Love’s Encore

by Sandra Brown

  Zack stood looking at her for long moments while Camille prayed she would die on the spot and not have to hear his answer. Finally he said, “No, Erica, this doesn’t change in the least the way I feel about you.” Then he turned abruptly and practically dragged Camille to his car.

  Her emotions were shattered. Her heart and pride lay in tatters somewhere in the depths of her being. A crushing weight was pressing tightly on her lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe. She had stood by while her husband of a few hours had all but declared his love for another woman. Why hadn’t she stopped the ceremony this afternoon? Surely Rayburn wouldn’t prefer that his son and she, whom she knew Rayburn had come to have a high regard for, suffer in a loveless marriage. Why hadn’t Zack stopped the charade before it went any further? She would have been mortified, yes, but was this any better? Could she stand to be constantly humiliated knowing that her husband loved Erica Hazelett but had been all but forced to marry her?

  The worst part of it was that she loved him. Every fiber of her being cried out to him to love her back, but she knew that to hope he might grow to love her was a futile wish. He would forever blame her for trapping him into a marriage he never would have wanted.

  She raised a clenched fist to stifle the sobs that erupted out of her mouth as they drove through the darkened streets of Natchez toward Bridal Wreath. What awaited her there, at the hands of her new husband, she had no idea.

  Ten

  Camille tried unsuccessfully to tie the shoulder straps of her nightgown. Her fingers were trembling in such a way that the task proved to be nearly impossible. She was standing before a dressing table she had never seen, looking into a cheval glass that reflected a room she had never been in, belonging to a man who was an enigma to her.

  When Zack had parked the car in the garage of Bridal Wreath, he turned to her and said unemotionally, “Dearly and Simon are very excited about all of this. They’ve come to like you, consider you a member of the family. They know nothing of what my father learned about. To them we are a happy, loving couple who have restrained our love and now can share it openly. Let’s not disappoint them. Keep up the act.”

  He ushered her into the house where Dearly and Simon greeted them with warm and hearty congratulations. Camille hated deceiving them, hated deceiving everyone, but she, like Zack, was powerless to prevent this catalytic chain of events. The couple assured her that all of her things had been moved into Zack’s room, but she could rearrange them as she saw fit. Dearly was smiling sweetly at both her and Zack, and Simon’s dark eyes and white teeth were gleaming in his kind face. Impulsively Camille went to each of them and hugged them in turn. In their innocence of the true situation, she looked upon them as a lifeline to sanity and reality.

  Zack escorted her upstairs after the Mitchells retired to their own apartment over the garage. He opened the door of his bedroom and stood aside for her to enter. To her surprise he didn’t follow her in. Instead he said, “I’ll be back shortly,” and turned away to go back down the stairs.

  The room was masculine, the furniture massive. Camille was pleased to see a large fireplace in one wall with a cheerful fire burning in the grate. It must be connected to the same chimney as the fireplace in the parlor, she surmised, remembering the placement of the rooms. There was the pervading scent of Zack’s cologne in the air despite the fragrant flowers that had been delivered by the wedding caterer and arranged attractively around the room.

  The king size bed dominated one wall. Rather than having a standard headboard, the bed was flanked by book shelves. Between the loaded and somewhat cluttered shelves were hung stunning graphics, each framed in a narrow brass frame. The bedspread, which was already turned down, was an austere stripe in shades of brown, beige, and blue. Zack had good taste.

  Crossing to the closet and opening it, she saw that all of her clothes were hanging with Zack’s. Several cowboy hats were standing side by side on the shelves of the closet. On another shelf, boots and shoes were arranged in rows. All the clothes were hung in groups—dress slacks, dress shirts, sport coats, suit coats, jeans, and so on. No one can accuse Zack of being sloppy, she mused.

  She had found her lingerie arranged neatly in drawers after pulling out several full of socks, handkerchiefs, and masculine underwear.

  She went through the door leading into the bathroom and saw that it was large and modern and masculine in decor, having brown and beige striped towels hanging on the brass racks. Dark blue was the accent color in the rug, tiles, and other appointments in the room. She recognized several pieces of Zack’s gold jewelry in a glass dish near the marble basin. A tortoise shell comb, a brush, several bottles of cologne and after-shave lotion were all poignant reminders that the room belonged to Zack.

  She found her own toiletries on the other side of the dressing table and soon had the long, deep, chocolate brown tub filled with warm, bubbly water. She took a leisurely bath, hoping that the warm, caressing water would dispel some of her anxiety over the immediate future.

  She noticed the gift-wrapped box on the bed as she came out of the bathroom after brushing her hair and cleaning her teeth. The negligee was nestled in crackling tissue paper along with a loving note from her mother.

  Now she stood before the mirror, the sheer, silky green fabric swirling around her as she tried to tie the bows that held the gown on either shoulder. It hung loose and open except for another pair of satin ribbons that tied the front and back panels together at the waist. She was dismayed at her reflection. The negligee was so chaste from the front and back, but alarmingly alluring from the sides, and the fabric was much more sheer than she had first thought. Should she put it back in the box and choose another nightgown, one more tailored? No, her mother would surely ask her if she had liked it, and she hated to pile other lies on top of the lie she was living. Besides, why was she so nervous? She had no idea what Zack was going to do. Would he expect her to share this bed with him tonight, or would he move her into the room on the other side of the bathroom?

  Before she could speculate any further, she heard the door open and she whirled around to see Zack framed in the jamb. The firelight picked up the blond streaks in his hair and gave his skin a golden glow. He looked exactly the way he had in Utah. She moaned softly at the thought, but it came out sounding more like a whimper. They stood for several moments looking at each other across the space of the room, then Zack asked softly, “Are you finished in the bathroom?”

  She couldn’t answer around the nervous lump in her throat, so she merely nodded. He crossed to the closet and took off his sport coat and hung it up neatly. His belt came off next, and he hung it on a metal rack on the inside of the door. He leaned down and pulled a boot jack from the closet floor, then, placing his heels against it one at a time, tugged off his boots. These he placed on the top shelf and returned the boot jack to its accustomed position. Every movement was unhurried, meticulous, and practiced. Camille watched warily as he went to a bureau and took something out of a drawer before going into the bathroom and closing the door.

  She listened to the water splashing, the opening and closing of drawers, the rustle of clothing, and wondered what she was going to say when Zack came back into the bedroom. This marriage was a travesty, a mockery. They had both been forced into it. Neither wanted it. For though she loved Zack with all her heart and soul, she knew that he didn’t love her, and she wasn’t going to submit to his lovemaking when love wasn’t the motivating force. Sex should be a personal and intimate commitment between two people who loved each other. What had happened in Utah had been a mistake she had regretted ever since. She refused to fall into the trap again. She had disdained her physical weakness for two years now, and she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life acting out a farce.

  She would reason with Zack that they could stay married—without being intimate—until Rayburn was well and could take the disappointment of them separating. She was certain that Zack would go along with her plan. After all, he would be
eager to get back to Erica, wouldn’t he? The dress shop owner’s assumption that Zack’s new wife was Erica Hazelett must mean that there had been rumors of a pending marriage between them. She would reiterate these facts when he came to her.

  But what if he had other ideas? Suppose he forced his connubial rights on her? What if he ravished her? No, not Zack. That was not his style. He was a reasonable man, and she would play to his pragmatic nature. They could continue being good friends, companions making the best of a bad situation, and nothing more.

  She felt much better after having decided what course of action she would take. She crossed the room and stood facing the fireplace, not knowing that her figure was silhouetted against its flames. That was the first thing Zack saw as he came out of the bathroom and switched off the light behind him.

  Camille knew that he was in the room with her, and all of her recent resolves vanished into vapor. They were replaced by trembling anticipation as she heard him come up behind her.

  What was wrong with her? Why didn’t she turn around and face him and have the big showdown she had plotted so carefully? Instead, every muscle of her body had turned to water as she caught the scent of his soap and cologne along with the male muskiness that he exuded.

  “I like you in that color, Camille. It complements your unusual complexion.” Did she imagine that feather-light kiss on her bare shoulder? “You should only stand in sunlight or firelight because they burnish your hair with beautiful highlights.” He gathered her thick, curly hair in a gentle fist, lifted it off her neck, and pressed a kiss into her nape. She sighed in spite of herself, against her will, and swayed against him, the solid wall of his chest supporting her back. He clasped her waist with both hands and stirred the soft fabric of the nightgown against her skin as his face nuzzled her hair, her neck, behind her ears.

  “Camille, Camille,” he breathed as he moved one hand to her abdomen and drew her against him so she could feel the strength of his desire. He cupped one breast in his warm hand and moaned huskily in her ear as he explored its soft curve.

  He turned her gently to face him, and she was startled to see that his chest was bare. He was wearing pajama bottoms tied carelessly below his navel. The hair that spread like a fan on the upper part of his chest tapered to a silky golden line that disappeared into the waistband of the pajamas. His mother’s cross, suspended from the gold chain, lay on the crisp curls. His masculine appeal was heart-stopping.

  She met his eyes and read the desire that fired them. Desire, nothing else. Surely not love. But she was powerless to obey her instinctive common sense and push away from him. Even as she opened her mouth to speak what she knew should be said, he closed his lips over it and sealed her words inside. His mouth was delicious, tasting of the toothpaste he had just used, and she drank of its nectar. His tongue met hers and moved against her lips, her teeth, and searched her mouth in a tantalizing quest.

  “I’ve waited so long to have you again, Camille. Don’t make me wait any longer,” he pleaded as he buried his face in the hollow of her throat. She felt his hands working with the ribbons on her shoulders. The gown fell to her feet, forming a pool of silk on the carpet. He cupped her face with both his hands and gazed into the amber lights of her eyes. His eyes devoured her body, his hands following, touching everywhere his eyes roamed.

  Her mind screamed no, but her body was beyond the limits of restraint. She was quivering with desire for him, for the fulfillment his body promised hers. Every nerve cell was singing, harmonizing with his, building to a crescendo of emotion. Not this way! Not without his love, her conscience told her, but even as it did, unwillingly, her arms went of their own accord and locked behind his head.

  He clutched her to him. She met his fiery kisses with an internal flame of her own. Her breasts were flattened against the hardness of his chest, the soft golden down that covered it teasing her nipples to peaks of desire. When Zack’s stroking fingers failed to assuage them, he used his mouth. His tongue eagerly traced the pattern of their arousal. But there was no appeasement. They cried out with the rest of her body for more… more.

  He raised his head and groaned into her hair, “Oh, Camille, I hurt. Heal me.”

  She kicked away the forsaken nightgown as he lifted her and carried her to the bed, depositing her gently on the pillows before stepping out of the pajamas that hugged his loins.

  His body covered hers. His gentle hands and seeking lips brought her to a fevered pitch of longing. She welcomed his weight, was thrilled by the contrasts of their bodies.

  It all came back to her. All that she had tried to forget, forced herself to negate as a dream, a fantasy, came flooding back now in the glory of Zack’s body fusing with hers. It was a homecoming, a recognition of fulfillment, of belonging, a meeting of kindred spirits. This recognition had frightened a younger, more innocent girl two years ago, and she had run from it. This time there was no running away. This time Camille surrendered to it. Now she grasped it, embraced it. Now, now! even as their bodies exploded with the intense heat of passion and melted together in absolute gratification.

  * * *

  Camille stood at the cheval glass brushing her hair. She studied herself critically. She looked no different except for an apricot flush on her cheeks, which she attributed to the fire in the grate she had just rekindled and not to the memory of last evening in Zack’s bed. Their hunger for each other had been insatiable and they had not been denied. Their night together in Utah paled in comparison to the shared bliss of last night.

  She stifled the sob that rose in her throat. In the light of day, she realized that nothing had changed. He still didn’t love her. Why did her body betray her so? She wanted to hate him, to loathe him, but every time she so much as thought of his hands and lips and how they played her body like a finely tuned instrument, she became aflame with desire for his touch, his caress, his kiss.

  The shower in the bathroom stopped running and she braced herself for the inevitable moment when she would have to face Zack. He had already gone into the bathroom before she awakened. She had quickly left the comfortable warmth of the bed and hurriedly wrapped herself in a dressing gown that wasn’t sheer or revealing in cut. She wanted to put every barrier she could between her and her husband. Vulnerability was to be avoided. She couldn’t afford it.

  The bathroom door opened and Zack stepped through it, vigorously drying his hair with a towel. He had a terrycloth wrapper tucked around his slim, taut hips. Otherwise, his body was disturbingly exposed to her, and Camille’s heart skipped erratically at the sight.

  “Good morning. You didn’t have to get up just because I did.” He was cheerful, his eyes sparkling blue, as he crossed to her, draping the towel around the strong column of his neck. The damp hair clung to his head in a boyish, charming manner and his brilliant smile was beguiling. Why couldn’t he be fat and ugly and bald? Then maybe she could despise him as she should.

  “You look beautiful this morning, Camille,” he whispered as he placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her against him. She resisted surrender as his lips traced a tender path across her temple, down her cheek, and finally came to rest on her mouth, claiming it with a burning kiss. Her whole body went rigid as she fought the tremors of longing that were already shaking her control. His probing tongue encountered sealed lips where hours before it had found eager acquiescence and equal desire.

  He didn’t countenance her resistance, and his hands became more demanding, his lips more persuasive. She parted her lips in an effort to object to his ardor, but he used that instant to find what he was seeking, and the touch of his tongue on hers ignited once again the fires of passion she was struggling to quench.

  In spite of her anger toward him for the power he wielded over her and berating herself for her weakness to it, she moaned pleasurably as he placed one hand on the small of her back and drew her closer to his hard body. He found the opening to her dressing gown and slipped one hand inside, fondling her breast gently as his lips move
d down her throat to the top swelling curve. “You’re lovely, Camille. Soft, beautiful, feminine,” he whispered as he brushed butterfly kisses on her smooth flesh. “Your body satisfies mine completely.”

  That was still all it was to him! It was purely a physical attraction. Yes, their bodies had recognized this chemistry between them right away, but there should be more. There must be more! She loved his body, and it was useless to deny that, but she loved him for so many other reasons. It was his total lack of love for her which wounded her, pierced her spirit. He loves someone else even as he uses me to satisfy his sexual lust. No. No!

  The anguished tears that had been threatening since the extraordinary wedding ceremony yesterday finally surfaced, and Camille’s body shook with a different kind of tremor that Zack was sensitive to immediately. He raised his head and impaled her with his eyes. Tenderly, his fingers traced the trail of her tears before he brushed them away.

  “What is it, Camille?” His tone was soft, but she could see the smallest flicker of anger in his eyes and a muscle in his jaw twitched, a trait Camille had come to recognize as a sign of extreme agitation and impatience.

  She stammered and lowered her lashes in order to avoid meeting those penetrating eyes. “I… please don’t make… love… to me again. I can’t. I’m sorry.” And she was. Far sorrier than he could ever guess. Even as she denied him, she longed to know again the wonder of lying in the security of his arms.

  He stepped back from her, relinquishing his hold. Camille quickly covered her exposed breasts, a gesture he watched with derision and obvious disgust.

  “Is it so terrible, my lovemaking, that my bride of less than twenty-four hours cringes and weeps when I touch her?” he asked scornfully, his lip twisted into a sneer.