grey. Grey eyes, brown hair sprinkled with grey, a sad, depressed manner. She couldn't remember why she had ever gone out with him in the first place.
She had only been twenty that year; he had been forty, twice her age, a documentary director with a TV company. His job had impressed the hell out of her, which was why she'd first accepted a date for dinner with him. After that he had pestered, on and on and on, simply hung around in the corners of her life like a mournful ghost, occasionally talking her into going to the theatre, or for a drive to the seaside on a warm Sunday afternoon.
Until she'd realised one day that she could end up being talked into marriage if she didn't tell him firmly to go away. Jimmy had told her she had broken his heart, then he'd drifted sadly away.
Six months later he had married a girl called Fifi whom he had met on holiday in Paris, city of lovers; now they had three children, she had heard, and Jimmy had retired from TV to raise pigs in Normandy.
Hearts mend fast, Zoe thought, her mouth twisting cynically. They aren't made of glass, they don't shatter, no matter what people say. Perhaps they were made of rubber—they certainly bounced.
'Danny Boy'! The name of the song came into her head at that second. That was what he was singing in her bathroom! Singing very pleasantly, too—not a professional voice, but it was good to listen to! She had always loved the old Irish song 'Danny Boy', poignant, sweet, so familiar she wondered she hadn't recognised it earlier.
Suddenly she realised he had stopped singing, and the sound of the shower had stopped too.
What was he doing now? Drying himself, obviously— her imagination worked overtime on what he would look like naked; he had a body to die for, she thought, then pulled a face. Hey, now, stop thinking stuff like that! Are you asking for trouble?
She heard the bathroom door bolt slip back; the handle turned, out he came, wearing a black towelling robe which ended at his knees.
It was hers. He had taken it from the airing cupboard in the bathroom. He was so much bigger and taller than her that it only just met around his waist.
He'd knotted the belt to make sure it didn't fall apart, but the robe was far too short for him. He looked funny. Zoe almost laughed until she realised he was naked under the robe; his long legs still damp, the dark hair clinging flat to his skin, his thin, muscular feet bare. God, he was sexy.
She was disturbed by the intimacy of having him so close to her when he had so little on, and even more disturbed by how it made her feel.
'Put your clothes back on!' she ordered, her skin prickling, and got a cool, level stare which seemed to go right through to her backbone.