Zachary's Virgin. Catherine Spencer
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“First of all, it’s ridiculous that a guest feel obliged to leave a social function in order to look in on someone else’s child, let alone bring her food as if she was a foundling left on the doorstep. And second—”
“But I didn’t leave the party for that reason. I was feeling a little chilled and realized I had forgotten my wrap, so I went back to get it.”
That was why the jumpsuit looked different! The matching shawl she’d flung around her shoulders covered all the pale, translucent flesh he’d noticed earlier, rendering her marginally less exposed. “I see.”
“Do you?” she said, laughing a little. “I wonder. You look at me so suspiciously, Mr. Alexander, as if you think I might try to corrupt your little one with my wicked, foreign ways. But I assure you, taking her a few inconsequential appetizers was an afterthought, an impulse only, and certainly not intended to cause you such distress.”
She made him feel like a fool, like some gauche country bumpkin who didn’t know how to handle himself with a woman, and he resented it. Placing his hand in the small of her back and urging her toward the dining room, he said, “Well, do me a favor and curb your impulses in future, Miss Durocher. You’re here to enjoy the winter sports and hospitality, not assume responsibility for my daughter.”
“I enjoy her company. It’s no hardship to spend time with her.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Am I?” she said, practically cooing the question at him. “And what point is that, Mr. Alexander?”
“That if I find myself in need of a baby-sitter, there are plenty on hand without my having to seek help from a visitor. Oh, and one more thing. Unlike the public guest accommodations, your suite isn’t equipped with its own safe. Although my staff is handpicked and utterly trustworthy, you’d be well advised to leave your jewelry in the office safe when you’re not wearing it. The management of the resort is not responsible for valuables carelessly left lying around.”
Unaccountably, she laughed again and shook her braceleted wrist under his nose. “You mean this?” she gurgled, as if they were discussing something found in a box of Cracker Jack.
The woman was too cute for her own good and so filthy rich that she probably wouldn’t give a hoot if she accidentally flushed a few diamonds down the toilet, but he was damned if he was going to be held accountable for it! Skewering her in a glare, he said, “Suit yourself, Ms. Durocher, as long as you’re aware that, in the event of any mishaps, it’ll be your loss, not mine.”
Mon dieu, she thought, shivering as she watched him stalk away, the man was colder than the weather outside, and slightly mad to boot. Surely he had not built such success as he obviously enjoyed by treating all his guests so rudely?
Throughout the dinner, she secretly watched him. He sat several tables removed from hers, too far for her to hear what he said but close enough that she could see the smile he turned on others and how he charmed them with his wit and humor.
The knowledge had an odd effect on her. He was a stranger, after all, and would play no lasting part in her life. Yet his rejection, for surely that was what it was, hurt her. It touched too closely on that part of her life she had left behind, reminding her of events best forgotten.
Determinedly, she turned her attention to the people at her own table. She hadn’t traveled so many miles to let one man spoil her time here. Yes, she had been hasty in assuming the unavailability of the suite she’d reserved was the result of mismanagement, but when she had learned the real reason, she had accepted it with grace. If he could not extend to her the same courtesy and forgive her for her oversight, she would ignore him. If she could.
Sadly, though, he was not a man easily overlooked. Nor was she the only one to think so. At dinner’s end, he went from table to table, inquiring of his guests if the meal had met their expectations, and she saw how he was greeted. On the one hand, he was what people called a man’s man, respected for his intelligence and capability.
But what she noticed most was how the women behaved. How those who were unattached looked at him with hungry eyes; how they managed to draw his attention with a little touch on the arm, an inviting smile. She noticed, too, how he responded, acknowledging their unspoken messages without promising anything—except when he stopped at the table where she sat, and his glance slid over her as if she were invisible, and filled with interest only when he moved on to the person beside her.
So he knew how to be charming as well as anyone, she thought, annoyed by such overt and unwarranted discourtesy. He just did not want to be charming to her.
Well, she would change his mind! Before this Christmas was over, Zachary Alexander would discover that there was more to Claire Durocher than the self-indulgent, empty-headed creature he was determined to make her out to be. By the time she left Topaz Valley, she would have earned his respect, if not his admiration. He might even end up being sorry to see her leave!
CHAPTER THREE
SHE should have slept long and soundly that night. Snug beneath the thick down quilt, with the firelight painting hypnotic shadows on the walls and nothing but the deep, black silence of the Canadian night outside, she should have succumbed to the exhaustion of travel and an inner clock not yet adjusted to the nine-hour time difference between Europe and B.C.
Instead, she awoke before sunrise, her mind sharp and eager, and her body filled with restless energy. And why? Because, the night before, Zachary Alexander had almost kissed her.
Almost…
She had timed her after-dinner departure from the lodge to coincide with his and since they were, as he’d so reluctantly conceded, next-door neighbors, he’d had little choice but to accept her company on the walk back to the house.
“Watch you don’t slip,” he ordered, as they navigated the steps leading from the lodge to the lakeshore path. “It’s very icy underfoot.”
Small wonder! The wind had dropped, a mercy to be sure, but still the air knifed into her lungs. Shivering despite the quilted lining of her ankle-length coat, Claire had clutched the collar to her throat and glanced covertly at her companion.
He seemed unaffected by the cold but then, from all she’d seen, he was more than a match for it. Profile unreadable, he’d marched along, making little concession to her shorter stride.
“Your chef served an excellent dinner,” she said, gasping to keep pace.
“Yes.”
“The partridge was particularly delicious.”
He grunted.
“By itself almost worth the journey over here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The lights,” she said, skidding a little as they hit a particularly slippery spot, “look very pretty strung through the trees, don’t you think?”
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