Zoey Phillips

by Judith Bowen

  Four hours later, Zoey was happily wandering down Vancouver’s trendy Robson Street, loaded with bags and boxes. The Christmas lights were wonderful. The enormous decorated tree in Robson Square brought tears to her eyes. Christmas!

  She’d checked into a small, upscale hotel in the West End and had a spa afternoon booked for the next day. A steam bath, a massage and a mud wrap with manicure and pedicure to follow. Then a nice meal out and maybe a play. She’d see what was on. Oh, to be pampered again!

  Life in the city. Really, a girl had to be crazy to even consider living anywhere else.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hi, Lydia,

  Here I am, in Vancouver! Flew in for the weekend to do some shopping, on the spur of the moment. Bought the cutest dress at a little shop on Robson. Needed something sexy and new to impress my rancher at Lizzie’s big party next week. It’s great to be back in the city again—makes me wonder why I’m chasing Ryan down out there in Stoney Creek! Called Lisa—remember her? From Call-a-Girl, way back. Unfortunately she couldn’t meet me for drinks or dinner. It’s a busy life being a single mom.

  The city’s really crowded with Christmas shoppers—makes me feel a bit lonely. Everyone seems to have someone—husband, sisters, kids, lovers. Say hi to Charlotte when you talk to her—when’s that girl getting home, anyway?

  Luv, Zoey

  ZOEY GLUED a stamp onto the oversize postcard she’d picked up of Vancouver’s Stanley Park in full summer glory and took it down to the desk with her when she went for breakfast.

  It was true; she was feeling lonely.

  She didn’t know anyone in Vancouver. Lisa Hudson, who had worked with her, Lydia and Charlotte briefly at Call-a-Girl years ago, had recently moved to White Rock, south of Vancouver. Lisa would’ve loved to get together, but she was busy with her son, her new apartment and her new job and just couldn’t squeeze it in on such short notice.

  Zoey understood. Being a single mom was a job and a half. The luxury spa, the trendy shops, the exquisite dining were all very well, but everything would’ve been that much more fun if she’d been able to share it. Preferably with someone special.

  Was Ryan determined to stay in Stoney Creek and make his living out in the back of beyond? Cameron had said Ryan had a head for business and accounting. If something happened between her and Ryan—well, that kind of aptitude for business could be exercised anywhere, couldn’t it?

  Even in a city?

  Zoey realized she’d never really considered how her life might be affected if she fell in love with a rancher. Her work was portable, that was a plus, but would she want to live in a remote rural location again? Icy roads, bitter cold in winter, endless bugs and drought in summer. She’d been caught up in the notion of pursuing Ryan Donnelly and hadn’t given the reality of ranch living much thought.

  She had a late-afternoon flight back to Williams Lake. The pure white hills and fields once she got on Highway 97 North out of Williams Lake helped raise her spirits again. It might be lonely and remote, this country, but it was wild and beautiful just the same. The quiet, empty landscape held a spirituality all its own, a sense that spoke to something deep within her, something she’d cherished since she was a child growing up in one ragtag town after another throughout the B.C. interior, longing for a home.

  The snow-capped Coast Mountains in the distance, their summits lost now in the rapidly thickening dusk, were eternal. The rolling hills, partly forested, partly open range, that tumbled at the foot of the mountains had a taciturn quality, as though they cradled secrets and treasures. The annual fall roundup was evidence of those secrets, as crews of cowboys teased reluctant cows and calves out of the coulees and ravines to be joined to the main herd and cajoled down to the lower levels where they could be fed and cared for over the bitter winter.

  That’s what life here is all about. Wrestling a living from the soil, caring for animals and the land, providing for your family, standing up for your neighbor and what you believed to be right. Simple, strong beliefs. Fleeting but deeply felt pleasures.

  Savvy marketing and the Christmas glitter of “Robsonstrasse,” as Vancouverites fondly called their trendiest street, was a long, long way from that life. Seeing her stolen big-city weekend from the perspective of these hills and mountains, it made the anonymous, mostly commercial, Christmas spectacle just that—a spectacle. Hired choirs. Designer trees. Fake snow. Piped-in carols. Everything phony. Created for only one reason—to sell stuff.

  Zoey took her time driving, enjoying the sense of gradually re-entering the world of the Fullerton Valley, glad to be back. She stopped in town to pick up milk, fruit and salad ingredients from the IGA, then continued on to the ranch. It was dark by the time she’d unloaded her car—her sexy new purple velvet dress, her groceries and the Christmas gifts she’d bought for Elizabeth’s children and Lissy, plus Marty and even, in the end, little items for Ryan and Cameron.

  The lamps inside threw a warm amber glow that made the little apartment seem welcoming against the blackness of the bare windows, and she hummed Christmas carols while she changed into more comfortable jeans and a green sweater before putting on the kettle for tea. Philosophical thoughts aside, she was a sucker for Christmas, and she knew it. The apartment was chilly. She should turn up the thermostat when she—

  All of a sudden, the cosy evening quiet was broken.

  She heard heavy boots ascending the stairs outside and then a rapid hammering at her door. “Zoey? Is that you? Dammit—open up!”

  Zoey ran to the door and unlocked it. Cameron burst in and slammed the door behind him, spraying snow from his boots and jacket all over her clean floor. Had something gone wrong? Ryan? Lissy?

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Zoey was shocked. “Wh-what?” She took a step backward.

  “You heard me.”

  “What do you mean—where the hell have I been?” she repeated, dazed.

  He grabbed her by the shoulder, his expression furious. She wrenched herself free, her anger flaring to match his.

  “I mean it. People have been going out of their minds wondering where you were. Wondering if you were—if you were all right. Dammit, don’t you ever think of other people?”

  People were worried? Confusion replaced her anger. “Other p-people? Worried about me?”

  “Other people! Ryan was worried sick. So was Marty.” He looked into her eyes, adding in a slightly softer tone, “So was I. We all were.”

  “But—” Zoey felt behind her for a chair—she’d backed all the way into the kitchen by now—and sank down into it. “I—I went to Vancouver. It was no big deal. I just decided on Friday that—”

  He swore and flung his hat down on the chair that stood by the door. She noted, in some distant part of her mind, that the hat actually bounced. “You just decided to go to Vancouver!” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. It never crossed your mind to tell anyone. It never occurred to you that people might worry. That they might wonder if you’d—” he threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration “—been kidnapped by some creep you met in a bar somewhere and been raped and tossed in a gravel pit. Or driven off the road or—”

  Zoey leaped to her feet. “Listen here, Cameron Donnelly! It’s a free world and I’m a big girl. I can go where I want, when I want—”

  “Not when other people are concerned about you, you can’t. Not without having the decency to let them know. It’s just common courtesy—or is that something big-city women like you don’t bother with?”

  Zoey was furious again. Just as furious as he was. No, it hadn’t occurred to her that she should notify anyone. Going to Vancouver to buy a dress had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse, granted, but it was the kind of thing she did all the time. One lonely Christmas a few years ago, she’d called a travel agent on Christmas Eve and been jetting her way to the sunny Caribbean on Christmas Day, the entire airplane almost to herself, nursing a cuba libre while other people opened gifts, ate turkey and squabbled with
their in-laws back home.

  “Listen here,” she said again. “I take responsibility for myself, Cameron Donnelly. I always have. And I don’t meet men in bars and go off with them, for your information. Maybe I—” She felt awful, actually, that she’d caused anyone—especially Marty and Ryan—a moment’s worry. “Maybe I should’ve called, as you say, and I’m sorry about that, but you can climb off your high horse right now. I’m home, I’m safe, there’s nothing more to worry about. So you can put your hat back on and go straight—”

  The fridge motor whined, lurched, and then went off. So did the lights. It happened so quickly that Zoey didn’t have a chance to make a dash for the drawer where Ryan had told her the candles were kept.

  “Oh, hell!” Just what she needed. She moved slowly toward the kitchen counter. She could hear Cameron swearing softly in the inky blackness behind her. She heard him open the door, then shut it again. Silence. Had he left? She wasn’t quite sure. There was only the dimmest light coming from outside, reflected from the moon off the fresh snow.

  She felt for the emergency candles and lit one with shaking fingers. It flared briefly, as the long end of the wick burned, then settled into a steady glow. She reached for a saucer from the cupboard and waited for some hot wax to drip onto it so she could affix the candle. There wasn’t a sound behind her. It was as though he’d stolen silently away while she was busy with the candle, in complete contrast to the way he’d arrived. Maybe he’d realized he was completely out of line….

  Finally, the candle and makeshift holder joined. Slowly, eyes on the wobbling flame, she retraced her steps. Cameron still stood in the tiny entrance to the apartment. She moved his hat aside, hanging it on the back of the chair, and set the candle carefully on the wooden seat.

  He looked almost frightening, lit from below by the sputtering flame, like a villain in a scary, B movie. She couldn’t see his eyes or his expression at all.

  She brushed her hands together in an exaggerated gesture of readiness, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, now, where were we?” then let out a yelp as he lowered one hand to douse the candle and with the other, pulled her toward him.

  She lost her balance and fell against his chest, raising her hands automatically to protect herself. His canvas jacket was cold and snowy. His hands, rough and hard, were suddenly on her face, cupping it, and then, to her absolute horror, she felt his mouth on hers…

  His mouth was cold at first, then warm. Zoey’s enormous surprise turned to something else that frightened her terribly…. She liked it. At least, she liked it a little. The tiniest bit. It was a completely visceral reaction, she told herself. Her own body working against her clear, sensible, rational mind. This wasn’t right, no, definitely not, but she realized she was thrilled by the feel of his hard, man’s body against hers, even the unyielding way he gripped her head, keeping her face tilted up so he could kiss her. Forever.

  Then sanity prevailed and she began to struggle for her balance. “Let me go! Stop—!” She pushed against his chest, wishing she could see.

  He released her abruptly. He swore and said something that buzzed in her ears. She heard the door open, a gasp of icy air on her face, and the sharp slam as it closed, followed by the delicate tinkle of glassware on the kitchen cupboard shelves.

  He was gone. Twenty seconds since she’d lit the candle, maybe thirty, and it was over.

  Zoey’s heart was ready to jump out her throat. Her ears rang. She put one hand to her hot face, aghast. Where had that come from? And, worse, her reactions. She hadn’t had a boyfriend since the Realtor, over five months ago. She hadn’t felt a man’s kisses in quite a long time. Well, that wasn’t exactly true—Ryan had kissed her. But he’d been polite. Gentle. The way she expected a man to be.

  Her temper started to flare again. How could she respond, actually respond, to a—an attack by someone like Cameron Donnelly? Someone who clearly despised her? Probably despised all women, considering what she’d heard about him. He never should have touched her in the first place. What had possessed him?

  Zoey shivered and felt for the dead candle with shaking fingers, then carried it back to the kitchen counter, walking slowly and carefully so she didn’t trip over anything. Her knees were weak. All she needed was to fall down and break a leg. Yeah, wouldn’t that be great—having to depend on a man like Cameron Donnelly to come to her rescue? She could just imagine what his opinion of her would be then.

  Where was Ryan, by the way? If he’d been so worried, she thought irritably, why hadn’t he checked on her when she drove up?

  She relit the candle and examined herself in the small round mirror hanging on the wall to one side of the tiny kitchen. Even in the candle’s dim glow she could see that her hair was a mess, her eyes teary, and her mouth—well, it looked as though it had been kissed, all right. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Then scrubbed hard at them. Tears filled her eyes, making her image wobble.

  Damn him! Damn Cameron Donnelly. She’d thought they were partners, united in their common goal to link her up with his younger brother. Ryan was starting to feel something for her; she was sure of it. Before long, he’d realize he had the same tender feelings for Zoey that she’d always had for him.

  When he saw her in the sexy new dress she’d bought for Elizabeth’s party, he’d forget she’d been a gawky, uncertain kid. So would everyone.

  This—what Cameron had done just now—wasn’t the action of a friend or a partner. This was the action of a man with an entirely different agenda. What agenda? She didn’t know nor, she decided, did she want to find out.

  She went to bed, only to fall into a fitful sleep that ended when the lights came back on two hours later. The whole apartment, well-chilled, blazed with light, and in her half-dazed state, she wondered for a moment why she’d gone to bed without turning off the lamps.

  With the quilt wrapped around her, Zoey crept around shutting off lights and turning up the thermostat. Then she burrowed back into her warm bed, craving the oblivion of sleep.

  What had he said at the end—when he left? “Witch,” she’d thought. It could very well have been “bitch.”

  ZOEY WORKED on the Chinchilla manuscript the next day. She spent an hour and a half on the phone to the author, trying to convince her that the Caribbean island of Tortola was quite small, and if the drowned heiress’s ex-husband, who was extraordinarily tall, was living there, someone would be sure to notice it.

  It was a hard sell. The author had the idea that a six-foot-eight Caucasian ex-basketball player could blend easily into the weekly market crowd on a tiny Caribbean island. Zoey often wondered why Chinchilla’s books were such an enormous success when the author’s experience, particularly travel experience, was almost nonexistent. Anything the author couldn’t look up, she just made up, relying on her editor— Zoey—to fix things. Her excuse was always that this was fiction. Fiction, she’d tell Zoey, meant “made up.”

  If the average reader only realized, Zoey often thought, how much an editor had to do with the success of a book… Well, maybe not its commercial success—after all, Chinchilla was a fine storyteller—but its readability.

  Ryan came over to see her at noon and she invited him to have dinner with her. Cameron’s visit had really thrown her. She was feeling irritable and contrary and generally out of sorts. Just to be annoying, she made some lemon tarts, using fresh lemon juice, which were every bit as good—better, even—than the best lemon meringue pie she’d ever eaten, in the hope that Ryan would carry news about her cooking prowess back to a certain someone at the ranch house.

  Lemon tarts for dessert, an easy-to-make but delicious pork fillet with white wine sauce, plus fresh broccoli—Stoney Creek’s produce selection was pretty limited in the winter—with a tarragon cheese sauce and roasted potatoes. Ryan brought over some wine, which was a happy addition to the meal.

  Zoey got a bit tipsy on her share and told Ryan all about her mad shopping trip to Vancouver. He seemed impressed that she
’d done something so impulsive and, despite what Cameron had said, not worried in the least. He confided that he was itching to get started on a business venture of his own someday. When the time was right. Zoey was a little too muzzy by then to ask what he meant by the time being right.

  At last Ryan kissed her lightly as he got up to leave and Zoey threw her arms around his neck and nestled against him, insisting on a more involved goodbye kiss. Ryan affably complied. She was pleased that he actually seemed complimented by her attentions—if perhaps a little unnerved—and did not refer to her as “kid” even once. He commented on the excellent meal a dozen times, which Zoey took to be a good sign that he’d talk her up with Marty and—especially—his skeptical and irritating brother. She hoped he mentioned the tarts.

  Ryan finally seemed to realize that he had a warm, vibrant, sexy woman living right there on the ranch and that she was interested in him as more than an old pal from high school.

  The party was next. And then Edith’s wedding. By the time Christmas came around, Ryan was bound to see that Zoey Phillips was the woman for him. Who could tell? Maybe there’d be two weddings in the near future.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ZOEY’S VISIT with Elizabeth before her Vancouver trip had yielded an interesting recipe for a “Prince of Wales” cake; she’d found a “Bride’s Cake” in another cookbook. Both were plain, rich white cakes, but the “Prince of Wales” had a layer flavored with spices and dried fruit; that should make the presentation more interesting, Zoey thought. A white cake with white fondant icing might look dull. She liked the idea of the darker layer but she was afraid to commit herself without trying the recipe first. No way, though, was she going to make an eight-pound cake for a test.