by Sandra Brown
His face was bending low over hers when he threatened, “I’ll know the reason why, Camille. No woman leaves my bed and makes no explanation. When this is all over, you’ll tell me why you did.”
He released her abruptly and she staggered before she regained her footing. That’s all it was! His male ego had been trampled, and he must know why she had left him. He didn’t care about her or her feelings. He only wanted his self-image restored. Apparently, he had had so many interludes, that a woman sneaking away from him was unheard of. Camille had remained vivid in his mind only for that distinguishing reason. She was the one—the only one—who had ever left him!
The words struck her like a physical blow. She had hoped that maybe Zack had felt a small measure of the tenderness she felt for him. Now she knew better. She had been a body, nothing more. An object to satisfy his sexual lust, not a person with a soul and spirit. When he had awakened to find that his bed partner for the night had left him, his ego had been bruised. His pride couldn’t tolerate that, and he still wanted to know the reasons behind her desertion.
And yet, even as she raged at him, Camille knew she loved him. She studied him as he consulted with the nurses and Dr. Daniels as they came and went out of Rayburn’s room all afternoon and evening. Yes, she loved him. What was she going to do? Over and over, throughout that interminable day, she asked herself that question.
When she and Zack finally left the hospital, it was after eleven o’clock. Dr. Daniels assured them that he would call if there were any change in Rayburn’s condition before morning. They drove home depleted and silent.
They still hadn’t spoken even as they let themselves into the darkened entrance hall. Nor did they speak before Zack took her in his arms and crushed her to him in a punishing embrace.
The lips that came down on hers were brutal, bruising. One hand was tangled in her dark hair, holding her head immobile while he searched her mouth with his tongue as if seeking answers to the questions that plagued him. She berated herself for not fighting him, punishing him as he was punishing her, but her emotions were running too high, too close to the surface. All day they had been pent up, safely stored. The trauma of seeing Rayburn near death on the floor, the hazardous drive to the plantation and back, the tense waiting in the hospital, the argument with Zack, all culminated in her answering his kiss with unrestrained passion. Her emotions sought an outlet, a release, in his arms, his mouth, his heat.
When he accepted her acquiescence, his lips softened, became more persuasive. His mouth pulled gently on her lips, her tongue. He murmured incoherently, or was she making those small pleading sounds? She didn’t know, didn’t care. His lips trailed to her ear, her neck, and settled against the base of her throat. She threw her head back and allowed him access to her neck and more.
He pulled the silk shirt from the waistband of her slacks and slipped his hands under it. She still wore the same peach-colored blouse without the restrictive bra it required and felt his hands close over the sheer fabric of the one that revealed too much.
“I’ve got to touch you,” he rasped as his hands unclasped the front fastener of the bra, and her breasts spilled into his palms. “Oh, God, Camille,” he breathed as he nuzzled her neck. His fingers explored gently, teasing her nipples to a response.
She barely had time to softly cry his name before his mouth descended on hers once again with a renewed passion. His hips fit snugly against hers as he slipped the blazer off her shoulders. He unbuttoned her shirt with maddening slowness, pausing to caress the creamy flesh as it was exposed, bending once to kiss a sensitive spot. The stroking of his tongue generated a shock wave through her body.
Camille reeled against him with mounting desire. She worked feverishly with the buttons of his shirt and finally succeeded in pushing it from his broad shoulders. They both broke away to slip out of their sleeves. When they stood facing each other, naked to the waist, Zack reached up and cupped her face in his palms, running his thumbs lightly over her lips. His eyes were tender, soft, all arrogance and anger vanquished. He adored her with his eyes, sweeping across her features, her flesh, with affectionate delight. “Camille, you’re so beautiful. I want you. I need you tonight.” His words were little more than an expulsion of breath.
Then one hand lowered and lightly cupped her breast, stroking it softly. The pressure of his hand increased slightly, and, with utmost gentleness, he pulled her forward and pressed her breast against his own warm, naked flesh. She moved into him, the crisp hairs on his chest tickling her, thrilling her. He drew her even closer until her breasts were flattened against the wall of muscle. She could feel the gold cross he always wore around his neck imbedding itself in her skin. The mouth that took hers was promising, tantalizing, yet demanding. Their tongues touched.
“Zack, is everything all right? I heard you come in but didn’t see any lights.” Dearly’s voice seemed to echo for an eternity in the hallway as an arc of light fanned out into the hall when the kitchen door was opened in the back of the house.
Camille retrieved her blouse and jacket from the floor and held them in front of her as she darted into the dining room. She frantically tried to slip on her blouse.
Zack dodged the light by stepping into the deep shadows under the staircase. “Yes, Dearly. We’re all right.” He cleared his throat and tried again to sound convincing. “We were just talking. Dad’s condition is stable. I’ll call you if we have any further word.”
“Well, I waited up to tell you that there’s food in the refrigerator if you want it. Oh, and Mrs. Hazelett called three times.” Her tone betrayed a touch of asperity as she divulged this last piece of information.
“Thank you, Dearly. Go on to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” They heard the kitchen door swing shut, plunging them into darkness again. Then the back door slammed, signifying that Dearly had gone to her garage apartment where Simon had already retired.
“Damn!” Zack exclaimed under his breath. “I feel like a schoolboy. I’m a grown man and I’m standing here under the stairs necking like a damn fool.” He raked his hands through his hair, which only moments before Camille had rumpled with impassioned hands.
“I… uh… I’ll see you in the morning,” she stammered as she finished buttoning her blouse.
“Yes, I guess we’d better go to bed,” he said. His laugh was harsh and humorless. “Separate beds, Miss Jameson,” he mockingly assured her with a sweeping bow. “Once again you have been saved from a fate worse than death. Will your luck never run out?”
“Ooooh! You are always so superior, aren’t you?” His bitter, sarcastic inflection hurt as much as his words themselves. She lashed back, “I suppose you think that I planned all this, that I knew Dearly was in there. Well, I don’t care what you think. I’m only glad that she was there and that she made her presence known when she did.” She stalked to the door then flung back over her shoulder, “Besides, what would Erica think?” She felt smug at having gotten in the last word, but her triumph was short-lived as he called after her.
“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. I’m going to call her immediately.”
He only laughed as she slammed the door behind her.
Seven
Camille could barely recall afterward that first week that Rayburn spent in the hospital. As hectic and nerve-wracking as they were, the days fell into a grinding routine. She and Zack left Bridal Wreath for the hospital each morning and stayed through late into the evening. Camille would take a break late in the morning, go back to Bridal Wreath, check on the work being done on the house, eat her one balanced meal for the day, and then return to the hospital so Zack could leave for a while.
At first, Dr. Daniels forbade Rayburn having any visitors other than a three-minute visit with Zack about every four hours, but as his patient seemed to improve and gain strength, the doctor granted his permission for Camille to go in, sometimes alone, but often with Zack. These visits seemed to help Rayburn more than any of the strong medication he was ta
king.
Camille refrained from talking about the restoration of the house when she was in his room, but Rayburn asked questions about it, and she soon found herself giving him detailed progress reports. Each day she received some of the materials previously ordered, and now she had seamstresses making draperies, carpenters making cornices, and paperhangers hanging wallpaper. He wanted to know about it all. She realized just how much this project meant to him.
After a week in the ICU, Dr. Daniels informed Zack that he was moving Rayburn to a private room.
“He’s a tough old geezer, Zack. He has a tenacious hold on his life, and that’s as crucial to his recovery as medication or surgery or anything else I could do. With proper care and attention to his diet, I think he’ll be okay for a while. But I still don’t want a parade of people through his room. Rest is still the best medicine right now. Keep an eye on things and, if it gets too crowded in there, I’ll slap a ‘No Visitors’ sign on his door.”
Dr. Daniels also mentioned that the stairs at Bridal Wreath weren’t good for a heart patient to climb each time he wanted to go to his room. He suggested that other arrangements might want to be made. Camille was consulted.
“What can we do about that, Camille? This is your area of expertise, and I’ll guarantee any amount of money required to have something fixed up for him.” Zack’s eyes had lost some of the haunted anxiety they had reflected for the first few days after Rayburn’s attack. His love and concern for his father had been apparent. He stood by hopefully as Camille groped for inspiration.
When the idea came to her, a light shone in the golden depths of her eyes, and her face fairly sparkled as she envisioned what she had in mind. “Yeeeees.” She drew out the word. Then excitedly, “Yes, Zack, I think I have an idea that he might like, and it won’t cost too much.”
“Your first priority was right. He must like it. I’m not sure he’ll go for the idea of being ousted from his own room. Maybe we should keep it a secret for a while.”
“Okay, but let’s call it a surprise rather than a secret. It sounds less devious.”
“Agreed.” He smiled.
“If it turns out the way I think it will, he’ll love it. I’ll give it every ounce of talent I have. It’ll probably end up being the showplace of the mansion.” She laughed. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Zack joined her laughter. It warmed her heart to see him relax somewhat after being so tense. The lines around his eyes testified that he was tired and hadn’t been sleeping well even when he was home for that purpose.
Their encounter in the hallway the night after Rayburn’s attack had made them wary of each other. They were like two fencers, choreographed in a strange ballet, thrusting and parrying with each other’s words and emotions. Around other people they appeared to be close friends, sharing a common concern over a loved one. In private, they were edgy, uncommunicative, careful.
Camille wasn’t nearly as afraid of Zack as she was of herself. She had stormed into her room that night, disgusted with herself for allowing him to make love to her that way. Love? No! Love played no part in his embraces. Hadn’t he as much as said he only wanted her. Then. For the moment. “I need you tonight,” he had cried in a soft whisper. He needed a woman, a body. Camille Jameson just happened to be the only one there.
If he had said, “I love you,” what would she have done? She admitted ruefully that she would have thrown herself into his arms and begged him never to release her. Her love for him was a part of her, and, though Zack would never return it, she knew that as long as she lived she would love him. She had ever since Snow Bird.
It wasn’t fair of him to continue seducing her body when it was her soul that cried out for him. Then she remembered how his lips felt against her own, against her flesh, how his hands were demanding and gentle at the same time, and how his body displayed such evident desire for hers. She confessed that her physical longing was a very real part of her love. But without love, desire became a sham, a surrogate for the real thing, and Camille couldn’t settle for less than love, even with Zack.
She resolved to prevent herself from getting into a situation where his advances would make her susceptible to surrender. She would do her job and be his friend in this time of need, and that was all. Her love for him would be her secret, something treasured in private. She wouldn’t allow it to be visible to him or anyone else.
Despite everyone’s assurance that Rayburn would be watched closely twenty-four hours a day, Zack insisted that he stay in the hospital room with his father at night.
“He’s been hooked up to those machines that monitor everything, but now he’s on his own in there. I want to be around if… if anything happens.” He argued with an army of nurses and then with Dr. Daniels, but he remained adamant.
Camille was worried about him. She could tell by his gaunt face and quivering voice that he was exhausted, and his nerves were frayed like an old rope, ready to snap at any instant as he prevailed upon George Daniels.
“Very well, Zack. You’re a grown man, and bigger than I am, so I couldn’t physically throw you out,” Dr. Daniels conceded grudgingly.
“I’ll rest during the day when there are a lot of nurses and doctors around to take care of Dad.”
So it was settled, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do about it.
In the daytime Camille was too involved with the restoration to see Rayburn as much as she would like. She tried to soothe his petulant whining about this when she managed to run to the hospital for a brief visit. It was difficult not to give away the surprise about his new bedroom that was taking up so much of her time. She wanted it to be finished by the time he came home from the hospital. It would be her get-well present for him.
She remembered him telling her how he moved all of his plants into the house during the winter and how crowded it became. She expounded on that idea and decided that, structurally, the screened back porch was the solution to settling Rayburn in a room downstairs. She contacted a carpenter who had the time available to enclose the room. Glass was put inside the screens so that the open-air look was not sacrificed. Camille ordered woven-wood window coverings that could be raised or lowered depending on the natural light desired or privacy required. She wanted to leave him an unobstructed view of the grounds he loved.
She divided the long room in half. One side became a bedroom complete with a small bath that was conveniently connected to the existing plumbing. The other half of the room she made into a den. The floor was covered with indoor-outdoor carpet. His favorite easy chair was re-covered in a new, bold fabric using the earth-tones color scheme Camille had chosen. His television set, bookcases, and personal items were moved from the room upstairs. With Zack’s hearty approval, a few new pieces were added. Camille and Simon filled the den with plants. She installed a humidifier both for Rayburn’s comfort and the health of the tropical plants. Everyone in the household was involved in the project and did their best to hurry along its completion. Camille was satisfied with the results and only regretted that the lovely furniture upstairs, the tester bed, the rosewood armoire, would not be used by the head of the house any longer. But Rayburn’s health was far more important than furniture.
Zack liked the new arrangement. During the day, his father would be within calling distance of Dearly as she worked in the kitchen. The downstairs rooms would make it easier on the Mitchells, who were past middle-age, as they helped Rayburn to convalesce. All in all, Camille’s idea had been the solution to their problem, and she glowed under Zack’s praise when he saw the rooms taking shape.
He had been at the hospital five nights straight, and, when he came home long enough to hurriedly gulp down dinner, Camille was astonished at how fatigued he looked.
Later in her room, she was restless, pacing the floor of the dowager house. Her concern for Zack was no less than her worry over Rayburn. He was too stubborn to admit that he would do his father little good if he became ill, too. She had made the mistake of pointing that fact out to him
. After he left Dearly and Simon had sympathized with her for his verbal abuse. It had been a nasty scene before he grabbed his jacket and stormed from the house.
“It doesn’t matter,” she reasoned with them. “He’s so tired, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
She couldn’t rest, and, after convincing herself that she was doing the right thing, she went into the kitchen of the main house, made a telephone call, raided the refrigerator, and left for the hospital.
Camille opened the door of Rayburn’s room apprehensively, but determined. It was dark inside, with only one nightlight giving faint illumination. She could tell by his even breathing that Rayburn was in a deep, drug-induced sleep. Zack was standing by the window. His hands were supporting him against the sill as he leaned his forehead on the cold glass panes.
He turned when she came in, and she saw the surprise on his weary face. “I thought you were a nurse. What are you doing here? Is anything wrong at home?” His voice was tired.
“No. Everyone else is fine. You’re the one who looks and feels like hell.” He glowered at her from under lowered brows, and she stifled an impulse to laugh.
“Thanks,” he said succinctly.
“You’re welcome,” she replied sweetly. “I brought you a snack. Cold roast beef sandwich, apple, and homemade cookies. Eat it,” she commanded. He hesitated only a moment, then sank gratefully into a deep chair. She pulled up a small table and spread the food out for him. “I’ll be back in a minute with some milk. No more coffee for you tonight.” Without waiting for his protest, she walked smartly toward the door and went through it with a toss of her head.
When she came back after buying a container of milk out of a vending machine, she noticed that the sandwich had already disappeared and Zack was working on the apple. As he chewed, he tried to keep the apple from crunching loudly in the stillness of the room. She suppressed a giggle at his effort and received another dark, glowering look for her attempted levity. He finished the light meal in silence, and drank the milk in one long swallow.
