Love’s Encore

by Sandra Brown

  Later in the evening while they were all sitting around the new television set watching a fairly recent movie, Rayburn said again, “I love my new rooms. But you can’t fool me, Zack. I realize that I’ve been moved downstairs to insure you and Camille more privacy.” He laughed deeply, and it was a good thing that he was so engrossed with the remote control gadget of the television set that he missed the guilty look that passed between Zack and his wife and the hurriedly averted glances of Dearly and Simon.

  * * *

  Camille leaned into the bathroom mirror and applied the finishing strokes of mascara to her eyelashes. The mirror was still a bit foggy from her recent shower, and, since it was so steamy in the room, she wore only a brief pair of bikini panties.

  At the instant she returned the mascara to her makeup drawer, the bathroom door from Zack’s bedroom opened and he stepped through it. Their eyes locked in mutual astonishment over the expanse of the few feet that separated them.

  Camille stood rooted to the floor, flushing hotly and shivering with cold as she watched his eyes fix on her breasts before moving to somewhere in the area of her navel. She checked the ludicrous impulse to cover herself. What good would it do? The damage had already been done, and she would only look foolish.

  “Good morning,” he said huskily when his eyes finally returned to her face.

  “Good morning,” she answered, her voice none too steady. He must have just stepped into the worn jeans, faded almost white, for he had still been zipping them as he opened the door. His chest was bare, as were his feet. His hair was still tousled from sleep. He had never looked more devastatingly appealing.

  “I… uh… I should have knocked.” Camille was glad he, too, was finding it hard to concentrate. His usual aplomb seemed to have deserted him.

  “I thought I had locked your door. I’m sorry.” She could barely hear her own words for the loud pounding of her heartbeat reverberating in her head.

  “Please don’t be on my account.” Some of the mocking quality had returned to Zack’s voice, and he grinned at her lazily, automatically putting her on guard.

  “I was just about to dress,” she said defensively. “I’ll be out in a minute.” She turned her back and began gathering up the clothes that were hung on a decorative wall hook. In the blink of an eye, he was behind her and grabbing the clothes out of her hand.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, panicked by his sudden action and whirling to face him.

  They were standing so close that her breasts were brushing against the hair on his chest, and she stepped back hurriedly, but not soon enough to prevent a normal physical response from her nipples. Zack saw it and grinned sardonically.

  “Well now,” he drawled, “since I don’t have the pleasure of undressing my wife like most husbands do, maybe I could dress her.”

  “Zack, give me back my clothes! Please.” She tried to be stern, but she sounded ridiculous even to herself. Her costume wasn’t exactly obedience-provoking. He ignored her and half-leaned, half-sat against the dressing table. Before she could react, he had grasped her around the waist and pulled her toward him, placing her between his long legs.

  He rubbed his hands together eagerly and said with irritating relish, “Now, let’s see. I guess this goes on next.” He held up the scrap of sheer fabric and lace that was her bra.

  “Zack, please—”

  “Yes, I remember,” he leered, “you always wear this kind and for the life of me, I don’t know why you bother. Oh, well,” he shrugged. His face was no more than an inch from hers as he reached around her and slid her arms into the shoulder straps of the bra. She was drowning in the deep blue pools of his eyes before he straightened and, drawing the sides of the garment together, fastened the clasp under her breasts. “A perfect fit,” he murmured. He brushed his fingers across the tops of her breasts, which were still exposed by the demi-cup bra. She shuddered as he glided his hands over the soft mounds of flesh, down her taut stomach, and settled on her waist, drawing her closer to him. He buried his face in the deep cleavage, nibbling gentle kisses with burning lips. “You smell so good,” he whispered. “So good.” The abrasion of his unshaven jaw against her smooth skin was an unexpected pleasure. He caught one nipple between his lips, and, even encased as it was in a sheer veil of fabric, the moist pull of his mouth caused a sweet, agonizing desire to course through her body. Camille settled her hands on his shoulders as she leaned into him. NO! She caught herself just in time and pushed away from him. “Don’t, Zack,” she gasped.

  “Don’t?”

  “Yes, please don’t.” Was she sobbing even though her eyes were dry?

  “Okay,” he replied cheerfully and released her immediately. She was shocked at his obedience and, if she admitted it, a little disappointed.

  He was not to be daunted. “Jeans next, right?” He held up her jeans expectantly, and she had no choice but to support herself with one hand on his shoulder as she stepped first into one leg and then the other. She was acutely aware of his warm breath against her stomach as he leaned down to pull the tight jeans up her legs and over her hips. As he reached to close them, she said quickly, “I’ll fasten them,” and hurriedly drew up the zipper and snapped the snap. He grinned at her wickedly and shrugged.

  “Okay. I’ll do the belt.” Again his arms went around her as he drew the belt through the loops at the back of her jeans. His head was pressed against her chest, and she noticed that it was taking an unnecessary length of time for such a simple task.

  “Zack, you’re not fool—”

  “There, I’ve got it now. I was having a little trouble with one of the loops.” He lifted his head to meet her eyes. His mouth was curled into such a mischievous grin, and his eyes were dancing with such devilish delight that Camille was tempted to laugh with him and tease back. She stymied the impulse and looked back at him coolly. He was not at all impressed by her hauteur.

  “Pretty blouse,” he commented as he held it while she put her arms into the sleeves. He buttoned the cuffs with aggravating care. She expected him to do the same with the buttons on the front, but when he looked at her this time, she could see that he had dropped his teasing manner. He held her eyes with his. She couldn’t escape the hypnotic pull they had over her senses. He slipped his hands into the open shirt and pressed them onto her breasts. Having a will of its own, her body began to respond. She leaned nearer to him, and one of his hands closed around the back of her neck, drawing her face down to meet his.

  “Zack—”

  “Don’t say ‘don’t.’ ”

  “Zack—”

  “Don’t say ‘don’t.’ ”

  And then she couldn’t say anything for his mouth was blending with hers. In a heartbeat, he was off the dressing table and standing with her, pulling her into him with a ferocity that was as frightening as it was thrilling. His tongue plundered her mouth hungrily as if he could not get enough of her. Their bodies welded together, and, even through the thickness of their jeans. Camille knew his desire and answered it with an instinctive pressure of her hips.

  Finally his lips left her mouth and traveled on a fiery path down her neck to her throat. She clutched his bare back and marveled at the rippling muscles under her fingers. The hair on his chest and stomach tickled her as he pressed her torso against him.

  “Camille, please,” he moaned. “Why do you refuse what we both want so badly? Why?”

  The words were ground out near her ear and she recognized the anguish in them. He was suffering through all of this, too. But his suffering was only physical, while hers was of the spirit as well. Oh, she did want him. She wanted him with a passion she never knew she could be capable of. It would be so easy to submit. She longed for release from this painful torment. Release that could only be found in his arms. But she knew that to assuage it would only bring more pain to her soul, and she couldn’t do it. It took every ounce of will, every vestige of her strength, to push away from him.

  She saw the bafflement, the abso
lute incomprehension in his eyes, and she almost dismissed her resolve. But then the blue eyes became clouded with mounting frustration that grew into savage anger even as she watched.

  “Dammit, Camille! I know you want me as much as I want you.” His fingers dug into her shoulders, and he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Let me go, Zack,” she screamed. She was on the verge of hysteria, hating herself for what she must do for both their sakes.

  He released her so suddenly that she reeled backward. She allowed herself one fleeting glimpse of his hard, bitter face before she flung herself into her bedroom and slammed the connecting door. She fell against it and slid down its cold surface to the floor. Sobbing uncontrollably she whispered, “I do want you, Zack. If only you’d say you love me.”

  * * *

  That evening Zack went out alone for the first time since their marriage. Camille couldn’t face him at breakfast after what had happened in the bathroom. Dearly brought a tray to her room. After she had eaten some biscuits and drunk several cups of coffee, she felt somewhat restored. She was just leaving her room when she heard the telephone ring. As she passed Zack’s bedroom door, she heard him answer it, pause, and then say, “Hello, Erica.” His voice was light and happy, a far cry from the harsh, bitter tones he had flung at her an hour before. She didn’t want to hear the rest of the conversation, so she hurried down the hall and went downstairs to visit with Rayburn.

  The day seemed to drag by. Whenever she and Zack were in the same room, the anger and tension between them was almost tangible, separating them like an impenetrable curtain.

  At dinner when he announced that he was going out for the evening, her heart plummeted. Even though he made some vague excuse to Rayburn about a poker game with friends, she knew that he was more likely meeting Erica. Was this their first meeting since the scene in the restaurant on the day of his wedding, or was this just the first one she knew anything about? Would she have been suspicious of his evening out had she not heard him talking to Erica this morning on the telephone? It struck Camille as strange that Erica would chance calling Zack at home instead of him trying to contact her. Did the woman have no shame? She apparently was confident in Zack’s love for her.

  Zack stayed out until early the next morning. Camille didn’t fall into a restless sleep until she heard him come upstairs and go into his room.

  The household fell into a new routine. Zack was gone most of the day every day. Sometimes Camille caught a brief glimpse of him in the mornings before he rushed out. Other days it wasn’t until dinnertime that she saw her husband. Though they tried to keep up a happy facade for Rayburn, she wondered if the older man was fooled.

  It was puzzling to her that Zack had made a romantic overture to her. He obviously hated her. Why had he bothered to accost her in the bathroom? She had only to look at Rayburn’s hopeful face to find her answer. He wanted an heir for Bridal Wreath. Was Zack’s motivation in wanting to make love to her to provide his father with that longed for grandchild? Sadly, she reasoned that it must be.

  She spent most of her time with Rayburn. They worked with his plants, took slow walking tours of the lower floor of the house while she pointed out the final stages of decorating, and even went for brief strolls around the terrace in the backyard when his strength and the weather permitted it.

  The weather didn’t allow many of those days. It had been a very wet and dreary month. It rained nearly every day, and, when it wasn’t raining, the clouds hung heavy and threatening over the landscape. Camille’s depression seemed intensified by the outside gloom and the cold rain that came down in torrents. Would there be no end to this unhappy situation?

  To her further humiliation, Zack continued to go out nearly every evening. He rarely left just after dinner, but most usually he waited until Rayburn had retired for the night before leaving. There was no doubt in Camille’s mind where these nightly sojourns led him. He went straight to Erica Hazelett’s arms.

  Vainly she tried to keep her hopelessness and listlessness out of her eyes, but she failed to do so. Her mirror told her that she looked pale and haggard. Her eyes were often puffy and red from crying and lack of sleep.

  It was on one of those rainy, cold, dismal days that she and Rayburn were sitting in his den looking through a picture album that he had asked her to help him organize. She looked at photographs of Zack as an infant, a young boy, and a student. He grinned back at her wearing basketball shorts, track shorts, baseball uniforms, and even from behind a football helmet. Was there nothing he didn’t excel in? There were prom night pictures with a girl swathed in pink organza clinging to his arm. Was this the girl that he had loved? The one who had hurt him so deeply? The one he was trying to forget in Snow Bird? Had they dated for years, and then as an adult had she decided to marry someone else?

  There was a serious Zack in a cap and gown at his high school graduation, and a beaming college graduate with a tight grip around his father’s shoulders. Camille’s heart swelled with pride and pain. This was a part of Zack’s life she could never share with him. Now it seemed as if she’d share none of it.

  Before she could control them, tears spilled down her cheeks and fell into the trembling hands covering her face.

  “Now, my dear, please don’t get upset. I can’t stand to see you this way.” Rayburn offered her a snowy handkerchief that she used to stem the flow of tears though their source refused to check them completely.

  “I… I’m sorry, Rayburn,” she sputtered. “I don’t want to upset you. I’m so ashamed.”

  He enfolded her in his arms and stroked her shoulders. “There has never been anything for you to be ashamed of, Camille.” He spoke with parental concern. “When I first saw you in Atlanta, I had a flickering hope in the back of my mind that you and Zachary might find each other attractive. You reminded me of my Alice. Oh, not physically. But you had a radiance about you that she had had. It’s a rare thing to see such exuberance for living in a woman any more. It seems as though women have forgotten to be feminine, glad in their womanhood. Careers are fine. I’m no chauvinist. But I still like to see a woman who glories in the fact that she is just that. A woman. I’m old-fashioned, I realize.” He paused reflectively for a moment as if trying to regain his train of thought after his digression.

  “That first afternoon that you were here, I could feel the currents flashing between you and Zachary. Of course, then, I didn’t know about what had happened in Utah almost two years before. Funny how coincidences happen, isn’t it? That morning in the hospital when I awoke to the sound of you two scuffling on that ridiculous rollaway bed, I was thrilled. Please don’t be embarrassed,” he said kindly as he reached out to pat her hand. He had noticed her deep blush. “It’s perfectly natural that you should delight in each other’s bodies. Alice and I… well, anyway, it took a lot of restraint to keep from shouting my joy that you two were caught in an affectionate clench. By that time, I had come to love you, too, Camille. I couldn’t have chosen a woman I’d rather have for a daughter, and wife for my son.” He looked deeply into her tear-flooded eyes and stroked her cheek softly. “Then imagine my dismay when I heard the conversation that was to follow. Had I not been sick and weak, my son would probably have been on the receiving end of a beating. I was furious with him for making you carry such guilt and remorse. And the way he talked to you was shameful. I was glad his mother wasn’t around to hear it. That’s when I conceived the plan to surprise you with a wedding.”

  Camille hung her head shamefacedly. “You did it then only in compensation for Zack’s behavior in Utah?”

  “No, my dear. I did it because I thought—and still think—that you and Zachary love each other and just won’t admit it. If you had been a hussy or a schemer or someone otherwise undesirable, I would have forgotten the incident then and there. If I hadn’t thought a great love and beautiful, intelligent children could come out of this alliance, I would never have taken such drastic measures to bring you together.”

  “I
know your motives were pure, Rayburn.” Camille couldn’t meet his knowing eyes. She looked down at her lap, over his head, around the room, trying to escape the intelligent blue eyes, hooded by bushy white eyebrows that victimized whomever they gazed upon. “It’s just that… Zack and I… It’s just not going to work out. I wish for your sake that it could. I honestly do, but…” her voice trailed off. But your son doesn’t love me, she silently added. He loves someone else.

  “It has grieved me to see the two of you so unhappy, Camille. I hoped that if I forced you into marriage you would recognize the love I still insist you have for each other, but I’m a reasonable man, and I can’t hold you to a union that makes you and Zachary both so abysmally miserable. I’m going to miss you, Camille, when you go, as I know you will. You’re too honest to go on forever living a lie. And please remember that you always have a home here at Bridal Wreath.”

  “Thank you, Rayburn,” she said around her constricted throat. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “You can rest now, and don’t worry about any of this. You couldn’t have known that Zack and I have problems that can’t be resolved.”

  Before she left the room, Rayburn halted her. “Camille, the day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Would you stay until then? Indulge an old man one more time. I want us to be a family on that day.”

  “Of course I will,” she promised. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “You’ll always be my family.”

  Twelve

  Like women all over America, Camille and Dearly spent most of the next day in the kitchen preparing food for the Thanksgiving meal. Camille did the odd jobs like chopping fruits and nuts, washing vegetables and greens for salads, and measuring condiments for Dearly, who mixed them together with astounding alacrity, creating the most delicious-looking and aromatic dishes Camille’s taste buds had ever anticipated.

  “I won’t interfere if you don’t want me to, but I’ve been told even by my mother that I make a pretty good pecan pie,” Camille teased the cook.