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‘Take all the time you need.’ His voice floated after her. ‘We’ve the whole weekend to relax and take things easy.’
Once in the bathroom, Rachel locked the door and then stood for some moments surveying herself in the mirror, trying to see what Zac said he saw. She shook her head in defeat. Admittedly she wouldn’t exactly frighten little children but, that having been said, she was remarkably insignificant. Unbidden, a memory from the past flashed into her head. She was eight years old and it was her birthday, and she’d come down to breakfast to find a pile of presents waiting for her. One had been from a distant aunt and she’d gasped with delight when she’d unwrapped a cashmere scarf and hat in a soft dusky pink, the rim of the hat and the fringes of the scarf scattered with hundreds of tiny seed pearls.
Lisa and Claire had oohed and ahhed over the gift with her, and a little while later when she had carried a few of the dirty breakfast dishes through to the kitchen she had heard her mother and one of her sisters talking. Catching her name, she’d paused before pushing open the slightly ajar door.
‘Of course you can have Aunty Mary’s hat and scarf, darling, it would be totally wasted on Rachel,’ her mother had said, not even bothering to lower her voice. ‘Her plain little face under that beautiful cashmere would look simply ridiculous, I can’t think why Mary sent it to her. I’d told your aunt she needed some new vests and pants or socks, something serviceable.’
Rachel stared into the mirror, seeing the eight-year-old child who had been so upset that day. It had been one of the few occasions when she’d stood up to her mother, probably why the incident—one of many of the same type—had remained at the back of her mind. She’d opened the door and slammed the dishes onto the breakfast bar, stating that the scarf and hat were hers and she had no intention of giving them to her sister. And if her mother took them, she’d shouted, she would write to her Aunty Mary and tell her what her mother had said.
The row that had followed had been bitter and acrimonious but she had kept the hat and scarf. Every time she’d worn them though she had remembered her mother’s words and suffered agonies of embarrassment at what people must be thinking when they looked at her. Eventually she’d stuffed the exquisite items at the back of her wardrobe where they’d remained hidden until the day she’d packed to leave home. She’d reverted to wearing her old hat and scarf which her mother had bought in a dingy brown colour, the wool coarse and scratchy.
It had been a long, long time since she had shed any tears over her mother’s treatment of her—she’d grown to accept her mother simply hadn’t liked her youngest daughter when she’d still been at school, and with the acceptance had come a measure of self-protection. Now, as tears pricked the back of her eyes, she wasn’t crying for the love she’d never had from her mother but for the hurt, bewildered little mouse of a child she’d been in those far-off days.
She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand, angry with herself for going down a road she’d long since marked closed in her mind. And she had done OK after all. She’d had her beloved grandma and their relationship had always been very special; some children don’t have anyone. One thing was for sure, her children, if she had any, would know they were loved and adored regardless of their looks or intelligence.
Pulling herself together, she stripped off and had a quick shower, getting dressed again after moisturising all over. She applied just a smidgen of make-up—a dusting of eye shadow and one coat of mascara—before brushing her hair until it hung either side of her face like raw silk. If Zac really did think her hair was lovely—if—she’d wear it down this weekend. With little Miss Come-to-Bed Walker on the scene, she needed all the help she could get.
As the thought hit, she shook her head at herself. Did it really matter whether she wore her hair up or down, for goodness’ sake? Zac was so far out of her league it was laughable. She knew that, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it this weekend. And—the trace of a smile touched her lips—it was her sharing the room at the top of the inn with him, not the beautiful blonde.
Breakfast proved to be terrific—according to Zac. Not that Rachel disagreed. An array of different cereals and fruit was followed by the best cooked breakfast she’d ever had. The caramelised red onion sausages, tender bacon steaks, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns, fried onions and eggs done any way you liked were out of this world, and she discovered her almost sleepless night had given her a ravenous appetite. After she’d cleared her plate and had had two rounds of hot buttered toast, she relaxed back in her chair feeling at least two stone heavier.
‘Whatever’s on the agenda at Martin’s place, it couldn’t compete with this.’ Zac grinned at her. He’d eaten twice as much as her but didn’t appear to be feeling in the least over full. ‘The food more than makes up for Gulliver’s room.’
As he finished speaking, the blonde walker appeared at his elbow, favouring Rachel with a cursory smile before concentrating her charms on Zac. She was wearing the same jeans as the night before but her top was lower and tighter, clinging to her ample breasts like a second skin. ‘We’re going to have a snowball fight…’ she dimpled ‘…and then split into two teams to see who can build the best snowman. Fancy joining us? It’ll be fun.’
Oh, yeah, wanna bet? Rachel held onto the smile with considerable effort. The girl really was brazen.
‘I think we were planning some fun of our own,’ Zac said lazily, ‘but thanks for the offer.’
‘Oh.’ The blonde clearly wasn’t used to being turned down. Twice. But she recovered fast. She had youth on her side after all. ‘Catch you later, then.’
Bring it out into the open. Make a joke of it. Once the blonde had tripped away to join her group, Rachel said drily, ‘She fancies you. And I bet her room has a normal ceiling.’
He didn’t prevaricate. ‘No chance.’ The golden eyes were deadly serious. ‘I’m with you, which is exactly where I want to be, Gulliver’s room and all.’
Part of her was hugely gratified, the other part asked why—when he’d so carefully pointed out there was no chance for them whatsoever—he was saying such beautiful things. It didn’t make her feel good—well, it did, but not completely, not in an I’ve-been-waiting-for-this-moment-all-of-my-life way. ‘Thank you,’ she said flatly.
‘You could have said that as though you meant it.’
She looked at him, a straight look. ‘Zac, I’ve had no experience in these kinds of situations,’ she said baldly. ‘I guess I don’t know how to play the game.’
One dark eyebrow rose. ‘To be perfectly truthful, this is a first for me. I promise you, I’ve never brought a woman away for the weekend, slept in the same bed and not made love.’
She didn’t want to think about all the other women he’d had. Her tone severe, she said, ‘You know what I mean.’
‘You mean we should treat each other like a maiden aunt or a fusty old uncle?’ He grinned at her. ‘I would find that very difficult, Rachel.’
She stared at him helplessly, annoyed with herself that she never won in their verbal sparring. He was so very much the man of the world, so c
onfident and sure of himself that he made her feel seven instead of twenty-seven. And yet last night, when he’d told her about the baby son he’d loved and lost, he had been different. It may have been dark but she had been able to sense something of the hidden Zac, the man no one was allowed to see or get near. His wife had betrayed him and their marriage had been a sham from start to finish—what had that done to a proud young man just starting out in life?
Blinking, she broke the hold of the tawny gaze by reaching out for her coffee cup and swallowing the last mouthful of now tepid liquid. It was only then she said, ‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. I just don’t think it’s particularly helpful for you to…’ Her voice trailed away. She didn’t know how to put it.
‘Say I want to be with you? But I do. Very much.’
He was being deliberately awkward. She met the dancing eyes and in spite of herself had to smile. He was impossible.
A gust of laughter from the walkers as one member of the party threw a piece of toast at another, only to have it promptly returned in like manner, brought Zac rising to his feet. ‘Shall we go?’ he said, taking her arm with a coolly disapproving glance at the others. ‘The children are getting out of hand.’
