One Reckless Night

Cover “I wouldn’t have said you were a girl for one-night stands, Susie.” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN Endpage Copyright

“I wouldn’t have said you were a girl for one-night stands, Susie.”

“But then, in spite of all your research, you still don’t know a great deal about me,” Zanna parried.

Jake’s mouth quirked. “I’d have said we were intimately acquainted,” he drawled.

“You’re right, of course. I don’t usually behave as I did that night, and I don’t want to be reminded of it—or repeat it, either.”

“That was not what I was suggesting.... Have dinner with me tonight.”

It was more of a command than a request. “I’m busy....”

He tutted. “Playing hard to get, Susie?”

“Not before time, perhaps,” she said with cool irony. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying about ships that pass in the night. I’d like to leave it like that.”

He shook his head. The dark eyes held hers almost mesmerically. “We didn’t pass, Susie. We collided.”

Dear Reader,

Is it really twenty-one years since I sent in that first script, so unversed in the ways of publishing that I forgot to include any return postage? In the event it wasn’t needed. Garden of Dreams emerged from the pile—somehow—and was published. I’d done it. I’d achieved the ambition I’d cherished since I was five years old. I was a real novelist.

I sat back to bask in my own glory, but not for long. A crisp editorial request for book number two “as soon as possible, please” soon wiped away the smug smile. Did they mean it? Was I really expected to ride that emotional roller coaster all over again with another heroine? Surely not.

Now fifty rides on, I still get the same thrill as I plunge into the unknown with a new cast of characters. I hope you share my pleasure. Thank you for keeping me company.

One Reckless Night

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ZANNA WESTCOTT walked into the sitting room of her hotel suite and shut the door behind her. For a moment she stood still, confronting the trim image reflected back from the mirror on the wall opposite from the sleek blonde hair, swept severely back from her forehead, and the uncluttered lines of the black business suit and crisp white shirt down to the slender dark-stockinged legs and small feet in low-heeled pumps. All cool, tailored control.

She took a deep breath, then, shattering the image, lifted an arm, punching the air in sheer exultation as her face splintered into a monkey grin of triumph.

‘I did it,’ she told herself aloud, her green eyes dancing. ‘I actually did it.’

She hadn’t been able to show her feelings in the hotel conference room just now as the deal had finally been agreed. The atmosphere had been too heavy, too laden with disappointment as yet another family-owned company went under the hammer.

Yet what had they really expected? She’d laid down the terms the previous afternoon, coolly and briskly, making it clear there was no room for manoeuvre, unfazed when the offer was rejected out of hand.

If they’d thought a twenty-five-year-old woman was a soft touch, they now knew differently, she thought.

She had smiled politely, outlined the probable alternatives, advised them to reconsider overnight and added with emphasis that she would require their final answer at ten o’clock the following morning.

As soon as she’d walked into the conference room the unhappy, resigned faces had told her all she’d wanted to know.

Reason had prevailed and Westcott Holdings had acquired another useful piece of property. Notched up another victory.

My victory, she thought. Alone and unaided.

Still smiling, she walked across to the phone and dialled her father’s private direct line at Westcott Holdings.

‘Sir Gerald Westcott’s office. How may I help you?’

Zanna’s lips tightened in disappointment as she heard the clipped tones of Tessa Lloyd, her father’s personal assistant. She said, ‘I’d like to speak to him, please, Tessa.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Westcott. Sir Gerald is in a meeting. He asked me to take any message.’

Zanna was tempted to shout childishly, I don’t want to leave a message! She wanted to speak to her father in person, to tell him about her achievement. Maybe this time to hear his voice soften with love and pride as he said, Well done.

She should have known there’d be a meeting, but all the same she’d hoped he’d be available. More fool me, she thought, feeling oddly—even absurdly—deflated.

Instead she said coolly, ‘I see. Then please tell him he now owns Zolto Electronics at a much lower price than we originally hoped.’

‘That’s excellent news, Miss Westcott.’ There was no great expression in the even tone. ‘I’m sure Sir Gerald will be delighted. I presume you’ll be returning immediately?’

That had been her intention, but there was something in the other woman’s tone, an assumption that she could simply be called to heel, which ignited an unwonted spark of rebellion in Zanna.

She said, to her own surprise, ‘Actually, no. I’m taking the rest of the day off. And the weekend,’ she added recklessly. ‘I’ll be back in the office on Monday.’

‘But, Miss Westcott.’ Tessa Lloyd sounded shocked. ‘I’m sure Sir Gerald will be waiting for a full report as soon as possible.’

‘I was told to leave a message,’ Zanna returned.

‘That’s the message I’m leaving. Goodbye, Tessa.’

She put the phone down firmly before any more protests could be formulated. Her father might think highly of Tessa Lloyd’s efficiency but she wasn’t particularly likeable, Zanna thought broodingly. And she guarded her employer like some jealous mother hen.

And now you’ve let her needle you into a forty-eigh-thour break that you don’t need and don’t know what to do with anyway, she chided herself crossly.

She glanced round at her suite, restlessly absorbing the opulently bland furnishings, the forgettable series of prints which adorned the walls, the overly tasteful arrangement of silk flowers on a gilt table against a wall.

Suddenly she felt stifled—almost claustrophobic.

Instead of telephoning she would go down to Reception and tell them she was staying on. This was a city, after all. It had a theatre, restaurants. She would plan herself an evening’s entertainment, make the appropriate reservations. There would be art galleries and museums she could visit during the rest of her stay. It would be fun. Or at least different, she amended, with a wry twist of the lips.

The foyer was busy when she emerged from the lift, and the receptionists standing in line at the long desk were all fully occupied. Zanna picked up one of the complimentary folders intended for tourists, detailing things to see and do in the area, and began to leaf idly through it.

A voice at her shoulder said quietly, ‘Miss Westcott.’

Turning with a start, she saw Henry Walton, the chairman of Zolto Electronics, his lined face tired and defeated.

He said, ‘I wanted to congratulate you, Miss Westcott. You have a bargain—as, of course, you know.’

‘Yes.’ Zanna lifted her chin, her expression challenging. ‘I hope there are no hard feelings.’

He shook his head with a faint smile. ‘No, that is too much to ask.’ He studied her for a moment, his eyes suddenly sharp and shrewd, giving her a glimpse of the man who had built up a company from a dream only to see it ultimately undermined by the recession.

He said, with a sigh, ‘Yes, you’re your father’s own daughter, Miss Westcott. And please don’t think I mean that as a compliment. Instead, I’m almost sorry for you.’ He inclined his head with a kind of remote courtesy and walked away.

Zanna stared after him, as shocked and winded as if he’d actually raised his fist and struck her.

It had been the quietest of exchanges yet she suddenly felt self-conscious, as if everyone in the hotel lobby had turned to look at her. As if she were suddenly naked under their censorious gaze.

Her sense of achievement, her plans for the evening ahead suddenly went by the board. She felt chilled and oddly uncertain.

‘May I help you?’ One of the receptionists was free, her brows raised enquiringly, her smile plastic and professional.

Zanna shook her head, then turned away, the edge of the folder still biting into her hand. Her immediate intention was to go back to her room. Instead, she found herself headed, almost running, for the main exit to the hotel car park.

With the thought, I’ve got to get out of here—I must...beating in her head like a drum.

The motorway service station was like any other. Zanna selected a plate of mixed salad and a pot of coffee and carried them to an empty table.

What an idiot, she thought with vexation, to have allowed that little encounter to push her off-balance like that. Normally she wouldn’t have leapt into the car and driven off without the slightest idea where she was heading.

And why was she so disturbed anyway? Being Gerald Westcott’s daughter—being recognized as such—was something to be proud of. Whereas there was nothing admirable in admitting defeat—in failing. That was a lesson she’d been taught since her earliest years.

Achievement—coming first—was the name of the game. Getting the best results at school. Knowing that less would only provoke some disapproving comment from the man she wanted so desperately to please. Any kind of second-best was unthinkable. Times were hard. You had to be tough. There was no room for sentiment in business.

This was the armour she dressed in each morning. The armour in which Henry Walton had found an unexpected and unwelcome chink.

How dared he feel sorry for her? she thought rawly. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. She had a flat overlooking the Thames, an expense account, a new car every year—and she’d just scored her first major negotiating success. She had everything going for her.

She gave a mental shrug as she sat down. Mr Walton had simply turned out to be a bad loser, which, although something of a surprise, was his problem, and she was a fool to let his remarks get to her. Although they’d certainly taken the edge off her triumph, she thought restively. Soured the day when she had totally justified her place on her father’s top team.

She was half tempted to change her mind and return to London, except it might be seen as a kind of climb-down, and the thought of Tessa Lloyd’s superior smile as she obeyed the tug on the leash cemented her determination to stay away, however briefly.

She still had the hotel’s information folder on the table beside her. She’d stop this aimless pounding up the motorway and find something positive to do for the rest of the day.

As she picked up the folder a pale green leaflet fluttered to the floor. Something about a series of spring art exhibitions in local village halls. Nothing she would normally have noticed. But as she bent to retrieve the paper the name ‘Emplesham’ seemed to leap out at her.

For a moment she was very still, staring down at it. Remembering.

Emplesham, she thought wonderingly. It hadn’t even occurred to her how close it must be.

Yet once she’d have known. And without any prompting either. When she was a child, she’d looked it up almost obsessively on the map, calculating the distance from London, from boarding school—from anywhere, she remembered, wincing—and promising herself that one day she’d go there. See the place where the mother she’d never known had been born. As if that, somehow, would bring her closer.

And now I’m actually in the neightbourhood, and if I hadn’t seen this leaflet I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, she told herself wryly.

It was evidence, she realised, of how far she’d grown away from that lonely, introspective little girl.

And perhaps that was how it should stay. After all, going to look at the outside of a house wouldn’t answer any of the questions which had bewildered and tormented her for so many years. The questions that her father, too racked by the grief of his loss, had always refused even to discuss.

After Susan Westcott’s death he had sold the house they had shared, and its contents, dismissed the domestic staff and moved to a new locality with his baby daughter, Suzannah. From then on, of course, she had been always known as Zanna, as if even the similarities in their names were too painful for him to contemplate.

There were no mementoes, no photographs anywhere, and no one the child could ask about her mother. The only reminder that Sir Gerald seemed able to tolerate was the strangely disturbing portrait of his wife kept in his study.

It had always worried Zanna. Nor was it really a likeness either. Above the vibrant swirl of her crimson blouse Sue Westcott’s face was a pale blur, the features barely suggested, apart from her eyes which seemed to burn with a wild green flame. Desperate eyes, Zanna had decided as she grew up. She’d found herself wondering whether her mother had known, somehow, how little time she had left to live. As a picture, it revealed little more.

And then on her eleventh birthday she’d received a small packet at her boarding school, the accompanying lawyer’s letter stating that her mother’s former nanny, Miss Grace Moss, had directed in her will that Zanna should be sent the enclosed.

It had been a small leather-bound photo album, full of ageing snapshots of people she didn’t know in clothes from bygone years, and for a moment Zanna had been bewildered as to why this stranger should have bothered.

Then she’d seen that the last few photographs were all marked ‘Church House, Emplesham’ on the back. The first one was dated—‘1950, Susan two days old’—and showed a woman in a neat dress and apron, presumably Nanny Moss, smiling in the wisteria-hung doorway of a long white house, with a tiny baby held protectively in her arms.

Others showed a small blonde girl playing among tall hollyhocks and delphiniums in a garden, or riding a tricycle, until finally a taller Sue had proudly showed off a new school hat and blazer.

Zanna had thought, Mummy, and her eyes had filled with tears. But she’d been grateful that she at last had something tangible to hold on to.

From that moment on the album went everywhere with her and became her most cherished possession, almost a talisman. But at the same time the way the bequest had been made had warned her, young though she was, that her father might not regard it in quite the same light, and that this was a gift to be kept secret, not shared with him.

She didn’t want him to be unhappy again, and the only times she had ever pressed him for information about her mother he had become so angry and upset that she’d been almost frightened. His unresolved pain and grief for his late wife was his one weakness. The only sign of vulnerability he’d ever shown.

All these years she’d kept the secret, she thought ruefully, and the album occupied an inside pocket in her bag even now. Her sole and private link with the past.

Zanna took it out and flicked through it while she ate her meal.

It was probably a wild-goose chase, but there might be someone in the village who’d remember the little girl at Church House, who could help wipe out the apparent vacuum that Sue Westcott had left in her wake.

At any rate, she would have to go and see.

After all, she argued, what do I have to lose?

Almost within minutes of taking the appropriate motorway exit she found herself in a maze of country lanes. The day was warm for late spring, and Zanna opened the sun roof and slung her jacket into the back of the car.

It wasn’t a fast journey. Every bend in the road seemed to reveal some new hazard—a tractor idling along, a group of riders on horseback, a pair of motorists who’d stopped to exchange the time of day, thereby blocking the lane completely.

Even the throb of the motorway traffic was extinguished by birdsong and the bleating of sheep. Zanna had the crazy sensation that she’d stepped backwards into some time-warp, where life moved at a different, slower pace.

Usually she would have been impatient, pushing herself and others, looking for a way round the obstacles in her path. But today she felt herself slowing in unison. She was aware that the tension was seeping out of her, that the sun and the warm breeze with its scent of hedgerows were bestowing a kind of benison.

Someone had once said that to travel hopefully was better than to arrive. For the first time she could understand that, and agree.

The Emplesham village sign was emblazoned on a huge circle of stone half-buried in long grass and hawthorn at the side of the road.

As Zanna passed it she began to realise that all was not well with her car. The engine note was not right. It seemed to have developed a kind of stutter, she thought with dismay. And then, without further warning, it died on her altogether.

Using the slight downward slope, Zanna steered the car onto the verge and applied the hand brake. She said under her breath, ‘I don’t believe this.’ It was as if the damned thing had become suddenly bewitched as it crossed the village line. Although that, of course, was nonsense.

She could see roofs and the church tower only a couple of hundred yards away. There’d be help there, or at least a telephone, she decided. She locked the car and began to walk down the lane, only to see ahead of her, as she rounded the first corner, a small garage and workshop.

Thank goodness for that, at least, she thought as she picked her way between the limited selection of secondhand cars on the fore court and entered the workshop.

She could hear music playing—one of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, she recognized with slight in-credulity—but could see no one. She moved forward uncertainly and nearly stumbled over a pair of long denim-clad legs protruding from under a car. And not just any car, she realised. It was a classic Jaguar—by no means new, but immaculately maintained.

A portable cassette player near the legs was presumably the source of the music.

Zanna raised her voice above it. ‘Could you help me, please?’

There was no response, so she bent down and switched off the cassette.

She said, on a crisper note, ‘Excuse me.’

There was a brief pause, then the owner of the legs disentangled himself from beneath the car and sat up, looking at her.

He was tall and lean, his mane of black curling hair shaggy and unkempt. From a tanned face dark eyes surveyed her expressionlessly. His T-shirt and jeans were filthy with oil. He looked, Zanna thought with faint contempt, like some kind of gipsy.

Still, any port in a storm, she consoled herself, with a faint sigh. And if someone was actually allowing him to work on a car like that, he couldn’t be totally incompetent.

He said, ‘Consider yourself excused.’ His voice was low-pitched, with a faint drawl and a barely detectable undercurrent of amusement.

Zanna stiffened slightly, needled by his continuing and lingering scrutiny. He would, she thought, know her again. She looked back at him coldly, registering in her turn a beak of a nose that had clearly been broken at some time, a cool, thin-lipped mouth and a chin with a determined tilt. An image not as easily dismissed as she’d first assumed.

She said briefly, ‘My car has broken down.’

He shrugged. Through a rip in his shirt his shoulder looked very brown. ‘It happens,’ he returned laconically. ‘My commiserations.’ And he moved as if to slide back under the Jaguar.

‘Just a moment,’ Zanna said with a snap, and he paused enquiringly. She took a breath. ‘I’m not looking for sympathy. I’d actually like you to fix it—if it’s not too much trouble,’ she added witheringly.

‘Now that’s the problem.’ His face was solemn, but under their heavy lids she could swear his eyes were dancing. ‘I am rather busy already. As you can see.’

‘Yes, but I have an emergency,’ Zanna said impatiently. ‘And this is a garage.’

‘Ten out of ten for observation.’

‘And you operate a call-out service,’ she went on. ‘It says so on the board outside.’

He wiped his hands on a piece of rag. ‘I’ll say this for you—you’re persistent,’ he remarked flatly. He slowly uncoiled himself and stood up. It seemed to take for ever. Zanna had always considered herself a reasonable height, but he towered head and shoulders above her.

Oddly intimidated, she found herself taking an involuntary step backwards. Her heel slipped in a patch of oil and she stumbled.

‘Careful.’ His hand shot out and gripped her arm to steady her.

‘I’m all right,’ she snapped, shrugging herself free and receiving a frankly sardonic look in return.

‘Well, you could have fooled me,’ he drawled. ‘Are you always this nervous?’

No, of course she wasn’t, and her overreaction to what had only been, after all, a fleeting contact vexed her.

She shrugged. ‘I’m just—anxious about my car.’

He sighed. ‘What seems to be the problem with it?’ he asked, without enthusiasm.

“The engine made a stuttering noise and just—stopped,’ she said rather lamely.

The firm mouth quirked. ‘Did it, now? Well, I suggest you go back to the poor thing and take a good hard look at the petrol gauge.’

Zanna gasped. ‘I filled the tank before I left the motorway,’ she said stonily. ‘And I can do without the patronising remarks.’

His face hardened. ‘Just as I can do without the aggravation. Try one of the motoring organisations, lady. They’re obliged to be pleasant.’

Zanna bit her lip. ‘But that could take hours,’ she objected. ‘Whereas you’d only have to walk up the road.’ She drew another breath. ‘Look, whatever the going rate is, I’ll pay you double.’

‘There speaks the complete autocrat.’ There was no doubting the amusement in his voice now, or the accompanying touch of contempt. ‘I have news for you, sweetheart. Market economy notwithstanding, not everyone’s for sale.’

‘With an attitude like yours, I’m surprised you have a business at all,’ Zanna retorted hotly. ‘Or do they take whatever they can get in this backwater?’

‘Pretty much,’ he said. ‘Although I understand they’ve stopped flogging the peasants and selling their children into slavery.’ The dark eyes swept her from head to foot again. ‘However, if it’s such a dump, why are you honouring it with your presence.’

‘I’m not,’ she denied curtly. ‘I’m just passing through.’

‘An interesting trick,’ he said. ‘Especially as the road comes to a dead end at Hollins Farm. Maybe you should trade the car in for a juggernaut, if you plan to drive over it. Or even an amphibious vehicle,’ he added reflectively. ‘Ted Hollins has a duck pond.’

For the first time in years she was tempted to the schoolgirl rudeness of sticking her tongue out at him, but managed to restrain herself. She simply could not afford to alienate him further.

Smile as if genuinely amused, she ordered herself through gritted teeth. ‘Actually,’ she said, with studied brightness, ‘I’ve come to see the art exhibition.’

His brows lifted. ‘It’s a very local affair. No Picassos or Van Goghs. You won’t need your American Express.’ He paused meditatively before adding, ‘But I guess it’ll keep you occupied while I’m looking at your car.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was glacial and his grin widened.