by Sandra Brown
Covertly she watched him as they ate. He seemed to be relaxed and enjoying himself, though spending this day with her had been more or less an order from his father. He spoke to nearly everyone who came in, and introduced her to those who stopped by their table to chat.
They were lingering over cups of coffee when Camille commented, “Your father seems to be feeling better, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. I think having you here and working on the house has lifted his spirits considerably. His health will never be what it was before the attack though, and I worry about it constantly.”
“I’m sure you do, Zack.” She added cautiously, “He loves you very much.”
“Yeah, I know.” He laughed ruefully. “Sometimes I wish I’d had brothers and sisters, someone else to share this responsibility I feel to make him proud and happy. I think I’ve disappointed him.”
“Why do you say that?”
He looked uneasy and shifted in his chair before answering. “Dad has this… obsession… to continue the line, keep Bridal Wreath and the plantation in the hands of a Prescott.” He took a quick sip of coffee and said, “It doesn’t look like that is going to happen.”
There was nothing she could say to that so she stared at a picture on the wall beside her. They were both quiet as Zack settled the check and they returned to the pickup parked in front of the building.
“The lunch was wonderful, Zack, and so was the Post House. Thank you,” Camille said when he had engaged the gears of the truck and merged with the Saturday afternoon traffic in downtown Natchez.
“You liked it?” he asked, smiling.
“Too much, I’m afraid. Between that lunch and Dearly’s Southern cooking, I’m going to be very plump any day now.” She was laughing, but she suddenly remembered what he had said the first time she had mentioned her weight. He had commented that she could stand to gain some. She slid her eyes to him, and, to her acute embarrassment, he obviously remembered, too.
“I’d say that the few pounds you’ve gained have all gone to the right places.” His grin was comically lecherous, and she blushed under her apricot complexion. He laughed good-naturedly and reached over to give her knee a playful slap, but Camille caught her breath as his fingers lingered there for an instant longer.
They drove through other areas of Natchez and passed one mansion after another. Camille remarked on how lyrical the names of the home-sites were—Auburn, D’Evereux, Fair Oaks, Dunleith, Hawthorne, Mount Repose, and on and on. Each home was distinctive in design and character. Some looked like little more than lovely farmhouses, while others were rich with the flavor of Southern colonial architecture and complete with the columns depicting Greek revival design, as Bridal Wreath did.
“I love the grounds surrounding these homes as much as the houses themselves. The oaks, magnolias, willows—oh, they’re lovely. It must be gorgeous in the spring when the azaleas, dogwood, forsythia, and wisteria are blooming. Not to mention the bridal wreath!” she added emphatically.
“Yes, it is,” Zack confirmed. “It’s a shame that the blooms don’t last any longer than they do. But, if they did, I guess they wouldn’t be special. Have you ever seen Longwood?”
“That’s the mansion shaped like an octagon, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It was never finished. Only the ground floor. It’s stood empty all these years. I think they started construction on it in 1858 and by 1861 it still wasn’t completed.”
“It’s sad to think that someone put all of his time and effort into a house and then it was wasted. No one ever shared it. I’d much rather have a smaller house with a lot of people in it than a large one that’s deserted.”
“I think I’ve just figured you out, Miss Jameson. You like a place with a yard full of trees and a house full of people.” He looked over at her. “Am I right?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“I’ve given myself away, haven’t I,” she replied, smiling. “I suppose it comes from not having any siblings. An only child can be a very lonely person.”
“Then we have that in common, don’t we, Camille?” His tone was soft, confidential, and stirring, and Camille looked at him tenderly, answering him with an affirmative nod.
She felt warm and contented. The day had been wonderful. She exulted in being alone with him. As they meandered toward Bridal Wreath, Camille snuggled down deeper in the cracked upholstery of the pickup, unmindful of it as she basked in her newly discovered love for Zack and hoping that his attitude toward her today meant that he was changing his feelings about her. He had been gracious, kind, charming, and almost affectionate. Maybe there was hope for them yet. For two years no other man had been able to exorcise the memory of Zack from her mind. Was it remotely possible that Zack could recall their night together with anything other than bitterness? Would he also remember the bliss they had shared?
They turned into the driveway and bounced over the bumpy surface toward the house. “If I may be so critical, Mr. Prescott, I think it would behoove you to have this road black-topped.”
“Oh, you think so, Miss Jameson?” he asked in a haughty manner. Then he grinned and winked at her. “You are exactly right!”
The brakes on the pickup squealed loudly as he applied them. He cut the ignition, silencing the chugging motor and the radio. The sudden stillness added to the indolent atmosphere. The western sun cast long shadows on the lawn and glided the red and orange autumn leaves of the trees, giving them the appearance of living flames. The air outside was chilly, but the interior of the pickup was warm.
Neither Camille nor Zack moved. They sat silent and close in the narrow confines of the cab. It was intimacy without speaking, without touching. Each savored this quiet privacy, the breathless proximity of the other’s body.
As if operating on a synchronized time mechanism, their heads turned to face one another. Slowly, Zack reached across the cab and touched her haloed hair lightly, then moved his hand to cup her cheek. She watched his eyes as they studied her intently. Like two cerulean magnets they held her captive as they started at the top of her head, moved across her own wide, swimming eyes, down her nose and lingered on her parted lips. They shifted to her throat, the base of her neck where she felt her pulse throbbing, and then rested on her breasts. Her nipples were taut and tingling, straining against the soft cotton of her shirt.
Zack’s eyes came back to her mouth. His thumb caressed her trembling lips, pressing her bottom lip down gently and raking her lower teeth. “I haven’t forgotten it, Camille. I remember vividly how it was with us.” His voice was a caress, soft and persuasive and disturbingly honest. He placed his other hand over her left breast and applied gentle pressure. “I feel your heartbeat. You remember it, too.”
He crushed her against him, trapping his hand between their bodies. She expected his lips to be as fierce in their possession as his embrace, but they were soft, sensuously teasing her mouth with sipping kisses. He probed her lips with his tongue, but when they were parted, he didn’t penetrate them. He settled his lips at the corner of her mouth, and she whispered his name urgently, almost frantically.
His restraint failed him, and he covered her mouth with his own. His tongue met hers with a velvet roughness. The fingers imprisoned between their chests managed to stir her to new heights of sensations. Unconsciously, Camille arched against him, presenting him with easier access to her body. His hands followed its contours while his mouth continued its pleasurable demands. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, breathing harshly, and rasped, “Camille. Camille, you’ve bewitched me. Ever since Snow Bird—”
The blast of a car horn caused them both to jump and scramble apart. Zack uttered an expletive under his breath that Camille had never even heard verbalized. When he saw a sleek, silver Porsche pull up beside the pickup, he mumbled another curse and opened his door and stepped down. Left to her own devices, Camille made a hurried, shaken effort to straighten her clothes and smooth her hair before she alighted from the cab.
“Darl
ing, I’m so glad I found you at home,” said the tall blond woman posed against the sports car. Camille recognized her immediately as the one whom Zack had escorted to the football game the evening before. She was dressed in a rose-colored knit dress, kid pumps, and a paisley scarf that was tied around her neck with just the right touch of careful negligence.
“Hello, Erica. What brings you out here looking for me?” Zack’s voice was friendly enough, but Camille thought she detected a hint of irritation.
“Come and give me a proper greeting and then I’ll tell you,” the woman purred as Zack put both hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him, giving her a sound kiss on her voluptuous mouth. Camille’s heart fell to the ground, and she wished she could flee to the solitude of the dowager house without being seen. That wish was dashed when Zack turned away from Erica and indicated Camille with his hand. “Erica, this is Camille Jameson. She is redecorating Bridal Wreath for us. Camille, Erica Hazelett.”
“Hello, Mrs. Hazelett,” Camille said with little enthusiasm. Under Erica’s scrutiny, she was abashedly aware of her casual and comfortable attire. Her hair lay in tumbled curls after Zack’s ardent embrace. Were her lips as bruised and swollen after his kisses as they felt? She felt very gauche compared to this immaculate woman.
Erica greeted her in kind and then remarked, “I don’t know why Zack found it necessary to hire a decorator to redo Bridal Wreath when he knows that for years I have wanted to get my hands on it and have even gone as far as to offer my services for that task.”
“I’m sure you would have done a good job, Mrs. Hazelett, but it wasn’t Zack who hired me. It was his father.”
“And we know, dear, that Dad doesn’t think too much of your taste,” Zack quipped, and Erica’s lovely mouth tightened into a grim line of exasperation.
“Well, if Miss Jameson is decorating it according to your father’s taste, then I can’t wait to see it when she’s finished,” she said caustically.
Camille opened her mouth in surprise at the sarcastic remark and then her eyes took on the golden glow of a cat who recognizes an adversary and the hair on the back of her neck crawled with aversion for Zack’s lady friend.
Camille had to admit that Erica Hazelett was a flamboyantly beautiful creature. All the details of her appearance that had escaped Camille last night she took account of now. Her hair was blond, too blond not to have been helped by a weekly rinse. Her eyes were a cool blue, but reflected no depth, no human warmth. She had a long, aristocratic nose between two finely arched brows, and her mouth was wide and sensual. She was tall and thin, with a model’s boyish figure, and all of her movements were practiced and languid. She never wasted a movement, Camille realized, as she watched Erica fit herself closely to Zack’s body and brush away nonexistent lint from the lapels of his jean jacket. These displays of familiarity stung Camille, and it was only her resolve not to let the woman intimidate her that gave her the courage to stand by and watch Erica fondle Zack.
She was speaking in low, cajoling tones. “Zack, darling, please come with me. I tried to call you earlier, but your servant told me that you were out with Miss… what was it again? Oh, never mind. I’ll forgive you for not being here when I called if you’ll come to the party tonight.”
Camille was fuming at Erica’s condescending attitude toward her. And calling Simon or Dearly, whichever one she was referring to, a servant! The woman was a snob of the worst sort. Besides being beautiful and obviously sexy, what did Zack see in her? She was so shallow, she was virtually transparent.
“Where is the dinner party being held?” Zack asked in a listless voice.
“Oh, I knew you’d come, Zack!” cried Erica before she raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “It’s at Melrose, darling, and it’s black tie, of course.”
“Of course,” Zack said dryly.
“You’ll need to pick me up about seven. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more notice, but the hostess called me in a panic this morning. One of her eligible males canceled out, and she was left with an empty table setting. I told her I was sure I could coax you into escorting me, but at the same time told her to reassure any unattached females there that you were definitely not ‘eligible.’ ”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Erica,” Zack warned, but Erica seemed not at all disturbed by his lack of humor.
“Oh, you tease,” she admonished as she tapped his chest with a long, manicured finger. “I’ll see you at seven, darling.” After giving Zack another quick kiss on his cheek and ignoring Camille, she climbed into her sports car and sped out the drive.
“Nice car,” Camille cooed cattily before she went up the steps to the front porch. She could hear Zack’s mumbled curses as he followed her across the warped boards to the door.
* * *
It was very late that night when Zack came home. Camille wouldn’t have admitted to anyone that she had been unable to sleep until she heard the low throb of his Lincoln’s motor as he drove it into the garage.
What had he and Erica been doing until this ungodly hour of the morning? All the joy she had felt over their closeness and the shared intimacy earlier in the day had faded at the sight of the sophisticated Erica and the way she fawned over Zack with apparent results. Hadn’t he agreed to go to a dinner party on short notice only because Erica asked him to? And only moments after kissing her with breathtaking abandon! Was he always so acquiescent to Erica’s desires? What had he been about to say when Erica’s arrival had interrupted him? Was he in love with that superficial, silly woman? If he wasn’t, what had kept him in her company until three-thirty in the morning?
She chased these questions through her mind until sheer exhaustion forced her into a restless sleep.
Six
Camille accepted Rayburn’s invitation to accompany him to church. She sat beside him in his accustomed pew and tried not to nod sleepily through the sermon. Zack, of course, had not come with them, and she resented the fact that she had been unable to sleep until she heard him come home. He was sleeping late this morning without a care in the world, while she was suffering because of his late date with Erica Hazelett.
When they returned home, Zack was in the parlor amidst the sheet-shrouded furniture and sanded woodwork, surrounded by naked walls stripped of paper. He sat in the only uncovered chair, one foot resting on his other knee, drinking a cup of coffee while reading the Sunday sports page.
“Good morning,” he called to them as they came in from the hall. “If you can find a chair, have a seat.” He laughed affably, and Camille seethed over his civility. Why couldn’t he feel cranky and out of sorts as she did?
“Good morning, son. Are there any good football games being shown on television this afternoon?” Rayburn asked as he deposited his hat and coat on a halltree.
“Yeah, a couple of them. I need to drive out to the plantation right after lunch, but I’ll be back in time to watch at least the second half with you.”
“Fine,” beamed Rayburn, and Camille suddenly felt neglected and out of place in this male-dominated household. What was she doing here anyway? How had all of this come to pass? When had she lost control of her life?
Then her eyes met Zack’s for the first time that day. She was shocking to see that his gaze on her was intent, the blue eyes looking at her with an undisguised warmth.
“How are you this morning, Camille?” The confidential tone of voice he used made it seem as if they were alone in the room, in the world. It was soft and gentle and caressing. He had his nerve to act so tender toward her when he had stayed in Erica’s company until three-thirty this morning!
“I feel great,” she asserted with emphasis.
She saw him take note of the shadows under her eyes and the hollows under her high cheekbones, and Camille knew that her haggard appearance belied her confident words.
Zack was trying to hide a smile as he said simply, “Good.”
She turned her back on his smirking face and went to the piano in the other half of
the large room. Taking off the dust cover, she sat down on the bench and played memorized tunes until Dearly announced that lunch was ready.
Camille had learned from previous weeks that Sunday luncheon was an event and that it was the only big meal on that day. On Sunday evenings, everyone was more or less on their own to eat leftovers or make themselves a snack. Today was no different. The table was loaded with food. There was a platter of golden fried chicken, a bowl of creamy potatoes, various salads, two vegetable casseroles, a gravy boat full of the rich sauce, and a chocolate cake for dessert.
The food was delicious, but Camille’s mind didn’t concentrate on the meal as much as it did on the man sitting across the table from her. She had seen the tight fit of the camel slacks Zack was wearing when they walked into the dining room. The navy sweater looked so soft that she was sure it was cashmere. While striving to give her full attention to the moist chocolate cake, her mind strayed to the day in the attic when she had, in the still darkness, stroked the hard muscles of Zack’s chest with her fingertips. If she reached up under the sweater now, his skin would be warm, the hair on his chest crisp under her fingers and—
Her fantasy was interrupted when she realized that Zack was watching her and had a knowing smile playing around his mouth. Could he always invade her fantasies? She flushed and lowered her eyes quickly to her plate. Why did he affect her this way?
When she had the courage to raise her eyes again, she caught him giving her the same kind of appraisal she had given him. For attending church, she had put on a tailored brown wool suit with a peach-colored silk blouse underneath. Before they had gone into the dining room for lunch, she had taken off the jacket to her suit and hung it on the halltree along with Rayburn’s hat and coat. Under Zack’s blue stare, she now remembered that the blouse was somewhat sheer and that if she were going to wear it by itself, she always put on a special bra that covered more completely. This morning, knowing that she was wearing a jacket over it, she had worn another type of bra, one that was sheer and left nothing to the imagination. She had forgotten that fact when she had taken off the jacket.
