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
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