by Sandra Brown
He turned toward the stove and asked over his shoulder, “Firm or soft?”
“Firm,” she replied. “Very.” He scowled, lowering his thick eyebrows in mock distaste as he looked at her.
“I’ll take mine out first,” he growled as he began breaking eggs into a bowl. “I’m sorry there will be no grits this morning. Every time I try to cook them, I let them cook too dry and they get gummy. Then Dearly scolds me when she has to clean the pan.” Camille laughed.
The aroma of fried bacon and baking biscuits filled the kitchen as Camille set the table for them. Zack explained that Dearly had gone to visit a sick friend, and Simon was upstairs with Rayburn. The silence in the house along with the heavy rain outside encapsulated them in a private world, and Camille smiled as she imagined that this was what it would be like if they had met under different circumstances and fallen in love and married. They could have shared many mornings like this. There may have even been a baby by now. She wasn’t aware of the revealing, tender expression on her face as she stared at Zack’s back until he turned from the range holding a plateful of fluffy eggs and caught her at her musings.
He grinned wickedly as he set the platter down on the small table and threw his leg over the back of the chair and sat down. “I don’t know what the fantasy is, but I wish to hell I was in on it. It looks damned pleasant.”
Camille made a big production of buttering her featherlight biscuit and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I… uh… I was just anticipating what I’ll find in the attic today.”
“Liar,” he whispered softly. The intimacy in his voice made her fingers tremble, and she dropped her knife onto her plate with a loud clatter.
They ate in silence for a few minutes and Camille complimented him on his cooking. When she was finished and began gathering up the plate and cutlery, he surprised her by saying, “I’ll do the dishes. I need another cup of coffee anyway. Have a good day in the attic.”
She left the warm ambience of the kitchen while Zack still sat at the table, absently sipping on a cup of scalding coffee.
The entrance to the attic was in the room that Rayburn referred to with stubborn optimism as the nursery. Camille stopped in front of his door and knocked timidly. Simon answered and Camille warned that she would be overhead and for them not to worry if they heard thumping and bumping. Rayburn called out a “good morning” from across the room. Simon shut the door as Camille went into the other room.
The stairs leading to the attic were in a closet. Camille bravely climbed them, brushing spider webs aside as she encountered them. She opened the attic door and reached for the light switch where Simon had told her she would find it. She located it by feel, for the attic had no windows and the darkness in front of her was complete. At a flick of her wrist, the attic was bathed with light from a naked bulb suspended on a dangling cord.
The room, for that was what it was, ran almost the length of the house. Trunks and luggage were stacked against one wall under the eaves, and boxes of every size were scattered with some semblance of order around the room. Shelves lined one wall, and they were loaded with packing crates, most of them labeled with an inventory of their contents. Most of the furniture was shrouded with dust sheets, and Camille could only guess at what was underneath the covers. Apparently, this was going to be quite a chore.
Impatiently brushing back a few strands of hair curling around her cheek, she got to work. After reaching for several boxes on the lower shelves, her blouse came out of the waistband of her jeans. She tied the ends of it in a knot across her stomach.
The first few boxes she opened contained bric-a-brac that was not all that impressive, and she didn’t discover any hidden treasures. She did find some crystal bowls that could be used in the dining room once they were washed and sparkling again. She sat that box aside.
As she reached for another, she noticed that the storm outside had intensified. Rain pounded on the roof directly over her head, and there was a crash of thunder nearby. She was reaching for a box on one of the higher shelves when a voice behind her commanded that she not try it.
“You might hurt yourself. I’ll get it for you,” Zack offered as he crossed the floor.
“You scared me!” she cried, wondering how he had climbed the stairs without her hearing him and then remembered the loud commotion of the storm. She didn’t want him to know how keenly his appearance affected her. “Why did you sneak up on me like that? And I can get the box myself!” she declared stubbornly and turned to reach for the box again. She raised her arms over her head and her fingers just touched the edge of the shelf when she felt Zack’s hard chest press into her back. He leaned forward and his strong hands reached beyond hers toward the box. Instead of grasping it, as she expected him to do, his hands closed over hers, imprisoning her in his arms. With her arms raised as they were, and him so uncomfortably close against her back, it was a very vulnerable position she found herself in. She was just about to tell him what she thought of his superior attitude when a loud crack of lightning striking nearby split the atmosphere, and the attic was plunged into complete darkness as the electric light went out.
Camille stifled a small scream.
“It’s okay. Everything’s fine. There’s no need to panic. I’m here with you.”
Zack’s voice was calm, but Camille wanted to laugh at his reassuring words. Little did he know that she would not have been nearly so frightened had he not been here with her. It was his overwhelming, masculine presence behind her in the darkness that frightened her so.
The large brown hands covering hers relieved their pressure somewhat but began a slow stroking motion up her arms to her shoulders. He massaged them for a moment, concentrating on the base of her neck, then moved his hands tantalizingly down her sides before clasping them around her and resting them on her bare stomach.
The breath stirring Camille’s hair was ragged, and the lips planting small kisses on the nape of her neck were compelling. One hand flattened against her stomach while the other slipped into the waistband of her jeans where his thumb caressed her navel with a hypnotizing laziness.
“Camille,” he groaned as he untied the knot holding her shirt tight under her breasts. His mouth moved from her ear to her cheek and kissed the corner of her mouth while breathing her name. Camille, with a tickling sensation fluttering in the lower part of her body, turned toward him, softly calling his name. Of their own volition, her arms went around his neck, bringing his face down to hers as their lips sought each other in the darkness.
Their bodies moved together as his mouth fastened on hers. She matched his ardor, tasting him, smelling the unique scent that was Zack, feeling the silkiness of his burnished hair as she clenched her fingers in it.
He slipped one hand to her hips and drew her closer, forcing her to recognize the power of his desire. She trembled as she realized that hers was just as great.
He reached behind his neck and captured one of her hands. Camille felt his tongue in her palm and the warm breath on her wrist before he placed her hand against his chest and hoarsely insisted, “Touch me, Camille.”
She hesitated only a moment before she lay her head against his chest while she unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt and slipped her hand inside. Her fingers danced lightly over the mat of hair and then, as she became more confident, explored the hardness of the muscles underneath.
“Oh, God,” he moaned before his mouth once more sought hers and lowered onto it.
His hands slid under her shirt and fumbled with the clasp on the front of her bra.
The light came back on.
They jumped guiltily away from each other and blinked against the suddenly harsh light as if trying to remember where they were and what they had been doing before being swept away by their passion.
Camille risked looking at Zack, but he was running his hands through his hair in such agitation and frustration that she dared not speak. She turned her back on him and straightened her clothing, tucking her shirt chastely back int
o her waistband.
“Zack, are you and Camille all right up there?” Simon’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.
Zack laughed mirthlessly and called back bitterly, “Yes, we’re fine. The lights are back on.”
“Okay, I was just checking.” They heard Simon’s footsteps recede back into the room below and again there was silence in the attic except for their labored breathing and the rain overhead.
Camille shyly raised her eyes to meet Zack’s sneer. “Congratulations, Camille. You have been saved from another of my ravishings.” She was hurt by the coldness in his voice, but she didn’t speak as he turned toward the descending staircase. He paused and looked toward her. “This time,” he said before his head disappeared beyond the first steps.
Five
That evening at dinner Camille learned that Zack had gone to Kentucky for a few days to look at a stud farm and talk to a hose breeder who had enjoyed great success in the field.
Rayburn told her, “I tried to dissuade him from going in this weather, but he was adamant. He can be very mule-headed sometimes.” The older man smiled at her. “I guess he feels like he couldn’t do much at the plantation with these heavy rains. Did you have any luck in the attic?” he asked.
Camille tried to hide the abashment any reminder of that morning in the attic brought to mind. She winced as she remembered Zack’s departing scornful expression and harsh words, but she collected herself and answered as excitedly as she could. “Yes. I found some crystal that I think will look lovely on the sideboards here in the dining room. A chaise longue could be used in one of the bedrooms if it were recovered and refinished. There was a tea table that I think will go nicely in the parlor. Some of the other things I found, I’m reserving judgment on.” She picked at her food and really wasn’t interested in the conversation, though manners drilled into her by Martha Jameson forbade her showing it.
Rayburn was apparently aware of her mood, for he asked solicitously, “Do you not feel well, Camille?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Prescott. You must forgive my moodiness. I think that the rainy day has gotten to me, and I’m homesick,” she lied convincingly. He seemed satisfied with her answer, though when she looked up at him, his blue eyes, which weren’t as startling a hue as Zack’s, were piercing her with a shrewd stare. Did he know more about what was going on around him than he let on?
He reached across the table and patted her hand. “Camille, I understand that and hope the mood will pass quickly. Is there anything I can do?”
His kindness and sincerity were too much for her shattered emotions, and, to her horror, she burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized as she rose from the table. “I think I’ll go to the dowager house and go to bed.” Before he could reply, she fled from the room.
She spent a restless night, tossing and turning and waiting for elusive sleep. But when sleep finally came, she had disturbing dreams of Zack. How could one man be so tender and loving one moment and so bitter and hateful the next? How could he reduce her to a powerless chattel in his arms and then act as if it had been her idea, her fault? His being gone for these next few days was a blessing. Why then was she so abysmally unhappy to know that he wasn’t around?
He haunted her. He tormented her. It wasn’t fair! He had been in the background of her mind for the past two years, and now he was in the forefront, and the constant reminder of their affair in Snow Bird was torturous. Why did he kiss her so ardently when he felt such strong contempt for her? She was a fool to stay and subject herself to this mental cruelty. But with characteristic candor, she asked herself if it wouldn’t be worse to leave now and never see Zack Prescott again. Truthfully, she admitted that it would.
With a long shuddering sigh, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
When she saw Rayburn the next morning, he didn’t comment on the dark circles under her eyes or her pale cheeks. She apologized for her juvenile behavior the night before and tried to laugh it off, but knew for certain that the sensitive old man could see through her ruse.
Immediately after breakfast, she started to work on the banister. After a dark residue, left by years of palms being dragged down it, had been lightly scraped away, it needed to be polished to its former patina. It was a messy job and required hours of long, tedious work. Just what I need, thought Camille, to get my mind off my problems. She tackled the chore wearing her oldest pair of jeans, her hair tied back with a scarf.
The banister took two full days of effort to complete to her satisfaction, but despite Rayburn’s urgings to get some help for it, she refused his offer and chose to do it all herself.
After work on the banister was finished, and its wood shone with a warm glow, she started working on the floors. Even though most of the floor space in each room would be covered by heirloom area rugs, Camille felt that the wood beneath them needed to be sanded and revarnished. She had contracted the O’Malleys, a father and son team, to do this atrocious, seemingly overwhelming task.
When the O’Malleys arrived for the first day’s work, Camille was immediately pleased with them and glad that Rayburn had recommended them. For a man his age, Sean O’Malley moved with alacrity and proceeded to go about his work with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. Rick O’Malley was about Zack’s age. His sandy hair and bright brown eyes, along with a ready smile and teasing manner, made him instantly likable. He flirted with Camille shamelessly, but in such an agreeable way, that she was helpless to resist it. She teased and flirted back, and the long hours of hard work, which she insisted on sharing, passed quickly over the next several days.
Though shorter than Zack, Rick had a muscularly compact body that worked with as much energy and agility as that of his father. He chatted easily with Dearly, Simon, and Rayburn whenever they came into the room in which he was working, but even after days of listening to his bantering, Camille realized that he rarely talked about himself. She noticed, too, that frequently there was a poignancy or sadness around his eyes that would momentarily overshadow his merry face. He was quick to hide it if he caught anyone watching him.
One afternoon as they were about to leave, she escorted them out to the front porch. Sean O’Malley walked toward their truck parked in the driveway, but Rick held back and somewhat shyly asked Camille if she would go out with him that Friday night.
“There’s a high school football game this weekend. A big rivalry. The whole town turns out for this one. Would you like to go?”
She hesitated only an instant, thinking about Zack and how he would react. “Yes,” she said eagerly. Why should she care what Zack thought about her having a date? She was an adult. He certainly had no claim on her, nor she on him.
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Rick bounced off the front porch, did a ridiculous jig on his way to the truck, and reduced Camille to a fit of giggles with his antics.
Friday afternoon found her on her hands and knees working in a corner of the parlor when Simon brought in a pitcher of cold lemonade.
Rick came over to her and pulled her to her feet. “Take a break why don’t you, lady,” he teased as he drew her up. “Look at that face! We’re trying to stain the floor, not each other,” he laughed, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping the stain from her face.
At that moment, when Camille was playfully dodging Rick’s ministrations, Zack stepped under the arch that separated the parlor from the hallway. His face was stony, his eyes dark with a brewing storm of temper as he viewed the sight before him. The muscles in his jaw twitched with tension and Camille saw that he was clenching his fists at his sides as if forcing control over them.
“Hello, Zack.” Her statement was simple enough, but it intentionally held a warning in it for the innocent Rick. He turned and saw Zack standing in a militant stance and looked back quickly toward Camille with a puzzled, quizzical expression on his face.
He recovered himself and crossed the room with his hand outstretched. “Zack, long
time no see, you ol’ son of a gun! Here I’ve been working in your house all week and haven’t seen the lord of the manor yet. How are you?”
“Fine, Rick, how are you?” Zack’s words were clipped as he shook hands with Rick. “I see your work here hasn’t been too boring. If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded at Rick and Sean O’Malley, but ignored Camille. He turned abruptly toward the hall and bumped into Rayburn, who had witnessed the entire scene.
“Hello, son. How was your trip?”
“Beneficial, I think,” Zack answered curtly.
“Good. We’re glad to have you back.”
“Really? It appears to me that my arrival may have put a pall over all the fun everyone seems to be having.” With that he stalked upstairs. Rayburn followed his son’s angry back with his eyes and then looked at Camille. She wished the floor on which she had been working so hard would suddenly open up and swallow her.
Then she was suffused with anger at Zack. Why should she feel ashamed? She hadn’t done anything wrong, and even if she had, it was none of Zack Prescott’s concern. She raised her chin and proclaimed, “I would think that a few days away from home would improve one’s humor. It just goes to show how wrong one can be.”
If she expected a censure from Rayburn, she was surprised when he threw back his head of white hair and laughed out loud.
Rick looked nervous and wiped his sweaty palms on his jean-clad thighs. He had known Zack Prescott since grade school and recognized that look in Zack’s eyes. It meant trouble, and anyone with good sense steered clear of him when his blue eyes took on that particular glacial quality. “I’d better get back to work,” he muttered, guiltily shifting his eyes away from Camille.
Before he left that day, Rick pulled Camille aside and whispered anxiously. “Listen, Camille, I didn’t mean to trespass on someone else’s territory. Are you and Zack… I mean, is there…?”
Because he was finding it hard to put his question into words, Camille interrupted. “Rick, I’m looking forward to our date tonight. There is no reason for me not to go out with you.”
