Summer of Surrender

Summer of Surrender

Zara Stoneley

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Zara Stoneley

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013

Copyright © Zara Stoneley

Cover Images © Shutterstock.com

Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © November 2013

ISBN: 9780007556571

Version 2014-09-26

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

To my family, who have always encouraged me to follow my dreams, and my very own sexy hero who has provided the inspiration and support to turn them into reality.

Chapter 1

‘Shit.’ Whoever said climbing gates in a maxi dress was possible had got it wrong. Seriously wrong. Or maybe no one had been stupid enough to say it.

Kezia Martin clung on to the top of the wobbling timber and considered her options. Rolling off was a definite possibility, except that the driveway looked like it had a high ‘ouch’ factor. Although she was a million miles from sophisticated, even she knew that a gravelled face was not a good look. But there didn’t seem to be an option B. Apart from the ‘split your dress at the seams’ one, and she did actually like this dress quite a lot. And as it made up fifty per cent of her going-out wardrobe, she wasn’t ready to sacrifice it, and neither did she want expose her thighs – or worse – to the world.

Not that there was much of the world here to see anyway. The monosyllabic taxi driver had dropped her off by a five-bar gate in the middle of nowhere, and scarpered before she had the chance to say she’d changed her mind. Not that she really wanted to face another trip in his car.

She’d actually been feeling pretty positive, if knackered, when she’d staggered out of the train station. And even the one battered taxi that was parked in the otherwise deserted rank didn’t deflate her too much. The driver had taken her bag without a great deal of enthusiasm, shoved his newspaper onto the passenger seat and raised an eyebrow when she’d read out the address, which seemed a bit rude. He’d muttered something that she could have sworn sounded like ‘you don’t look like one of them,’ but she could have got that bit wrong. Then he’d stoically ignored her and driven further and further into the countryside before unceremoniously dumping her, grabbing his fare and driving off in his belching car. Which was doubly rude.

She would have been more worried, but the back of beyond was probably a good place to be right now. A good place to start again. And anyway, she was too darned tired to really think about anything, apart from the comfy bed that just had to be waiting for her. It had to be.

Or maybe not. There wasn’t an intercom, not even a bell, just the gate, firmly fastened with a chain that wouldn’t have looked out of place attached to an anchor. She’d tried hollering and she’d tried waiting, though not for that long since patience wasn’t her greatest virtue. Then she’d decided that there obviously wasn’t a guard dog, and she was too tired to sit in the road any longer. At least on the other side she might find somewhere to sit down and wait. It had to be better than staying on the outside. So she’d thrown her rucksack and guitar over the gate and planned on following them. Which involved hitching up the dress to just over her knees and taking advantage of the generous slit down one side. The problem was there was no slit on the other side, so once she was astride the gate, things got tricky. Whichever way she tried to move there was the tell-tale sound of the snapping of stitches. Bugger.

She would ring for help, but her mobile was in her rucksack. On the ground, right where she was heading. Which left two options: praying to God for help, or making an even bigger fool of herself. She shut her eyes, which always helped with thinking. And praying.

‘What-’ there was a God, with a wicked sense of humour seeing as she just about fell off the precarious perch, ‘-are you doing?’ Well, maybe not a God. She turned as far as she could, cricking her neck in the process, and could just about make out a tall, lean figure. The low sun behind him made everything but his outline pretty much indiscernible, so she screwed up her eyes to try and focus on him. Which didn’t help.

‘Are you going to give me a hand, or just stand there?’

‘No to the first, yes to the second.’ He didn’t just stand there, though. He took a couple of steps nearer, so that she could make out quite clearly that this wasn’t some mysterious God, just a mysterious mortal. With a soft voice, which had an undertone that was making her skin prickle.

‘Very helpful, not.’ It was muttered under her breath, but she had the distinct feeling, from the look on his face, that he’d heard. Kezia didn’t believe in love at first sight, or hate either. But right now this guy was making her think that the second was maybe an option. He stood, arms folded, feet astride and just looked through narrowed eyes while she clung to his gate. Well, she assumed it was his gate, seeing as he was on the other side.

Black t-shirt, black pasted-on jeans, black hair, black face. Or at least a not-very-pleased face. Inscrutable was probably the word, inscrutable in quite a brooding way, which made her feel even more of a dishevelled mess.

‘This is private property.’ His tone was mild, but he was obviously used to people taking notice of it. Which riled her. She’d been invited here, for fuck’s sake.

‘What do you think I am? Stupid? I did actually realise that, for a start the bloody big padlock’s a bit of a giveaway. But, I was told to come here, today, by Marie.’ And I feel bloody silly having a conversation while I’m wobbling on a gate. ‘You know? Marie, who runs the place?’ Okay, sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, but right now it worked for her.

‘We’re shut.’

‘Well that’s bloody obvious by the mega-duty chain. But I. Have. Got. An. Appointment.’ She spoke slowly, hoping it would help.

‘Sorry, there are no appointments until September.’ He took a step back, arms still folded across his body and looked like he was about to go.

‘You have got to be joking!’ Kezia couldn’t believe it. He stood there and replied, calmly ‘we’re shut’. Just like you would say a shop is shut. And she’d just travelled over a thousand bloody miles for this! He didn’t look like the kidding type, though. Closer up he looked like the strong, silent, ‘I’m sexy and I know it’ type. Except the corner of his mouth had tipped slightly into a shape that looked vaguely promising; almost a smile. All she had to do was work out how to humour him, and still get in. ‘You can’t be shut, buster. I might not be sure I want to be here and you sure as hell don’t look like you want me to be. But I am. And I’m going to do this if it kills us both. So do me a favour and either help me down or shut your eyes, because me climbing over isn’t going to be a pretty sight.’

‘Is that your stuff?’ He nodded his head towards her well-worn rucksack and battered guitar case.

She nodded. Two long strides and he’d laid his hand on the guitar case, and she just knew what he was going to do. Throw it back over, and then probably her with it. ‘Don’t you dare.’ Nobody touched her guitar. The rucksack, yeah, but not the guitar. She made a grab to stop him, forgetting she needed to hang on, heard the unmistakeable sound of tearing fabric and fell. Shit, torn dress and face. Shit, shit, shit. Except she didn’t hit the ground.

How anyone could move that fast she didn’t know. But his warm hands were on her waist, which meant her feet hit the ground before her body. ‘Oo.’ She was inches from him, and his hands were still on her body and it didn’t feel like any touch she could remember. It was a lulling touch, a warmth that held a kind of promise that she didn’t quite recognise.

And she still had her mouth open. She snapped it shut. He let go, in his own time, but didn’t move away.

‘Are you okay?’

She nodded. Her tongue didn’t work. It was stuck to the roof of her mouth because this man was pure unadulterated sex. He was surrounded by an aura that was screaming out ‘touch me, want me.’ She reached out tentatively without thinking. And then he moved. One step away. Out of arms’ reach.

‘I’m…’ Well, she was red hot for one. All over. The first flush was down to the way he held her, the second was please-earth-swallow-me-up embarrassment.

‘You are?’

‘I’m Kezia Martin, how do you do? I do have an appointment, and please don’t throw me back over the gate. You see I talked to Maria when we were in Capri and she said that if I came here now, well as soon as I’d finished in Italy, which she knew was two days ago, she said she’d be able to—’

He held up a hand. ‘Whoa. Do you always go at that speed? Slow down, you’re giving me a headache.’

She was babbling, she knew she was babbling. It was a bad habit she had when she felt stupid or embarrassed. She would always talk too much to cover for herself.

‘So…’ He paused. Studying her with eyes that appeared black in the dimming light, he looked her over with a lazy smile that brought out a rash of goose bumps over her arms. No, it couldn’t be his smile; smiles didn’t do that. It had to be the fact that it was getting cooler. She wrapped her arms across her chest and tried to ignore the prickle of her nipples through the fine silk of her dress. His gaze drifted briefly over her body and she shivered involuntarily. Her hair had to be a mess, her dress had a rip somewhere – she wasn’t quite sure where yet, and she daren’t look. Her body was on full alert, as though any moment now she expected him to pounce.

‘You’re cold.’

If it’s the nipples you’ve spotted, that’s nothing to do with the temperature. ‘I’m fine.’ There was a slight tremble in the words and she swallowed, trying to clear her throat, get back to normality and break the spell that he’d woven.

He ignored the words. Looked her over slowly again and seemed to come to an abrupt decision.

‘Seeing as you seem to be on the wrong side of the gate now…’ He paused. Wrong side, right side, depends on whose saying the words, mate. ‘You might as well come and explain in the house.’ He picked her rucksack up, swung it over one shoulder as though it was feather-light (which she knew for a fact it wasn’t as she’d hauled it across half of Europe, frequently cursing the fact that it was crammed full with most of her worldly goods) and she made a grab for her guitar, which he seemed to know was off limits. Then he walked off with an effortless stride that ate up the ground silently.

She felt like a dog scampering after him, trying to keep up, across a yard she barely had time to take in, except for the fact that it had to be the cleanest yard she’d ever seen. Down a path between immaculate flowerbeds that led to a slightly faded, but obviously once-imposing, farmhouse.

He slowed briefly, to push the large oak door open wider, and had marched across the worn flagstones, dropped the rucksack and was pouring coffee before she’d even had chance to get her bearings. Or catch her breath.

‘So?’ He passed her a mug, then placed his own on the table between them and waited. For an explanation. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Thing was, why did she have to explain at all? He obviously lived here, and he obviously, from his reaction, knew Marie. But now she had her hands wrapped around a warm mug and her heart rate had returned to normal she was beginning to feel that hate, well, dislike, again. Who did he think he was? At least at this distance, with a table between them, the intensity had dwindled to a gentle simmer.

‘I run the business with Dan and Marie.’

Ah, he was a mind-reader. His long, slim finger stroked around the rim of the mug. She took a moment to look at him properly. He was lean, toned rather than muscled-up, and every part of him seemed to be essential, nothing wasted, nothing extra. His arms were defined, as an artist would define their model. He seemed to possess a quiet strength, holding back, contained and yet on the edge, as though a single command could unleash his power. His hair was dark to the point of black, as were his eyes – it hadn’t been a trick of the failing light, even here under the artificial glare there was an almost unnatural depth to the colour. His features were aquiline. Enigmatic, hidden. She felt that shudder again and decided to stop examining him so closely.

‘Marie offered me a job.’ She took a sip, concentrating on the steam rising from the liquid. ‘So, I’m here.’

‘And she’s not.’ His voice was gentle, as though he didn’t want to frighten her.

‘She’s not?’

‘Nope.’ He leaned back, and she was aware of him stretching his legs out under the table, closer to her own. She crossed her ankles under the chair, scrunching up into a smaller space.

He smiled. ‘Marie and Dan are away, everyone is away. I’m here looking after the horses, and we’re shut for the summer, so I’m afraid there isn’t a job.’

‘But, she said, she promised.’ Kezia reached for her rucksack. She needed this job, needed money, more to the point. She was stuck here in the middle of nowhere, down to her last few pounds and with nowhere else to go. ‘Look, I’ll ring her if you don’t believe me.’ When she could find her phone, why the hell could she never find things? It was in the side pocket, it was always…. No, it was in the top.

‘Don’t worry. Leave it. You can stay here tonight and then in the morning…’

‘No, I’m staying here. You’ve got to give me a job.’

His eyes narrowed a touch. Ignore it. ‘Marie promised. Here.’ She grabbed at her phone triumphantly and pulled up the list of contacts.

His hand came down over hers before she could search.

‘I said, leave it.’ The voice was still as soft, but there was that edge again. The edge that made her stomach clench with strange anticipation. She dragged her fingers away from the heat of his touch. Put her hands under the table.

‘No.’ Whatever spell he was used to casting over women, it wasn’t going to work on her. She’d met loads of weirdos over the years; you always did when you led the nomadic kind of lifestyle her family had enjoyed. Not that ‘enjoyed’ was always the most appropriate word. But she’d learned how to deal with them. Look them in the eye, be firm. Or if that failed, you keep your eyes down and scarper.

‘Yes.’ His tone was even, firm, his gaze met hers and it was her that broke the contact first, looking down to stare into the murky depths of her coffee. ‘You’re tired. I’ll show you to one of the guest rooms and we’ll sort this in the morning. I’ll talk to Marie, work out what we owe you.’

‘I don’t want to be owed something, I want a job.’ She needed a job. This was supposed to be the start of a new life, of moving on. She was on her own now, and the time for crying was over. Now she was going to take control of her life, make something of herself. Stop running. Achieve something she could be proud of. And it was meant to start here. It was meant to start now.

When she’d met Marie at the yoga retreat in Italy, something had immediately drawn her to the older woman. Marie might have been the rich client, and she, Kezia, might have been tasked with the most menial jobs, but there was some recognition between the two women. A recognition of something shared that made them stop and talk, something that told Kezia it was okay to unburden herself. She’d told Marie things she’d never told anyone about her life, things that she never imagined she could trust a stranger with, but she’d known she wouldn’t be judged by her. And before Marie left she gave Kezia her details, making her promise to come to England when her work ran out at the start of the summer and the Italians went away. She assured her that there would be a job, a place she could settle in. A future.

Kezia suddenly realised that he had picked up her bag and was walking towards the staircase. She followed, suddenly tired. Tomorrow she’d feel better. Tomorrow the jetlag would be gone, along with the desperate feeling of loneliness, and she’d give this guy hell. Give her what she was owed, sod that.

He pushed open a door, grinning a teasing grin that made her heart jump. ‘I’m James, by the way.’ And then he was gone so quickly she wondered if she had imagined him even being in the room.

She sat down on the bed. Bounced once or twice. Comfy. Not like some of the beds she’d slept in over the last few years. The curtains were drawn, but she went over to the window and pulled them open, dimly making out the outlines of trees, fences, the ghostly shadow-like horses on the horizon. Maybe the middle of nowhere was a good place for her to be right now. Well, it would be perfect if it wasn’t for him. Why did there always have to be someone intent on spoiling things?

Her fingers were drawn to the battered guitar case and she hesitated for a moment before unzipping it, pulling out the instrument and running her fingers over the polished wood. The one thing of any value that she had, the one thing that had the power to nourish her soul. The one constant left in her life, her companion. The corners of her mouth twitched, she sounded like a soppy, sorry-for-herself idiot. A good job it was all in her head and not out loud for macho-man James to hear.

She perched on the corner of the bed, then slowly started plucking at the strings, watching her reflection in the dressing-table mirror as her fingers moved. She did look a mess. He must have thought she was a right drop-out. Which she was in a way. She’d been called hippy chick, weirdo, gyppo and worse in her time. That’s what being brought up by parents with different attitudes and beliefs did to your reputation. But she did miss them. And she missed Simon, even though she knew she had to leave him.

Was it only yesterday that she’d been in his arms? Yesterday when he’d cupped her face in his hands. ‘You’re leaving aren’t you?’

She’d nodded.

‘Why? We’re okay.’

Yeah, okay. Just okay. And they were, they fitted easily together. He held her when she needed him to, kissed her gently when he wanted to make love, took her with an infinite care that made her heart ache.

They’d made love just before she’d left for the airport. Deep inside she knew he was hoping she’d change her mind, that he could change her mind. But neither of them said it. And deep inside she knew that it was time to say goodbye, to move on, that changing her mind would be a mistake she wasn’t prepared to make. They’d lain naked on an old soft blanket that he always had in the back of the car, under the shade of a tree so that the warmth of the air bathed them, not the heat of the sun.

‘I love you, Kez.’ His blue gaze locked with hers. Trusting, open honest.

She linked her fingers through his. ‘I love you too, Simon.’ And she did. In her own way. The way that said she trusted him, she liked to be in his arms, he made her laugh….

‘You don’t have to go, or I can come with you.’

And the burning tears caught at the back of her throat as his soft, full lips took hers. He always made love to her gently, almost reverentially, but this time there had been an edge of desperation, too, and it made her sadder than any tears or pleas could have done.

She’d held him as he kissed her neck, cradled his head as his mouth had taken her nipple, teasing until her body started a gentle buzz. He’d burned a damp trail down her stomach with his tongue and then he’d sought out her nub, flicking it gently until lazy desire edged its way into her limbs and just as she’d teetered on the edge, just as the cry got caught in her throat he’d covered her body with his and thrust inside. They’d rocked together, their bodies perfectly matched, their rhythm a well-practised beat and each time he pushed deep inside she’d felt sadder. She’d wrapped her legs around him as the ache inside grew, pulling him deeper until she could feel his balls against her. She desperately wanted to bury him so far inside that he’d reach the bit of her that needed more. She’d tangled her fingers in his hair as he’d gazed at her. And his mouth had covered hers and as the feeling grew to that unbearable point, he’d sucked gently on her tongue, drew it into his own mouth and she could smell his desire, taste his pain as they came together. Her body quivered around his, clinging desperately to every last inch, every last drop. Then, still entwined, he’d dropped his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. And all she could think was she didn’t have to go, didn’t have to change everything. But she did. She had to sort herself out, become the person she knew she could be. Not the one that her past had forced her to become.

Kezia put the guitar gently down in the corner of the room, opened the curtains even wider so that the view would be there when she woke in the morning, and pulled the dress over her head.

The damage wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. She had a slit up the other side now. Granted, not quite straight, but it stopped short of her knicker elastic. Which was good. It had pulled open at the seam, fraying the fabric, with one small jagged tear, but she could probably mend it. The green-blue fabric shimmered as she laid it over the back of the chair and she shoved her espadrilles underneath. The top sheet of the bed was crisp and fresh under her fingertips as she dragged it back, then rummaged in her rucksack for a t-shirt.

She was pooped. Well and truly done in. Tired from the journey, and that edge of uncertainty when you don’t know where you were going and who you are going to meet. It could be good, she was used to it, but since her parents had gone it had been harder. There was nothing to comfort her at the end of the day. Well, there had been Simon, but she’d fucked that one up hadn’t she?