CHAPTER ONE

      ‘TAKE your hands off me!’ Zoe twisted her legs away from the driver and endeavoured to cover the expanse of her fishnet-covered thighs with the skirt of the coat she wore flung casually over her shoulders just as the souped-up Mini took a corner on two wheels, the dipped headlights revealing yet another narrow London back street, a figure, gender unguessable-at, leaning against a darkened, vandalised lamp-post.

      ‘Off, I said!’ Small though she was, Zoe could shout vhen she had to. She pushed at the groping hand. She couldn’t remember his name, but he had to be drunk, or mad. She ground her teeth with rage as she heard him say thickly, ‘Quit foolin’ around. You’re after a bit of fun and I’m equipped to provide it. What the hell else do you think we’re doing here?’

      She was not going to answer that. And yelled instead, ‘Stop the car!’ And much to her surprise, and deep relief, he did, brakes screeching, rubber burning on to tarmac.

      Scrabbling to unfasten her seat-belt, reaching for the door release, her fingers all panic-stricken thumbs, she felt herself helped out with a violent shove of his hands, heaving her on to the pavement—which was now miraculously fully illuminated—her handbag following and landing on top of her inelegantly sprawling form, his voice slating as he shouted, ‘Little cheat!’ before shooting away with a roar of protesting horsepower.

      Her breath sobbing between her teeth, Zoe got shakily to her feet, pushed the wildly curling mane of bright blonde hair out of her eyes and bent to retrieve the scattered contents of her handbag. Her coat fell away from her shoulders, pooling on the ground as she hauled herself upright again, only now recognising the source of that sudden illumination. The long, slinky lines of a stationary vehicle were just discernible behind the glare of headlights.

      For a moment she was too petrified to move, her heart thumping as if it would beat its way right out of her chest. And her knees were grazed where they’d taken the brunt of her ignominious landing. She couldn’t have run if someone had paid her.

      Out of the frying pan…All alone and no one in sight…Even the lamp-post-leaner had disappeared. No taxis cruising this area. No one came to these mean streets in one of the least salubrious parts of London unless they lived here or were driving through, taking a short cut.

      Someone exited the car. She heard the expensive clunk of metal and saw the impressive height, the intimidating breadth of the man as his shadowed form moved forward into the beam of the lights.

      Green eyes widened between thickly mascaraed lashes and stayed that way as she fought to compress the trembling of her lush scarlet mouth. For the first time in her twenty-five years she was frightened witless. Back in the car, with that nameless creep, she had been angry and outraged. But this was different. And she was too terrified to take her eyes from the menace of his measured approach to retrieve her coat to cover herself…

      One small hand tugged ineffectively at the narrow tube of tacky black satin that barely covered the crotch of her fishnet tights while the other flew to cover the cleavage afforded by her black, sequinned top. Heavy gilt bracelets jangled and she swayed on her spindly scarlet heels and desperately wished she had secreted a hat-pin about her scantily clad person.

      ‘Were you hurt?’ The dark, gravelly voice was abrasive and she took a small, defensive backward step, shaking her head, just wanting him to go away, shivering uncontrollably now despite the heavy warmth of the June night air. ‘There have to be better ways of earning a crust.’ The wide slash of his mouth indented cynically. ‘Don’t you understand the risks you’re running?’

      Mutely staring at him, Zoe tried to find a tart streetwise comment to throw in his face. She failed, her quick wits deserting her, hysteria threatening as immediate fear receded just a little.

      She would never forget his face. Never. Thrown into harsh relief by the lights, his features were too austere to be handsome in the popular sense. Arrogant selfassurance rode on slanting cheekbones, on the long straight line of his nose, the determined sweep of his jaw, while the incisive moulding of his mouth was an essay in cruel sensuality and the gleam of his eyes was pure, unadulterated cynicism.

      Wide shoulders swooped as he bent to pick up her coat, flinging it at her, dark hair gleaming in the lights.

      ‘Cover yourself. If you’ve got a shred of sense you’ll get back home, out of harm’s way. How old are you, anyway? Fifteen?’ He didn’t