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“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.