One Reckless Night

One Reckless Night
Sara Craven

Once wasn't enough…Zanna Westcott was a successful businesswoman with a track record for ruthless takeovers and always putting business before pleasure. Jake Lantrell was pleasure… sheer unadulterated pleasure. Zanna's attraction to him scared her. Jake represented everything in life she had tried to avoid: love, emotion, sex. And so, after one reckless night of passion, Zanna had determined to forget her momentary indiscretion… .It wasn't so easy. Jake wanted more than a one-night stand. He was determined to show Zanna that there was something missing from her life - him!Sara Craven's 50th Book Sara Craven has sold over 17 million copies of her books throughout the world.

Cover (#u69db7e27-5b62-5358-8acb-e526bfdc7549)“I wouldn’t have said you were a girl for one-night stands, Susie.” (#ubb2d215b-2433-5e21-9e82-ca26205e2764)Letter to Reader (#u15ca5a72-334e-504a-911d-f0c7194c6337)Title Page (#uf523d296-3a83-5cac-9fe6-d6d662968643)CHAPTER ONE (#u835ab812-333e-598e-825b-967521459883)CHAPTER TWO (#ub68d2d4c-712a-55c6-90e4-fc09c557a405)CHAPTER THREE (#u452942b8-b40c-59aa-b409-84d8c5e3387f)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“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 (http://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.’