Love’s Encore Page 3

  Camille turned her face into the pillow and sobbed, for she knew that very few women could ignore a man like Zachary Prescott. Hadn’t she been unable to resist him in Utah?

  She sighed. As much as she hated the memories and tried to secure them in a dim recess of her mind, they pushed themselves to the forefront, where she was forced to face them. She relaxed her conscious control and surrendered to the sweet pain of memory. She remembered Utah… remembered Snow Bird… remembered Zack…

  The ski trip had been a surprise graduation present from her mother. Camille had felt guilty knowing how much money it must have cost and was reluctant to accept it from her widowed and financially struggling mother, but all the arrangements had been made and Martha insisted. Besides, two of Camille’s friends were going, too. The girls’ parents had met secretly and planned this winter fling for them since the coeds were graduating at the end of the fall term.

  Kathy Grayson and Jan Murphy were two of Camille’s sorority sisters and they had spent hours together in their dormitory rooms dreaming of adventures such as this trip was expected to be. Kathy and Jan were going as experienced skiers, and were more interested in the prospects of meeting eligible young men than the conditions of the slopes. Camille had never skied, and was both excited and anxious about learning how.

  Snow Bird resort, an hour’s drive from Salt Lake City, was everything they could have anticipated. The three young women checked into their rooms at the lodge with high spirits, calling back and forth between the connecting rooms about the man they had seen on the elevator, their plans for dinner, and most importantly, what they would wear.

  Kathy and Jan met two men from California that first night at dinner. Camille was more cautious about forming any kind of attachment with a stranger. She had many male friends at college and had had a few romances, some heartbreaking, some nice, but she had never been able to fall in and out of love with the careless regularity that most of her friends did.

  She concentrated on her skiing the first two days, taking lessons on the elementary slopes and feeling like a clumsy oaf while Kathy and Jan raced down the mountains with their two agile Californians.

  Every muscle in her body ached in angry protest of her abuse of it, and there were few spots on her hips and thighs where ugly purple bruises weren’t evident. Was she made for this kind of sport? Everyone else seemed to love it. She must be a freak.

  She winced as she sat down at a table in the lodge dining room for dinner. It was the evening of the second day. Kathy and Jan had gone into Salt Lake City with their young men for dinner, and though they had pleaded with her to come along, she begged off. She didn’t wish to be a fifth wheel, and wanted only to eat quickly and then go to her room and soak in a hot tub until some of the soreness was eased from her battered body.

  She hadn’t expected anyone to speak to her and jumped when she heard Zack’s voice behind her ask if she were alone and if she would like some company for dinner. Turning to look at the source of such an interesting voice, she was immediately arrested by the brightness of his blue eyes. His smile was soft and easy, his clothes impeccable; he was gorgeous. Had he made a mistake? Was this man—a man several years older than she—asking her to share dinner with him?

  She stammered some inane reply and he took a seat across from her. The next several minutes she was never able to recall. She was so shaken by him and his commanding presence that later she hoped she had conversed with at least a modicum of intelligence. Soon, however, his amicable manner became contagious and they were chatting companionably about movies, books, and skiing.

  His accent was obviously Southern, and when she asked him what he did as his occupation, he laughed and told her he was a farmer. She had thought he was joking and laughed with him and they went on to another subject. He graciously invited her to dance, but she refused, admitting that she was too sore for anything more physically stimulating than eating her dinner. When they were done, they talked over cups of cappuccino in front of the giant fireplace at one end of the dining room, and then he escorted her to her door.

  “Will you be on the slopes tomorrow?”

  “I think I’ll be in better shape by then. I hope so,” she laughed, flexing a muscle.

  His smile and manner were so engaging that she laughed again in sheer joy. “Thank you for sharing your table with me tonight, Camille. I’ll probably see you tomorrow on the mountain.” He took her hand briefly in his, then turned and walked with casual ease down the hall toward the elevator.

  Camille was unaccountably and irritatingly nervous the next morning and wore her most attractive ski suit. She chided herself for behaving like a teen-ager with a wild crush on the captain of the football team, but at breakfast, despite her resolve not to, she searched the room for his face.

  It wasn’t until almost noon when she first saw him. He flew past her with lightning speed and then deftly plowed himself to a stop and waited for her to catch up. She hated for him to witness her less than expert maneuvers.

  “Good morning,” he called cheerfully. His hair was shining in the bright sunlight, windblown and casual. His physique was disturbingly revealed in the tight ski pants, and his eyes were mirrors of the sapphire Utah sky.

  For the rest of the day he was never far away from her. She would turn, unexpectedly catch him watching her, and return his smile. When he came by her table and spoke to her at lunch, Kathy and Jan nearly choked on their Reuben sandwiches.

  “Is he a movie star? My God, he’s beautiful. Camille, what happened last night? Have you been holding out on us? Tell us all the details.”

  Camille was embarrassed by their overzealous interest, and even more embarrassed by the fact that there was really nothing to tell. He had been polite and that was all there was to it.

  She ate dinner with the depressed twosome, whose gentleman friends had left for home that afternoon. When dinner was over and the small dance band began to play, Zack presented himself and asked Camille to dance. She stepped into his arms, trying to ignore the raised eyebrows of her two friends and hoping desperately that Zack hadn’t noticed their curious stares.

  He held her against him with more assurance than any man ever had. She felt powerless in his strong arms and it was a heady, intoxicating feeling. He danced gracefully, as he did everything else, and Camille surrendered to his able lead. Once he moved his chin in her dark hair and she thought he murmured something, but she may have been mistaken. When he released her and led her back to the table, she covered her disappointment with a tremulous smile.

  He strolled over to her after breakfast the next morning and greeted Kathy and Jan with a heart-melting smile.

  “I see a notice on the bulletin board announcing a hayride tonight. Would you like to go, Camille?”

  “Yes.” She smiled back. “That sounds like fun.” She sounded so composed, but her heart was in her throat.

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at your room a few minutes before nine.”

  They waved to each other throughout the day when they chanced to meet on the slopes. He wasn’t at dinner in the lodge, but Camille finished quickly and went to her room to dress for the hayride. She wore a pair of tight jeans she considered flattering to her figure and stuffed the legs into her knee-high boots. A soft, yellow angora sweater topped them. In this feminine mood, she refused to wear the insulated underwear she had been wearing under her ski clothes and hoped she would be warm enough.

  She watched Zack covertly as they rode down the elevator after he called for her. He, too, was dressed in jeans. Well-worn cowboy boots peeked out from the frayed hems of his pants’ legs. Under a shearling coat, he had on a white cable knit sweater. The fingers that pushed the buttons on the elevator panel were long and strong. The back of his hand was tanned and sprinkled with light blond hair.

  Before they went out into the cold air to climb aboard the horse-drawn wagon, he pulled her toward him and with confident fingers drew the edges of her rabbit fur parka together, lined up the bottom o
f the zipper, and eased it up slowly over her chest to just under her chin.

  “I don’t want you to catch a cold,” he whispered, and Camille trembled at his confident intimacy.

  They sat in the sweet-smelling hay, huddled under blankets provided by the lodge. When everyone started singing, Camille smiled as his soft baritone caressed her and his warm breath fanned her cheek.

  He put his arm around her and drew her closer to him, though their legs were already entwined for warmth. She was shocked when he unzipped her parka a few inches and put the hand that had been settled on her shoulder inside and rested it against the base of her throat. Her pulse began to race when his fingers played along her collarbone and stroked her neck. When she glanced up at him timidly, he only smiled and leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead.

  Snow was just beginning to fall when the wagon returned to the lodge. Zack lifted her down, and Camille started up the steps of the building. His fingers wrapped around her elbow and he gently pulled her back.

  “I can make a mean cup of cappuccino. Would you come to my room and share one with me? Please?”

  His voice was compelling, his smile tender, and Camille exercised no resistance against the combination of them, though alarm bells were sounding warnings in her brain. She nodded mutely and linked her arm in his. They strolled down the icy paths of the compound to another group of buildings. These were the condominiums, and Zack explained that a friend of his owned one and had lent it to him. He unlocked the door to one of the units and they stepped inside. The room was distinctly masculine. Rough, wide beams were exposed across the tall, sloping ceiling. At one side of the room a large picture window opened upon a vista of the mountains. A small kitchen was behind louvered doors, and Camille reasoned that the other door led to the bathroom. A stone fireplace took up another wall and directly opposite it was a king-sized bed with a suede bedspread thrown across it.

  To cover her nervousness Camille remarked, “This is apparently the high-rent district. My room in the lodge is nice, but nothing like this.”

  He helped her out of her parka and laid it in a chair. “Yes. My friend doesn’t have any money problems. I doubt if he’s been here more than a couple of times. Go sit by the fire and I’ll make our drinks.”

  He went whistling into the kitchen. He seemed accustomed to being alone with a woman in what was little more than a glamorous bedroom. Camille crossed to the window and studied the landscape, listening to him clattering utensils in the kitchen.

  “It’s snowing harder. I’m glad it held off until after the hayride.” Unconsciously, she drew the cord that closed the drapes.

  He tried to suppress a smile at her action as he came back carrying two steaming mugs. She felt like a ninny. Shutting the drapes indeed! Would he think she was desiring privacy from the outside world? Was she?

  He drew her down beside him on the rug before the fire and removed her damp boots, massaging her toes back to life before he pulled off his own boots and stretched his feet toward the fire.

  They chatted about inconsequential things and laughed at one man on the hayride who couldn’t carry a tune, but sang louder than anyone and kept getting everyone else confused.

  When they finished their cappuccino, and the trivial conversation used to soothe the mounting tension between them ceased, he took her cup and set it aside with his. He faced her and slid both hands behind her neck, drawing her face to his.

  The lips that met hers were warm and persuasive, moving over hers with a developed technique, tenderly demanding that she respond. When her tongue first touched his, an electric current shot through her and she wrapped her arms around his back. She had fantasized kissing him, but she wasn’t prepared for the impact his embrace had on her. The kiss was tender, but masterful. She didn’t feel plundered, but rather discovered.

  Hot, fervent kisses traveled over her face and neck and she never knew how he managed to divest her of her sweater. He gazed derisively at the glossy fabric of her sheer brassiere, which made her breasts look more naked than if they had been bare.

  “That’s not doing much good, is it?” he chuckled as he unclasped the front fastener.

  His hands knew what they were about and stirred her in a way that none of the aggravating, schoolboy fumblings of other men had done. He buried his face between her breasts and murmured, “Camille. Camille, you’re so sweet. And beautiful. And I want to make love to you.”

  Had she agreed with a nod or had she spoken or had he considered a long silence her acquiescence? She didn’t remember. He carried her to the bed and threw back the suede spread. She must have removed her jeans when he turned his back to remove his own clothing, for the next thing she knew they were lying together naked under the smooth sheets. His body was beautiful. The firelight danced around the room and bathed the hair on his chest, arms, and legs with a golden light.

  “Camille,” he breathed, stroking her breasts. He fastened his mouth to hers and she was powerless to do anything but meet his passion. His lovemaking was tender and fierce. He carried her with him on a passionate quest and when the culmination came, Camille’s preconceived notions of how it would be diminished with the splendor of the actuality.

  When he finally pushed away from her, he brushed the damp curls from her temples and searched her amber eyes. “You should have told me, Camille. I’m sorry.”

  She lay languidly in his arms, enjoying the steady beat of his heart under her ear. “Are you?” she whispered.

  “No,” he laughed softly. But he pulled her closer, stroking her body gently as he buried his face in her hair. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  She raised herself up and looked at him incredulously. “Well, it isn’t something you just drop into a casual conversation. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day? Oh, by the way, I’ve never been to bed with a man before.’ What would you have done if I’d said that?”

  “Probably what I did anyway.” He dropped his eyes to her breasts. “I couldn’t have resisted you.” He kissed her again deeply, then turned her on her side and placed her back against his chest and stomach. “Go to sleep.” He nuzzled her ear and laid his head down beside hers on the same pillow.

  Camille never slept that night. She listened to his even breathing and knew that he slept, but she was too excited to sleep. His warm breath stirred her hair. His hand rested possessively on her hip. She felt warm, relaxed, and secure. At home. At peace. Fulfilled.

  As inexperienced as she was, she had been gratified to hear his small cries of pleasure. She had pleased him.

  Something about those words grated on her as an unwelcome thought bounced around her brain. Was that all it had been to him? A pleasure trip? All the signs pointed to the fact that he was skilled in the art of lovemaking. He probably had to fight women off. Camille now realized that she had certainly offered him no resistance. She had come willingly into his arms, his bed! Then she began to count all the things she knew about him. Nothing! Nothing except his name and that he had a wealthy friend who owned this bed she was sharing so wantonly. He hadn’t plagued her with a multitude of questions about herself either. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t care! He had shared a few fun days and one night with a woman ten years his junior whose inexperience must have been a novelty to him. Camille felt dirty and ashamed. His loving had been tender and gentle, and seemingly genuine, but she was sure that was part of his game plan to woo her.

  She shivered at another horrifying thought. Pregnancy! My God! She didn’t take pills or use any other contraceptives and he hadn’t either. What if, even now, she was carrying this stranger’s baby!

  A deeper, more disturbing thought flashed unbidden through her brain and it was more absurd and frightening than any of its predecessors. She couldn’t give credence to that. No!

  She panicked. She ran.

  She extricated herself from his warm embrace, painstakingly striving not to awaken him. She gathered her clothes and dressed with fumbling fingers. After quietly letting herself ou
t the door, she ran through the snowstorm to the lodge and demanded that the sleepy clerk prepare her bill and arrange for her transportation back to Salt Lake City. She assured him that it was an emergency when he hedged about traversing the mountain pass in a snowstorm. She avoided his probing, curious eyes.

  In her room she packed her bags quickly, sobbing as she did so. She scrawled a hasty note to her friends, who would surely be alarmed over her sudden departure. She lied and said that her mother had called and an old family friend had taken sick and was not expected to live. The tale sounded ludicrous, even to her, but it was the best her fractured mind could come up with.

  She fled into the night, arriving at the airport in Salt Lake City just as dawn was breaking, thankful that the old station wagon and the sleepy chauffeur who had driven it had made the trip safely. She caught the first airplane going east with a connecting flight to Atlanta.

  * * *

  This was the middle of September in Natchez, Mississippi. Those events had taken place in December on a snowy Utah mountain. It would soon be two years ago. Zack Prescott had haunted her ever since that night.

  Thinking about it all now, she recalled that just before she left him, she had glanced toward the bed where he lay sleeping. His masculine form had been outlined by the soft sheet, his hair lay in tousled disarray on his forehead, and dark lashes rested on lean cheeks. A gnawing pain akin to hunger had almost altered her decision to flee then.

  She felt that same pain now.

  Three

  Camille dressed for dinner with great care. She had brought to Natchez a white eyelet sundress, knowing that she would be able to wear it only once or twice before the lateness of the season forced her to store it away until next spring. It was one of her favorite dresses and, as she privately conceded, one of her most flattering. Two wide straps tied around her neck in a halter, leaving her back bare, and showing her tan to advantage. The neckline was discreetly plunging and the waist was gathered with a wide, jade green satin belt.