The Virgin and Zach Coulter

by Lois Faye Dyer

  “Hello.” She didn’t move, staring at him. She hadn’t heard his truck and she briefly wondered if merely thinking about him had conjured him up out of thin air. “What brings you out this morning?”

  “Actually, I came into town to see you.” He mounted the shallow steps.

  Cynthia stepped back, unconsciously giving way before she realized she was doing so and stopped abruptly. Pleased though she was to see him, she couldn’t help wondering why he was here. She tried to ignore the heated rush of blood as her heart beat faster.

  “I see.” She didn’t, not really, but nonetheless, gestured to the corner of the porch where two wicker armchairs sat at right angles to the love seat. “I was about to have coffee. Would you like some?”

  “Thanks.” He followed her across the porch, waiting until she settled onto the love seat before dropping into an armchair. He took off his white Stetson and set it on the empty seat of the second wicker chair, raking his fingers through his hair.

  “What’s it like being home again after so much time away?” she asked, willing her fingers not to tremble as she poured coffee into mugs and handed one to him. She’d brought the carafe out earlier, knowing she’d want a cup before long.

  He leaned forward to take the cup from her hands, his fingers brushing hers.

  Even the small contact sizzled along her nerve endings. It was all she could do not to snatch her hand away from his. Instead, she calmly filled a mug for herself and sat back, sipping her coffee while trying not to stare.

  In the days since they’d talked briefly outside the cafe on Main Street, Cynthia had repeatedly told herself Zach couldn’t possibly have looked as good as she remembered—but she’d been fooling herself. The reality was better than her memory—and her memory had been pretty spectacular.

  He sat relaxed in the white chair, the blue mug held loosely in one hand, his right ankle resting on the knee of his bent left leg. His black hair gleamed in the sunlight, his tanned skin dark against the stark white of a Western shirt that fastened with black pearl snaps down the front. His long sleeves were rolled up to reveal the powerful muscles of his forearms, the shirttails tucked into the belted waistband of faded jeans that faithfully hugged the heavy muscles of his thighs.

  He looked wholly male sitting in the feminine white wicker chair with its floral rose cushions. And yet, he seemed totally relaxed and comfortable.

  No wonder the women in Indian Springs gossip about him, Cynthia thought. Just looking at him is better than eating a gallon of toffee-caramel ice cream.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure I can tell you.”

  “Hmm?” She scrambled blankly for a second, trying to remember what she’d asked him. Then memory kicked in. Oh, yes, she’d wondered how it felt to be home. “Really? Why not?”

  “Sometimes it’s as if I left town only yesterday and other times, I feel like a stranger.” He shrugged. “Hard to explain.”

  “I’ve felt like that a few times since I’ve been home,” she told him. The pull of sexual tension eased a fraction as sympathy for their shared experience flooded her.

  “Yeah?” He lifted an eyebrow, waiting expectantly.

  “When I feel as if I left only yesterday it’s usually when I’m doing something I loved as a child.” She pointed at the flower beds along the picket fence. “Like raking the flower beds. I used to do that every spring, summer and fall with my Uncle Nicholas and the memory is still so clear that for a moment yesterday, I was disoriented. I actually felt a little dizzy and unbalanced for a few seconds.”

  “That’s it, exactly,” he agreed. “Although I haven’t felt dizzy—nothing physical, just the odd moment of feeling as if I’m caught in a time warp.” He eyed her quizzically. “How long since you were home last?”

  “I visited my uncle about four months ago but I was here only for a few days.” Cynthia let her gaze move slowly over the porch and the sunlit yard beyond. “Everything was covered in snow then,” she said with a sigh. “And Nicholas was drawing up sketches for the flower beds. He wanted to put in a perennial border along the fence between our yard and Mrs. Riley’s next door. He had seed catalogs stacked on the dining room table.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was sitting in his chair in the living room and apparently had a massive heart attack. The doctors told me he probably never knew what was happening.”

  “That’s not a bad way to go,” Zach commented, his voice gentle.

  “Yes, he had ninety-two wonderful years of living and he was healthy, active and happy right up until the end.” Cynthia realized her eyes were damp. She brushed her fingertips over her lashes before looking back at him. “What about your father?”

  “He had lung cancer,” Zach told her, the gentleness gone from his features and replaced by an odd lack of expression. “Apparently, he was ill for some time.”

  “And no one let you know?” Cynthia asked, surprised. Once again, a feeling of kinship filled her.

  “I didn’t keep in touch after I left the Triple C,” he told her. “I doubt anyone knew how to contact me—or any of my brothers.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sympathy had her instinctively leaning forward.

  “Don’t be,” he told her. “We weren’t exactly the perfect family. In fact—” his mouth twisted with derision “—I’d say we’re pretty much the poster family for dysfunction.”

  Cynthia frowned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories.” She’d heard her mother, neighbors and school friends gossip about Joseph Coulter’s drinking and his sons’ wild ways, but the details had always been vague.

  “You didn’t.” He shook his head. “That’s all water under the bridge. Over and done with.” He sat forward, both feet on the floor, his forearms propped on his thighs and hands cradling the blue coffee mug. “But my family and their history at the Triple C does have something to do with the reason I came here this morning.”

  “What’s that?” Puzzled, she searched his features but couldn’t read a trace of sadness or regret for his father’s passing.

  “You told me you have experience in managing boutique hotels.”

  “That’s true.” Although, she thought wryly, my career is pretty much at a standstill at the moment.

  “I’m renovating and reopening the Coulter Lodge. I’d like you to come to work for me.”

  Cynthia was speechless. A job offer was the last thing she’d had on her mind when she’d seen him striding up her sidewalk.

  “I’m at the planning stage, but speed is crucial,” he went on. “I need someone who understands the business and can come on board immediately. Are you interested?”

  “I’m always interested in job offers,” Cynthia said, trying to consider all the aspects. “But I can’t give you an answer until I know more about it.”

  “Makes sense.” He nodded as if approving. “Since you grew up in Indian Springs, I’m assuming you know a bit about the Coulter Lodge but I’ll start with a brief history. The Lodge was my mother’s idea. Dad was an expert fly fisherman—some said he was gifted—and he loved to hunt quail and pheasant. He had so many friends visiting to join him that Mom told him he should open a business. So he did. She designed the Lodge, he had it built and hired a crew to run it.

  “During the ten or so years it was open, guests came from around the world to take fly-fishing lessons from Dad and go hunting with their friends.” Zach paused to take a drink of coffee. “When my mother died, Dad closed up the Lodge, and that was twenty-three years ago. It remained sealed until last week when Cade and I went in.”

  He fell silent, the clipped words and brief sentences delivered in an unemotional tone as if he were reading the history of strangers from a book page. Once again, however, his eyes were alive with emotions.

  “What did you find inside?” Cynthia prompted, enthralled by the bare-bones story and the human tragedy behind it that she suspected went much deeper.

  “Lots of dust, cobwebs, water damage upstairs,” he to
ld her. “The bones of the structure are solid, but it’s going to take a lot of work before it can be reopened.”

  “Are all the furnishings ruined?”

  He shook his head. “Not everything. A few of the bedsteads and antique oak dressers, washstands, etcetera, are fine. But nearly all of the furniture will have to be replaced because of damage from the mice, raccoons and water. And all of the mattresses, drapes, bedding and any upholstered furniture will have to be tossed out.”

  “It must have been eerie,” she mused, “walking into a building that’s been sealed for so long.”

  “It was a little odd,” he confirmed, but the inflection was back in his voice and a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

  Cynthia drew her attention away from the curve of his lips and tried to focus on the details of his job offer. “You said you want a manager on board immediately, but clearly it’s going to be some time before there’s a hotel to run. What short-term duties would the position have?”

  “My goal is to have the Lodge open, filled to capacity and generating income as soon as possible. I’ve hired a crew and we’ll start tearing out drywall day after tomorrow but I need a person who’s knowledgeable about the business immediately. Someone who can handle the details of finding and hiring an advertising firm, choosing and replacing the necessary furnishings—generally overseeing the entire operation.”

  “What salary are you offering?”

  The dollar figure he named stunned Cynthia, although she’d braced herself not to react. It was more than twice what her last job had paid and in addition, she wouldn’t have to leave Nicholas’s house. The surge of elation was tempered with caution, however. Before she allowed herself to become involved, she needed to know the ground rules.

  “However, until the hotel is open and generates income, you’d need to be willing to be creative about compensation. Because although I have a venture capitalist funding the project, the capital outlay for the building renovation alone is going to be huge.”

  “The salary is certainly competitive,” she said calmly. “I’m not averse to a creative compensation package if the terms are right. And the job sounds like a challenge, which is always a plus for me. But…” She drew a breath. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Zach. I may be misreading the situation, but I sense a personal…something…between us. Am I wrong?”

  The look in his eyes grew heated. “No, you’re not wrong.”

  She leaned forward and set her mug on the glass-topped table between them before clasping her hands together and resting them on her knees, her back ramrod straight as she met his gaze. “That concerns me. Although I wouldn’t normally discuss this with a prospective employer, I think I have to tell you that the reason I left my last position was…well, I was being sexually harassed by the hotel owner.”

  His eyes narrowed, his big body going tense. “What happened?”

  “He felt my job included my going to bed with him. I disagreed,” she said coolly. “I walked out. I doubt he’ll give me a good reference, should you ask.”

  “Hell.” Zach set his mug down on the table with a snap. “The bastard should be shot.”

  His instant anger was a relief. “I take it that means you don’t hold the same view?” she asked mildly.

  “Of course not.” He looked insulted. “What do you take me for?”

  “Truthfully?” She considered him for a moment. “I can’t imagine you’d need to threaten a woman to get her into bed with you,” she said candidly.

  His eyes lit with amusement, chasing away the remnants of anger. “No, ma’am,” he drawled. “I don’t remember a time when I had to resort to threats.”

  “Nevertheless,” she said repressively, trying not to be charmed by his smile. “That still leaves the question of what appears to be an attraction between us. I’m not comfortable accepting your offer until the issue is resolved. Particularly after what happened at my last job,” she added firmly.

  “I understand.” His eyes narrowed over her. “Cards on the table?”

  “Please.” She nodded.

  “I want you,” he said bluntly, his gaze holding hers. “If you said yes, I’d take you to bed and keep you there for hours, probably until tomorrow, maybe longer. But I don’t think you’re ready for that and besides, I need your expertise at the Lodge.”

  Cynthia ignored the rush of awareness that raced along her nerves, clenched her abdomen and tightened her thighs. “I’d like to help bring the Lodge back to life. But I need your promise that you won’t use your position as my employer to pressure me for anything beyond a business relationship.”

  “Pressure you?” He stared at her, eyelashes lowering as he focused intently on her mouth before his gaze returned to hers. “I can promise I’ll treat you with all the respect due your profession—and that I won’t make passes while we’re working.”

  Just as relief flooded her, he added “Unless you make it clear you want me to.”

  “I thought we were being honest,” she said heatedly.

  “I’m being as honest as it’s possible for me to be in this situation—but I’m also being practical,” he said. “I’d never force my attentions on an unwilling woman. But I don’t think for a minute that we’re going to be able to ignore the heat between us forever. Sooner or later, we’re going to give in. It’s inevitable.”

  “You have an ego the size of Mount Rushmore,” she snapped, feeling her cheeks heat. “But as long as you can promise you won’t force me to cooperate, there won’t be a problem.”

  “You sound convinced.”

  “I am.” She nodded, a brief decisive move of her head to underline her words.

  He stood and stepped over the coffee table.

  “What are you…?” Cynthia tipped her head back to look up at him but before she could finish her sentence, he bent and picked her up, then sat down on the love seat with her on his lap.

  It happened so fast she had no time to gather her wits before he bent his head and kissed her.

  She caught her breath, startled, as his warm mouth covered hers. For long moments, his lips plundered hers, changing pressure from firm to soft as he coaxed her to respond. He stroked the tip of his tongue over the seam of her lips. She wanted, needed, craved, more and she let him in. He rewarded her by cradling the back of her head in the palm of his hand and tilting her face up to his to seal their mouths together. She forgot to breathe as her heart raced faster and heat poured through her body, melting her against him, while his lips seduced and his tongue lured and teased hers. By the time he lifted his head, she was breathless and fighting the urge to pull his mouth back to hers.

  “Sometimes a demonstration is best,” he said, his breathing ragged. “Are you still convinced pretending the heat between us doesn’t exist will make it go away?”

  The rasping sound of his deep voice rubbed over Cynthia’s nerves, stirring a yearning need she suspected was better left sleeping.

  “This is exactly the sort of thing I insist you not do,” she told him, her voice not altogether steady as she pushed away from him and stood. Her legs felt distinctly wobbly, she realized with dismay.

  Zach rose to stand beside her. “All right. I promise not to repeat this, unless you ask me to,” he told her.

  “Then we don’t have a problem.” She narrowed her eyes over him. “Do we?”

  “No problem—”

  “Good.”

  “But sooner or later, we’re going to end up doing more than kissing. It’s inevitable.”

  Cynthia felt like pulling her hair. “You’re incredibly single-minded.”

  “No. I just recognize sexual tension when I feel it—and you and I have it in spades.”

  “We’re adults, not teenagers who can’t control their raging hormones. We’ll deal with it.”

  “We’ll deal with it,” he agreed. His expression was solemn but his eyes laughed at her.

  Cynthia decided to leave well enough alone.

  “Before I accept th
e job, I think I should see the Lodge for myself,” she said briskly, determined not to think about how close he stood, the faint smell of aftershave and warm male that she drew in with each breath and the ridiculous way her fingers itched with the need to reach out and test the warmth of his cheek. She couldn’t help but wonder how the faint shadow of beard stubble would feel beneath her sensitive fingertips. She’d loved the slight roughness against her cheek when they kissed.

  “That’s probably a good idea. I’d prefer you have a clear grasp of the scope of the project before you commit.” He bent to pick up his Stetson and settled it on his head, tugging the brim down over his brow. “Why don’t you come out to the Triple C around eight o’clock tomorrow morning? I’ll drive you down to the Lodge.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said.

  “Good.” He smiled at her. “Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty. There’s dust and cobwebs inches deep over everything.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.” He touched the brim of his hat and left the porch.

  Moments later, he drove away, the black truck disappearing down the street.

  Cynthia released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and collapsed onto the wicker love seat.

  Was she really considering working with him? Was there even a remote chance she could be around him on a daily basis without begging him to kiss her again?

  Chapter Six

  As she ate an early dinner that evening, her thoughts kept returning to those too-brief moments with Zach. Heat flooded her and the memory of his mouth on hers sizzled along her nerve endings.

  She’d been kissed before, many times—but never quite so thoroughly. Zach was a man who clearly enjoyed kissing and he took his time, as if savoring the press and taste of her mouth under his. She couldn’t help but wonder what else he did with that same, slow attention to detail.

  She shivered and wrapped her arms over her midriff, wondering how many women he’d kissed to develop that kind of bone-melting expertise. Dozens, at least. Hundreds? Possibly.