Out of Control

by Charlotte Lamb

  Her nerves leapt like flames in a wind as she faced the obvious. He meant to stay here with her tonight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  'You can't stay here tonight!' Liza said in dismay.

  'What else do you suggest?' he enquired, his hard mouth twisting as she stared at him.

  'Well, surely—the pub!'

  'I told you, they're full up.'

  'But, if you were stranded--- !'

  'I'm willing to sleep on a sofa, but when I was there earlier they told me that they even had a couple of people sleeping on the floor in sleeping-bags. No, there's no room there.' He gave her a wry smile. 'Don't worry, I won't be any trouble to you. That sofa looks comfortable, I'll sleep on that, and the mist will probably lift in a few hours. As soon as it does I'll ring for a taxi and get a garage to come and pick up my car.'

  Liza bit her lip uncertainly; she could hardly refuse to let him stay the night in the circumstances—he couldn't sleep outside in his car, could he?

  He watched her uneasy face. 'Do you live here alone?' It was obvious that the cottage was empty; she looked at him, hesitating, wondering whether to invent a brother or a boyfriend who might arrive at any minute.

  Before she could decide what to say, he began to laugh. 'I see you do! There's no need to be scared, if that's what's bothering you.'

  'I'm not bothered,' Liza said shortly. 'Not by you!'

  His brows lifted. 'No?'

  She didn't like the smile he was wearing. 'No!' she insisted, determined not to admit that he affected her in any way at all. She couldn't understand the edgy awareness she was beginning to feel. Was it because he wanted to stay here all night? She lowered her lashes and looked at him through them secretly, frowning. He was much taller and stronger than she was; would she be able to handle him if he made a pass?

  'We haven't introduced ourselves,' he said casually. My name's Zachary—what's yours?'

  'Liza Thurston,' she replied automatically and then stiffened, wishing she had given him an invented name. He might have read that newspaper story, he might talk about spending the night at her cottage—she met his narrowed blue eyes, searching them for some hint of recognition or surprise, but saw nothing. I'm getting paranoid, she told herself angrily. For heaven's sake, try to be rational, she thought, and forced a smile at him.

  'Well, Mr Zachary, if you don't mind sleeping on my sola tonight, you're welcome to it. Now, I'll see what sort of meal I can throw together—I keep a few basic items in stock. It won't be anything special, I'm afraid. It will probably be out of a tin.'

  He watched her take off her coat and hang it up in the hall cupboard. 'I'm not fussy,' he murmured. 'Anything will do, I'm so hungry I could eat a horse. Fresh air and exercise always make me hungry.'

  'Me, too,' she agreed, walking into the kitchen as he shed his coat and tweed jacket.

  'It's Keir, by the way,' he said and she looked round, bewildered.

  'What?'

  'My name—Keir.'

  'You just said it was Zachary!' she said sharply, frowning in suspicion. Had he forgotten what he had told her?

  He laughed. 'It is, but Keir is my first name. It's absurd for you to keep calling me Mr Zachary if we're to spend the night together.'

  She stiffened, her face hot. 'We're not going to do anything of the kind!'

  'Under the same roof, I meant, of course, sorry,' he corrected, but his eyes held teasing mockery and she was sure he had phrased it deliberately. He was having a little fun at her expense, and Liza wasn't amused. It was nerve-racking enough to have him stranded here, without that sort of provocation!

  She opened the larder door and looked at the assorted tins and packets on the shelves of the little store-room, her teeth tight. 'What would you like?' she asked icily.

  That was the moment when she really began to feel uneasy, because Keir Zachary squeezed past her to study the contents of the room, and she felt his long, lean body touching hers intimately. It was over in a second, she was out in the kitchen, shaking a little and dark-eyed as she wondered if she should ring the police right now. Maybe it hadn't been wise to let him see that she wouldn't want the police to come here. After all, what did she know about him, other than the sort of clothes he wore, the sort of car he drove and whatever information she could glean from his face? He could be a perfectly respectable farmer—but on the other hand he could be a sex maniac. How was she to know?

  'Are you a good cook?' he asked, and she jumped, looking round defiantly, ready to hit back if he attacked her.

  'What?'

  His eyes opened wide at the aggression in the question. Sorry, did I hit on a sore point? It doesn't matter if you're not, because I am! I spent a year at the North Pole when I was just out of university, and one of my jobs was cooking for the whole team.'

  'Team?' Liza's nerves had steadied and her colour had come back.

  'I was out there with the British Expedition. I was supposed to be doing research into human reaction to the pressure of loneliness and danger, but it was mainly fun. h was one of those special years; I learnt a lot about myself and I suppose about other people, too.' He was gathering up tins of soup, tomatoes, a packet of spaghetti. 'Show me where everything is,' he said, emerging into the kitchen with his arms full. 'Saucepans, plates, cutlery?'

  Are you a doctor?' Liza said uncertainly, trying to work out a little more about him, while she opened cupboards and showed him where she kept everything.

  'No, I'd studied psychology at university, though,' he lol.l her, dumping the tins and packets on the kitchen i a hie, and surveying the room with narrow eyes. 'You're v.iy tidy, everything in its place, I see.' His tone approved and she lifted her sleek blonde head, her eyes Hashing.

  Thank you,' she said tartly. 'I'm so glad.'

  He stood watching her, his smile ironic. 'And what do vou do, Liza?' He let his eyes wander down over her, from her immaculate features and the slender lines of her body in a Bond Street dress down to her long, shapely legs and the hand-made Italian shoes she wore. 'One thing's certain, you aren't short of money! Do you earn it or . . .'

  'I earn it!' Liza interrupted sharply, afraid of what he

  might have been going to suggest. From the way he had looked her over she suspected that he might have thought she was kept by a wealthy father or boyfriend. Hadn't he sneered some such comment earlier? 'I run an agency in London,' she added. 'What sort of agency?'

  She didn't want to tell him, she didn't want him to find out too much about her, which made it very difficult because at the same time she wanted to probe his background as much as she could because she found him a little overpowering. He was a formidable man; whatever he did for a living she was certain he was accustomed to authority. Even in his shabby, well worn cords and that olive-green sweater he had a distinct air of assurance. He had taken off the muddy wellies and was just wearing socks, she suddenly realised. That ought to make him more approachable, but it didn't because he was too tall, too tough-looking. If he wasn't a farmer, he could be a thug, Liza thought grimly. Look at those shoulders, that height!

  She talked rapidly to change the subject. 'What can I do to help with the cooking? I do know my way around this kitchen, after all, and I usually cook for myself. Sorry if I gave the impression that I couldn't cook. Shall I open the tin of soup? Are we starting with that while whatever else you planned is cooking?'

  'I cook my whole meal in one pan,' he said. 'It saves on washing up.'

  It sounded simply disgusting and Liza glanced at the tins and packets, her brows rising. 'Really?'

  He laughed. 'Wait and see. You'll like it!'

  She did; much to her own surprise. She wasn't sure what to call it, but it tasted great: something like a hearty minestrone stew, thick with spaghetti strands, rich with tomato and beef. She had never tasted anything like it, but it was certainly filling and delicious. She congratu­lated him.

  'I'm glad you enjoyed it,' he said, smiling, and for the first time Liza saw a flash of charm in his hard fac
e. An involuntary answering smile lit her own features, and she offered to do the washing up alone.

  He didn't argue. 'OK, and I'll make us some coffee.'

  There wasn't much washing up to do, owing to his economical way of cooking, and by the time Liza had restored the kitchen to its normal tidiness he had made coffee and laid a tray which he carried into the sitting-room.

  She joined him and found him stretched out on the sofa, his hands linked behind his head and his slim body relaxed. The room was much warmer now, he had taken off his olive-green sweater and was yawning.

  'Sorry,' he said, sitting up as she appeared. 'Fresh air and good food, I'm afraid—I'm half asleep already. I'm used to early nights.'

  Liza looked at her watch and was taken aback to find (hat it was nearly nine o'clock.

  'I'll find you a pillow and some blankets,' she said, turning, but he caught her wrist, his hand clamping it in .m iron grip.

  'After you've had your coffee!'

  Liza glanced down at her trapped wrist, then up at his insistent face. 'You're hurting!' she said tersely and he released her.

  'Sorry.' He turned and began to pour her coffee. 'Sit down by the fire,' he ordered, as though this was his house and he was her host, and she slowly obeyed, hustling a little at the commanding tone.

  She was not going to sit on the sofa, however, or anywhere near him, so she chose a chair on the other side of the fire, taking her cup of coffee with her and nursing it on her lap as some sort of barrier against him. If he tried anything, she could always chuck the boiling hot coffee at him!

  'You know, I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before,' he said thoughtfully, staring, and her nerves prickled. 'What sort of agency did you say you ran?'

  'A modelling agency,' she reluctantly admitted, be­cause she could see that he was the persistent type. He wouldn't forget to ask again if she changed the subject this time.

  'Modelling?' He studied her. 'Were you a model?'

  She nodded, and sipped a little coffee.

  'That's probably it,' he decided. 'I must have seen you in a magazine or something—did you do that sort of work ?'

  Liza nodded again. 'And you?' she said. 'What exactly do you do? You said you studied psychology—are you a practising psychologist?"

  In a way,' he said blandly. 'Modern psychology isn't a matter of listening to patients lying on a couch and fantasising about their sex lives, you know. It's more a question of group psychology; why women buy one brand of perfume and not another, for instance—that's my job.'

  'You mean market research?"

  'Something like that, yes."

  Liza looked at him with interest. 'We employed a firm of market researchers last year, trying to find out which was the perfect model to sell a new kind of soap."

  'What was the result? A blonde?"

  'A child," Liza said drily and he laughed. She stared at him. '1 got the impression you were a farmer!' she said half accusingly, because he still looked more like a farmer than anything else.

  'Interesting you should say that,' he murmured. 'My family do have a farm, and I spend a lot of time there.'

  'Is it near here?'

  He got up and came over with the coffee-pot. 'Have some more coffee."

  Liza held up her cup and he filled it, bending over her. She glanced up and saw his eyes fixed on her face; then she felt that stare focusing on her mouth, and her body tensed. It wasn't a casual look, Keir Zachary was staring intently; Liza's face began to burn and then his gaze lifted until their eyes met. He straightened and turned away, went back to the sofa and sat down, but the room was no longer warm and cosy, it was full of tension and Liza's nervous anxiety was back.

  She wasn't the type to be highly strung or imagine things, but he was a total stranger to her and they were in this cottage alone, too far from the nearest building to be heard if she started yelling for help. Her fears had been allayed while he was cooking that meal, because a man as calmly capable as that was hardly the type to turn nasty suddenly or make a violent pass at her, but just now there had been something in those hard blue eyes which made her uneasy and disturbed. He was much bigger than her, and those were real muscles under his thin shirt; he looked like a tough customer even when he was relaxed und smiling.

  Well," she said, drinking a little of the coffee and then putting the cup down. 'I think I'll get you the bed linen, ihen I'll head for bed myself.'

  This time he didn't try to stop her; he leaned back, sipping coffee, watching her with his lids half drawn over his blue eyes. The gaze was drowsy, lazy, without any visible threat, yet Liza felt the back of her neck prickle as she slid out of the room and went up to find blankets and a pillow. She went to her bedroom and switched on the electric fire in there; that would warm the room a little before she came up to get undressed.

  She went back downstairs with an armful of blankets and found Keir Zachary on his feet by the electric fire, his hands in his pockets and his lean body lounging casually. Liza began to make his bed up and he turned to watch her. A curious shiver ran down her spine under that gaze; she wished she knew what he was thinking.

  i hope you'll be able to sleep on it,' she said with a brief glance at him as she turned back towards the door.

  'I'm sure I shall,' he murmured, moving faster than she had expected.

  Her nerves leapt again and she looked up at him, her green eyes wide and dark-pupilled. 'Well, goodnight,' she said huskily, but he didn't answer. His hand reached out before she could move away and she felt his fingers moving in her hair. He was watching her through those half-closed eyes and Liza swallowed uneasily.

  'What do you think you're doing?' She put up a hand to push him away, but too late. Her long pale hair fell and tumbled around her face, down her back, over her shoulders.

  'I wondered what it looked like when it wasn't dragged off your face so ruthlessly,' he said softly.

  'I think you'd better go!' Liza flared, her face running with angry colour as she grabbed the heavy weight of hair and tried to gather it back into a chignon, i should have rung the police, shouldn't I ? I think I'll do that now. I'm not going to let you think you can maul me about. . .'

  'Don't over-react!' he drawled, his face derisive. 'And don't put your hair up again—it suits you better like that. It makes you look less severe.'

  'Severe!' The word startled her; she didn't like having it applied to herself. 'Don't be ridiculous!" She turned bright, furious green eyes up to him, catlike and spitting with rage. 'You're just trying to distract me, but it won't work! Don't ever dare to touch me again!'

  Didn't your mother tell you it isn't wise to dare a man to do anything?" he murmured, standing much too close and she took a step backward in sudden alarm because the way he was watching her had made alarm bells ring in her head.

  'Goodnight,* she said, trying to edge round him to the door.

  You're very beautiful,' he whispered in a soft, intimate voice and she shivered in panic.

  'You can stop right there!' she muttered, sliding a hurried glance around for a weapon in case he turned violent. 'Lay a finger on me and . . .'

  'Goodnight, Liza," he said, suddenly sitting down on the arm of the sofa, his hands linked behind his head as he yawned.

  For a few seconds she didn't move, she just stood there dazedly, staring at him, and then she turned and hurtled out of the room and heard him laugh.

  Goodnight," he called after her, but she didn't answer because she was too furious. Had he been having a peculiar kind of fun at her expense? He had been teasing her. had he? She didn't think it was so very funny. For a minute or two she had been really scared, disturbed.

  anxious—if he had been making a heavy pass, what could she have done to stop him, all alone here, with no other dwelling within earshot? He was far too powerful for her to be able to deal with. Her heart was beating slowly, heavily, now, as though it beat in every far corner of her body, the pulse running strongly. When their faces were so close she could see every pore in hi
s skin, the line of the bones which built the structure of his face, the streaking of blue and grey in his irises and the mysterious, hypnotic glow of those shiny black pupils. If you looked into those eyes for long enough you would slide into a trance, Liza thought, then angrily shook herself. What on earth was the matter with her?

  In her bedroom she stripped and put on her nightie and dressing-gown, but only when she had locked her door. She did not want him walking in on her. She washed in the little vanity unit in her bedroom, although normally she would have had a bath before bed; it relaxed her and made it easier to sleep.

  She was about to go to bed when she heard the knocking. Tensing, she listened incredulously—who on earth could that be? She had had this cottage for years without having a single visitor, not even a tradesman, because she bought what she wanted from the local shops or brought it down from London with her in the car. She had no milk or bread delivered, and the heating was all electric.

  Yet tonight she was apparently going to have two visitors! Or was it the police? she thought, moving towards her bedroom door at the idea. Had they seen the two crashed cars outside and come in to investigate?

  She heard movements in the hall—Keir Zachary was going to open the door! Liza shot out on to the landing and hissed down the stairs. 'No, wait! I'll answer it! Go back into the sitting-room!'

  He turned and looked up at her, his black brows rising. He was still in his shirt and the cord trousers; he hadn't undressed to sleep on the sofa, but Liza still didn't want whoever was at the door to see him until she knew who the caller was!

  'Go back!' she insisted, coming down the stairs and trying to ignore the wandering speculation of his eyes. Luckily, her dressing-gown was long and covered her from neck to foot; a deep pansy-blue, it was hand-made in brushed wool, soft and warm on such cold, misty nights.