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“You’re cooking breakfast?” Camille asked incredulously.
“Sure,” he shrugged. “Why not? I’m not helpless.” He sounded indignant. “How do you like your eggs?” he repeated with distinct enunciation on each word.
“Scrambled,” she answered with a smile and crossed to the counter to pour a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker plugged into the wall.
He turned toward the stove and asked over his shoulder, “Firm or soft?”
“Firm,” she replied. “Very.” He scowled, lowering his thick eyebrows in mock distaste as he looked at her.
“I’ll take mine out first,” he growled as he began breaking eggs into a bowl. “I’m sorry there will be no grits this morning. Every time I try to cook them, I let them cook too dry and they get gummy. Then Dearly scolds me when she has to clean the pan.” Camille laughed.
The aroma of fried bacon and baking biscuits filled the kitchen as Camille set the table for them. Zack explained that Dearly had gone to visit a sick friend, and Simon was upstairs with Rayburn. The silence in the house along with the heavy rain outside encapsulated them in a private world, and Camille smiled as she imagined that this was what it would be like if they had met under different circumstances and fallen in love and married. They could have shared many mornings like this. There may have even been a baby by now. She wasn’t aware of the revealing, tender expression on her face as she stared at Zack’s back until he turned from the range holding a plateful of fluffy eggs and caught her at her musings.
He grinned wickedly as he set the platter down on the small table and threw his leg over the back of the chair and sat down. “I don’t know what the fantasy is, but I wish to hell I was in on it. It looks damned pleasant.”
Camille made a big production of buttering her featherlight biscuit and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I… uh… I was just anticipating what I’ll find in the attic today.”
“Liar,” he whispered softly. The intimacy in his voice made her fingers tremble, and she dropped her knife onto her plate with a loud clatter.
They ate in silence for a few minutes and Camille complimented him on his cooking. When she was finished and began gathering up the plate and cutlery, he surprised her by saying, “I’ll do the dishes. I need another cup of coffee anyway. Have a good day in the attic.”
She left the warm ambience of the kitchen while Zack still sat at the table, absently sipping on a cup of scalding coffee.
The entrance to the attic was in the room that Rayburn referred to with stubborn optimism as the nursery. Camille stopped in front of his door and knocked timidly. Simon answered and Camille warned that she would be overhead and for them not to worry if they heard thumping and bumping. Rayburn called out a “good morning” from across the room. Simon shut the door as Camille went into the other room.
The stairs leading to the attic were in a closet. Camille bravely climbed them, brushing spider webs aside as she encountered them. She opened the attic door and reached for the light switch where Simon had told her she would find it. She located it by feel, for the attic had no windows and the darkness in front of her was complete. At a flick of her wrist, the attic was bathed with light from a naked bulb suspended on a dangling cord.
The room, for that was what it was, ran almost the length of the house. Trunks and luggage were stacked against one wall under the eaves, and boxes of every size were scattered with some semblance of order around the room. Shelves lined one wall, and they were loaded with packing crates, most of them labeled with an inventory of their contents. Most of the furniture was shrouded with dust sheets, and Camille could only guess at what was underneath the covers. Apparently, this was going to be quite a chore.
Impatiently brushing back a few strands of hair curling around her cheek, she got to work. After reaching for several boxes on the lower shelves, her blouse came out of the waistband of her jeans. She tied the ends of it in a knot across her stomach.
The first few boxes she opened contained bric-a-brac that was not all that impressive, and she didn’t discover any hidden treasures. She did find some crystal bowls that could be used in the dining room once they were washed and sparkling again. She sat that box aside.
As she reached for another, she noticed that the storm outside had intensified. Rain pounded on the roof directly over her head, and there was a crash of thunder nearby. She was reaching for a box on one of the higher shelves when a voice behind her commanded that she not try it.
“You might hurt yourself. I’ll get it for you,” Zack offered as he crossed the floor.
“You scared me!” she cried, wondering how he had climbed the stairs without her hearing him and then remembered the loud commotion of the storm. She didn’t want him to know how keenly his appearance affected her. “Why did you sneak up on me like that? And I can get the box myself!” she declared stubbornly and turned to reach for the box again. She raised her arms over her head and her fingers just touched the edge of the shelf when she felt Zack’s hard chest press into her back. He leaned forward and his strong hands reached beyond hers toward the box. Instead of grasping it, as she expected him to do, his hands closed over hers, imprisoning her in his arms. With her arms raised as they were, and him so uncomfortably close against her back, it was a very vulnerable position she found herself in. She was just about to tell him what she thought of his superior attitude when a loud crack of lightning striking nearby split the atmosphere, and the attic was plunged into complete darkness as the electric light went out.
Camille stifled a small scream.
“It’s okay. Everything’s fine. There’s no need to panic. I’m here with you.”
Zack’s voice was calm, but Camille wanted to laugh at his reassuring words. Little did he know that she would not have been nearly so frightened had he not been here with her. It was his overwhelming, masculine presence behind her in the darkness that frightened her so.
The large brown hands covering hers relieved their pressure somewhat but began a slow stroking motion up her arms to her shoulders. He massaged them for a moment, concentrating on the base of her neck, then moved his hands tantalizingly down her sides before clasping them around her and resting them on her bare stomach.
The breath stirring Camille’s hair was ragged, and the lips planting small kisses on the nape of her neck were compelling. One hand flattened against her stomach while the other slipped into the waistband of her jeans where his thumb caressed her navel with a hypnotizing laziness.
“Camille,” he groaned as he untied the knot holding her shirt tight under her breasts. His mouth moved from her ear to her cheek and kissed the corner of her mouth while breathing her name. Camille, with a tickling sensation fluttering in the lower part of her body, turned toward him, softly calling his name. Of their own volition, her arms went around his neck, bringing his face down to hers as their lips sought each other in the darkness.
Their bodies moved together as his mouth fastened on hers. She matched his ardor, tasting him, smelling the unique scent that was Zack, feeling the silkiness of his burnished hair as she clenched her fingers in it.
He slipped one hand to her hips and drew her closer, forcing her to recognize the power of his desire. She trembled as she realized that hers was just as great.
He reached behind his neck and captured one of her hands. Camille felt his tongue in her palm and the warm breath on her wrist before he placed her hand against his chest and hoarsely insisted, “Touch me, Camille.”
She hesitated only a moment before she lay her head against his chest while she unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt and slipped her hand inside. Her fingers danced lightly over the mat of hair and then, as she became more confident, explored the hardness of the muscles underneath.
