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had definitely smelled like she had been fucked. But she had survived the whole experience, and thanks to some innovative thinking, she had been able to feel like less of a victim than the situation had dictated. Especially when she had managed to give him a black eye. And that bite on his shoulder had bled quite a lot and might get nice and infected. One could only hope.
    He had been gone when the alarm had gone off at eight, and she had spent some time trying to find all her clothes, and make herself look vaguely presentable.
    She had ridden the lifts down to the ground floor, and walked across the familiar polished marble to the glass doors of the Medor building. That was a surprise. But what was even more surprising was how the woman who had brought her coffee yesterday approached her cautiously, offering to order a car to take her home. Jo looked at her through narrowed eyes, noting the guilt under the professional facade.
    "Fuck off, bitch," she said in a low voice and walked straight past the woman and through the massive glass revolving door and into the weak sunshine outside. She hesitated on the pavement for a few seconds, wondering how she was going to get home. Her bag with her mobile phone and purse had disappeared somewhere between her taxi ride and waking up in a sealed apartment with a nutcase. She stood frowning in yesterday's work clothes, crumpled and dishevelled, as a sleek dark car pulled up in front of her. A man in a chauffer's uniform climbed out of the driver's seat, and unlocked the back door of the car, holding it open invitingly. Jo looked around her, puzzled, for the person for whom this lift was intended. There was no one else around, so she looked back at the chauffeur, who was staring straight at her. He indicated with an inclination of his head that she should climb in the back seat. She raised her eyebrows sceptically, and then she turned and started walking in the general direction of her apartment. It would take her at least half an hour to get home, and her shoes were designed more for appearance than actual walking, but she had developed a deep distrust of taxis and chauffeured cars of any description.
    She was just wondering how she was going to get into her apartment when the sleek car pulled up alongside her, driving slowly enough to keep pace with her. The front passenger window was down, and a voice called out from the interior.
    "Miss, please. Let me take you home. The boss is going to go mental if I don't."
    Ha, if only he knew. His boss was already about as mental as they got, she thought sourly. He'd broken through the insanity barrier and was accelerating out the other end.
    "No thanks," she said shortly as she continued walking.
    "Please miss," the voice became a bit more frantic. "I have your stuff here."
    Jo stopped walking then, and rounded on the car in fury.
    "What?" she demanded angrily. "Where the hell did you get it?"
    "The taxi driver, miss, he handed it in when you passed out in the back of his car. The boss said I was to drive you home and make sure you got your handbag."
    Jo considered this. "Fine," she capitulated, her feet already aching. "Take me home."
    The chauffeur hopped out of the car, and opened the door for her, closing it behind her as she collapsed in an exhausted heap on the luxurious leather seat. The chauffeur handed her her bag, and slid into the front seat, pulling off smoothly into the sparse traffic. Saturday morning, she recalled. Well, at least she wouldn't have to worry about being late for work.
    The drive home took all of five minutes, and was accomplished in silence. She opened the door and climbed out of the car, gave the chauffeur a brief wave, and walked into the lobby of her apartment building.
    She sighed with relief as she unlocked her apartment and stepped inside, kicking off her shoes. She stripped off all her clothes and left them lying in an untidy heap in the bathroom, and she stepped under a blistering hot shower, letting the heat