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Zachary's Virgin
Catherine Spencer


Zachary Alexander was accustomed to beautiful women at his luxury winter resort, but the stunning Claire Durocher took his breath away! Was she looking for a temporary lover? Zach was tempted to oblige her…In fact, Claire had sworn she'd always wait for the right man, but Zach seemed to think she was a gold digger! How could she prove before Christmas was over that, far from just a brief fling, what she wanted was to be his wife?









“What we shared,” Zach continued, “was something—”


“Something?” Claire cried, almost dissolving into tears. It had been everything! Because she had saved herself for this man. And why? Because she was in love with him, damn it!

“Special,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Sex is meaningless if all it amounts to is two bodies clinging together for a brief time, then turning away from each other indifferently.”

“Don’t belittle yourself or me like that!” he begged.

But his remorse had come too little and too late. The damage has been done. “You only say that because you feel guilty.”

“Yes.”

“Well you’re not alone in your misery—let’s please forget what happened between us.”


CATHERINE SPENCER, once an English teacher, fell into writing through eavesdropping on a conversation about Harlequin romances. Within two months she changed careers and sold her first book to Harlequin in 1984. She moved to Canada from England thirty years ago and lives in Vancouver. She is married to a Canadian and has four grown children—two daughters and two sons—plus three dogs and a cat. In her spare time she plays the piano, collects antiques and grows tropical shrubs.




Zachary’s Virgin

Catherine Spencer















CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE




CHAPTER ONE


THE brochures made the Topaz Valley Ski Resort sound like paradise. Deep in the mountains of British Columbia, Canada’s most westerly province, it appeared to possess all the winter sports advantages of St. Moritz, with the added bonus of being reasonably close to Vancouver, the city where Claire hoped to open another in her chain of successful jewelry boutiques. That it was far removed from her usual haunts and circle of friends remained yet another point in its favor because the fact was, she needed a change of scene.

Amazing, she had to admit, that she, who had worked so long and hard to inch her way to the top of Europe’s society heap, should know a sudden longing to make contact with a simpler, more basic way of life. But lately, when she looked in the mirror, she had seen a stranger looking back at her, one so concerned with keeping up appearances that she had neglected to nurture the private, fragile part of herself no one else knew. Too much more of that and she was afraid that other person, the real Claire Durocher, would disappear forever.

Topaz Valley had seemed to offer the chance she was seeking to take stock, not just of how far she’d come since she’d left behind the squalid life she’d known as a child in Marseilles but, more important, where she was headed next. But the brochures which had made the resort sound so attractive had neglected to state that British Columbia was vast and untamed. Or that, once she arrived in Canada, it would take the better part of another six hours to reach her destination and that, toward the end of her journey, she would be so weary that she would have paid a small ransom to lie down on a soft bed and sleep undisturbed for a further twelve hours.

And not once had it mentioned that, while the narrow strip of coast around Vancouver enjoyed mild green winters, with late roses still blooming in sheltered gardens, the interior of the province lay in the death grip of a cold which no outsider could begin to comprehend until she experienced it firsthand.

Of course, she had expected snow, and from the little she could see when she stepped down from the helicopter at her journey’s end, there was plenty of it. But it was the wind which dismayed her. It cut clean through to the bone, and left her gasping for breath.

Her seven other fellow passengers seemed unaffected by the subarctic conditions. Indeed, they were astonishingly cheerful. Huddled in their bulky jackets, they turned their backs to the wind and, as a pair of headlights speared the afternoon gloom and crawled up the hill toward them, began a jolly rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

Claire had to admire their fortitude. For her part, she was beginning to wonder if Christmas in Canada had been such a good idea after all, particularly when, having stashed the last of the luggage and equipment against a wooden rack erected for the purpose, the pilot waved to his passengers, called out, “Merry Christmas, folks! I’m off while the going’s still good,” and climbed back inside his helicopter with what struck her as ominous haste.

In seconds, the rotors picked up speed and with the clumsy grace of some prehistoric bird, the craft lifted off, severing her last link with civilization as she knew it. “What on earth possessed me to think this would be a novel way to spend the holidays?” she muttered, clutching her fur-trimmed hood beneath her chin and staring at the bleak landscape surrounding her.

Already the sky to the east had taken on the purplish hue of approaching night while that to the west showed the sort of pewter overcast which heralded more snow. And the wind…!

The vehicle to which the headlights were attached crested the slope of the hill and groaned to a halt. A burly figure muffled to the eyebrows in clothes designed to withstand an assault on Everest hefted his bulk out of the driver’s seat and lifted one padded arm in cheery welcome.

“Here we are, folks! Topaz Valley’s limo at your service, heh, heh, heh! Climb aboard all those who don’t feel up to hiking down to the lodge.”

His attempt at humor might have lacked the sophistication she was used to, but Claire had to admit he showed singular gallantry in the speed with which he hoisted her up inside the…what was it? Square as a box, it resembled an army tank from the outside—if one discounted the bright yellow paint, that was—but inside were three rows of stark wooden seats, ample room for suitcases and skis and, praise heaven, warmth blasting over one’s ankles from a heater. For this last, she forgave the vehicle its other shortcomings.

“You’re lucky you got here,” the driver announced, slamming closed the door and settling himself behind the steering wheel. “Yesterday’s party got held up overnight in Broome, visibility was so bad up here. Had to bunk down in the Wayside Motel and make do with hamburgers at the truck stop, which is a far cry from what they’d been expecting for dinner, I can tell you.”

Feeling increasingly estranged from everything familiar, Claire peered out of the window as the vehicle jolted along a path between snow-laden trees, across a plateau and around a curve, with no sign of civilization to relieve the windswept landscape. But then, just when she’d about given up hope of ever laying eyes on the resort, suddenly there it lay, in a hollow protecting it from the worst of the weather, and she drew in a breath of relief. Windows ablaze with golden light and smoke streaming from its chimneys, the place exuded warmth.

Flinging open the vehicle doors, the driver clambered out onto hard-packed snow. “Watch your step as you get down, folks. We’ve sanded twice today already, but it’s still a mite icy underfoot.”

Indeed it was, and the temperature surely dipping well below what she was used to, but a man had come out of the lodge to welcome them. Engagingly handsome, with sun-bleached hair, an open smile, and the slim, fit body of a professional athlete, he couldn’t possibly be the legendary owner of the place, Claire decided. He was much too young to have achieved such success.

“Glad you made it before we got socked in by the weather again,” he said. “Come on inside and warm up, before you all freeze.”

Not the most socially acceptable greeting, perhaps, but possessed of undeniable charm nonetheless. Much like the building, Claire supposed, glancing up at the impressive facade. Neither the fairy-tale nineteenth-century castles nor quaint chalets she was used to, it stood bold and dramatically beautiful in its own right, with soaring timbers, chimneys faced with chunks of river rock worn smooth by centuries of water abrasion, and great shining expanses of glass.

Designed around a central hub from which four wings radiated, it rose three stories to a steeply pitched roof. Entering through wide double doors, Claire gazed around, her senses assaulted by impressions of spacious elegance and mammoth proportions. Everything, from the graceful branched staircase accessing the upper galleries, to the massive beams supporting the vaulted ceiling, to the stone fireplace whose hearth was wide enough to accommodate a grown man, was huge.

Even the Christmas tree stood some twenty feet high and was hung with silver balls the size of fat balloons. As for the leather couches grouped around the hearth, they could have accommodated giants and still left room for normal-size people.

And everywhere, from the long refectory table in the middle of the room, to the deep windowsills, to the antique wicker child’s sleigh beside the fireplace, the brilliant splash of carmine poinsettias drew the eye. If that weren’t enough to complete the Christmas card picture, two beautiful Samoyeds lay on a rug in front of the fire, basking in the heat from the blazing logs.

Joining the lineup of guests checking in, Claire studied the floor plan of the lodge hanging on the wall behind the front desk. Whoever had designed the resort had certainly taken pains to make sure guests were supplied with every possible amenity. In addition to various lounges, a library, and dining room, there was also a banquet room with a dance floor, a movie theater, gymnasium, sauna, indoor pool, and a beauty spa offering everything from facials and manicures to massages. And oh, she could use a soothing massage just then, to ease the aching stiffness caused by so many hours spent in travel!

The couple at the front desk, their check-in complete, moved away and made room for Claire.

“Hi!” The clerk, a young woman whose name tag proclaimed her to be Sally, smiled warmly and scanned the list of names in front of her. “Let’s see, you must be…?”

“Claire Durocher.”

“Oh, sure! All the way from Europe, right? Welcome to Canada!” She glanced again at the list. “Originally, we had you booked into a suite here in the main lodge.”

“Indeed, yes,” Claire said, not liking the sound of the word “originally.” She had slept fitfully on the transatlantic flight, her inner clock was seriously out of kilter, and she hadn’t bathed since she left Paris yesterday afternoon. To find now that she had no room at the inn didn’t bear thinking about. “Such accommodation was what I requested when I made my reservation six months ago, it was confirmed by your office within the week as I’m sure your records show, and it is what I now expect to receive.”

The young clerk’s grin faded a little. “Yeah…well, the thing is, we’ve had to put you in one of our other rooms. It’s rather small but very comfortable and it’s only for a night or two.”

“I do not wish to be confined to a smaller room, nor do I wish to move elsewhere when you decide it is convenient. I wish to be accommodated in the suite I reserved.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the Sally person said. “The people occupying it last week haven’t left yet.”

“Then put them in the smaller room,” Claire replied, ignoring the little voice inside her that said it was easier simply to accept whatever was available and not make a fuss. She had learned the hard way that if she wanted others to treat her with the respect she craved and which had been so sadly lacking in her childhood, she had to demand the best of—and for—herself.

The hapless Sally shook her head. “You don’t understand, Miss Durocher. They won’t fit. They’re a family of four.”

“Zut!” Claire exclaimed, her tone rising with annoyance.

“Is there a problem?” By comparison, the voice which flowed over her shoulder was smooth and rich as the finest Belgian chocolate.

“Oh, Zach!” The young clerk fairly wilted with relief. “It’s the business with the Dogwood Suite. Miss Durocher is a little upset that it’s not available.”

“Miss Durocher is more than a little upset,” Claire corrected, swinging round to confront the man whose name tag identified him as Zachary Alexander, the owner of the establishment and the person with whom she’d made her reservations. “She is considerably…displeased….”

He stood well over six feet, every lean muscle honed to perfection, the torso tapering gracefully from impressively broad shoulders to narrow hips, the hair thick and dark except for streaks of silver at the temples.

As for the face—oh, it was the face that left her stumbling over her words like an ingenue. Such eyes, as blue as the Bay of Naples in summer and as remote as the tips of the Alps on a perfect winter day. Such a jaw, such cheekbones! And the mouth…!

Her own ran dry at the sight. Zachary Alexander could discipline that mouth all he liked. Make it straight and severe, or allow it to stretch in a tight, unamused smile as he inspected his unhappy guest. But nothing his will imposed could erase the passionate nature betrayed by the curve of the upper lip. This was a sleeping volcano of a man, his fire hidden but no less intense for all that.

“I’m sure we’re all very sorry that you’re…” Again, that ironic smile touched his mouth. “…considerably displeased, but the fact remains that the suite you requested is occupied already so I’m afraid you have no choice but to accept the substitute we’re offering—unless, of course, you’d prefer to sleep outside in the snow?”

You can’t be tired just yet and what child wants to go to bed early on such a warm night? Go wait in the street, Claire, and leave Mama to entertain her gentleman friend in peace, and if you’re very good, maybe there’ll be enough money for a bonbon tomorrow….

Her mother’s voice floated down the years, finding the chink in her armor so susceptible to a brush-off and spurring Claire to take issue with Zachary Alexander’s assumption that she’d meekly make do with whatever consolation prize he chose to throw in her direction. Impaling him in her most peremptory stare, she said, “I have been en route to Topaz Valley for almost twenty-four hours, monsieur, of which six have been spent making connecting flights from Vancouver. I could have flown from my home in Switzerland or my pied à terre in France, to any of the capitals in Europe in less time than it has taken to complete this last limb of my journey and I—”

“Considering that this province alone is approximately twenty-three times the size of your country, that’s hardly surprising.” The reply was polite enough—if one were to discount the fact that he cut her off in mid-sentence, in the sort of patronizing tone that suggested he was dealing with a singularly difficult and backward child. “Add to that the fact that, whereas the population of Switzerland runs to some four hundred and four people per square mile, there are a mere eight point two per square mile in British Columbia, and it—”

“And it is my misfortune to have to do business with the point two—a man of few brains and absolutely no heart!” At the twitch of yet another smile which he barely managed to contain, Claire stamped one booted foot imperiously. “I am tired, I am hungry, I would like to unpack my suitcases, take a long, undisturbed, hot bath, and I am in no mood to tolerate being laughed at or inconvenienced, Monsieur Alexander!”

“And I am in no mood to tolerate your self-indulgent tantrums, Mademoiselle Durocher, so I suggest you lower your voice and modify your attitude. Your suite is not available and that’s all there is to it. The family who should have vacated it yesterday have a sick child who is not fit to travel and until he is recovered, I have no intention of asking them to find some other place to stay.”

It had been years since Claire had blushed but his announcement left her face burning. “I am so sorry,” she began, at once remorseful and embarrassed. “Had you explained, I would, of course, have understood.”

“You scarcely gave me the chance,” Zachary Alexander said curtly and turned again to his desk clerk. “What else have we got besides the room on the second floor?”

“Nothing in the main lodge, which is where Ms. Durocher asked to stay.”

“What about the lakeside guest houses?”

“Nothing there, either. The only thing not taken is the private suite at your place, Zach, but Eric usually stays there over the holidays.”

“Well, since he’s neither shown up as expected nor bothered to let me know what his plans are, he’s out of luck this year. As of now, the place is occupied by Ms. Durocher. If he puts in an appearance, he’ll have to make do with the room she finds so unacceptable.” Zachary Alexander didn’t so much turn his head to look at Claire as glance obliquely at her, in the way that a man might if he wished to avoid antagonizing a rabid poodle. “Get Paul to haul her stuff over, once he’s free, and I’ll get her settled.”

Picking up her overnight bag, he led Claire to the back of the foyer and through another set of double doors to the outside. Dusk had fallen but lights, strung from one snow-encrusted evergreen to the next like outsize charms on a giant bracelet, showed a path winding among the trees to a series of guest houses nestled along the lakeshore. Scaled-down versions of the main lodge, they were substantial, charming residences and looked nothing like the rustic cabins Claire had envisioned.

“We’re down this way,” he said, turning right at a fork in the path.

A few minutes later, his house came into view. Set apart from the rest and screened by a belt of dark-needled conifers, it was different, larger, and even grander than its neighbors. Shaped like the letter T and fronted on all sides by a long, covered veranda, it hugged a cozy hollow on a spit of land just a few yards short of the lake itself. Again, Claire was pleasantly surprised. She had not expected quite such elegance in the hinterland.

“We live in this end of the house,” her reluctant host announced, indicating the upper two-thirds of the letter T, “but you’ve got the rest of the building all to yourself.”

She followed him up a shallow flight of steps to one of the verandas and waited as he unlocked a door to the left. Reaching inside, he turned on the lights, dropped the key in the palm of her hand, and said, “I’m afraid you’ll find only one outsize living room with breakfast bar and convenience kitchenette, one large bedroom, a dressing room and a five-piece bathroom with attached sauna. I sincerely hope you won’t be too cramped for space.”

Having delivered that salvo, he then dumped her overnight bag on the threshold and turned to go.

“One moment, monsieur, if you please,” she said, wishing she sounded less coldly formal. Her thoughts, her inner voice, were fluent and colloquial but when it came to translating them from French to English, especially when she was nervous or under stress, she knew her spoken words lacked eloquence and often sounded stilted and unfriendly.

“Yes?”

“I am not the unreasonable woman you perceive me to be,” she said, touching him placatingly on the arm, “and if I seemed that way, I apologize. When a child is taken ill, of course one must be prepared to make allowances.”

He looked at where her hand rested on the sleeve of his sweater, then lifted his gaze to her face. His eyes were cold as ice, his voice not much warmer. “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Durocher, and do let us know if there’s anything more we can do to cater to your comfort.”

Speechless, she watched as he marched away, stunned by such controlled displeasure, such proud disdain. What a pity a man so tall and beautiful was possessed of such an untoward nature!



Another party of guests had arrived by road when he got back to the main lodge. They swarmed around the lobby, but Sally had roped in extra help at the desk and seemed to be coping, so he skirted the crowd and made his way down the south wing to the kitchen.

There’d been no sign of life at the house, which meant either that Mel hadn’t come down the hill yet or else she was cadging food from Roberto the chef. It had better, he thought dourly, be the latter. The lifts would be closing in ten minutes and he was in no mood to go searching for an errant thirteen-year-old who’d suddenly decided she didn’t have to abide by the rules which governed other people.

Pushing aside the swing doors, he poked his head inside the kitchen. Various pots simmered on the huge stainless steel stove. Baguettes, freshly baked in the special bread oven he’d had imported from France, cooled on wire racks on the marble counter. The young kid hired for the season to help out with food preparation was busy slicing tomatoes. At the far end of the room, Roberto consulted with Simon, the wine steward. Of Mel, however, there was no sign.

“Anyone seen my daughter?” Zach inquired.

“She was here about ten minutes ago,” Roberto said. “And starving, as usual.”

Zach nodded. It never ceased to amaze him how much food Mel could put away and still remain skinny as a reed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. We’ve got a full house tonight so if you need extra help, let me know.”

Back in the lobby, the crowd had thinned. His wrangler and man Friday, McBride, the person he trusted most in the world, was dumping a fresh load of logs in the big brass box next to the hearth. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, thumbing back his Stetson and regarding Zach from beneath bushy gray brows, “I’d say you look like a man with a load of woman troubles.”

“You’re not far off the mark,” he said gloomily. “A jet-setting heiress with a bad case of perma-pout arrived this afternoon and it’s my guess we’ll be seeing and hearing a lot more of her than any of us would like before Christmas is over.”

“Heiress, you say? She here alone?”

“Yes.”

“Ugly?”

An image flashed across Zach’s mind, of huge gray eyes and silky black lashes in a delicate heart-shaped face; of a cupid’s bow mouth and small, perfect teeth. Of fine-boned hands and a fall of dark hair; of slender shoulders raised in protest and a narrow, elegant foot stamping in annoyance. Pity she had the temperament of a pit viper!

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve seen worse.”

McBride looked hopeful. “Yeah? She lookin’ for a husband by any chance?”

“There’s no doubt you’re a fine figure of a man and able to sweep just about any woman off her feet,” Zach said, grinning, “but this one’s young enough to be your daughter.”

“Well, shee-oot!” The old wrangler cackled. “Can’t blame a guy for askin’. Maybe you’re the one should be setting his sights on her.”

Zach sobered. “When hell freezes over!”

McBride crooked one corner of his mouth and gnawed on his mustache a moment. “At thirty-eight, you’re awful young yourself, Zach, to be so set in your ways. Jenny’s been dead goin’ on six years and that little gal of yours needs a mama, else she’ll be growing up wild as a cayuse. Already she can cuss better’n me and that’s sayin’ plenty. Jenny wouldn’t like that, son, and you and I both know it. If she’d lived, she’d have seen to it that Melanie learned her party manners and wore a skirt once in a while, instead of always hangin’ around the joint in blue jeans and your cast-off sweaters.”

But Jenny hadn’t lived, and although the shock of losing her so suddenly and senselessly had faded, Zach couldn’t imagine anyone else ever filling her place, least of all someone like the Durocher woman. Jenny had been soft and sweet and patient; able to turn her hand to whatever needed doing, whether it was teaching beginners on the ski hill, lending a hand at the front desk, or helping in the kitchen. And in between, she’d been a devoted wife and a wonderful mother.

“Mel’s got plenty of time before she needs to worry about dressing up for parties,” he declared, and wished he felt as sure as he sounded. A year ago, he’d never have questioned his ability to handle his daughter. She’d been content with the kind of life he provided and seemed to love the isolation that came with it.

He’d set her up with her own computer, enrolled her in correspondence school, worked with her on her class assignments. He’d taught her to ski, to skate, to swim. McBride had taught her to ride and shoot a mean game of pool. Her days had been full and exciting and she hadn’t seemed to miss friends her own age.

But over the summer, something had changed. She’d begun harping on about going away to school. She didn’t seem as eager to spend leisure time with him anymore. They hadn’t skied together once this season. Either she had her nose buried in a magazine or else she went off by herself. Sometimes, he’d find her in whispered conversation with Sally, but the moment she saw him approaching, she’d close up tighter than a clam.

He’d always known there’d come a time when she’d want to talk to a woman about…womanly things. But he hadn’t bargained on it happening this soon.

“She’s only thirteen, for crying out loud.”

“In case you didn’t know, son, that’s about the time when all hell breaks loose.” With the tip of his tongue, McBride probed experimentally at one of his molars. “From what I’ve heard tell, the teenage years ain’t ever easy. Even with two parents, it’s a full-time job keepin’ on top of things.”

People were drifting downstairs and coming in from the guest houses for happy hour. Craning his neck, Zach could see across the lobby to the lounge where the staff was setting out a selection of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Charlie and Walter were already manning the bar.

“Well, I’m damned if I’m going wife hunting just to give Mel two parents,” he told McBride, “so she’s just going to have to make do with one. I’m off to change before dinner. If you happen to see her, tell her to make tracks for home ASAP.”

The wind had dropped when he went outside and it had started to snow, tiny sparkling flakes that signaled another dip in the temperature. Seasonal music floated out softly from the speakers mounted under the eaves. The thousand or more lights strung along the roofline and over the veranda railings of the lodge flung a blanket of light over the frozen, snow-packed ground. The pungent smell of wood smoke hung in the air.

He inhaled a long, relaxing breath. The skies were forecast to have cleared by tomorrow, it was December the eighteenth, and in three days the holiday program would be underway, beginning with the traditional moonlight sleigh ride. He had better things to concentrate on than one nitpicking guest.

Hunching his jacket collar more snugly around his neck, he set out along the path to the house, the conversation with McBride playing over again in his mind. Was he wrong in thinking he could be both mother and father to Mel? Did she miss Jenny more than either of them realized?

The Samoyeds bounded ahead with Blanche nipping playfully at Lily’s heels as usual in a race to arrive home first. Turning the last corner, he saw with some relief that the lights in his section of the house were on, which meant that Melanie was already there. Too bad the remaining third was also lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. If he had to be saddled with someone next door, he could think of a dozen people he’d rather play host to than Claire Durocher. Even Eric, his flake of a brother-in-law, was preferable to her.

Music blasted into the night, something festively bright and boisterous, punctuated by gales of laughter. Oh, yeah, his daughter was home, all right! Better warn her to keep the noise down for the next few days, unless she wanted to run afoul of their neighbor.

He stamped the snow from his boots and opened the front door, expecting to find Melanie sprawled out in front of the TV. But the family room at the far end of the entrance hall was empty.

Only then did he realize the music was coming from next door and so was the laughter, the woman’s rich as hot buttered rum and the girl’s—his daughter’s—high and gleeful.

Damn! He’d seen more than enough of his petulant European guest for one day, but it looked as if he wasn’t through with her quite yet. Because just lately, Melanie had attitude to spare and the last thing she needed was further instruction from a willful, self-indulgent woman like Claire Durocher.

Heaving a sigh of pure exasperation, he slammed shut his own front door and marched purposefully toward his neighbor’s.




CHAPTER TWO


IN MANY ways, the girl reminded her of herself as she’d been at the same age; a little urchin whose brave, tough exterior hid a heart as uncertain and vulnerable as that of a newborn lamb.

“Oh, heck,” she’d said, her face falling in dismay when Claire had opened the door to her knock. “You’re not Eric.”

“Well, no. At least, I wasn’t the last time I looked in the mirror.”

Claire had laughed, but the girl, obviously not expecting to be welcomed by a stranger, had turned away, her shoulders slumped dejectedly. “Sorry I bugged you by banging on the door then.”

“Chérie, please wait. I don’t know anyone here and you’re my first visitor.”

“I’m not supposed to bother the guests.”

“But you’re not bothering me.” She’d held out her hand. “Here, let’s introduce ourselves and make our association official. I’m Claire Durocher.”

The child had turned bright red and offered a not-too-clean little paw. “Melanie,” she’d mumbled and, at Claire’s urging, stepped inside the suite.

Claire had learned early to build a nest wherever she happened to find herself, be it a shop doorway or a château, and Topaz Valley Resort was no exception. No sooner had she hung her clothes in the dressing room closet and set out her toiletries in the adjoining bathroom than she’d turned her attention to the salon. Already, candles burned on the low table before the double-sided fireplace which opened into the bedroom also.

She had closed the dark red drapes to shut out the bleak afternoon, tossed another log on the fire, and flung her royal blue mohair shawl over one arm of the soft leather couch. Not that the place lacked comfort—indeed, it was luxuriously appointed, right down to the fresh fruit and flowers—but a few personal touches made it seem more of a home.

Still, Melanie clearly felt anything but comfortable. Fiddling all the while with the hem of her oversize sweater, she peered around furtively as if she expected that, at any moment, she’d be shown the door.

It had been more than sixteen years since Claire had experienced much the same fear, never sure if she was welcome in the two rooms which had been home, or if she should make herself scarce in the back alley until such time as yet another of her mother’s “gentleman friends” left, but the memories had not faded with time. She doubted they ever would; the sense of abandonment had left too deep a scar. Observing her uncertain little guest sympathetically, she said, “Why don’t you find us some music while I make up a little plate of hors d’oeuvres? Choose something you enjoy, ma chère—something lively and fun.”

“Okay.”

Melanie leaped at the chance to make herself useful while Claire set to work. The kitchenette Zachary Alexander had spoken of contained a wine bar with a refrigerator, a microwave oven, cappuccino coffeemaker and small sink. Various wineglasses and tall mugs hung from a rack, and a cupboard next to the refrigerator contained a supply of flavored coffees, hot chocolate, nuts and other snacks.

“It’s too early for champagne,” she said, checking the contents of the refrigerator, “but we can enjoy a cranberry cocktail while we get to know one another, yes?”

Melanie looked up from the compact discs she was sorting and giggled. “You talk funny,” she said. “Nobody here says ‘shompanya,’ they just call it plain old champagne.”

“Well, I’m French so I say some things a little differently, but I’m going to count on you to tell me if I make mistakes.” As she talked, Claire poured sparkling cranberry juice into two crystal goblets, set them on a small silver tray beside a dish of nuts then, carrying everything over to the fireplace, offered the child a glass. “Here’s to a very good time with my new friend Melanie. Joyeux noël, ma chère.”

“I don’t expect you’ll have much time for me when the parties start.”

“You mean, there are no parties for young ladies at Topaz Valley? No singing or dancing or wearing pretty dresses to celebrate the season?”

“Well, they have a Santa Claus for the kids on Christmas morning, but it’s really McBride with a pillow stuffed under his coat.” The girl gazed at her drink pensively. “I stopped believing in Santa Claus when my mom died and I almost hate Christmas now because it makes me feel so lonely. I’d rather be by myself with our two dogs.”

Claire’s heart contracted with pity. Even the death of an uncaring mother left a hole in a child’s life, as she very well knew, but when that mother had showered her daughter in love, as Melanie’s so clearly had, how much more acutely the loss must be felt.

“Well, this year will be different, I promise you. This year, we will have fun.” She took the wine goblet from the child and drew her to her feet. “Here, kick off your boots and let’s dance.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Melanie flushed with pleasure and the mouth which at first had been so solemn curved with laughter. Her eyes were sapphire stars, alive with excitement as only a child’s can be.

Again, emotion tugged at Claire’s heart. How little it took to please the girl, and what she would have given to have just such a daughter herself, someone to spoil a little and love and spend special time with—all those things which had been missing from her relationship with her own mother.

But that was not possible until she’d found the right man with whom to share such joy. Not for her the casual liaison, the unthinking act that brought an unwanted child into the world. First, there had to be a husband, and love strong enough to last a lifetime.

Blinking back sudden, inexplicable tears, she held out her hands to Melanie. “Come, darling. The music’s going to waste.”

They galloped the length of the room and back again, stumbling a little and laughing a lot until a thump on the door brought them both to a sudden stop. Claire shrugged and smiled. “What did I tell you? Already we’re famous for the fun we have and someone else wants to join our party. Turn down the music a little and enjoy your drink, chérie, while I see who’s so impatient to be let in.”

It was Zachary Alexander, his scowl very firmly in place. Did he sleep like that, Claire wondered, with his mouth drawn like a purse string and his winged brows almost meeting above the bridge of his handsome nose?

Determined not to be intimidated by his obviously sour mood, she smiled and said, “How nice to see you again so soon, Mr. Alexander. Won’t you come in?”

“This isn’t a social call, Miss Durocher.”

“Nonetheless, it’s too cold to stand on one’s dignity out there.” She opened the door wider and gestured him inside. “Please, whatever business has brought you here, can’t we at least conduct it inside where it’s warm?”

“If you don’t like the cold,” he said, following her into the salon, “why did you choose to spend Christmas in this neck of the woods? Surely you knew it wasn’t the tropics.”

“Ah, oui,” she said, preserving her good humor with difficulty, “even I knew that. But I’m sure you haven’t come here to give me a geography lesson. So what can I do for you? Have you decided I may not occupy this suite, after all?”

From her place in the middle of the floor, Melanie said, “Uh-oh,” in the kind of voice that warned of trouble ahead.

At that, he flicked his very blue gaze past her to the child and in that instant Claire saw the resemblance between the two of them in the stubborn cast of the mouth. “I have come to collect my daughter,” he said, his glance sweeping the room and taking note of the boots kicked to one side, the dish of nuts and the two wine goblets with their jewel-colored contents. “She has no business disturbing you and knows better than to impose herself on a guest.”

“It’s no imposition, I assure you,” Claire said firmly. “Melanie is here at my invitation and we’d both like it very much if you’d join us.”

“No, thank you.” He turned to leave, pausing only long enough to say over his shoulder, “Put your boots on and let’s get going, Mel. I have to be back at the lodge in half an hour.”

His footsteps stamped out of the suite and back to the other side of the veranda with a vehemence which suggested he would have liked to grind them across the interloper’s throat. Shortly thereafter, his own front door slammed. Truly, the man was formidable! As for his daughter, all her animation had died, leaving her little face pinched with misery and her mouth drooping sullenly as she trooped obediently in his wake.

And small wonder! Left too much to her own devices, with only a couple of dogs for company, half the time—it was no sort of life for a child.

“Well, ma petite, things will be different as long I’m living next door,” Claire muttered, clearing away the remains of their celebration. “By the time Christmas is over, you’ll be glad to see me leave, you’ll have grown so tired of me.”

But she knew that wasn’t true. The girl was dying inside for want of affection and the feel of strong, loving arms around her. As am I, she thought. The need to feel cherished never goes away, but I don’t have the heart to tell you that, sweet child. Sadly, it’s something you’ll learn on your own, all too soon.



The après-ski happy hour was well underway when Zach walked into the lounge, and if the noise level was anything to go by, people were having a good time. In itself, this was always a positive sign because he knew from experience that a successful social program was a key factor in keeping the resort in the black. But the scene he’d just had with Melanie had left him with no taste to party and when his gaze settled on the cause of this latest father-daughter spat, his mood blackened further.

Claire Durocher leaned against the far end of the bar, all dolled up in a clinging jumpsuit. Made of some sort of sparkly black stuff, with a halter neckline which dipped in a deep vee at the front, it left so little to the imagination as to be almost indecent.

She’d tied her hair up to show off her long elegant neck and the diamond-studded hoops which swung in her ears like a pair of metronomes every time she turned her head. Which she did often, batting her silly eyelashes at all the attention she was receiving from every man in the joint. Even McBride was making a damn fool of himself, ogling her from his side of the bar where he sat nursing his hot toddy.

“Keep drooling like that and you’ll shrink the ends of your mustache,” Zach advised him tersely.

“That’s one fine figure of a woman, son,” McBride drawled, his gaze never wavering. “Yes, sir, one fine figure of a woman!”

Zach flung another sidelong glance to where she continued to hold court, gesturing with her hand and showing off the diamonds strung around her dainty wrist. “If brains were what counts, she’d be standing at the end of the line waiting for other people’s leftovers!”

Hoisting himself up on a stool, he flagged down the bartender. “Pour me a Scotch, Charlie. And before you say another word,” he added, seeing McBride about to chip in with a further two bits’ worth of unasked-for comment, “I’m well aware I don’t usually start drinking this early in the day, but I’ve had another go-round with Mel and it’s all because of her.” He jerked his head in Claire Durocher’s direction, a slight enough gesture to pass unnoticed, he’d have thought, but she must have sensed she was being talked about because she glanced up suddenly and locked gazes with him.

The noise in the room grew oddly distant then; muffled almost, as if everyone else had moved off and left him alone with her. Her expression grew sober and altogether too thoughtful for his peace of mind. Belatedly, he realized that there was a brain behind that disturbingly lovely face, and right at that moment, it was working overtime.

Mesmerized, he lifted his glass and took a mouthful of the Scotch. But nothing it could offer compared to the fire suddenly burning in his blood. She needed to be brought to heel, he thought savagely. Where did she get off waltzing into Topaz Valley and upsetting the even tenor of things? And what was wrong with him that, while the thinking part of him declined to tolerate her intrusion into any aspect of his life, another part knew a sudden primitive ache of desire?

He swore under his breath and tossed back the rest of the Scotch. “I’m off to make sure everything’s on schedule in the south wing,” he told McBride. “You can hold down the fort in here—always assuming you can keep your mind on the job, that is!”

“When did I ever let you down, Zach?” McBride asked mildly, not once taking his eyes off the Durocher creature.

She’d finally grown tired of trying to stare him down and Zach doubted she even noticed his departure. Unaccountably miffed, he strode to the dining room.

Flames from the big fireplace reflected on polished crystal and silver. Pyramids of napkins starched to within an inch of their lives stood to attention beside every plate. Arrangements of chrysanthemums and holly surrounded the candle centerpieces. Sterling serving dishes lined the massive rosewood sideboard he’d bought at a hotel auction. A twelve-foot Noble fir sparkling with Christmas lights stood in one of the window recesses.

Surveying the scene restored his equilibrium somewhat. It was with just such attention to luxury that he’d built Topaz Valley’s reputation. There were plenty of ski resorts which catered to a less discriminating crowd, where hamburgers and pots of chili were the order of the day and the baked goods were obtained commercially. But he’d known that if he was to persuade people to undertake the journey to this remote and beautiful place, he had to make it worth their while.

Satisfied that he was succeeding, he passed through the swing doors at the far end of the room and entered the butler’s pantry leading to the kitchen. A chalkboard propped against a cabinet showed the evening menu: crab chowder and crusty baguettes, poached pear salad, roast partridge with spiced orange salsa and wild rice, brandied mince tarts, peach compote, and a selection of imported and Canadian cheeses with fresh fruit.

As a peace offering, he’d invited Mel to join him for dinner in the dining room, but she’d insisted she wasn’t hungry. Actually, what she’d said was that she’d rather eat dirt, which amounted to the same thing, albeit in less polite terms. Pretty irate himself and feeling perfectly justified in pointing out that she had no business hobnobbing with adult guests in their private quarters, he’d made her grilled cheese sandwiches and left her to sulk at home. Pity she was missing out on her favorite crab chowder, though. Not that she’d exactly starve on grilled cheese, but still…

“Oh, what the hell!” Exasperated, he filled a bowl with soup, swiped some bread, cheese and fruit, and piled the whole lot on a tray. “If I dithered like this in business, I’d be in bankruptcy court within the year,” he muttered, heading for the door.

But parenting refused to be cut and dried. Too often, he simply didn’t know the best route to take, and as Mel grew older and less tractable, he found himself wondering if he was up to the job of bringing up a daughter single-handedly. He wasn’t exactly famous for his insight into the female psyche, after all.

It was still snowing lightly when he went outside a few minutes later, but a smattering of stars now showed through the ragged cloud cover. The air was sharp as crystal, filled with the scent of pine and fir and wood smoke, and quiet as a church.

He paused a moment at the top of the main lodge steps, just to inhale the fragrant peace. This was what he’d worked for, for the last twelve years and he was nuts to let anything spoil the pleasure of his achievement. The holidays were almost here, more than thirty feet of snow had fallen already, and it would take a lot more than a spat over a temporary guest to come between him and his daughter and spoil their Christmas together.

The easiest route to the house was by the path which was always kept plowed for the convenience of visitors, but for anyone familiar with the lay of the land, the fastest way was to hike through the trees and come out on the other side of the property near the hot tub.

Rapping on the family room window as he passed by, he called out, “It’s only me, honey.”

“How come you’re back so soon?” Mel asked, letting him in the side door. “I thought you were staying at the lodge for dinner.”

“I brought you a few treats,” he said, setting the tray on the kitchen table.

“No, thanks.” Barely glancing at it, she returned to the couch and plunked herself back in front of the TV. “I already had some.”

“I hardly call grilled cheese sandwiches special,” he said, determined not to let the rift widen between them. “Come on, Mel, at least look at what I’ve brought for you.”

“Honestly, Dad, I’m not hungry.” She indicated the crumbs left on the plate beside her. “Claire already brought me some snacks from the cocktail party.”

“Why did she feel the need to do that?” he asked evenly.

“She felt sorry for me being left up here all by myself. She doesn’t think I have enough fun.”

“Is that a fact?” he said, wondering how high a man’s blood pressure could go before he fell victim to a sudden stroke or heart attack. “And does she also think you’re half-starved? Is that why she brought you extra food?”

Mel shrugged. “I dunno. She didn’t give a reason.”

Not to you, perhaps, he fumed, but she’ll damned well explain herself to me! Aloud, he said, “I thought we had a rule, Mel. You don’t open the door to strangers.”

“She’s not a stranger, she’s my friend.”

“You can’t possibly know that on such short acquaintance.”

His daughter might still have the face of a child but the eyes she turned his way were full of mysterious female wisdom. “Time doesn’t have anything to do with it, Dad. Sometimes, two people just click.”

Oh, brother! Helplessly, he ran a hand through his hair. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. Right now, I want your word that you’re not going to open that door to anyone else tonight. I won’t be late and I’ll let myself in when I come home.”

She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you want me in bed by nine, as well?”

“Keep up the smart mouth, miss, and you’ll be in bed by eight!”

Sudden tears glittered in her eyes and her chin trembled uncontrollably. “On the other hand,” he went on, utterly defeated, “it is Christmas and I did say you could stay up until ten. Just don’t push your luck, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

He buried a sigh and tramping back the way he’d come, wondered if any other word in the English language was calculated to melt a man’s heart the way “daddy” did. He’d walk through fire for his little girl; slay dragons, battle monsters and lay down his life for her, if he had to. What he wouldn’t do, though, was stand aside and let the busy-body from next door march in and take over.

“One moment, Miss Durocher,” he said, coming into the lounge and cornering her as the rest of the guests began drifting toward the dining room. “I’ve got something I’d like to say to you.”

“Really?” she said, in the sort of surprised tone that suggested she didn’t think him capable of stringing together more than two words at a stretch.

Somehow, up close, her jumpsuit didn’t seem quite as daring. Just very…attractive. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Specifically, I want to know on whose authority you decided to take a hand in my daughter’s upbringing.”

She had quite the most extraordinary eyes he’d ever come across. Large and gray, and enhanced by lashes that were almost certainly not her own, they dominated her delicate face. They focused on him now with the intent curiosity of a scientist inspecting a new, rather low form of alien life. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Then let me be more direct. Butt out of my business, particularly as it relates to Melanie.”

She blinked, doing a slow-motion sweep with those ridiculous lashes in such a way that she managed to turn a perfectly ordinary action into something absurdly distracting. “Is this because I invited her to visit me in my chalet, or because I thought to share a few of my excellent hors d’oeuvres with her?”

“Both,” he snapped.

“But why? Where’s the harm?”

“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 authority. And most of all, I distract you. You pretend to ignore me yet all the time, you’re watching me. You’re like a moth drawn to my flame.”

This time, his laughter was genuine, rolling out into the night like fire-warmed cognac. “You flatter yourself, Miss Durocher.”

“And you call me miss, but refer to everyone else by their first names.”

“You call me mister,” he sneered. “Should I take that to mean you’re irresistibly drawn to my flame, too?”

They had reached the house. The steps which gave onto the veranda were so treacherous with crystals of new-fallen snow that, by accident, she stumbled against him. And because, despite his brusque manner, he was at heart a gentleman, he caught her securely by the arm and attempted to steady her.

But he hated having to do it and pushed her away too abruptly. At that, they both lost their footing and for a moment slithered together in graceless confusion, clutching at empty air, before landing in the deep snow piled beside the path.

It was fluffy as goose down, cushioning their fall at the same time that it imprisoned them in its softness. Try though he might to extricate himself with dignity from the hollow they’d created when they fell, he could find no purchase. Snowflakes clung to his hair, slid inside the collar of his jacket, swallowed his feet.

“You did that on purpose!” he said, infuriated by the gurgle of amusement which escaped her.

Batting her eyelashes and trying hard to look properly rebuked, she murmured, “But how is that possible? You are so big and strong and I am but a weak little woman! Zachary, you give me too much credit.”

They were half-lying together, so closely that the fog of his breath touched sweetly against her face. So closely that she saw how his gaze lingered on her laughing mouth.

A strange longing swept over her at that, a sense almost of confronting a destiny so full of promise that not to nurture it was to waste a gift from the gods. She could have forgiven him his surliness then, and might even have dared to let him see the uncertain, tender side of her which she too often hid for fear of being laughed at, if he had shown her a little gentleness.

But he did not. Instead, he hauled himself upright and growled, “Save that routine for some other fool. It’s wasted on me.”

“Zut!” she exclaimed, and spat out a mouthful of snow. “I was teasing you, for heaven’s sake! Is that any reason to leave me here to freeze? Come, Zachary, surely even you wouldn’t stoop so low?”

He let out such an explosive breath of annoyance that, for a moment, she wondered if he might go so far as to bury her and hope no one found her until the spring thaw. But the reluctant knight in him came to the fore. With ill-concealed exasperation, he leaned down, grabbed her hand and yanked her clear of the snowbank. Did it so forcefully that she found herself flying through the air and coming to rest pressed up against his formidable frame with the breath knocked out of her.

They remained so for a small eternity, knee to knee and breast to breast, he panting a little and she gasping. So close were they that she could feel his heart thumping through the layers of his clothing. Or was it hers suddenly running amok? Because, this near, he was even more beautiful than at a distance. Such smooth olive skin he had, such elegance of design in the angled slash of his cheekbones, such strength of character in the iron set of his jaw.

I could enjoy being kissed by him, she’d thought dreamily, and felt herself swaying toward him. How heavy her eyelids had felt all at once, how languorous her limbs.

That was when he’d almost kissed her. His mouth had hovered so close to hers that the outline of his face had blurred in her vision. She could almost taste the cold firm texture of his lips. She even went so far as to lift a hand to caress his cheek.

Wary creature that he was, though, he saw the danger and reared back. “Why did you have to come here for Christmas? Why couldn’t you have stayed in Switzerland, the farther away from me, the better.”

She flinched at such an attack. “What is it about me that irritates you so much?”

“As if you don’t know!” Sudden color slashed his high cheekbones, matched by the light of awareness in his eyes of a man confronting dangerous temptation. “Just keep away from me before I give you what you’re asking for,” he growled and, surefooted despite the icy conditions, took the steps two at a time.

Without waiting to see if she made it safely inside hers, he’d disappeared through his own front door as if he were escaping a fate too treacherous to be endured….



Just then, a swath of lamplight spilled out from next door and flung a reflection against her window. The clock on the bedside table showed six-thirty. Already thoroughly awake, Claire threw back the comforter, slipped into her robe and went into the main salon, the living room as they called it in Canada.

Although the fire had burned low, enough embers remained for a handful of kindling to revive them. She threw in another log, turned on the stereo, and then, since breakfast would not be served in the lodge for at least another hour, she plugged in the coffeemaker before heading for the shower.

When she returned to the room some forty-five minutes later, the fire was blazing merrily and the air laced with the aroma of French roasted coffee. Pouring a cup, she carried it to the window and drew back the curtains.

“Oh, but this is magnificent…!” she breathed, staring out in wonder.

Not a thing remained of yesterday’s gray gloom. Overnight, the cloud had lifted and left the sky a pale and tender mauve against which the stars winked faintly. This side of the house, she realized, also looked out on the frozen lake and, as she watched, the still invisible sun cast a rosy stain on the tips of the mountain ridge on the east horizon.

It had snowed a little more during the night, an inch or two only, just enough to lay an unblemished veil of white over a small lower deck where, she noticed for the first time, stood a whirlpool encircled in glass to protect bathers from the wind.

Clasping her coffee cup in both hands, she gave a little sigh of pleasure. This was what she’d hoped to find when she’d fled Europe: a northern paradise, peaceful, remote, pristine, and just a little intimidating in its untamed splendor.

All at once, a movement caught her eye as a door opened in the other part of the house and Zachary Alexander stepped into view. From behind the curtains, Claire watched as he went down to the whirlpool and lifted its cover.

At once, clouds of steam escaped and hung motionless in the still air. Stooping, he pulled a thermometer from the water and inspected it then, seeming satisfied, dropped it back into the tub and replaced the cover. But instead of returning to the house, he stood with his back to the building and surveyed his tiny kingdom.

What a sight he made! Slim-fitting black slacks hugged his long, strong legs, a heavy black sweater decorated with a single red racing stripe showcased his broad shoulders, and beneath it, in dazzling contrast to his deep winter tan, he wore a white shirt.

Idly, he pushed back a lock of hair which had fallen across his brow as he bent over the spa, then flung a glance over his shoulder as if he knew he was being watched. Instinctively, Claire ducked behind the curtain only to realize a second later that it was not at her that he was looking but at Melanie who, wearing only a pair of boots and her pajamas, had come out to speak to her father.

Claire couldn’t hear what was said but it was obvious that, whatever the topic, he wasn’t prepared to discuss it in the snow. Loping up the steps, he hurried his daughter inside. The outer door closed, followed by the slamming of another door which even the thick inner walls of the building couldn’t quite muffle. And then voices, the father’s deep and calm, but the girl’s high and angry.

A few minutes later, Claire saw him leave again, this time by the front door, and strike out along the path toward the lodge. Apparently discouraged by his altercation with Melanie, he strode along, head down and shoulders hunched despondently.

Astonishingly, Claire felt a stab of pity for the man. Whatever his faults, and clearly he had many, he was obviously devoted to his child. At the same time, he seemed at a loss to know how best to deal with her, and who could wonder? Trying to fill the role of both parents was difficult enough, but to be the father at odds with a teenage girl…!

And Melanie herself, how alone and confused she must feel, half-child and half-adult as she was, and not sure in which world she truly belonged. Perhaps it would help if she could talk to another woman. Hadn’t she admitted as much, just yesterday?

Slipping on her jacket, Claire stepped outside and knocked on the other front door. “What are your plans for the morning?” she asked, when Melanie answered. “Can you spare a little time for a new friend and teach her which runs are the best for skiing?”

Ten minutes later, they were on their way to the lodge for breakfast. “You look so cool, the way you dress and do your hair, and stuff,” Melanie said, gazing at her admiringly. “And the way you talk—sort of like French women do in the movies. I don’t know what I can teach you. You must know just about everything.”

“Not everything, ma petite, but enough to see that you’re not always as happy as you should be. For instance, when you opened the door to me just now, you looked very sad.”

“I had another fight with my dad.” She made a droll face. “We fight every day lately, mostly because I want to go to boarding school and he wants to keep me stuck here in the valley where he can keep an eye on me.”

“That’s natural enough, surely? Most fathers want to protect their daughters.”

“You mean, you had the same trouble with your dad when you were thirteen?”

The question caught Claire off guard. “My father was…not there then. I had only my mother.”

“Uh-oh!” Sensitive to Claire’s changed tone, Melanie looked apprehensive. “Sorry if I said something I shouldn’t.”

“You didn’t. I grew up without a father, that’s all. Just as you are having to grow up without your mother.”

At the mention of her mother, Melanie’s mouth drooped sadly. Cursing herself for not thinking before she spoke, Claire slipped her arm around the child’s narrow shoulders. “You miss her very much, don’t you, darling?”

“Yeah, especially at Christmas.”

“I’m sure she misses you, too, and wishes she could be with you.”

“You think so?” The eyes were huge and much too bereft for one so young.

“I’m certain of it. A mother never willingly forsakes her babies, no matter where they might be or how old they are.”

It wasn’t true, of course. If it were, surely her own childhood would have been different. But how could she destroy Melanie with such knowledge? Better to tell a little lie, especially when it produced such a shining smile.



What with the almost daily influx of new guests and the final countdown to Christmas, the rest of the week was even busier than usual, leaving Zach with little time to spare. For that reason alone, he ought to have been grateful that Mel had found someone to keep her company while he attended to business. Instead, he found himself seething with resentment.

Any time he was able to spend with his daughter always followed the same pattern. She’d bombard him with everything there was to know about Claire Durocher, all delivered with the sort of rapt attention to detail of a kid with a serious case of hero worship. Claire thinks…Claire says…Claire knows…Claire’s met…Claire’s got…

The plain truth was, he’d had it up to here with Claire Durocher and her opinions. She could be kissing cousins with every royal house in Europe for all he cared. She still didn’t have a clue when it came to what was best for his daughter.

He was sick of seeing Mel joined at the hip with the woman. Trying to pry her loose was worse than scraping barnacles off a rock and damn it, he shouldn’t have to try! He was her father, he had rights—but who cared? Not that infernal French creature! It had taken God seven days to make the world but she’d only needed five to turn it on its ear!

“She burns my wires!” he’d exploded to McBride, at one point.

“That ain’t all she’s burnin’,” McBride had chortled. “You got the hots for the woman, but you’re too dang stubborn to admit it.”

It wasn’t true. And even if it were, he came too saddled with responsibility to capture the lasting attention of a woman like Claire Durocher. Nor was he prepared to stand by and watch her wreak havoc on Mel’s life.

Which was why, on the morning of the twenty-third, he stood hidden by the potted Norfolk Island pine just inside the door of the foyer, feeling like a two-bit spy in a third-rate movie as he watched the two of them deep in conversation as they approached the lodge. What secrets were they sharing? And why did Mel find it so easy to confide in a total stranger instead of him?

A feeling he was becoming all too familiar with caught him off guard again, stabbing at him with gleeful spite. Jealousy, that’s what it was, and it had begun the day Claire Durocher had marched into their lives in her smart little Italian leather après-ski boots and taken up her spot at center stage. But the disturbing question was, of whom was he jealous? The woman—or his daughter?

The question lodged in his stomach with all the comfort of a lead cannonball. The notion was ridiculous! And he was a fool to waste a moment of his valuable time debating its validity.

They came bounding up the steps just then, giggling like a pair of kids. Mel’s coltish awkwardness was disguised by her down parka and calf-high boots, and the other one looked elegant as a dancer in her fancy European duds.

He watched, and he hated the pettiness Claire Durocher brought out in him. When was the last time Mel had looked at him like that, as if the sun rose and set on his slightest word? When had her expression last been so open and eager?

Claire Durocher caught sight of him and trilled a sunny “Bonjour!” as if she was quite used to finding grown men hiding behind strategically placed potted Norfolk Island pines.

“Good morning,” he acknowledged, trying to match her breezy informality, and winced at the way his words tumbled out stiff with resentment. He’d never thought himself a possessive man but there was no denying the reason he reached for Melanie and drew her away from her new friend and into the curve of his arm. “Hi, sweetheart. I was looking forward to having a quiet breakfast with you, but you’re kind of late and I’m a bit pressed for time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, wriggling away from him. “I’ve got Claire to keep me company.”

The effort nearly choked him but he managed to bare his teeth in a smile. “Just as well, because I’ve already eaten and I’m meeting McBride down at the stable in a few minutes. But maybe we can team up for a couple of runs down the back hill before lunch.”

“We? You mean, you and me and Claire?”

The hollandaise sauce on the eggs Benedict he’d eaten half an hour before must have been off. Why else did he feel like throwing up? “If you like.”




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