Kitabı oku: «Zachary's Virgin», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

SHE should have slept long and soundly that night. Snug beneath the thick down quilt, with the firelight painting hypnotic shadows on the walls and nothing but the deep, black silence of the Canadian night outside, she should have succumbed to the exhaustion of travel and an inner clock not yet adjusted to the nine-hour time difference between Europe and B.C.

Instead, she awoke before sunrise, her mind sharp and eager, and her body filled with restless energy. And why? Because, the night before, Zachary Alexander had almost kissed her.

Almost…

She had timed her after-dinner departure from the lodge to coincide with his and since they were, as he’d so reluctantly conceded, next-door neighbors, he’d had little choice but to accept her company on the walk back to the house.

“Watch you don’t slip,” he ordered, as they navigated the steps leading from the lodge to the lakeshore path. “It’s very icy underfoot.”

Small wonder! The wind had dropped, a mercy to be sure, but still the air knifed into her lungs. Shivering despite the quilted lining of her ankle-length coat, Claire had clutched the collar to her throat and glanced covertly at her companion.

He seemed unaffected by the cold but then, from all she’d seen, he was more than a match for it. Profile unreadable, he’d marched along, making little concession to her shorter stride.

“Your chef served an excellent dinner,” she said, gasping to keep pace.

“Yes.”

“The partridge was particularly delicious.”

He grunted.

“By itself almost worth the journey over here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The lights,” she said, skidding a little as they hit a particularly slippery spot, “look very pretty strung through the trees, don’t you think?”

Another grunt, half buried in an exasperated sigh, at which her own irritation rose to boiling point.

“How is it that you find so much to say to others and yet have so little to say to me, Mr. Alexander? Am I so reprehensible?”

He spared her a glance, one which swept from her hair piled high on her head to her feet in their fur-lined doeskin boots. The effect reminded her of a raindrop falling down a windowpane and freezing before it reached the bottom. “I have no feelings for you one way or the other, Miss Durocher.”

She laughed. “And there are roses growing on the moon!”

“You think I’m lying?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re afraid of me.”

He also laughed then, a sound so full of scorn that she shriveled inside. “Why on earth would I be afraid of you?”

“Because,” she said rashly, “I disturb your peace. I threaten your authority. And most of all, I distract you. You pretend to ignore me yet all the time, you’re watching me. You’re like a moth drawn to my flame.”

This time, his laughter was genuine, rolling out into the night like fire-warmed cognac. “You flatter yourself, Miss Durocher.”

“And you call me miss, but refer to everyone else by their first names.”

“You call me mister,” he sneered. “Should I take that to mean you’re irresistibly drawn to my flame, too?”

They had reached the house. The steps which gave onto the veranda were so treacherous with crystals of new-fallen snow that, by accident, she stumbled against him. And because, despite his brusque manner, he was at heart a gentleman, he caught her securely by the arm and attempted to steady her.

But he hated having to do it and pushed her away too abruptly. At that, they both lost their footing and for a moment slithered together in graceless confusion, clutching at empty air, before landing in the deep snow piled beside the path.

It was fluffy as goose down, cushioning their fall at the same time that it imprisoned them in its softness. Try though he might to extricate himself with dignity from the hollow they’d created when they fell, he could find no purchase. Snowflakes clung to his hair, slid inside the collar of his jacket, swallowed his feet.

“You did that on purpose!” he said, infuriated by the gurgle of amusement which escaped her.

Batting her eyelashes and trying hard to look properly rebuked, she murmured, “But how is that possible? You are so big and strong and I am but a weak little woman! Zachary, you give me too much credit.”

They were half-lying together, so closely that the fog of his breath touched sweetly against her face. So closely that she saw how his gaze lingered on her laughing mouth.

A strange longing swept over her at that, a sense almost of confronting a destiny so full of promise that not to nurture it was to waste a gift from the gods. She could have forgiven him his surliness then, and might even have dared to let him see the uncertain, tender side of her which she too often hid for fear of being laughed at, if he had shown her a little gentleness.

But he did not. Instead, he hauled himself upright and growled, “Save that routine for some other fool. It’s wasted on me.”

“Zut!” she exclaimed, and spat out a mouthful of snow. “I was teasing you, for heaven’s sake! Is that any reason to leave me here to freeze? Come, Zachary, surely even you wouldn’t stoop so low?”

He let out such an explosive breath of annoyance that, for a moment, she wondered if he might go so far as to bury her and hope no one found her until the spring thaw. But the reluctant knight in him came to the fore. With ill-concealed exasperation, he leaned down, grabbed her hand and yanked her clear of the snowbank. Did it so forcefully that she found herself flying through the air and coming to rest pressed up against his formidable frame with the breath knocked out of her.

They remained so for a small eternity, knee to knee and breast to breast, he panting a little and she gasping. So close were they that she could feel his heart thumping through the layers of his clothing. Or was it hers suddenly running amok? Because, this near, he was even more beautiful than at a distance. Such smooth olive skin he had, such elegance of design in the angled slash of his cheekbones, such strength of character in the iron set of his jaw.

I could enjoy being kissed by him, she’d thought dreamily, and felt herself swaying toward him. How heavy her eyelids had felt all at once, how languorous her limbs.

That was when he’d almost kissed her. His mouth had hovered so close to hers that the outline of his face had blurred in her vision. She could almost taste the cold firm texture of his lips. She even went so far as to lift a hand to caress his cheek.

Wary creature that he was, though, he saw the danger and reared back. “Why did you have to come here for Christmas? Why couldn’t you have stayed in Switzerland, the farther away from me, the better.”

She flinched at such an attack. “What is it about me that irritates you so much?”

“As if you don’t know!” Sudden color slashed his high cheekbones, matched by the light of awareness in his eyes of a man confronting dangerous temptation. “Just keep away from me before I give you what you’re asking for,” he growled and, surefooted despite the icy conditions, took the steps two at a time.

Without waiting to see if she made it safely inside hers, he’d disappeared through his own front door as if he were escaping a fate too treacherous to be endured….

Just then, a swath of lamplight spilled out from next door and flung a reflection against her window. The clock on the bedside table showed six-thirty. Already thoroughly awake, Claire threw back the comforter, slipped into her robe and went into the main salon, the living room as they called it in Canada.

Although the fire had burned low, enough embers remained for a handful of kindling to revive them. She threw in another log, turned on the stereo, and then, since breakfast would not be served in the lodge for at least another hour, she plugged in the coffeemaker before heading for the shower.

When she returned to the room some forty-five minutes later, the fire was blazing merrily and the air laced with the aroma of French roasted coffee. Pouring a cup, she carried it to the window and drew back the curtains.

“Oh, but this is magnificent…!” she breathed, staring out in wonder.

Not a thing remained of yesterday’s gray gloom. Overnight, the cloud had lifted and left the sky a pale and tender mauve against which the stars winked faintly. This side of the house, she realized, also looked out on the frozen lake and, as she watched, the still invisible sun cast a rosy stain on the tips of the mountain ridge on the east horizon.

It had snowed a little more during the night, an inch or two only, just enough to lay an unblemished veil of white over a small lower deck where, she noticed for the first time, stood a whirlpool encircled in glass to protect bathers from the wind.

Clasping her coffee cup in both hands, she gave a little sigh of pleasure. This was what she’d hoped to find when she’d fled Europe: a northern paradise, peaceful, remote, pristine, and just a little intimidating in its untamed splendor.

All at once, a movement caught her eye as a door opened in the other part of the house and Zachary Alexander stepped into view. From behind the curtains, Claire watched as he went down to the whirlpool and lifted its cover.

At once, clouds of steam escaped and hung motionless in the still air. Stooping, he pulled a thermometer from the water and inspected it then, seeming satisfied, dropped it back into the tub and replaced the cover. But instead of returning to the house, he stood with his back to the building and surveyed his tiny kingdom.

What a sight he made! Slim-fitting black slacks hugged his long, strong legs, a heavy black sweater decorated with a single red racing stripe showcased his broad shoulders, and beneath it, in dazzling contrast to his deep winter tan, he wore a white shirt.

Idly, he pushed back a lock of hair which had fallen across his brow as he bent over the spa, then flung a glance over his shoulder as if he knew he was being watched. Instinctively, Claire ducked behind the curtain only to realize a second later that it was not at her that he was looking but at Melanie who, wearing only a pair of boots and her pajamas, had come out to speak to her father.

Claire couldn’t hear what was said but it was obvious that, whatever the topic, he wasn’t prepared to discuss it in the snow. Loping up the steps, he hurried his daughter inside. The outer door closed, followed by the slamming of another door which even the thick inner walls of the building couldn’t quite muffle. And then voices, the father’s deep and calm, but the girl’s high and angry.

A few minutes later, Claire saw him leave again, this time by the front door, and strike out along the path toward the lodge. Apparently discouraged by his altercation with Melanie, he strode along, head down and shoulders hunched despondently.

Astonishingly, Claire felt a stab of pity for the man. Whatever his faults, and clearly he had many, he was obviously devoted to his child. At the same time, he seemed at a loss to know how best to deal with her, and who could wonder? Trying to fill the role of both parents was difficult enough, but to be the father at odds with a teenage girl…!

And Melanie herself, how alone and confused she must feel, half-child and half-adult as she was, and not sure in which world she truly belonged. Perhaps it would help if she could talk to another woman. Hadn’t she admitted as much, just yesterday?

Slipping on her jacket, Claire stepped outside and knocked on the other front door. “What are your plans for the morning?” she asked, when Melanie answered. “Can you spare a little time for a new friend and teach her which runs are the best for skiing?”

Ten minutes later, they were on their way to the lodge for breakfast. “You look so cool, the way you dress and do your hair, and stuff,” Melanie said, gazing at her admiringly. “And the way you talk—sort of like French women do in the movies. I don’t know what I can teach you. You must know just about everything.”

“Not everything, ma petite, but enough to see that you’re not always as happy as you should be. For instance, when you opened the door to me just now, you looked very sad.”

“I had another fight with my dad.” She made a droll face. “We fight every day lately, mostly because I want to go to boarding school and he wants to keep me stuck here in the valley where he can keep an eye on me.”

“That’s natural enough, surely? Most fathers want to protect their daughters.”

“You mean, you had the same trouble with your dad when you were thirteen?”

The question caught Claire off guard. “My father was…not there then. I had only my mother.”

“Uh-oh!” Sensitive to Claire’s changed tone, Melanie looked apprehensive. “Sorry if I said something I shouldn’t.”

“You didn’t. I grew up without a father, that’s all. Just as you are having to grow up without your mother.”

At the mention of her mother, Melanie’s mouth drooped sadly. Cursing herself for not thinking before she spoke, Claire slipped her arm around the child’s narrow shoulders. “You miss her very much, don’t you, darling?”

“Yeah, especially at Christmas.”

“I’m sure she misses you, too, and wishes she could be with you.”

“You think so?” The eyes were huge and much too bereft for one so young.

“I’m certain of it. A mother never willingly forsakes her babies, no matter where they might be or how old they are.”

It wasn’t true, of course. If it were, surely her own childhood would have been different. But how could she destroy Melanie with such knowledge? Better to tell a little lie, especially when it produced such a shining smile.

What with the almost daily influx of new guests and the final countdown to Christmas, the rest of the week was even busier than usual, leaving Zach with little time to spare. For that reason alone, he ought to have been grateful that Mel had found someone to keep her company while he attended to business. Instead, he found himself seething with resentment.

Any time he was able to spend with his daughter always followed the same pattern. She’d bombard him with everything there was to know about Claire Durocher, all delivered with the sort of rapt attention to detail of a kid with a serious case of hero worship. Claire thinks…Claire says…Claire knows…Claire’s met…Claire’s got…

The plain truth was, he’d had it up to here with Claire Durocher and her opinions. She could be kissing cousins with every royal house in Europe for all he cared. She still didn’t have a clue when it came to what was best for his daughter.

He was sick of seeing Mel joined at the hip with the woman. Trying to pry her loose was worse than scraping barnacles off a rock and damn it, he shouldn’t have to try! He was her father, he had rights—but who cared? Not that infernal French creature! It had taken God seven days to make the world but she’d only needed five to turn it on its ear!

“She burns my wires!” he’d exploded to McBride, at one point.

“That ain’t all she’s burnin’,” McBride had chortled. “You got the hots for the woman, but you’re too dang stubborn to admit it.”

It wasn’t true. And even if it were, he came too saddled with responsibility to capture the lasting attention of a woman like Claire Durocher. Nor was he prepared to stand by and watch her wreak havoc on Mel’s life.

Which was why, on the morning of the twenty-third, he stood hidden by the potted Norfolk Island pine just inside the door of the foyer, feeling like a two-bit spy in a third-rate movie as he watched the two of them deep in conversation as they approached the lodge. What secrets were they sharing? And why did Mel find it so easy to confide in a total stranger instead of him?

A feeling he was becoming all too familiar with caught him off guard again, stabbing at him with gleeful spite. Jealousy, that’s what it was, and it had begun the day Claire Durocher had marched into their lives in her smart little Italian leather après-ski boots and taken up her spot at center stage. But the disturbing question was, of whom was he jealous? The woman—or his daughter?

The question lodged in his stomach with all the comfort of a lead cannonball. The notion was ridiculous! And he was a fool to waste a moment of his valuable time debating its validity.

They came bounding up the steps just then, giggling like a pair of kids. Mel’s coltish awkwardness was disguised by her down parka and calf-high boots, and the other one looked elegant as a dancer in her fancy European duds.

He watched, and he hated the pettiness Claire Durocher brought out in him. When was the last time Mel had looked at him like that, as if the sun rose and set on his slightest word? When had her expression last been so open and eager?

Claire Durocher caught sight of him and trilled a sunny “Bonjour!” as if she was quite used to finding grown men hiding behind strategically placed potted Norfolk Island pines.

“Good morning,” he acknowledged, trying to match her breezy informality, and winced at the way his words tumbled out stiff with resentment. He’d never thought himself a possessive man but there was no denying the reason he reached for Melanie and drew her away from her new friend and into the curve of his arm. “Hi, sweetheart. I was looking forward to having a quiet breakfast with you, but you’re kind of late and I’m a bit pressed for time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, wriggling away from him. “I’ve got Claire to keep me company.”

The effort nearly choked him but he managed to bare his teeth in a smile. “Just as well, because I’ve already eaten and I’m meeting McBride down at the stable in a few minutes. But maybe we can team up for a couple of runs down the back hill before lunch.”

“We? You mean, you and me and Claire?”

The hollandaise sauce on the eggs Benedict he’d eaten half an hour before must have been off. Why else did he feel like throwing up? “If you like.”

Claire Durocher fixed him in a penetrating gaze. “But what would you like, Mr. Alexander?”

Her ski suit was dark blue, the exact color of a clear northern sky just before darkness fell, and the turquoise sweater she wore underneath made her skin glow like warm ivory. Her hair curled softly against her neck, dark and thick and lustrous as satin.

It had been a long time since he’d run his fingers through a woman’s hair….

Abruptly, he shut out the thought. There’d been too many like it popping into his mind in the last few days. What he would like didn’t bear thinking about, not if it involved Claire Durocher—and it always seemed to, lately. Waking or sleeping, she was in his face twenty-four hours a day.

“I don’t wish to intrude,” she said, when he offered no reply to her question.

“You’re not,” Melanie piped up. “Dad and I can ski by ourselves any old time.”

“Then you’re very lucky, chérie.” Gravely, the woman reached forward to tuck a strand of Mel’s hair behind her ear and, inevitably, he found his gaze drawn to the slender, aristocratic fingers with their immaculately painted nails. “Most fathers are too busy to be able to spend extra time with their daughters.”

Melanie shot him an urgent glare. “Tell her it’s okay to come with us, Dad!”

Cornered and seeing no means of escape, he shrugged. “Sure,” he said, too heartily. With the pair of them staring at him like starving urchins, what other choice did he have but to agree? “I’ll meet you at the top of the lift at eleven.”

“I look forward to it,” Claire Durocher said, and tilted her head toward the dining room. “Won’t you at least join us for coffee, Mr. Alexander? I know we’d both enjoy it.”

We’d both enjoy it. As if he were the interloper!

Burying his irritation, he glanced at his watch. “I suppose I can spare a few more minutes.”

“Why do you call him Mr. Alexander?” Melanie asked her, when they were seated. “Why don’t you just call him Zach, like everyone else?”

She wrapped her elegant hands around her café au lait bowl and swung that luminous, dark-lashed stare at him once again, seeming to look clear into his mind and discerning a great deal more than he wanted her to know. “Because he calls me Miss Durocher.”

Mees, she said, enunciating the word in such a way that it was transformed from ordinary to exotic. Melanie gazed at her, entranced, then glared at him accusingly. “Tell her, Dad.”

“Tell her what?” He shifted uneasily in his seat and made a big production of stirring his coffee, which was pretty silly considering he took it without sugar or cream.

“That it’s okay to call you Zach, of course. Then you can call her Claire.”

“Of course it’s okay,” he said, sounding like a trained parrot. “So, tell me, er, Claire, what made you decide to come to Topaz Valley? It’s a bit off the beaten path for Europeans, especially when you’ve got some of the best skiing in the world right on your own doorstep.”

“I was ready for a change.” She nibbled at her croissant, swallowed thoughtfully and tilted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “After a while, even St. Moritz becomes dull.”

“So you decided to come slumming to North America for a change.” He didn’t attempt to hide his sarcasm, which earned him another black glare from Melanie.

“No, Zachary,” Claire said slyly, regarding him from beneath the sweep of her lashes. “I came here looking for something quite different and I do believe I might have found it.”

He didn’t like the gut reaction that triggered in him—the flare of sexual awareness which was becoming all too familiar—and he didn’t like her. Nor did he trust her. She was filling Melanie’s head with too many cockamamie ideas. Already his tomboy daughter was imitating her table manners, sticking out her pinky as she hefted her mug of hot chocolate and dabbing daintily at her mouth with her napkin. She’d be speaking French next.

He said as much to McBride when he met him in the stables shortly after, and in return got a lecture on adolescent psychology and how a girl needed to bond with a woman—all from a man who’d never been married, let alone fathered a child!

“Things could be worse,” McBride had concluded. “She could’ve latched on to a boy, instead. Now that would be trouble! Or didn’t you never grab the chance to roll around in a snowdrift with a good-looking little gal and just kinda check out by accident how God put her together?”

Just as recently as last week, now that you come to mention it, Zach thought and, to his intense annoyance, felt a flush ride over his face. In the space of the two minutes or however long it had taken him to climb out of the snowbank, the night she’d arrived, he’d learned that Claire Durocher was soft where a woman was meant to be soft, firm in all the right places, and with the kind of curves guaranteed to drive a man crazy. Which was what he must have been to have come so close to kissing her.

“Why don’t you stick to what you get paid to do, McBride?” he snapped. “Extra bales of straw have to be hauled down for tonight’s sleigh ride. The warming huts’ supplies need restocking. The trees for the guest house verandas still have to be cut.” He shot a furious glance at his trusty man Friday. “I take it you’ve assigned someone to take care of all that? And that we’ve got enough strings of lights to go around and you’ve seen to it that any burned out bulbs have been replaced?”

“Yup.” McBride grinned evilly. “All except yours, sonny boy! The way you’re carryin’ on, I reckon you’re about ready for a complete rewirin’.”

Zach scowled. “The season of goodwill’s got a real stranglehold on you this year, hasn’t it, McBride?” he muttered sourly and stamped off before he said something he’d really regret.

Claire paused at the crest of a steep slope and leaned on her ski poles a moment to admire the view while she waited for Melanie to catch up with her.

All around, the mountain peaks reached up to meet the great dome of the sky spreading in endless blue to the far reaches of the world, while below, like a toy village cupped in a child’s hand, lay the resort. The air was so clear and sparkling that even from this distance she could see the sun glinting off the windows of the lodge and the tiny figures skating on the lake.

Melanie carved a neat turn and skied to a stop beside her. “It’s almost eleven, Claire, and we’d better get going or Dad’ll be sending out a search party for us. He’s really strict about people showing up when they’re supposed to and gets madder than a bear with a sore paw when he rounds up the ski patrol for nothing because someone forgot to check in at the base. Come on, I’ll race you.”

She planted her poles in the snow and pushed off, leaving Claire to trail behind. She’d been taught well and her father should be proud. On skis she was transformed from an awkward adolescent to a graceful bird in flight.

He was waiting for them when they arrived at the lift station but he wasn’t alone and, with a squeal of excitement, Melanie rushed up to fling herself at the man standing beside him. “You came after all!” she cried, getting all tangled up in his skis and poles.

“Well, sure,” the man replied, pulling her toque down over her eyes teasingly. “You didn’t think I’d miss the best turkey Christmas dinner in Canada, did you?”

“But you were supposed to get here last weekend!”

He peeled back the cuff of her toque and planted a kiss on her nose. “I know, pumpkin, and I’m sorry I’m late. Something came up—you know how it is around this time of year—but I’m here now and ready to make up for lost time.”

He was tall, though not as tall as Zachary, with light brown hair, blue eyes full of laughter and an open, friendly face. When he noticed Claire, he raised his eyebrows flirtatiously and said to Melanie, “Who’s this other pretty lady, Miss Alexander, or don’t you want me to know?”

“She’s Claire and she’s French but she speaks English. And she’s my friend.” Melanie’s face was flushed with excitement as she turned to include Claire in the group. “This is Eric Baxter, my favorite man in the whole world, Claire.”

For an unguarded moment, a bereft hurting flickered in Zachary Alexander’s dark blue eyes, and Claire felt a stab of sympathy. But he recovered quickly. “What Melanie forgot to mention, Claire, is that Eric is also her uncle and my late wife’s brother. Miss Durocher is a guest at the resort, Eric, and I’m afraid she’s taken over your usual quarters.”

“So I’ve been told.” Eric Baxter’s warm gaze traveled a leisurely path from her head to her toes and back again. “Nice to meet you, Claire.”

Zachary’s mouth tightened with displeasure. Glancing at his watch, he said abruptly, “We’ve hardly got time to ski down to the base now. It’s getting too close to lunch and I want to be there early to oversee things.”

“Why don’t you ride the chair down then?” Melanie said offhandedly. “We can ski the back run without you.”

“Okay. I’ll see you back at the lodge.” He shrugged and turned away, quietly accepting his daughter’s unfeeling dismissal.

“Come on, Claire, let’s go!” Melanie gestured impatiently.

But Claire couldn’t draw her gaze away from the solitary figure cutting the edge of his skis into the slope and climbing the ramp to the chair lift, and her heart bled for him. “Go ahead without me,” she said, waving the girl on her way. “I’m rather tired and think I’ll ride down with your father.”

She caught up with him just as the next empty chair swung around the tower. In seconds, they were scooped up and lifted high into the air, as alone as if they were the only two people on the mountain.

He pushed his goggles up onto the crown of his toque and she knew he was looking at her, his blue eyes serious and inquiring, and that he was waiting for her to explain her sudden decision to choose his company over Melanie’s and her easy, charming uncle’s.

And for once, she was at a loss to explain. All she knew was that the crisp cold air numbed her cheeks and made her eyes water. Yet being close to him filled her with a sweet warmth and if she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought they were real tears stinging her eyes. And why? Because she knew he was hurting, and that hurt her, too.

It was not a comfortable sensation at all.