by Sandra Brown
“Very good. Thank you.” Zack wiped his mouth with the paper napkin she had brought and began putting the wastepaper in the small brown sack that had held his snack.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ll be right back.” She left again, but returned only seconds later. Zack had resumed his position beside the window and was rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and trying unsuccessfully to cover a yawn with the other. Camille walked in with a militant-looking nurse behind her carrying aloft a long, intimidating hypodermic needle.
Camille knew that Zack would think the medication was for his father. When she and the nurse converged on him, trapping him against the window, she noted his bemused look.
“Drop your pants, Zack.” Whether he was surprised by her imperious tone or her brazen words, she didn’t know, but his baffled look was almost comical. It took tremendous effort not to laugh at him. She kept the muscles of her face drawn into a stern expression.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” he growled.
“I said, ‘Drop your pants.’ We’re going to give you a nice shot to make you sleep.” Her voice dripped with that syrupy, insincere gaiety that nurses use on difficult patients.
“Like hell you are,” Zack said defiantly.
“Dr. Daniels’s instructions. If you insist on staying in this room, you’ll stay here asleep. Now, are you going to behave like a good little soldier, or are we going to have to call in an orderly to help hold you down?”
She was sure that at that point Zack would happily have murdered her. No one manipulates a man like Zack Prescott and gets away with it for long.
Zack looked from her to the nurse beside her, who was scowling belligerently, her arms, encased in a starched white uniform, crossed over a bosom of enormous proportions. Her unblinking eyes sat in a face that looked like it had been molded out of clay and baked to diamond hardness. Despite his anger, Camille saw Zack swallow hard at the sight of the needle, and she suppressed another laugh.
“I’m not having any goddamn shot. Not if you call Hippocrates himself in here to give it to me.” The muscles of his jaw were working, and he was clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Camille recognized the signs. He was about to blow.
“In that case, I’ll give you one alternative.” She turned to the nurse. “Please bring in the bed.” The nurse snorted in disdain at Zack and then left the room on silent feet. She moved with surprising agility for a woman of her size.
“I’ve asked them to bring a rollaway bed in here for you. I’ll stay awake and keep an eye on Mr. Prescott. You have my word on that, but, Zack, you must get some rest. Please. For your sake as well as that of your father’s. If you collapse from exhaustion, what good are you to him? And he can’t get well if he’s worried about you. I promised him I’d take care of you, and I intend to keep that promise.”
He sighed and ran his hand wearily through his tangled hair. “You’ll stay awake? All night?”
“Until you awaken in the morning,” she promised.
Just then the door opened, and an orderly wheeled a small bed into the room. He left as silently as he came.
Zack looked at Camille and then at the figure on the hospital bed, who miraculously had slept through all of the commotion. Camille saw Zack’s shoulders slump and read the resignation on his face. Then he smiled crookedly. “That chair isn’t half bad if you get tired enough.” He indicated the soft, imitation leather chair. He crossed to the bathroom and went in, shutting the door behind him. Camille settled herself in the chair, preparing for her nocturnal vigil. Zack turned off the light in the bathroom as he came out and went to the bed, looking down on it skeptically.
“I don’t think I’m going to fit on this damn thing,” he complained as he pulled off his shoes.
Camille laughed softly. “You’ll be asleep so fast you won’t even notice.” She leaned back in the soft chair then sat bolt upright when she saw Zack shrug out of his shirt and unbuckle his belt. “What are you doing?” she asked in a voice that had risen an octave.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking my clothes off. Should I have been a gentleman and asked you to turn around?”
“But… but you can’t sleep in here like… that,” she sputtered.
“This was your idea, remember, Miss Jameson. You told me to drop my pants. I’m sure I won’t offend Nurse Stone Face. I think she’s seen it all.” He pulled off his jeans without a second’s hesitation, and Camille flushed hotly, averting her eyes.
“Aren’t you going to come kiss me good night?” he taunted from across the dim room.
“No! I am not!” she exclaimed. His only response was a light laugh. She heard the springs creak, the rustle of the crisp sheets as Zack adjusted himself to the short bed, one muffled curse, then it was silent. As she had predicted, his even breathing just moments later indicated that he had fallen asleep as soon as he allowed himself to lie down. Well, her mission was accomplished, but she was on edge. Everything had been going her way until he had undressed. Dim though the room was, the darkness didn’t completely hide his magnificent physique from her eyes. She remembered seeing him lying on the wide bed in the condominium at Snow Bird with only the firelight covering his body. The thought sent disturbing shivers over her, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
The night hours dragged by, the monotony interrupted only by the nurses’ periodic visits to Rayburn’s bedside. Camille was unreasonably peaceful sitting in the chair or standing near the window, for every minute that she was here, Zack was healthfully sleeping. When the first rays of daylight began to permeate the room, she closed the blinds on the windows and the room was once again shrouded in darkness. She wanted this night to go on for as long as it could.
About half an hour after dawn, she went into the bathroom, carefully shutting the door behind her before turning on the light and switching it off again before opening the door. She was creeping back across the room toward the chair, passing Zack’s small bed, when his hand shot out from under the covers and clutched one of her legs around the knee. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming in fright and stumbled against the bed, falling across Zack.
She righted herself and glared down into his shadowed face. “You scared me half to death!” she hissed. “It’s a wonder I didn’t scream this hospital down. And how would you have explained my terror?” He shrugged, and she could see that he was grinning broadly. “Let me go,” she gasped as he tightened his hands around her waist.
“No.”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“Zack, please. Someone may come in.”
“I know the hospital’s schedule by now. We have time for me to pay you back for last night.” He pulled her down on top of him, and Camille tried frantically to tug on the bottom of her skirt. It had inched its way up to the middle of her thighs during their scuffle. She attributed the unnatural pounding of her heart to the fact that he had startled her, and not that she was lying on top of him with only a sheet and a brief pair of underwear covering him.
“Don’t—” she protested, but the word was smothered when Zack’s mouth claimed hers. His arms were like steel bands across her back. She resisted, bracing herself on her hands, stiffening her arms, fighting to keep her body from touching his.
His lips were persuasive, and, with the ardency of his kiss, Camille felt her limbs weakening as the warmth of his seeking tongue spread a liquid fire through her veins, melting her resolve, clouding her mind, obscuring her will. She collapsed against his chest with a moan. His arms relaxed their iron grip on her and started caressing her back with a tenderness that was even more binding than his previous stronghold.
“Did I ever tell you what a cute bottom you have?” he asked against her lips as his hands moved under her skirt and slid over the object of his admiration. The warmth of his hands moving over her silky panty hose was intoxicating.
“No! You didn’t tell me any such thing. I would have slapped y
our face,” she objected without conviction. He was kissing her again, and her senses were drowning in an ocean of desire.
“Zack, please don’t kiss me like this,” she pleaded when he finally moved his mouth from hers in order to explore the region behind her ear.
“I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “This is the only way I know how to kiss.”
“You know what I mean,” she persisted as she raised herself over him. He used her movement to turn her over on her back so that now he was looking down on her. The sheet had fallen to his hips and the hair-matted chest was on a level with her flushed face. The golden cross dangled from its chain before her eyes. She was breathless. He stroked back her tangled curls and said with a soft laugh. “As I recall, the first bed we shared was quite a bit larger than this one.”
She disengaged herself from his arms and was off the bed before he could react. “I told you that I didn’t want to talk about that,” she cried vehemently, then glanced toward Rayburn’s bed to see if she had roused him. Thankfully, he was still sleeping heavily. “Every time you mention Utah, it proves just how insensitive you are. I asked you not to discuss Snow Bird anymore.” She was unsuccessfully adjusting her clothing with trembling fingers.
“Well, I don’t always do what you ask, do I?” he whispered harshly as he came out of the bed and started toward her. “I want to have this out here and now. Was spending the night with me in Snow Bird so odious to you? You make me sound like a hoard of Vikings looking for the village virgins and you being the only one found. I don’t remember it that way. You weren’t raped, Camille. I don’t recall you screaming, or kicking, or biting… well, maybe a little biting,” he added with a wicked glint in his eye as he rubbed a spot on his shoulder. Camille gleaned his implication and was aghast.
She stamped her foot. “You’re despicable. No gentleman.” Then she groaned, turning her head away. “And I can’t stand here and talk to you any longer if you don’t put some pants on.” She hated the tremor in her voice and tried to steady it as he mumbled, “Oh, hell.” He fumbled in the darkness for his jeans and, finally finding them, dragged them on and zipped them quickly.
“Is that better?” He mocked her modest shyness.
“Yes, thank you,” she said primly.
“You’re welcome,” he answered in kind, and Camille hated him for his coolness.
“I want to know what was so urgent that you left me without so much as a good-bye. I want to know now!” There was no mistaking his imperative tone. All teasing was finished.
“I… I was… ashamed, humiliated. I went to bed with a perfect stranger and you took… It is the only thing a woman… It should have belonged to the man I’ll marry.” She was crying now but couldn’t help herself. “What if I had gotten pregnant?” She saw his face go completely blank then he groaned, “Oh, God—” She was quick to reassure him. “No, I didn’t but I could have. I wasn’t… protected. I had never… you took—”
“I didn’t exactly take anything, Camille. I didn’t know you had never been with a man. If you had told me, I would have left you alone.” He raked one hand through his hair and rubbed the other one across his chest. “No, I wouldn’t’ve,” he admitted with a sigh. Then impatiently, “Hell, I don’t know what I would have done, and it’s useless to surmise. It happened the way it did. Nothing can change that. And truthfully, I can’t say that I regret sleeping with you.”
“That’s the difference with men and women, Zack. At least this woman. It was just a casual thing with you. I ruined myself. Every time I think about it, I feel cheap and dirty. No decent man will ever want me. I have no self-respect anymore so how can I expect anyone else to respect me?”
“Ruined? Cheap? Dirty?” His volume rose with each word. “Well, thanks a helluva lot. I didn’t think my lovemaking was so bestial that it could reduce someone’s self-esteem to such a low level.” He was slinging on the rest of his clothes, his hair in wild disarray around his head. He was furious, and Camille knew the effort he was exerting not to shout at the top of his lungs. Dressed, he came toward her and grabbed her shoulders. “When you and that decent fellow finally get together and you’re tearfully explaining to him your lost virginity at the hands of a base, sex-starved maniac, explain this, too.” He crushed her body to his. It was a deep, insulting kiss, totally lacking in the warmth and tenderness of those just minutes before. When he had thoroughly plundered her mouth and moved his hands over her in a demeaning way, he shoved her from him and went toward the door. Just then the nurse who had threatened him with the needle the night before came in with Rayburn’s breakfast tray and morning medication.
“God! Don’t you ever go off duty?” Zack roared as he went through the door, brushing past her immense bulk and almost upsetting the tray in her arms.
Camille, under the nurse’s speculative stare, hurriedly gathered her purse and coat and fled, asking the nurse to tell Rayburn that she would be back later.
Eight
The dreadful scene in the hospital room left Camille feeling even more vulnerable with Zack than before. He had the power to hurt her deeply, strip her of her defenses, and this gave him a frightening hold over her. She kept away from him as much as possible lest he see how he affected her.
They spoke to each other with the cold politeness of strangers, and only when forced to speak at all. They tacitly agreed that from that night on, she would relieve him on alternate nights in Rayburn’s room. The rollaway bed was left there for them to use while spending the night with him.
After another week, Zack finally conceded that Rayburn was recovering well enough to stay alone. He was now able to take short strolls up and down the halls, usually accompanied by an attractive nurse, all of whom had developed deep crushes on this white-haired Southern gentleman.
Camille continued to visit Rayburn at least once a day, although she was busy with redecorating the house. It seemed that even the most professional of workers she had hired needed her to answer myriad questions, or give her advice, or offer her approval. As exhausting as her constant vigilance was, she would rather the artisans make sure they were doing something exactly to her specifications than to have them do it wrong and necessitate correction.
These final phases of restoration were providing a glimpse of how lovely the house was going to be when completed. Camille was pleased with all her choices and was anxious for Rayburn to see their planning come to fruition. She inferred that Zack’s noncommittal grunts indicated his favor. She was feeling confident about her work on Bridal Wreath and congratulating herself on her excellent taste.
Then the hammer fell.
Early one afternoon she noticed Zack standing in the wide hall looking into the dining room. His hands were on his hips, his booted feet planted wide apart. He had apparently just come in from the plantation for he still had on mud-splattered jeans and a worn jean jacket. He held a battered hat in one of his hands and Camille was reminded of her first day at Bridal Wreath when he had confronted her in this same stance. It was still intimidating.
“Miss Jameson,” he said crisply when he saw her approaching. “What in the hell is this?”
Camille shrank from the fierce blue gaze he fixed on her and looked toward the dining room. What was he referring to? She noted that the contract painters were almost finished with one wall of the room.
“They’re painting the wall,” she answered simply. “We decided not to use wallpaper. It was stripped off weeks—”
“I know what they’re doing. I’m well aware of the fact that the wallpaper has been stripped off.” His tone was measured, extremely polite and condescending, much like one would use to speak to an incurable, helpless imbecile. “I’m talking about that ungodly color they’re smearing on my walls!”
Camille had selected the deep, forest green after picking out that color in the dining room’s area rug. The priceless Aubusson rug was an original piece in the house and still retained its beauty. She wanted to keep it in the room but add a touch of modernity to
the decor. The seat cushions of the dining room chairs were being covered with a fabric that blended the dark green with shades of beige and peach. It was a contemporary color scheme, but would harmonize beautifully with the colonial architecture of the house.
She faced Zack and said with as much aplomb as she could muster under his withering stare, “It’s called hunter—”
“I don’t give a damn what it’s called. I hate it. I’ll feel like I’m eating in a bayou. I’ve seen swamp water a prettier shade of green than this!” As he gestured wildly with his hand, he accidentally let go of his hat. It sailed across the room and plopped into an open can of the green paint. He blasted the walls with an expletive that would have made a sailor blush. Camille would have loved to laugh as she watched his hat slowly sink into the paint can, but the furious face he turned back to her froze any humor in her throat before it had a chance to escape.
She swallowed and tried to keep her voice from trembling as she explained. “Zack, it won’t look so dark when the woodwork is painted white. There won’t be any heavy drapes. I’m having a cornice made in the same fabric that will cover the chair seats. Only white shutters will cover the windows. It will be beautiful, I assure you. The green is a very popular, contemporary color.”
“For Christmas Day it’s great. What do we do with it the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year?”
His sarcasm stung and she realized that by now the painters had put down their brushes and were listening with avid interest to the argument. Simon and Dearly had come out of the kitchen and were standing in the hall, Dearly twisting her hands anxiously. The lady who had been hired to make drapes for the parlor had ceased her measuring and was witnessing the scene. If Zack’s intention was to humiliate her in front of everyone and get it spread all over Natchez that his decorator had appalling taste and didn’t know her own field, he was accomplishing just that. She tried one more time to be reasonable.
