by Helen Brooks
Even as she said it she knew she was being ridiculous. She and Zac had never been friends. From the first, something vital and electric had made that impossible, and now it was even more so. But she wanted this weekend. Dangerous as it was to play with fire, she wanted two whole days where she had him to herself. Well, herself and a pub full of warbling walkers, that was.
‘Friends,’ he agreed very softly, and the next moment she felt his hand find her chin and turned her face so he could kiss her lips. It was a light kiss, a mere skimming of her lips, but as he settled himself on his side of the bed once more her throat had gone dry and the burning ache of wanting that had been glowing since he had touched her fanned into fierce life. This was so unfair, all of it, she thought wretchedly.
The wind was moaning outside and the landlady had clearly turned the central heating off for the night because the temperature inside the room was getting steadily cooler. Rachel snuggled deeper under the covers, taking care not to touch the hard masculine body lying beside her. But she remembered how it had felt—warm, powerful, his arousal rigid against her belly.
She knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a long time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN Rachel awoke just before eight the next morning, it was with the sensation of slowly surfacing through layers of deep fog. Not surprising considering she hadn’t been able to fall asleep until nearly dawn, and even then she’d slept in fits and starts, terrified of inadvertently curling up to Zac.
She hadn’t been able to tell if Zac was awake during the long night hours. His breathing had certainly indicated he was asleep, being even and steady, but something had told her he was feigning it. Whatever, she had remained resolutely still physically, although her mind had more than made up for her body’s lack of movement, whirling and dissecting and running riot.
For the first couple of hours she’d told herself she was mistaken, that what she felt for Zac wasn’t love but sexual attraction, lust if you like, and as such easily put aside once the object of the desire was gone. And she might have been able to carry on convincing herself if they hadn’t had their earlier conversation. As it was, the bitter facts about his marriage and the loss of his child had kept nagging away until she’d finally admitted to herself around two in the morning that, if things had been different, he very possibly might have been ‘the one’.
That little piece of virtuous integrity kept her awake for another two hours as she played every possible scenario for the future over and over in her head. The possibilities ranged from Zac saying goodbye once the weekend was over and not contacting her again during his stay in England to him having a miraculous change of heart and falling in love with her, along with every conceivable—and inconceivable—spin-off from the two.
A good half an hour was spent dissecting whether she could trust her judgement after Giles; thirty minutes of taking apart every word Zac had said and inspecting it under the microscope. At the end of that time, she’d come to the conclusion that nothing in life was an absolute but that Zac was as different from Giles as it was possible to be and she’d been a fool not to recognise that before. Or perhaps she had. Perhaps she’d known from that initial meeting and that was why she’d been so frightened of getting involved with him. She’d known he was her Waterloo.
Because let’s face it, she told herself at last, her head aching, he’s utterly drop-dead gorgeous in every way, and you are a mere mortal. End of story.
This last pearl of wisdom had produced a dull weariness, making her mind and body feel heavy, and it was after that she must have drifted off to sleep. But it had been fitful.
Now the last veil of fog cleared and she opened her eyes.
‘Good morning.’ Zac’s tawny eyes glittered like a cat’s in the light coming from the skylights positioned over the bed, which were encrusted with a layer of sparkling snow. He was lying on one elbow and the sight of him, hair tousled, stubble on his chin and his hairy chest, took her breath away. At the same moment, she had the unwelcome thought that he had been watching her while she’d slept, morning face and all. Terrific.
‘Good morning,’ she whispered, knowing she was blushing but unable to do anything about it.
His lips spread back from white, even teeth as he smiled. ‘I love it that you do that,’ he murmured, touching her hot cheek with a lingering finger. ‘I thought the modern woman had lost the art, but not you. I find it immensely…satisfying.’
He made it sound like an attribute rather than a weakness that made her resemble a boiled lobster. Rachel grimaced. ‘I don’t.’ Surreptitiously checking that her top hadn’t ridden up over her breasts in the night, she sat up, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She’d survived the night, then. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked matter-of-factly, trying for normality.
‘Nearly eight. I’ve only just woken myself.’ He touched her hair, murmuring to himself, ‘Beautiful, like multicoloured silk. Did you know your hair has an amazing array of shades in it when you study it? Fascinating.’
She wrinkled her small nose. ‘It’s dark brown.’
‘Dark brown with all the different shades of autumn leaves,’ he corrected softly. ‘And your eyes are the colour of the wild cornflowers I used to pick as a child, just verging on violet.’
Rachel was sitting with the covers held against her chest. She knew at some point she was going to have to get out of bed in her skimpy pyjamas, and considering they’d shared a bed she shouldn’t be feeling so hotly embarrassed, should she? Trying to emulate Zac’s easy, insouciant manner, she forced a smile. ‘I had no idea you had such a poetic streak.’
‘There’s nothing like sleeping together to find out those little things about someone.’ His eyes were dancing.
The colour that had begun to subside rose again in a crimson flood. ‘I suppose not,’ she said primly, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘Shouldn’t we start getting ready for breakfast?’
Zac laughed and slid out of bed, stretching like a big cat. Rachel found her gaze was riveted on him, every magnificent muscled inch. The lights had been dim last night but now she could see just how lithe and tanned the beautifully honed body was. She had to tell herself to breathe.
If Zac was aware of her rapt attention, it didn’t bother him. He walked to where he’d dropped his towel the night before, wrapping it round his hips and rummaging in his suitcase for fresh clothes before he stood up again as best he could in the low-ceilinged room. ‘I’m happy to take the first stint in the bathroom, give you time to wake up properly,’ he offered casually turning to face her again. ‘OK?’
Rachel nodded, thinking she’d never been more awake in her life. Zac Lawson practically stark naked would wake the dead.
He walked across to where she sat, bent and touched her cheek. ‘I can never tell what you’re thinking,’ he murmured softly, ‘unlike most women. I find that…intriguing.’
Thanking her lucky stars that was the case because her thoughts would undoubtedly have shocked the pants off him more than once, she looked up at him. ‘I was wondering what was for breakfast,’ she lied, smiling. ‘Riveting stuff, eh?’
He grinned, and then his smile died as their gazes held. She closed her eyes as he kissed her with a controlled hunger that stirred her blood, and when she opened them again he was already at the bedroom door. He left the room without a backward glance, shutting the door carefully behind him as he ducked out.
Rachel stared after him for some moments and then jumped out of bed. She’d dress now and then undress for a quick wash in the bathroom, she decided. No doubt it would amuse him but that couldn’t be helped—she needed all the protection she could get around Zac, and confronting him with just two pieces of thin silk between her and that fabulous body wasn’t sensible. He might be able to control himself with admirable coolness but she was in danger of melting at his feet.
Excitement, swift and sharp, sent the blood singing through her veins before reality kicked in and reminded her that everything about her re
lationship with Zac was temporary. He didn’t want love or togetherness or happy ever after, merely relationships that were mutually sexually satisfying for as long as they lasted. She had to keep reminding herself of that this weekend. This man didn’t do for ever.
She flung her clothes on with feverish haste, just in case Zac decided to return for some reason or other, but it was fifteen minutes before he opened the bedroom door. He was fully dressed and carrying his towel and toiletry bag, and her heart bounced at the sight of him in black jeans and a heavy sweater a shade or two darker than his eyes.
She’d switched the TV on while he’d been gone but had sat gazing blankly at the screen most of the time, her mind taken up with thoughts of Zac showering, Zac having a shave, Zac running his hands through his hair and dabbing aftershave on his face. Now she bundled up her things off the bed and scuttled past him after a brief ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Take all the time you need.’ His voice floated after her. ‘We’ve the whole weekend to relax and take things easy.’
Once in the bathroom, Rachel locked the door and then stood for some moments surveying herself in the mirror, trying to see what Zac said he saw. She shook her head in defeat. Admittedly she wouldn’t exactly frighten little children but, that having been said, she was remarkably insignificant. Unbidden, a memory from the past flashed into her head. She was eight years old and it was her birthday, and she’d come down to breakfast to find a pile of presents waiting for her. One had been from a distant aunt and she’d gasped with delight when she’d unwrapped a cashmere scarf and hat in a soft dusky pink, the rim of the hat and the fringes of the scarf scattered with hundreds of tiny seed pearls.
Lisa and Claire had oohed and ahhed over the gift with her, and a little while later when she had carried a few of the dirty breakfast dishes through to the kitchen she had heard her mother and one of her sisters talking. Catching her name, she’d paused before pushing open the slightly ajar door.
‘Of course you can have Aunty Mary’s hat and scarf, darling, it would be totally wasted on Rachel,’ her mother had said, not even bothering to lower her voice. ‘Her plain little face under that beautiful cashmere would look simply ridiculous, I can’t think why Mary sent it to her. I’d told your aunt she needed some new vests and pants or socks, something serviceable.’
Rachel stared into the mirror, seeing the eight-year-old child who had been so upset that day. It had been one of the few occasions when she’d stood up to her mother, probably why the incident—one of many of the same type—had remained at the back of her mind. She’d opened the door and slammed the dishes onto the breakfast bar, stating that the scarf and hat were hers and she had no intention of giving them to her sister. And if her mother took them, she’d shouted, she would write to her Aunty Mary and tell her what her mother had said.
The row that had followed had been bitter and acrimonious but she had kept the hat and scarf. Every time she’d worn them though she had remembered her mother’s words and suffered agonies of embarrassment at what people must be thinking when they looked at her. Eventually she’d stuffed the exquisite items at the back of her wardrobe where they’d remained hidden until the day she’d packed to leave home. She’d reverted to wearing her old hat and scarf which her mother had bought in a dingy brown colour, the wool coarse and scratchy.
It had been a long, long time since she had shed any tears over her mother’s treatment of her—she’d grown to accept her mother simply hadn’t liked her youngest daughter when she’d still been at school, and with the acceptance had come a measure of self-protection. Now, as tears pricked the back of her eyes, she wasn’t crying for the love she’d never had from her mother but for the hurt, bewildered little mouse of a child she’d been in those far-off days.
She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand, angry with herself for going down a road she’d long since marked closed in her mind. And she had done OK after all. She’d had her beloved grandma and their relationship had always been very special; some children don’t have anyone. One thing was for sure, her children, if she had any, would know they were loved and adored regardless of their looks or intelligence.
Pulling herself together, she stripped off and had a quick shower, getting dressed again after moisturising all over. She applied just a smidgen of make-up—a dusting of eye shadow and one coat of mascara—before brushing her hair until it hung either side of her face like raw silk. If Zac really did think her hair was lovely—if—she’d wear it down this weekend. With little Miss Come-to-Bed Walker on the scene, she needed all the help she could get.
As the thought hit, she shook her head at herself. Did it really matter whether she wore her hair up or down, for goodness’ sake? Zac was so far out of her league it was laughable. She knew that, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it this weekend. And—the trace of a smile touched her lips—it was her sharing the room at the top of the inn with him, not the beautiful blonde.
Breakfast proved to be terrific—according to Zac. Not that Rachel disagreed. An array of different cereals and fruit was followed by the best cooked breakfast she’d ever had. The caramelised red onion sausages, tender bacon steaks, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns, fried onions and eggs done any way you liked were out of this world, and she discovered her almost sleepless night had given her a ravenous appetite. After she’d cleared her plate and had had two rounds of hot buttered toast, she relaxed back in her chair feeling at least two stone heavier.
‘Whatever’s on the agenda at Martin’s place, it couldn’t compete with this.’ Zac grinned at her. He’d eaten twice as much as her but didn’t appear to be feeling in the least over full. ‘The food more than makes up for Gulliver’s room.’
As he finished speaking, the blonde walker appeared at his elbow, favouring Rachel with a cursory smile before concentrating her charms on Zac. She was wearing the same jeans as the night before but her top was lower and tighter, clinging to her ample breasts like a second skin. ‘We’re going to have a snowball fight…’ she dimpled ‘…and then split into two teams to see who can build the best snowman. Fancy joining us? It’ll be fun.’
Oh, yeah, wanna bet? Rachel held onto the smile with considerable effort. The girl really was brazen.
‘I think we were planning some fun of our own,’ Zac said lazily, ‘but thanks for the offer.’
‘Oh.’ The blonde clearly wasn’t used to being turned down. Twice. But she recovered fast. She had youth on her side after all. ‘Catch you later, then.’
Bring it out into the open. Make a joke of it. Once the blonde had tripped away to join her group, Rachel said drily, ‘She fancies you. And I bet her room has a normal ceiling.’
He didn’t prevaricate. ‘No chance.’ The golden eyes were deadly serious. ‘I’m with you, which is exactly where I want to be, Gulliver’s room and all.’
Part of her was hugely gratified, the other part asked why—when he’d so carefully pointed out there was no chance for them whatsoever—he was saying such beautiful things. It didn’t make her feel good—well, it did, but not completely, not in an I’ve-been-waiting-for-this-moment-all-of-my-life way. ‘Thank you,’ she said flatly.
‘You could have said that as though you meant it.’
She looked at him, a straight look. ‘Zac, I’ve had no experience in these kinds of situations,’ she said baldly. ‘I guess I don’t know how to play the game.’
One dark eyebrow rose. ‘To be perfectly truthful, this is a first for me. I promise you, I’ve never brought a woman away for the weekend, slept in the same bed and not made love.’
She didn’t want to think about all the other women he’d had. Her tone severe, she said, ‘You know what I mean.’
‘You mean we should treat each other like a maiden aunt or a fusty old uncle?’ He grinned at her. ‘I would find that very difficult, Rachel.’
She stared at him helplessly, annoyed with herself that she never won in their verbal sparring. He was so very much the man of the world, so c
onfident and sure of himself that he made her feel seven instead of twenty-seven. And yet last night, when he’d told her about the baby son he’d loved and lost, he had been different. It may have been dark but she had been able to sense something of the hidden Zac, the man no one was allowed to see or get near. His wife had betrayed him and their marriage had been a sham from start to finish—what had that done to a proud young man just starting out in life?
Blinking, she broke the hold of the tawny gaze by reaching out for her coffee cup and swallowing the last mouthful of now tepid liquid. It was only then she said, ‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. I just don’t think it’s particularly helpful for you to…’ Her voice trailed away. She didn’t know how to put it.
‘Say I want to be with you? But I do. Very much.’
He was being deliberately awkward. She met the dancing eyes and in spite of herself had to smile. He was impossible.
A gust of laughter from the walkers as one member of the party threw a piece of toast at another, only to have it promptly returned in like manner, brought Zac rising to his feet. ‘Shall we go?’ he said, taking her arm with a coolly disapproving glance at the others. ‘The children are getting out of hand.’
Her lips turned up again. The oldest of the party was easily Zac’s age, probably a few years older. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to join in the snowball fight and have fun?’ she teased as they left the room. ‘You’d make one young woman very happy.’
He paused at the foot of the stairs, drawing her loosely into the circle of his arms. ‘There’s only one young woman I’d like to make happy this weekend,’ he said softly, ‘but unfortunately, my considerable skill and talent in the area I like to think my speciality are not viable with her. However, I fully intend to have fun, as you put it, and who knows, maybe even a snowball fight for two. OK?’
