Zachary's Virgin

Another grunt, half buried in an exasperated sigh, at which her own irritation rose to boiling point.

“How is it that you find so much to say to others and yet have so little to say to me, Mr. Alexander? Am I so reprehensible?”

He spared her a glance, one which swept from her hair piled high on her head to her feet in their fur-lined doeskin boots. The effect reminded her of a raindrop falling down a windowpane and freezing before it reached the bottom. “I have no feelings for you one way or the other, Miss Durocher.”

She laughed. “And there are roses growing on the moon!”

“You think I’m lying?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re afraid of me.”

He also laughed then, a sound so full of scorn that she shriveled inside. “Why on earth would I be afraid of you?”

“Because,” she said rashly, “I disturb your peace. I threaten your authority. And most of all, I distract you. You pretend to ignore me yet all the time, you’re watching me. You’re like a moth drawn to my flame.”

This time, his laughter was genuine, rolling out into the night like fire-warmed cognac. “You flatter yourself, Miss Durocher.”

“And you call me miss, but refer to everyone else by their first names.”

“You call me mister,” he sneered. “Should I take that to mean you’re irresistibly drawn to my flame, too?”

They had reached the house. The steps which gave onto the veranda were so treacherous with crystals of new-fallen snow that, by accident, she stumbled against him. And because, despite his brusque manner, he was at heart a gentleman, he caught her securely by the arm and attempted to steady her.

But he hated having to do it and pushed her away too abruptly. At that, they both lost their footing and for a moment slithered together in graceless confusion, clutching at empty air, before landing in the deep snow piled beside the path.

It was fluffy as goose down, cushioning their fall at the same time that it imprisoned them in its softness. Try though he might to extricate himself with dignity from the hollow they’d created when they fell, he could find no purchase. Snowflakes clung to his hair, slid inside the collar of his jacket, swallowed his feet.

“You did that on purpose!” he said, infuriated by the gurgle of amusement which escaped her.

Batting her eyelashes and trying hard to look properly rebuked, she murmured, “But how is that possible? You are so big and strong and I am but a weak little woman! Zachary, you give me too much credit.”

They were half-lying together, so closely that the fog of his breath touched sweetly against her face. So closely that she saw how his gaze lingered on her laughing mouth.

A strange longing swept over her at that, a sense almost of confronting a destiny so full of promise that not to nurture it was to waste a gift from the gods. She could have forgiven him his surliness then, and might even have dared to let him see the uncertain, tender side of her which she too often hid for fear of being laughed at, if he had shown her a little gentleness.

But he did not. Instead, he hauled himself upright and growled, “Save that routine for some other fool. It’s wasted on me.”

“Zut!” she exclaimed, and spat out a mouthful of snow. “I was teasing you, for heaven’s sake! Is that any reason to leave me here to freeze? Come, Zachary, surely even you wouldn’t stoop so low?”

He let out such an explosive breath of annoyance that, for a moment, she wondered if he might go so far as to bury her and hope no one found her until the spring thaw. But the reluctant knight in him came to the fore. With ill-concealed exasperation, he leaned down, grabbed her hand and yanked her clear of the snowbank. Did it so forcefully that she found herself flying through the air and coming to rest pressed up against his formidable frame with the breath knocked out of her.

They remained so for a small eternity, knee to knee and breast to breast, he panting a little and she gasping. So close were they that she could feel his heart thumping through the layers of his clothing. Or was it hers suddenly running amok? Because, this near, he was even more beautiful than at a distance. Such smooth olive skin he had, such elegance of design in the angled slash of his cheekbones, such strength of character in the iron set of his jaw.

I could enjoy being kissed by him, she’d thought dreamily, and felt herself swaying toward him. How heavy her eyelids had felt all at once, how languorous her limbs.

That was when he’d almost kissed her. His mouth had hovered so close to hers that the outline of his face had blurred in her vision. She could almost taste the cold firm texture of his lips. She even went so far as to lift a hand to caress his cheek.

Wary creature that he was, though, he saw the danger and reared back. “Why did you have to come here for Christmas? Why couldn’t you have stayed in Switzerland, the farther away from me, the better.”

She flinched at such an attack. “What is it about me that irritates you so much?”

“As if you don’t know!” Sudden color slashed his high cheekbones, matched by the light of awareness in his eyes of a man confronting dangerous temptation. “Just keep away from me before I give you what you’re asking for,” he growled and, surefooted despite the icy conditions, took the steps two at a time.

Without waiting to see if she made it safely inside hers, he’d disappeared through his own front door as if he were escaping a fate too treacherous to be endured….

Just then, a swath of lamplight spilled out from next door and flung a reflection against her window. The clock on the bedside table showed six-thirty. Already thoroughly awake, Claire threw back the comforter, slipped into her robe and went into the main salon, the living room as they called it in Canada.

Although the fire had burned low, enough embers remained for a handful of kindling to revive them. She threw in another log, turned on the stereo, and then, since breakfast would not be served in the lodge for at least another hour, she plugged in the coffeemaker before heading for the shower.

When she returned to the room some forty-five minutes later, the fire was blazing merrily and the air laced with the aroma of French roasted coffee. Pouring a cup, she carried it to the window and drew back the curtains.

“Oh, but this is magnificent…!” she breathed, staring out in wonder.

Not a thing remained of yesterday’s gray gloom. Overnight, the cloud had lifted and left the sky a pale and tender mauve against which the stars winked faintly. This side of the house, she realized, also looked out on the frozen lake and, as she watched, the still invisible sun cast a rosy stain on the tips of the mountain ridge on the east horizon.

It had snowed a little more during the night, an inch or two only, just enough to lay an unblemished veil of white over a small lower deck where, she noticed for the first time, stood a whirlpool encircled in glass to protect bathers from the wind.

Clasping her coffee cup in both hands, she gave a little sigh of pleasure. This was what she’d hoped to find when she’d fled Europe: a northern paradise, peaceful, remote, pristine, and just a little intimidating in its untamed splendor.

All at once, a movement caught her eye as a door opened in the other part of the house and Zachary Alexander stepped into view. From behind the curtains, Claire watched as he went down to the whirlpool and lifted its cover.

At once, clouds of steam escaped and hung motionless in the still air. Stooping, he pulled a thermometer from the water and inspected it then, seeming satisfied, dropped it back into the tub and replaced the cover. But instead of returning to the house, he stood with his back to the building and surveyed his tiny kingdom.

What a sight he made! Slim-fitting black slacks hugged his long, strong legs, a heavy black sweater decorated with a single red racing stripe showcased his broad shoulders, and beneath it, in dazzling contrast to his deep winter tan, he wore a white shirt.

Idly, he pushed back a lock of hair which had fallen across his brow as he bent over the spa, then flung a glance over his shoulder as if he knew he was being watched. Instinctively, Claire ducked behind the curtain only to realize a second later that it was not at her that he was looking but at Melanie who, wearing only a pair of boots and her pajamas, had come out to speak to her father.

Claire couldn’t hear what was said but it was obvious that, whatever the topic, he wasn’t prepared to discuss it in the snow. Loping up the steps, he hurried his daughter inside. The outer door closed, followed by the slamming of another door which even the thick inner walls of the building couldn’t quite muffle. And then voices, the father’s deep and calm, but the girl’s high and angry.

A few minutes later, Claire saw him leave again, this time by the front door, and strike out along the path toward the lodge. Apparently discouraged by his altercation with Melanie, he strode along, head down and shoulders hunched despondently.

Astonishingly, Claire felt a stab of pity for the man. Whatever his faults, and clearly he had many, he was obviously devoted to his child. At the same time, he seemed at a loss to know how best to deal with her, and who could wonder? Trying to fill the role of both parents was difficult enough, but to be the father at odds with a teenage girl…!

And Melanie herself, how alone and confused she must feel, half-child and half-adult as she was, and not sure in which world she truly belonged. Perhaps it would help if she could talk to another woman. Hadn’t she admitted as much, just yesterday?

Slipping on her jacket, Claire stepped outside and knocked on the other front door. “What are your plans for the morning?” she asked, when Melanie answered. “Can you spare a little time for a new friend and teach her which runs are the best for skiing?”

Ten minutes later, they were on their way to the lodge for breakfast. “You look so cool, the way you dress and do your hair, and stuff,” Melanie said, gazing at her admiringly. “And the way you talk—sort of like French women do in the movies. I don’t know what I can teach you. You must know just about everything.”

“Not everything, ma petite, but enough to see that you’re not always as happy as you should be. For instance, when you opened the door to me just now, you looked very sad.”

“I had another fight with my dad.” She made a droll face. “We fight every day lately, mostly because I want to go to boarding school and he wants to keep me stuck here in the valley where he can keep an eye on me.”

“That’s natural enough, surely? Most fathers want to protect their daughters.”

“You mean, you had the same trouble with your dad when you were thirteen?”

The question caught Claire off guard. “My father was…not there then. I had only my mother.”