Love’s Encore

by Sandra Brown

  She was infuriated by his calm explanation. It didn’t matter to her what kind of snake it was. One species was as loathsome as another. She cried out defensively, “It could have been a water moccasin for all I knew.”

  “A water moccasin is usually found near the water and is ugly, the color of mud. They don’t have the pretty stripes that our garter snake friends do.” He was mocking her in a sing-song voice like a kindergarten teacher would use on children, and she couldn’t take that mockery with her nerves already shattered as they were. Try though she did to hold them back, the tears came. Her shoulders shook and she stammered as she tried to speak. “I… I hate snakes.… I don’t care what kind they are.… They… it frightened me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”

  Then his arms were around her and he lifted her out of the tub. With one arm under her knees and the other supporting her shoulders, he carried her out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed, cradling her gently in his lap.

  “You really were afraid, weren’t you?” he whispered, brushing back strands of hair from her cheek. “I’m sorry I made fun of you. Shhh, he’s gone. Everything is okay.”

  She turned her face into his chest and buried it in the soft fabric of his shirt as she once again started sobbing uncontrollably. He patted her back and stroked her cheek, repeating words of comfort. Finally, she was spent; her tears ran dry. She shuddered when she thought of the fool he must imagine her to be. Slowly she raised her head and looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry I’ve held you up. You must have been getting an early start for the plantation. I’m glad you were up and about or I might still be standing in the bathtub.” She smiled tremulously and looked away from his piercing blue eyes. “How do you suppose the… the snake got in?”

  He laughed. “He probably heard all the talk about our charming houseguest and wanted to look you over. I imagine he came in through the plumbing somehow. Don’t worry about it. I’ll have Simon check to make sure everything is secured. I don’t think you’ll have another visit. You scared him as much as he scared you.” She shuddered against him involuntarily.

  His strong fingers reached out and tilted her chin so that she was forced to look at him. “You’ve gotten my shirt all wet,” he teased. She looked at the damp material where she had shed most of her tears.

  “I’m sorry about that, too,” she said softly and brushed her fingers across the cloth covering his hard chest. His body shook slightly, and she looked up to see a new light in his eyes. Camille was suddenly aware of their intimacy. She felt the soft denim of his jeans under her bare thighs and knew he could feel her heart pounding under the breast that was pressed against his broad chest.

  Strong, sun-tanned fingers cupped the back of her head as he lowered his lips to hers. His kiss was firm and warm and chaste… at first. Then the all too vividly remembered sensuality of his mouth became real again. Camille’s lips opened under the gentle pressure of his tongue and her breath caught in her throat when it explored her mouth with increasing fervor.

  When they had to breathe, he pulled his lips from hers, but they didn’t leave her face. He rained light kisses over her cheeks and forehead then trailed down her temple to give ardent attention to her ear. She sighed against his neck as she breathed in the fresh fragrance of his cologne. Who but Zack would apply cologne before going off to work in the fields all day?

  Her sigh brought him back to her lips, and he teased them with soft, sipping kisses. Camille groaned as he lifted her arms and moved them around his neck while he firmly fastened his mouth on hers. The kiss was deep and thorough and arrested all Camille’s senses. She was only vaguely aware of his hand moving to the top buttons of her nightshirt and the cool air against her bare skin. But she gasped and pulled her mouth away from his when she felt his hand slip into her opened nightshirt and cover her breast.

  “Zack… please…” she breathed. His mouth had moved down her neck to the base of her throat, where he traced that small triangle with his tongue.

  “Please what? What, Camille?” he asked huskily against her throat as his fingers coaxed a physical response from her breast.

  “No, Zack, please—”

  Whatever she was going to say was cut off abruptly as they heard a door slam. Simon’s voice carried across the terrace as he chatted with Dearly while they made their way to the main house to start their morning chores.

  Camille jumped off of Zack’s lap and snatched together the front of her nightshirt. Shame and embarrassment bathed her cheeks with color as she faced him after securing the buttons down her front. She wished the night garment were longer. She was well aware that her long legs were completely bare and Zack took advantage of that fact as his eyes made a slow tour up and down her body.

  A mocking grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he drawled, “What are you afraid of? Losing your virtue?”

  She glared back at him and raised her chin haughtily. “That’s a ludicrous question coming from you!”

  He rose from the bed with the ease of a stretching jungle cat and pulled the cowboy hat low over his sun-bleached brows. He took a few steps forward, and only stubborn determination kept Camille rooted to her spot, for her inclination was to turn away from the blue eyes that burned her skin with their audacious, raking appraisal.

  He stopped a few inches in front of her and murmured, “You’re beautiful in the morning.” He tugged playfully on one of her unruly curls and chucked her under the chin before he turned and walked out the screened door. He was whistling as he crossed the terrace. Whistling! It was that nonchalance that made her seethe with anger. He was so casual about what had just happened between them while her nerve endings were erupting like tiny volcanoes and filling her veins with a frightening fire.

  Four

  That morning Camille and Rayburn began the restoration of Bridal Wreath, discussing different colors, fabrics, and motifs. Camille was surprised at the older man’s exquisite taste and pleased that they shared comparable visions of how the house should look when the redecorating was completed. Camille’s own taste ran toward clean, simple, and graceful lines, lightly touched with elegance. She hated entering a room and feeling suffocated by the decor rather than being able to enjoy the room for its own merits. Rayburn seemed to approve of the wall colors, drapery samples, upholstery fabrics, and accent colors that she had tentatively selected. They tried several different combinations in each room until they agreed on the best ones, making certain that all the rooms would blend together. She took careful note of the order numbers stamped onto the backs of the various samples. When she ordered the materials, she wanted there to be no margin for error.

  They continued with their work after lunch but, at Simon’s suggestion, stopped in the middle of the afternoon. Simon had urged Camille to go to the dowager house and rest, but she knew that he was thinking about Rayburn’s health and wanted the elder Prescott to lie down until dinner.

  As far as the younger Prescott was concerned, Camille didn’t see him until dinner. Throughout the day, she caught herself reliving the events of the morning, and was furious with herself for allowing him to kiss her with such unrestrained passion. He must have been laughing at her all day, knowing how she had practically fallen into his arms and succumbed to his expert caresses. Camille felt a stab of jealousy wondering on whom he had learned to be so knowledgeable in the art of loving.

  She hated herself for being so pliable. He had barely touched her and yet she responded wantonly. The two years since Snow Bird seemed to dissolve, and his kisses brought back all the rapture she had felt when she lay in the security and warmth of his arms. His lips had tenderly demanded a response from hers and they had not been disappointed. His hands moved over her with a gentle familiarity that left her breathless. She had never allowed any other man such access to her body. Why Zack? What kind of power did he practice on her? All sense of propriety and moral conviction faded into oblivion when he held her in his arms. That was a dangerous situation. She had surrendered herself to
his compromising persuasion once, and she still carried the guilt of that with her. She didn’t intend to make that same mistake a second time.

  Camille wore a simple cotton dress for dinner. It was a gold color that matched the golden flecks in her eyes. When she entered the parlor, Rayburn was sitting in a comfortable club chair that was destined to be reupholstered. It was one of his favorite chairs, and he had shyly asked Camille if he would be allowed to keep it. Laughing, she had agreed. Zack was standing at a long sideboard pouring himself a drink.

  The navy slacks fit his long, muscular legs to perfection, and the ecru silk shirt caressed the sleek muscles of his back and shoulders every time he moved. He turned when he heard her enter and Camille saw that the silk didn’t fully conceal the mat of tawny hair that covered his chest. She swallowed the annoying lump in her throat and murmured a low, “Good evening.”

  “Hello, Camille. Would you like a drink?” Even his voice was seductive.

  “White wine, please. On the rocks.”

  “A real lady’s drink, Camille,” Rayburn approved. “I dislike women who drink hard liquor. I was just telling Zack about some of the plans we made today. You’ve reconfirmed my trust in your talents.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Prescott. I hope that your son will be pleased with the results.” She turned her eyes toward Zack, who was still standing after having crossed the room to hand her her drink. “If you should want to see the samples we’ve selected, I’ll be glad to show them to you before I phone in my orders.”

  “Very kind of you, Camille, but I, too, will trust your judgment. I gave you my opinion on what I don’t want the house to look like. Dad guarantees that you like simplicity in design. I’ll leave the redecorating to the two of you and let the outcome be a surprise to me.”

  He was certainly in an amiable mood. She had expected him to be sarcastic and rude, especially after the scene in her room this morning. This Zack was more like the charmer who had first wooed her in Snow Bird. He was even more dangerous this way. She needed to be on her guard.

  Over dinner, Rayburn urged his son to tell Camille about their plantation. She was impressed with the facts she finally coaxed out of a reticent Zack. He seemed almost embarrassed by the amount of property he owned and controlled and the amount of revenue it made him each year. Their main crop, of course, was cotton, but they also grew smaller quantities of other crops and even bred a few horses, an occupation that Zack wanted to develop more.

  “Natchez has such a colorful history,” Camille commented at a pause in the conversation. “I’ve always enjoyed reading books about it.”

  “It’s interesting that most of the founding fathers chose to live on the high bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River and have their plantations on the other side in Louisiana. I guess they might have been the first Americans to commute to work.” Zack smiled and his whole face lit up, the candles on the table reflected in the azure depths of his eyes. Camille was happy and at ease for the first time since her arrival.

  “Some day soon, before the weather prevents an outing, I want you to take Camille over to the plantation and give her the deluxe tour,” Rayburn said.

  Camille met Zack’s eyes across the table and her heart lurched at the idea of spending a day alone with him. His eyes dared her to look away from him as he held his stare, which carried a world of meaning for them. “I’d like to do that,” he agreed as he pushed away from the table. “Right now, however, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a date tonight.”

  His offhand, casual announcement hit Camille like a thunderbolt and she was immediately angry with herself for her reaction. So what if he was meeting a woman for the evening? It didn’t matter to her in the least. Why then did the light mood of just moments ago fade as he said good night first to his father and then to her and with quick, light steps leave the room? His final glance at her had been mocking and arrogant, and her self-directed anger was transferred to him. She would show him that she couldn’t care less if he had a dozen dates a night!

  She agreed to a bridge game. Rayburn acted as her partner playing opposite the team of Simon and Dearly. She bantered with them and, on the outside, gave every impression of enjoying herself. On the inside, she was miserable, wondering who held Zack’s attention for the long evening.

  * * *

  The days passed swiftly. Rayburn and Camille, after about a week of decision making, had chosen all the decorating materials that needed to be ordered. Camille made the telephone call to her assistant in Atlanta and meticulously went over the order with her employee, who would do the actual ordering. Camille urged her to call if anything wasn’t available or if there was any trouble at all over the order, then asked to speak to her mother. They talked a short while, Camille assuring her only parent that she was well and that the Prescotts were charming. The older one anyway, she added under her breath.

  She rarely saw Zack during the daytime. He left for the plantation early and returned just before dinner. Many nights he was absent from the evening meal and Rayburn would comment that he had made other plans. His absence was sorely felt, for as much as Camille hated to admit it, he was the center of her thoughts these days, and she enjoyed having him across the table from her in the evenings. Even though he sometimes spoke in suggestive, reminiscent double entendres that only she understood, she liked his company. His arrogance and sarcasm hurt her deeply, but she favored suffering them over not seeing him at all.

  He never mentioned the woman he dated, and Camille would never have learned about her except for Rayburn’s referring to “the widow Hazelett.” Camille tried to continue her dinner calmly when he made his first reference to Zack’s female interest on a night when Zack was out.

  “The widow Hazelett?” asked Camille with affected disinterest.

  “Yes. Zack sees her often, though I heartily disapprove of the woman. She’s… artificial, phony. Every time she’s around Zack she watches over him like a mother bear with her cub, almost daring anyone else to come near him. She has newfangled ideas about raising children, too. She has two of her own. They’re cute kids, polite and smart. But she hustles them off to boarding school every fall and then fills their summers with camp and trips to their grandparents. I hope Zack has more sense than to link up with the likes of her.”

  Camille smiled to herself although she kept a straight face for Rayburn’s benefit. At least she had some idea of the company Zack was keeping, and his father didn’t approve of the woman. That was one thing in Camille’s favor.

  Suddenly she drew herself upright. What did she care abut Zack’s love life? She didn’t want him, that was for sure! What kind of man would seduce an innocent girl and then feel no guilt or remorse for having stolen from her what didn’t belong to him unless he was her husband? No! She didn’t want a man like Zachary Prescott.

  She almost convinced herself.

  * * *

  With the help of the local Yellow Pages, Camille began consulting with carpenters, painters, paperhangers, furniture upholsterers and refinishers, and seamstresses. The name Prescott was well known, as was Bridal Wreath. She was glad to learn that she would have no trouble finding artisans to help with the restoration of the house.

  The days fell into a comfortable unhurried routine. Camille began to notice that the fall season was upon them. The seasonal flowers on the terrace had ceased their profuse blooming except for the chrysanthemums, which provided Bridal Wreath with a rainbow of autumn colors.

  One morning the low clouds that had shrouded the landscape for several days opened up, and it began to rain. Simon called Camille’s room to tell her that Rayburn wouldn’t be down for breakfast and that she was to take the day off. He told her that the old gentleman had decided to spend the day in his room going over the plantation’s accounting books. Camille knew that Zack handled all of the business for their farm, but she was warmed by the fact that he still made his father feel important enough to have access to the ledgers.

  She decide
d, as she dressed in a pair of comfortable jeans and a dark gingham shirt, that she would spend this rainy day going through the attic. She had wanted to investigate what treasures it might hold ever since Rayburn mentioned it to her.

  As she stared out across the torrential rainfall making a lake out of the terrace, she realized with dismay that she didn’t have an umbrella. She went into the bathroom and draped a thick terry towel over her head. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a large barrette.

  She stepped hesitantly onto the covered porch of the dowager house, took a long breath, ducked her head, and ran pell-mell across the slippery terrace.

  She collided with a tall, broad barrier of muscle and recognized Zack’s low, deep laugh as his arm went around her waist.

  “Hey, watch out or you’ll fall down. Under here.” She peered at him from under the towel and saw that he was holding a huge umbrella over them both. With his arm still supporting her, they maneuvered their way around rapidly forming puddles to the back door of the house.

  When they entered, Zack shook out the umbrella and leaned it against the wall, running his fingers through dampened sun-streaked hair. “Boy, what a downpour. Simon realized that you had no umbrella, so I was on my way to fetch you. You should have waited for me.” His smile was bright and Camille’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding from the close contact she had just had with his vibrant body. His jeans were old, comfortable-looking, and tight, hugging his hips as he swaggered through the doorway leading into the kitchen.

  “Come on. The biscuits are in the oven. How do you like your eggs?”

  “You’re cooking breakfast?” Camille asked incredulously.

  “Sure,” he shrugged. “Why not? I’m not helpless.” He sounded indignant. “How do you like your eggs?” he repeated with distinct enunciation on each word.

  “Scrambled,” she answered with a smile and crossed to the counter to pour a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker plugged into the wall.