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“Too much, I’m afraid. Between that lunch and Dearly’s Southern cooking, I’m going to be very plump any day now.” She was laughing, but she suddenly remembered what he had said the first time she had mentioned her weight. He had commented that she could stand to gain some. She slid her eyes to him, and, to her acute embarrassment, he obviously remembered, too.
“I’d say that the few pounds you’ve gained have all gone to the right places.” His grin was comically lecherous, and she blushed under her apricot complexion. He laughed good-naturedly and reached over to give her knee a playful slap, but Camille caught her breath as his fingers lingered there for an instant longer.
They drove through other areas of Natchez and passed one mansion after another. Camille remarked on how lyrical the names of the home-sites were—Auburn, D’Evereux, Fair Oaks, Dunleith, Hawthorne, Mount Repose, and on and on. Each home was distinctive in design and character. Some looked like little more than lovely farmhouses, while others were rich with the flavor of Southern colonial architecture and complete with the columns depicting Greek revival design, as Bridal Wreath did.
“I love the grounds surrounding these homes as much as the houses themselves. The oaks, magnolias, willows—oh, they’re lovely. It must be gorgeous in the spring when the azaleas, dogwood, forsythia, and wisteria are blooming. Not to mention the bridal wreath!” she added emphatically.
“Yes, it is,” Zack confirmed. “It’s a shame that the blooms don’t last any longer than they do. But, if they did, I guess they wouldn’t be special. Have you ever seen Longwood?”
“That’s the mansion shaped like an octagon, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It was never finished. Only the ground floor. It’s stood empty all these years. I think they started construction on it in 1858 and by 1861 it still wasn’t completed.”
“It’s sad to think that someone put all of his time and effort into a house and then it was wasted. No one ever shared it. I’d much rather have a smaller house with a lot of people in it than a large one that’s deserted.”
“I think I’ve just figured you out, Miss Jameson. You like a place with a yard full of trees and a house full of people.” He looked over at her. “Am I right?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“I’ve given myself away, haven’t I,” she replied, smiling. “I suppose it comes from not having any siblings. An only child can be a very lonely person.”
“Then we have that in common, don’t we, Camille?” His tone was soft, confidential, and stirring, and Camille looked at him tenderly, answering him with an affirmative nod.
She felt warm and contented. The day had been wonderful. She exulted in being alone with him. As they meandered toward Bridal Wreath, Camille snuggled down deeper in the cracked upholstery of the pickup, unmindful of it as she basked in her newly discovered love for Zack and hoping that his attitude toward her today meant that he was changing his feelings about her. He had been gracious, kind, charming, and almost affectionate. Maybe there was hope for them yet. For two years no other man had been able to exorcise the memory of Zack from her mind. Was it remotely possible that Zack could recall their night together with anything other than bitterness? Would he also remember the bliss they had shared?
They turned into the driveway and bounced over the bumpy surface toward the house. “If I may be so critical, Mr. Prescott, I think it would behoove you to have this road black-topped.”
“Oh, you think so, Miss Jameson?” he asked in a haughty manner. Then he grinned and winked at her. “You are exactly right!”
The brakes on the pickup squealed loudly as he applied them. He cut the ignition, silencing the chugging motor and the radio. The sudden stillness added to the indolent atmosphere. The western sun cast long shadows on the lawn and glided the red and orange autumn leaves of the trees, giving them the appearance of living flames. The air outside was chilly, but the interior of the pickup was warm.
Neither Camille nor Zack moved. They sat silent and close in the narrow confines of the cab. It was intimacy without speaking, without touching. Each savored this quiet privacy, the breathless proximity of the other’s body.
As if operating on a synchronized time mechanism, their heads turned to face one another. Slowly, Zack reached across the cab and touched her haloed hair lightly, then moved his hand to cup her cheek. She watched his eyes as they studied her intently. Like two cerulean magnets they held her captive as they started at the top of her head, moved across her own wide, swimming eyes, down her nose and lingered on her parted lips. They shifted to her throat, the base of her neck where she felt her pulse throbbing, and then rested on her breasts. Her nipples were taut and tingling, straining against the soft cotton of her shirt.
Zack’s eyes came back to her mouth. His thumb caressed her trembling lips, pressing her bottom lip down gently and raking her lower teeth. “I haven’t forgotten it, Camille. I remember vividly how it was with us.” His voice was a caress, soft and persuasive and disturbingly honest. He placed his other hand over her left breast and applied gentle pressure. “I feel your heartbeat. You remember it, too.”
He crushed her against him, trapping his hand between their bodies. She expected his lips to be as fierce in their possession as his embrace, but they were soft, sensuously teasing her mouth with sipping kisses. He probed her lips with his tongue, but when they were parted, he didn’t penetrate them. He settled his lips at the corner of her mouth, and she whispered his name urgently, almost frantically.
His restraint failed him, and he covered her mouth with his own. His tongue met hers with a velvet roughness. The fingers imprisoned between their chests managed to stir her to new heights of sensations. Unconsciously, Camille arched against him, presenting him with easier access to her body. His hands followed its contours while his mouth continued its pleasurable demands. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, breathing harshly, and rasped, “Camille. Camille, you’ve bewitched me. Ever since Snow Bird—”
The blast of a car horn caused them both to jump and scramble apart. Zack uttered an expletive under his breath that Camille had never even heard verbalized. When he saw a sleek, silver Porsche pull up beside the pickup, he mumbled another curse and opened his door and stepped down. Left to her own devices, Camille made a hurried, shaken effort to straighten her clothes and smooth her hair before she alighted from the cab.
“Darl
ing, I’m so glad I found you at home,” said the tall blond woman posed against the sports car. Camille recognized her immediately as the one whom Zack had escorted to the football game the evening before. She was dressed in a rose-colored knit dress, kid pumps, and a paisley scarf that was tied around her neck with just the right touch of careful negligence.
“Hello, Erica. What brings you out here looking for me?” Zack’s voice was friendly enough, but Camille thought she detected a hint of irritation.
“Come and give me a proper greeting and then I’ll tell you,” the woman purred as Zack put both hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him, giving her a sound kiss on her voluptuous mouth. Camille’s heart fell to the ground, and she wished she could flee to the solitude of the dowager house without being seen. That wish was dashed when Zack turned away from Erica and indicated Camille with his hand. “Erica, this is Camille Jameson. She is redecorating Bridal Wreath for us. Camille, Erica Hazelett.”
“Hello, Mrs. Hazelett,” Camille said with little enthusiasm. Under Erica’s scrutiny, she was abashedly aware of her casual and comfortable attire. Her hair lay in tumbled curls after Zack’s ardent embrace. Were her lips as bruised and swollen after his kisses as they felt? She felt very gauche compared to this immaculate woman.
Erica greeted her in kind and then remarked, “I don’t know why Zack found it necessary to hire a decorator to redo Bridal Wreath when he knows that for years I have wanted to get my hands on it and have even gone as far as to offer my services for that task.”
“I’m sure you would have done a good job, Mrs. Hazelett, but it wasn’t Zack who hired me. It was his father.”
“And we know, dear, that Dad doesn’t think too much of your taste,” Zack quipped, and Erica’s lovely mouth tightened into a grim line of exasperation.
“Well, if Miss Jameson is decorating it according to your father’s taste, then I can’t wait to see it when she’s finished,” she said caustically.
