by Sandra Brown
Camille had never liked her figure and had wept daily during her teen years when other girls began to show womanly curves. She had remained slender and only since young womanhood developed a generous bustline while retaining slim hips and thighs. Now she was envied by most of her peers who, after one or two babies, were finding it difficult, if not impossible, to match Camille’s youthful figure.
She sprayed perfume from an atomizer and watched the fragrant mist settle on the soft curls surrounding her face and brushing her shoulders. She had decided to let her hair go “natural.” Why fight it? In this Natchez humidity, any control on the curly tresses was temporary and futile.
Her heart leapt to her throat when she spotted Zack’s reflection in the mirror. He stood silhouetted beyond the screened door behind her. Camille had assumed she would walk over to the main house alone. It had never occurred to her that she would be provided an escort.
He raised his hand and knocked with deliberate emphasis. She flushed angrily at his mocking insolence.
“You may as well come in, Zack. How long have you been standing there?”
“That will give you something to worry about. I’ll admit that I haven’t been bored.” His smile was leering and Camille turned back to the mirror to put small pearl earrings into her pierced ears.
“I’m ready,” she mumbled. Why did he look so gorgeous? His cream-colored linen suit and baby blue shirt, which was open at the collar, emphasized his tan and the cerulean brilliance of his eyes. When he smiled his teeth were startling white in the dark face.
“Not quite. My father sent the lady a corsage made of buds from his own rose beds. I’ve been instructed to see that you wear them.”
He extended a small corsage of yellow roses tied with a white satin ribbon. “How lovely of him,” Camille exclaimed in a genuine feminine reaction to receiving flowers.
“Dearly, our housekeeper and Simon’s wife, made it up for him, but he picked the roses himself. He is completely smitten by you.”
Camille sniffed the delicate blossoms and raised her eyes to Zack’s. She was surprised to find him looking at her closely. The expression on his face was strange and Camille couldn’t quite name the emotion registered there, but it was immediately replaced by one of derision as her eyes met his.
“I’ll have to wear the corsage in my hair, I suppose. I don’t have a pin that will hold it onto my dress.”
With the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Zack flipped back the lapel of his coat and produced a long straight pin with a pearl tip. “I was a Boy Scout. I came prepared.”
He took the corsage from her and, before she realized what he was going to do, slipped his fingers between her and the fabric of her dress. The touch of his warm hands against her flesh acted as a catalyst that set her heart racing, made breathing difficult, and sent a warm flush radiating out from the pit of her stomach and encompassing her whole body. Did she imagine that Zack’s fingers trembled slightly when they pressed into the top of her breast as he adjusted the pin behind the corsage? The flowers were secured, yet he made no move to extract his hand and she could feel his ragged breath on the top of her head. Slowly, she raised her eyes and took in the hair on his chest, the strong column of neck, the stubborn chin, the sensuous mouth, the long, slender nose and finally the blue eyes that pierced her with an alarming intensity. Her face was inches from his, but she felt an invisible barrier between them that neither of them was willing to breach. She quickly lowered her eyes and leaned away from him.
With a muttered oath, Zack jerked his hand out of her bodice. It was an abrupt movement and, in his haste, he had not been careful of the pin. It painfully pricked his finger.
“Damn,” he cursed as he examined the pinprick that sported a bright red bead of blood.
Camille acted instinctively and grabbed his hand. “Oh, Zack,” she cried. She brought his finger to her lips and sucked gently on it as she would have done her own had it been pricked. His sharp intake of breath brought it home to her what she was doing and the intimacy of it. She took his finger from between her lips and looked down on the wound that could barely be seen now. She released his hand as if it had burned her. “I… I think it will… will be okay now,” she stammered. She didn’t meet his eyes.
He crossed to the door and held it open for her as she scrambled past him.
* * *
After drinks in the parlor, Camille and her hosts enjoyed a leisurely dinner in the dining room. It was served by a bustling woman whom Rayburn introduced as Dearly Beloved Mitchell. She and Simon had served as housekeeper and butler-valet for Bridal Wreath ever since Rayburn had first brought his bride there.
At Camille’s startled reaction to her name, Rayburn explained that Dearly’s mother had liked the sound of the two opening words of the wedding ceremony so much that she gave them to her first child. “I’m just glad I was a girl child!” the smiling woman joked. She was as plump as Simon was slender but shared his pleasant, sunny personality. Camille liked them both immediately.
“Miss Jameson, you’re as pretty as Mr. Prescott told me you were,” Dearly continued. “The way he carried on about you, I was beginning to wonder if his intentions at having you stay here and work on the house were entirely honorable.” She laughed happily at Rayburn’s flushed face. The housekeeper, who apparently felt secure enough in her position in the household to tease her employers, added, “Now, if he had said he was bringing you here for Zack’s appraisal, I would have understood perfectly.” She laughed heartily again and disappeared through a door that Camille assumed led into the kitchen. She risked looking toward Zack, who was scowling darkly into his highball glass.
“Camille, please excuse Dearly and her sassy tongue. Over the years we have become accustomed to her outspoken opinions.” Rayburn smiled at her and she assured him that she had taken no offense.
Dearly returned with several trays laden with covered dishes and set them on the table. When Camille had heaped her plate, she forked a piece of delicious-looking roast beef.
“Perhaps I should warn you, Camille, that in deference to my diet, Dearly doesn’t season the food before it’s cooked. You may need to salt your food and feel free to do so. Dearly will understand.” Rayburn didn’t start eating until Zack had passed the salt and pepper shakers to Camille and she had sprinkled the seasonings onto her food. She took a tentative bite, looked across at the anxious older man, and smiled.
“It’s delicious, Mr. Prescott. You needn’t worry about me losing any weight while I’m here.” She laughed. “Indeed, if all the meals are this bountiful, I’ll probably gain some.”
“You could use some,” Zack muttered under his breath for the benefit of her ears alone. She glared at him, but he seemed impervious to her.
Ever the gentleman, Rayburn drew her into amiable conversation, asking her questions about her life in Atlanta, her family, and her interests. Zack was surly and uncommunicative and spoke only when asked a direct question by his father. If Rayburn noticed his son’s sullenness, he didn’t remark on it.
“Do you ski?” The question was asked so unexpectedly and out of context that Rayburn and Camille turned to Zack in bewilderment. Obviously the question had been directed toward her, and, to cover her alarm, Camille answered brightly, “Yes. A friend of mine has a boat and we go out whenever we can.”
“Now, I meant snow ski,” Zack persisted. Why was he talking about that sensitive subject when she was powerless to counteract him without revealing their antagonistic relationship to Rayburn?
“I went skiing a couple of years ago,” she replied noncommittally.
“Surely you’ve skied since then. I would imagine that you ski quite often.” Camille glowered at him, seething inside. He had put such an inflection on the word “ski” that she knew he wasn’t referring to the snow sport at all.
“No. I skied once. I didn’t like it. And I wasn’t… I wasn’t very good at it.” She had ground out the first two sentences through clenche
d teeth, then stammered the last two as she dropped her head and looked at her empty plate, refusing to meet the mockery in his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “You have the… build… for it. I’d bet with practice you could become quite adept.”
She shuddered in humiliation and rose abruptly from the table. “If… if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Prescott. I… I’ll be back shortly for our tour of the house.” She practically ran from the room and as she left she heard Rayburn ask, “Did I miss something, Zachary? Why did she become so upset?”
Camille didn’t wait to hear Zack’s reply, but went through the house and across the terrace to the dowager house.
She bathed her face with cold water, muttering epithets pertaining to Zack’s personality. Was he going to constantly torment her for the next several months that she would be here? Was there to be no escaping his sharp barbs about what had happened between them almost two years ago? How could she bear these continual reminders of a shameful mistake and an episode of her life she wished to be forever forgotten? She hated Zack Prescott!
And with that hate came a resolve not to submit to his cruelty. Just as her mother had always told her in her youth to ignore obnoxious boys who pestered her at school, she would ignore Zack’s attempts to humiliate and embarrass her. When he realized that he couldn’t reduce her to tears of shame, his sport would be spoiled and he would stop trying.
She felt restored as she went back into the house. Rayburn was alone in the parlor. She didn’t ask, but he informed her that Zack had gone out for the rest of the evening. She breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, but was faintly disappointed that he wasn’t here to see her exhibition of courage and resolution.
Rayburn began his tour of the mansion in the double parlor. The two rooms were divided by heavy wooden sliding doors. One room was used as a living room while the other’s main piece of furniture was a grand piano. Rayburn explained that Alice had played very well and was delighted to learn that Camille could play. He wanted the piano to stay.
Camille took notes as they strolled through the house, jotting down the pieces of furniture that she felt needed to be refinished, reupholstered, or removed completely. She wrote down the number of windows in each room, visualized how to achieve the greatest amount of floor space by moving a particular piece of furniture, and considered colors for each room that would blend harmoniously. She would peruse her sample books later tonight for more ideas. She noted that all the heavy sample and swatch books had been carried into the hallway. At least Zack wasn’t totally lacking in manners.
They crossed the foyer, and Rayburn led her into the dining room where they had eaten dinner and which she had already appraised with a clinical eye. He showed her a smaller breakfast room and, finally, the kitchen, which she was happy to see was already equipped with modern plumbing and appliances. The changes in here would only be cosmetic and not structural. Dearly was still cleaning up after dinner and was thrilled when Camille asked her opinion on different color schemes. They discussed several, and Camille could tell by the housekeeper’s enthusiasm that she had made a friend.
Rayburn and Camille walked up the broad staircase that graced one side of the wide hallway and curved its way up to the second floor. The oak banister was lovely, but needed to be rubbed to its original satin finish. That was going to require some elbow work, Camille noted.
Upstairs, Rayburn showed her through the rooms opening off the central hall. Camille planned to decorate it with the same detail as a room. There were four bedrooms, Rayburn explained. Two of them were connected by a bathroom, forming the master suite. Zack made one of these his bedroom.
“For the time being, we’ll let Zack worry about his own decor,” he said absently, and Camille sighed in relief.
Rayburn had moved out of the master suite after Alice’s death and taken over a spacious bedroom across the hall. It boasted a rosewood tester bed, armoire, and dresser. Camille clapped her hands in delight over the beautiful antique furniture. Rayburn grinned like a young boy at her excitement.
“I had hoped the other bedroom would be a nursery,” he sighed. “We’ll leave that room as it is for the time being, although I wouldn’t be opposed to your changing the wallpaper or anything else you saw fit to do in there. In the attic we’ve stored several area rugs, furniture, and bric-a-brac. You’re free to browse through it and use anything you find.”
Camille promised herself that one day soon she would scout out those possibilities.
“Dearly and Simon have their apartment over the garage and assure me that they are satisfied with it as it is. You might be able to convince them that a new coat of paint wouldn’t hurt. Then when you’ve gained access, give it a good refurbishing,” he chuckled.
Camille noticed that Rayburn seemed to be fatigued. The tour had taken longer than she thought it would, and it was getting late. Sparing his pride, she faked a broad yawn and affected embarrassment over it. “I’m sorry, but I think the day has been more taxing than I had realized. I think I’ll go to bed now if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, of course,” he agreed hastily.
As they went down the stairs, she explained the procedure she would follow. “In the morning we’ll start looking through sample books and deciding on the basic changes you want made. When we have made all our choices, I’ll call my studio and they’ll order everything from there. While we’re waiting for the materials to come in, we can start doing some of the less glamorous jobs like sanding floors, painting, regrouting tiles, etcetera. I may need to hire some outside help for the heavier jobs. Will that be all right?”
“Anything you need, my dear, don’t hesitate to ask for.” He had escorted her to the back of the house, but she stopped him from seeing her any farther.
“I can go the rest of the way alone, Mr. Prescott. I’ll see you in the morning. Rest well.”
“You too, Camille. If you need anything, pick up the telephone extension and buzz Simon or Dearly. All of the buttons for each extension are well marked on the telephone.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
“Good night.” He paused before he added shyly, “I’m glad you’re here, Camille. I think you’ll be good for all of us.”
She turned and smiled, but, in her heart, she really didn’t agree with him. How could anything good come out of her being here under the same roof with a man whom she hated with reciprocated intensity?
She walked through the shadows to her room.
* * *
A soft breeze was stirring the sheer curtains at Camille’s window when she opened her eyes a fraction and realized that it was still very early. She had drawn down the shades while she was undressing the night before, but after she had turned out the light and climbed into the four-poster bed, she discovered that with the windows obscured, the room became stifling. She got up, pulled the shades open, and crept across the darkened room back to bed. The drone of the overhead fan’s motor and the cooling breeze soon lulled her to sleep despite her disturbing thoughts.
Now, she pushed back the sheet and tugged the tail of her nightshirt down over her bikini panties as she stumbled into the bathroom. She used the commode and was leaning over the sink, filling a glass with water, when she saw the snake coiled up behind the fixture.
Camille’s scream ripped the air, and she dropped the glass in the sink, shattering it into a thousand pieces against the porcelain. She stood frozen for an instant and then jumped quickly into the bathtub. A snake couldn’t get in there, could it? She screamed again when the long, striped snake began to uncoil. Over her whimpering she heard the front door open and then slam shut as heavy footsteps hurried in.
“Camille? Camille, are you all right?” Zack’s anxious voice barely penetrated her terrified mind as she stared in fixed horror at the snake.
Zack’s large frame filled the doorjamb. He was dressed for the plantation in faded work jeans and a blue chambray shirt. His straw cowboy hat was pushed back on his head and a pair of
leather gloves was sticking out of his belt.
He looked at Camille’s white face as she stood cowering in the bathtub, not even aware of the fetching picture she made. Camille was too distraught to notice that he took in every detail of her figure. The pink nightshirt was cut like a man’s dress shirt and just brushed the tops of her thighs. Her dark curls were in a tumbled tangle around her head.
“What in the hell is the matter with you?” he asked. He glanced quickly into the sink and seeing the broken glass asked, “Did you cut yourself?”
Camille pointed a shaking finger at the snake that had recoiled itself under the pedestal sink. “Snake,” she croaked hoarsely.
Zack leaned down and spotted the object of her terror. In disgust mingled with a touch of humor he swore, “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Camille watched with disbelieving eyes as he grasped the snake behind its head and lifted its writhing body off the floor. Zack looked at the snake and then at her, shook his head in consternation, and walked out of the room. Camille heard the door slam again. He was gone and the snake with him, but still she stood trembling in the middle of the bathtub.
No more than a few minutes could have passed before she heard her door open again and Zack returned to the bathroom. He stood there with his hands on his hips and stared at her scornfully.
“You scared the hell out of me when you screamed like that. Have you ever heard the story about the little boy who cried wolf?”
“He… he wasn’t… poisonous?” She could barely control her stuttering tongue and quivering lips.
“Hardly. He’s a friend of the family and lives in Dad’s garden. He’s a harmless garter snake.”
