by Sandra Brown
His smile was kind and gentle as he led her to a glass-topped table where a frosted pitcher of lemonade and several glasses shimmered in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the large shade trees. He held a chair for her and offered her a glass of lemonade with an inclination of his head. She accepted by nodding.
Looking around her at the lovely grounds, better maintained here than the ones in front of the house, she wondered how she was going to tell him that it would be impossible for her to accept his commission. She wouldn’t be able to live and work at Bridal Wreath, be near the one person in the world whom she had never wanted to see again. She couldn’t live with the chance of meeting Zack several times a day as they came and went about their business and be submitted to that flush of acute embarrassment every time she looked at him, realizing that he remembered well the last time they were together. She couldn’t do it! But how could she tell this old gentleman that she must disappoint him in order to retain her own sanity? She felt compelled to leave his house and his son as soon as possible, now, today. The thought was a crushing one. What would this do to her career? How could she sacrifice such an incredible opportunity?
“Do you like my garden?” Mr. Prescott’s question brought her back from her reverie as he gestured to take in the broad expanse of lawn. “I take pride in my plants. Since I’m no longer able to work in the fields of the plantation—Zack has adamantly refused that I so much as cross the river—I spend as much time with these plants as I can. I have some outstanding tomatoes over there.” He pointed to the plants that were growing in large redwood tubs at the corner of the terrace and Camille responded with genuine praise.
“They do look outstanding. I’ve never seen any larger, and I’ll bet they taste just as good as they look.”
He beamed. “We’ll have some for dinner. I’m rather proud of them. I enjoy growing food, but I love my flowers, too.”
Camille glanced around at the myriad flowerbeds, hanging baskets, and urns, each boasting its own variety of flowering plant. They bloomed in profusion, in a rainbow of colors. The ferns growing in wire baskets hanging from the branches of trees by long chains were lush and three times Camille’s arm span. It looked like a tropical paradise.
“I think you’ll miss working outdoors when the weather starts growing cooler, won’t you?” she asked perceptively.
He nodded his white head. “Yes, but then Simon and I work on our house plants. We take most of these ferns and tropicals inside. Zack accuses me of trying to move him out when the house is so crowded with plants.” He offered her more lemonade, but she declined. He was so generous and sweet. How was she going to do what she must gracefully?
He had referred to Zack by name three times since they had sat down. Why hadn’t he mentioned him in Atlanta? She would have known the name readily enough, for it was never far from her thoughts. She could have contrived some excuse to refuse the job and avoided any unpleasantness.
She was perspiring and could feel her hair escaping the small amount of control she had sprayed on it earlier from an aerosol can. She must look frightful. Her nervousness at what she had to tell him didn’t help. She licked her lips and raised her eyes to his. “Mr. Prescott, I’m afraid there’s something—”
“There you are, Zack! Come meet our house-guest.” Rayburn Prescott’s eyes were looking over her head and she heard the unmistakable tread of cowboy boots coming closer.
“Camille Jameson, I want you to meet my son, Zack.”
Camille was studying the purse clutched tightly in her lap, but glanced up at the man who stood so close to her chair. “We met, Dad.” Zack paused significantly, then added, “Out in the hallway.”
“Good, good. Would you like some lemonade?”
“Yes, please. It’s hotter than—”
“Zack! Remember we’re going to have a lady around here from now on,” Rayburn chided him.
“Of course. Please excuse me.” Zack executed a mocking bow to Camille. “Aren’t you warm, Miss Jameson? Let me help you with your jacket.”
Before Camille could accept or refuse, he slipped behind her and placed his large, masculine hands on her shoulders. She tingled at his touch and wanted to scream in frustrated anger that he still had the power to make her tremble with alarming sensations. His fingers tightened on her shoulders and his hands remained there longer than necessary before he slid the jacket from her shoulders, following it with his hands down her arms until her fingers slipped out of the sleeves. He draped the jacket over the back of her chair before taking a chair across from her. She mumbled a “thank you” before she raised her eyes.
He had showered, and damp hair fell over his forehead. He had forsaken the western work jeans for a clean, starched pair with a designer label on the hip pocket. They fit his taut hips and muscled thighs far too well. The eyes fixed on her were vivid blue and full of sardonic amusement. He was enjoying this predicament! He wanted her to feel ashamed and embarrassed! He was a cad of the worst sort. He used women for his own pleasure and then was contemptuously delighted at their shame. She straightened her shoulders and flashed him a look of pure venom before she returned her attention to Rayburn, who was totally unaware of the undercurrents of tension between his son and his new employee.
Camille tried to catch the last of what he had been saying. “… know you have excellent taste and will do a good job, and I for one wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your work.”
“What Dad is trying to say, Miss Jameson,” Zack cut in, “is that we don’t want the house to look like some fairy-decorated Bourbon Street bordello.”
“Zachary, that is no way to talk to a lady. You have been around the field hands too long,” his father remonstrated.
“I apologize, Miss Jameson,” Zack’s words sounded sincere, but the look he gave her revealed that he didn’t think she was a lady at all. She was further insulted when his gaze moved from her eyes to her chest. The sheer voile blouse could have vanished under his intent stare and Camille wouldn’t have felt any more exposed. Did he remember what she looked like under her clothes? Or had he taken so many women since then that he had long forgotten her? Either way, she wished he wouldn’t look at her with that smug, knowing expression on his face. She had a mad desire to reach for her jacket and cover herself.
She blushed a deep peach color and apparently the elder Mr. Prescott thought her discomfort was due to the heat because he said, “Forgive us, Camille, but you must be tired and hot after your trip. We can go over the rest of the details after dinner. Right now, you need to rest. You’ll be staying in what we call the dowager house.” He indicated a small apartment across the terrace from the main house. “It’s a presumptuous name, I’ll concede, but my wife’s mother lived with us for several years after we married and insisted she stay under a separate roof. She made what was once a carriage house into a comfortable apartment. At least I hope you find it to be. She gave it that name and it’s stuck all these years.”
Camille couldn’t look at Zack. Her heart was pounding and she dreaded the next few minutes, but she had to get it over with. The sooner, the better, she couldn’t let this kind old man go on thinking she was going to stay here and do what he had hired her to do. She was thankful no money had exchanged hands yet and that she had not ordered materials for the restoration.
She stared at the empty glass in front of her and followed with her eyes a small bead of moisture as it rolled to the bottom of the glass and became part of a pool forming there. “Mr. Prescott, I don’t know how to tell you—”
“Miss Jameson, let me add my enthusiasm to that of my father’s. He has been wanting to do this project for several months, and is anxious to get started on it. He was very excited about putting his plans into action, hiring you, and I’m certain that you are just as eager to begin the restoration as he is. As soon as possible.” Zack’s last four words cut through her like a knife. She looked at him quickly and saw a threatening expression on his chiseled face. He had sensed she was ab
out to back out of the deal and was warning her not to. Why? “As soon as possible.” Understanding began to dawn as she looked back at Mr. Prescott. He was gazing benignly across the yard, lost in his own thoughts. Though he had been sitting for the past few minutes, his breathing seemed to be rapid and shallow, his face mottled as if he had been running. Camille swallowed a lump in her throat as she turned back to Zack. She raised her eyebrows in a silent query and almost imperceptibly he nodded his head. She slumped in her chair, deflated by this new turn of events. What was she to do? Must she stay here and be subject to Zack’s constant contempt? She had agreed to do a job for Mr. Rayburn Prescott. If he were in bad health, she was dutybound to see that job completed. What had happened between her and Zack had nothing to do with her present obligation to his father. She would have to push thoughts of Zack out of her mind and be impervious to his sarcasm. Maybe they wouldn’t be seeing as much of each other as she anticipated. Maybe.
Rayburn realized that a silence had settled over the three of them and roused himself. “Zack, where are your manners? I’ll escort Camille to her apartment, and you bring her bags.”
Camille’s decision had been made for her.
She fished the car keys out of her purse and dropped them into Zack’s palm, avoiding touching him. She ignored his mocking grin. “There are several sample books in the car, too. Just leave them and I’ll get them later.”
His grin faded and he seemed irritated. “Where do you want them?”
“What?”
“The sample books.”
“In… in the hallway, I guess.”
He nodded and rapidly strode across the terrace and around the corner of the house. She took Rayburn’s proffered arm and they walked toward the dowager house. She liked that silly name. He opened the door for her as they stepped inside. Though it wasn’t air conditioned, there was a large ceiling fan circulating the air and making the small apartment cool. The drone of the fan would be nice to sleep to, Camille thought. The main room wasn’t large, but as promised, very comfortable. The furnishings and appointments were old-fashioned and dated themselves, but Camille wouldn’t have traded them for the sterile environment of a hotel room. The bed was a lovely rosewood four-poster. The deep fringe of the ecru chenille spread draped to the floor. White sheer curtains were all that covered the windows, and Camille was glad to see that there were window shades that could be pulled down for privacy at night.
“Is it all right?” Rayburn asked anxiously. His eagerness to make her feel welcome was touching.
She rested a hand on his arm and answered, “It’s lovely, thank you.”
He smiled down at her. “The small kitchen is there”—he indicated a corner—“though we expect you to take all your meals with us in the main house. The refrigerator is stocked with juice and cold drinks. If you need anything else, ask Simon. The bath is through there, and this is the closet.” He crossed the room and opened the door. A fragrant smell permeated the room. Camille followed him and peeked over his shoulder. He laughed.
“It’s a cedar closet. My mother-in-law had it put in when she furnished the apartment.”
He closed the closet door and took both of her hands again, holding them between his calloused palms. “I’m glad you’re here, Camille. You can’t know how much I want to do this project. Zack thinks it’s the fanciful indulgence of an old man and that I’m doing it for myself, but I’m really doing it for him. I had hoped that Zack would marry and raise children in this rambling old house. I’ve just about given up hope of ever seeing my grandchildren. I wish that by having the house restored, he’ll start thinking about a family. I’ll feel better about… leaving… if I know he’s settled. Of course, this is our secret.” He winked at her.
“Of course,” she strangled out.
He patted her hands. “Now, I must go so you can rest before dinner. It’s at eight o’clock. Zack will be along shortly with your luggage. Make yourself at home.” He smiled at her one more time before he shut the door behind him.
Camille made a cursory inspection of the small kitchen and bathroom. The fan made flickering shadows on the pastel walls as it rotated lazily. The sheer curtains billowed into the room with a small breath of breeze. Camille kicked off her shoes and tossed her purse onto the rosewood chest of drawers. She placed her watch and bracelet beside it and was removing her earrings when one of them dropped out of her hand and rolled under the bed. She scrambled after it, falling to her hands and knees, her back to the door. She was squinting into the darkness under the bed with her cheek resting on the floor when she heard Zack say behind her, “Nice view.”
She jumped up quickly and turned to face him, pushing errant curls away from her flushed face. “A gentleman would have knocked before coming in,” she raged.
He shrugged, not in the least disturbed by her anger. “Alas, my hands were full.” He held a piece of luggage in each of his hands.
“That’s no excuse. You could have called out.”
“Yes, I could have,” he admitted unrepentantly. He smiled at her wickedly and Camille wished she didn’t feel so isolated and unprotected here with him. She watched him warily as he placed her large bag near the closet and then took her smaller one into the bathroom, guessing correctly that it contained her cosmetics. Well, he certainly makes himself at home, doesn’t he? She was jealous of his apparent calm when inside she was in turmoil. His casual cotton shirt was opened to the middle of his chest, and as he handled the heavy bags, Camille didn’t fail to notice how the muscles of his shoulders and arms rippled under the fabric. The fan overhead stirred the sun-bleached brown curls on his head.
“Service with a smile, ma’am,” he drawled as he came back from the bathroom and tossed her keys onto the chest. “I can’t help but wonder who carried your bags that night you ran away from Snow Bird. They must have been heavy, packed as they were with all of your ski clothes. Were you in such a hurry to leave that you managed them on your own? I would have thought you would have been too tired for that much exertion.” He was smiling, but his voice was bitter, his eyes blue ice.
“Please, Zack, for all our sakes, let’s not refer to when we… met before,” she pleaded. “It will be better for everyone.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be better for you, coward that you are. You were about to run again, weren’t you? Out there on the terrace, you were preparing to make a nice little speech declining my father’s commission.”
“Yes,” she confessed. “The possibility that Mr. Rayburn Prescott was related to… to you… never crossed my mind. I thought… hoped… I’d never see you again. I didn’t feel like I should stay under the circumstances, but I can tell the restoration is important to him. And I had already agreed to do it.”
“Well, for whatever your reasons, I’m glad you decided to stay.” He said the words grudgingly, as if not wanting to credit her with having done anything good or noble.
Ignoring the sharp pain that came with knowing what he must truly think of her, she asked, “Is he ill, Zack?”
“Yes,” he answered succinctly. He turned away from her and stared out the wide windows. “He had a heart attack last year and he’s never been completely well since. The doctors don’t give him a very good prognosis. When he started talking about wanting to restore the house, I encouraged the idea. He needs a project and this place means so much to him. Whatever amount of money it takes to get it back in shape for him, I’m more than willing to spend.”
It’s a legacy for you, Zack, she wanted to tell him, but of course, she couldn’t.
Zack continued. “He told me about hiring a decorator in Atlanta. He spoke very highly of your professional abilities and his impressions of you as a person. He never told me your name. I never thought to ask it. It didn’t seem important as long as he was pleased.” He remained with his back to her as he added slowly, “I was as surprised as you when I saw you today and heard your audacious scolding of me in my own house.” He turned back to her then and shrugged, a twi
sted smile on his face.
“I’ll do a good job for him, Zack, I promise. In spite of our former… relationship.” She whispered the last word, embarrassed at the intimacy it implied.
His stern face seemed to soften, or it could have been only the play of shadows across it. He muttered, “Thank you, Camille,” before he left hurriedly.
Two
Camille showered and slipped into a light robe. She didn’t pull down the window shades for fear of blocking out what little breeze there was, but she lay down on the bed hoping that anyone passing by wouldn’t be able to see into her room. The sheets on the bed were cool and fragrant. She stretched, pointing her toes and constricting each muscle in her body. She relaxed them slowly, enjoying relief from the tension that had been building since she arrived and saw Zack Prescott in the hallway of the main house.
She never, even in her wildest imaginings, had expected to see the man again. His being owner and resident of Bridal Wreath, which she had been commissioned to restore, put her in an untenable situation. How was she going to handle it? It would be easy to run away, as Zack had shrewdly guessed she was planning to do. That had been her first instinct, but now she knew she couldn’t take so drastic an action. For one thing, deserting an important job like this wouldn’t be good for her career. She needed a major project like this to use for future reference. The money she would make was too much to ignore. Rayburn Prescott had trusted her and obviously thought well of her, and she didn’t want to disappoint him, especially in light of the fact that he was seriously ill. How would she explain declining the commission to her mother? Certainly not by telling her the truth. And if she were honest with herself, she didn’t want Zack to have the satisfaction of driving her off. He would love to gloat over the fact that she had run away again. He would assume that she couldn’t take the pressure, that she had retreated from an adult situation. No! She wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. I’m going to stay and do my work and ignore him as much as possible.