Zachary's Virgin

“Hi!” The clerk, a young woman whose name tag proclaimed her to be Sally, smiled warmly and scanned the list of names in front of her. “Let’s see, you must be…?”

“Claire Durocher.”

“Oh, sure! All the way from Europe, right? Welcome to Canada!” She glanced again at the list. “Originally, we had you booked into a suite here in the main lodge.”

“Indeed, yes,” Claire said, not liking the sound of the word “originally.” She had slept fitfully on the transatlantic flight, her inner clock was seriously out of kilter, and she hadn’t bathed since she left Paris yesterday afternoon. To find now that she had no room at the inn didn’t bear thinking about. “Such accommodation was what I requested when I made my reservation six months ago, it was confirmed by your office within the week as I’m sure your records show, and it is what I now expect to receive.”

The young clerk’s grin faded a little. “Yeah…well, the thing is, we’ve had to put you in one of our other rooms. It’s rather small but very comfortable and it’s only for a night or two.”

“I do not wish to be confined to a smaller room, nor do I wish to move elsewhere when you decide it is convenient. I wish to be accommodated in the suite I reserved.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the Sally person said. “The people occupying it last week haven’t left yet.”

“Then put them in the smaller room,” Claire replied, ignoring the little voice inside her that said it was easier simply to accept whatever was available and not make a fuss. She had learned the hard way that if she wanted others to treat her with the respect she craved and which had been so sadly lacking in her childhood, she had to demand the best of—and for—herself.

The hapless Sally shook her head. “You don’t understand, Miss Durocher. They won’t fit. They’re a family of four.”

“Zut!” Claire exclaimed, her tone rising with annoyance.

“Is there a problem?” By comparison, the voice which flowed over her shoulder was smooth and rich as the finest Belgian chocolate.

“Oh, Zach!” The young clerk fairly wilted with relief. “It’s the business with the Dogwood Suite. Miss Durocher is a little upset that it’s not available.”

“Miss Durocher is more than a little upset,” Claire corrected, swinging round to confront the man whose name tag identified him as Zachary Alexander, the owner of the establishment and the person with whom she’d made her reservations. “She is considerably…displeased….”

He stood well over six feet, every lean muscle honed to perfection, the torso tapering gracefully from impressively broad shoulders to narrow hips, the hair thick and dark except for streaks of silver at the temples.

As for the face—oh, it was the face that left her stumbling over her words like an ingenue. Such eyes, as blue as the Bay of Naples in summer and as remote as the tips of the Alps on a perfect winter day. Such a jaw, such cheekbones! And the mouth…!

Her own ran dry at the sight. Zachary Alexander could discipline that mouth all he liked. Make it straight and severe, or allow it to stretch in a tight, unamused smile as he inspected his unhappy guest. But nothing his will imposed could erase the passionate nature betrayed by the curve of the upper lip. This was a sleeping volcano of a man, his fire hidden but no less intense for all that.

“I’m sure we’re all very sorry that you’re…” Again, that ironic smile touched his mouth. “…considerably displeased, but the fact remains that the suite you requested is occupied already so I’m afraid you have no choice but to accept the substitute we’re offering—unless, of course, you’d prefer to sleep outside in the snow?”

You can’t be tired just yet and what child wants to go to bed early on such a warm night? Go wait in the street, Claire, and leave Mama to entertain her gentleman friend in peace, and if you’re very good, maybe there’ll be enough money for a bonbon tomorrow….

Her mother’s voice floated down the years, finding the chink in her armor so susceptible to a brush-off and spurring Claire to take issue with Zachary Alexander’s assumption that she’d meekly make do with whatever consolation prize he chose to throw in her direction. Impaling him in her most peremptory stare, she said, “I have been en route to Topaz Valley for almost twenty-four hours, monsieur, of which six have been spent making connecting flights from Vancouver. I could have flown from my home in Switzerland or my pied à terre in France, to any of the capitals in Europe in less time than it has taken to complete this last limb of my journey and I—”

“Considering that this province alone is approximately twenty-three times the size of your country, that’s hardly surprising.” The reply was polite enough—if one were to discount the fact that he cut her off in mid-sentence, in the sort of patronizing tone that suggested he was dealing with a singularly difficult and backward child. “Add to that the fact that, whereas the population of Switzerland runs to some four hundred and four people per square mile, there are a mere eight point two per square mile in British Columbia, and it—”

“And it is my misfortune to have to do business with the point two—a man of few brains and absolutely no heart!” At the twitch of yet another smile which he barely managed to contain, Claire stamped one booted foot imperiously. “I am tired, I am hungry, I would like to unpack my suitcases, take a long, undisturbed, hot bath, and I am in no mood to tolerate being laughed at or inconvenienced, Monsieur Alexander!”

“And I am in no mood to tolerate your self-indulgent tantrums, Mademoiselle Durocher, so I suggest you lower your voice and modify your attitude. Your suite is not available and that’s all there is to it. The family who should have vacated it yesterday have a sick child who is not fit to travel and until he is recovered, I have no intention of asking them to find some other place to stay.”

It had been years since Claire had blushed but his announcement left her face burning. “I am so sorry,” she began, at once remorseful and embarrassed. “Had you explained, I would, of course, have understood.”

“You scarcely gave me the chance,” Zachary Alexander said curtly and turned again to his desk clerk. “What else have we got besides the room on the second floor?”

“Nothing in the main lodge, which is where Ms. Durocher asked to stay.”

“What about the lakeside guest houses?”

“Nothing there, either. The only thing not taken is the private suite at your place, Zach, but Eric usually stays there over the holidays.”

“Well, since he’s neither shown up as expected nor bothered to let me know what his plans are, he’s out of luck this year. As of now, the place is occupied by Ms. Durocher. If he puts in an appearance, he’ll have to make do with the room she finds so unacceptable.” Zachary Alexander didn’t so much turn his head to look at Claire as glance obliquely at her, in the way that a man might if he wished to avoid antagonizing a rabid poodle. “Get Paul to haul her stuff over, once he’s free, and I’ll get her settled.”

Picking up her overnight bag, he led Claire to the back of the foyer and through another set of double doors to the outside. Dusk had fallen but lights, strung from one snow-encrusted evergreen to the next like outsize charms on a giant bracelet, showed a path winding among the trees to a series of guest houses nestled along the lakeshore. Scaled-down versions of the main lodge, they were substantial, charming residences and looked nothing like the rustic cabins Claire had envisioned.

“We’re down this way,” he said, turning right at a fork in the path.

A few minutes later, his house came into view. Set apart from the rest and screened by a belt of dark-needled conifers, it was different, larger, and even grander than its neighbors. Shaped like the letter T and fronted on all sides by a long, covered veranda, it hugged a cozy hollow on a spit of land just a few yards short of the lake itself. Again, Claire was pleasantly surprised. She had not expected quite such elegance in the hinterland.

“We live in this end of the house,” her reluctant host announced, indicating the upper two-thirds of the letter T, “but you’ve got the rest of the building all to yourself.”

She followed him up a shallow flight of steps to one of the verandas and waited as he unlocked a door to the left. Reaching inside, he turned on the lights, dropped the key in the palm of her hand, and said, “I’m afraid you’ll find only one outsize living room with breakfast bar and convenience kitchenette, one large bedroom, a dressing room and a five-piece bathroom with attached sauna. I sincerely hope you won’t be too cramped for space.”

Having delivered that salvo, he then dumped her overnight bag on the threshold and turned to go.

“One moment, monsieur, if you please,” she said, wishing she sounded less coldly formal. Her thoughts, her inner voice, were fluent and colloquial but when it came to translating them from French to English, especially when she was nervous or under stress, she knew her spoken words lacked eloquence and often sounded stilted and unfriendly.

“Yes?”

“I am not the unreasonable woman you perceive me to be,” she said, touching him placatingly on the arm, “and if I seemed that way, I apologize. When a child is taken ill, of course one must be prepared to make allowances.”

He looked at where her hand rested on the sleeve of his sweater, then lifted his gaze to her face. His eyes were cold as ice, his voice not much warmer. “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Durocher, and do let us know if there’s anything more we can do to cater to your comfort.”

Speechless, she watched as he marched away, stunned by such controlled displeasure, such proud disdain. What a pity a man so tall and beautiful was possessed of such an untoward nature!

Another party of guests had arrived by road when he got back to the main lodge. They swarmed around the lobby, but Sally had roped in extra help at the desk and seemed to be coping, so he skirted the crowd and made his way down the south wing to the kitchen.

There’d been no sign of life at the house, which meant either that Mel hadn’t come down the hill yet or else she was cadging food from Roberto the chef. It had better, he thought dourly, be the latter. The lifts would be closing in ten minutes and he was in no mood to go searching for an errant thirteen-year-old who’d suddenly decided she didn’t have to abide by the rules which governed other people.

Pushing aside the swing doors, he poked his head inside the kitchen. Various pots simmered on the huge stainless steel stove. Baguettes, freshly baked in the special bread oven he’d had imported from France, cooled on wire racks on the marble counter. The young kid hired for the season to help out with food preparation was busy slicing tomatoes. At the far end of the room, Roberto consulted with Simon, the wine steward. Of Mel, however, there was no sign.

“Anyone seen my daughter?” Zach inquired.

“She was here about ten minutes ago,” Roberto said. “And starving, as usual.”

Zach nodded. It never ceased to amaze him how much food Mel could put away and still remain skinny as a reed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. We’ve got a full house tonight so if you need extra help, let me know.”

Back in the lobby, the crowd had thinned. His wrangler and man Friday, McBride, the person he trusted most in the world, was dumping a fresh load of logs in the big brass box next to the hearth. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, thumbing back his Stetson and regarding Zach from beneath bushy gray brows, “I’d say you look like a man with a load of woman troubles.”

“You’re not far off the mark,” he said gloomily. “A jet-setting heiress with a bad case of perma-pout arrived this afternoon and it’s my guess we’ll be seeing and hearing a lot more of her than any of us would like before Christmas is over.”

“Heiress, you say? She here alone?”

“Yes.”

“Ugly?”