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“They do look outstanding. I’ve never seen any larger, and I’ll bet they taste just as good as they look.”
He beamed. “We’ll have some for dinner. I’m rather proud of them. I enjoy growing food, but I love my flowers, too.”
Camille glanced around at the myriad flowerbeds, hanging baskets, and urns, each boasting its own variety of flowering plant. They bloomed in profusion, in a rainbow of colors. The ferns growing in wire baskets hanging from the branches of trees by long chains were lush and three times Camille’s arm span. It looked like a tropical paradise.
“I think you’ll miss working outdoors when the weather starts growing cooler, won’t you?” she asked perceptively.
He nodded his white head. “Yes, but then Simon and I work on our house plants. We take most of these ferns and tropicals inside. Zack accuses me of trying to move him out when the house is so crowded with plants.” He offered her more lemonade, but she declined. He was so generous and sweet. How was she going to do what she must gracefully?
He had referred to Zack by name three times since they had sat down. Why hadn’t he mentioned him in Atlanta? She would have known the name readily enough, for it was never far from her thoughts. She could have contrived some excuse to refuse the job and avoided any unpleasantness.
She was perspiring and could feel her hair escaping the small amount of control she had sprayed on it earlier from an aerosol can. She must look frightful. Her nervousness at what she had to tell him didn’t help. She licked her lips and raised her eyes to his. “Mr. Prescott, I’m afraid there’s something—”
“There you are, Zack! Come meet our house-guest.” Rayburn Prescott’s eyes were looking over her head and she heard the unmistakable tread of cowboy boots coming closer.
“Camille Jameson, I want you to meet my son, Zack.”
Camille was studying the purse clutched tightly in her lap, but glanced up at the man who stood so close to her chair. “We met, Dad.” Zack paused significantly, then added, “Out in the hallway.”
“Good, good. Would you like some lemonade?”
“Yes, please. It’s hotter than—”
“Zack! Remember we’re going to have a lady around here from now on,” Rayburn chided him.
“Of course. Please excuse me.” Zack executed a mocking bow to Camille. “Aren’t you warm, Miss Jameson? Let me help you with your jacket.”
Before Camille could accept or refuse, he slipped behind her and placed his large, masculine hands on her shoulders. She tingled at his touch and wanted to scream in frustrated anger that he still had the power to make her tremble with alarming sensations. His fingers tightened on her shoulders and his hands remained there longer than necessary before he slid the jacket from her shoulders, following it with his hands down her arms until her fingers slipped out of the sleeves. He draped the jacket over the back of her chair before taking a chair across from her. She mumbled a “thank you” before she raised her eyes.
He had showered, and damp hair fell over his forehead. He had forsaken the western work jeans for a clean, starched pair with a designer label on the hip pocket. They fit his taut hips and muscled thighs far too well. The eyes fixed on her were vivid blue and full of sardonic amusement. He was enjoying this predicament! He wanted her to feel ashamed and embarrassed! He was a cad of the worst sort. He used women for his own pleasure and then was contemptuously delighted at their shame. She straightened her shoulders and flashed him a look of pure venom before she returned her attention to Rayburn, who was totally unaware of the undercurrents of tension between his son and his new employee.
Camille tried to catch the last of what he had been saying. “… know you have excellent taste and will do a good job, and I for one wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your work.”
“What Dad is trying to say, Miss Jameson,” Zack cut in, “is that we don’t want the house to look like some fairy-decorated Bourbon Street bordello.”
“Zachary, that is no way to talk to a lady. You have been around the field hands too long,” his father remonstrated.
“I apologize, Miss Jameson,” Zack’s words sounded sincere, but the look he gave her revealed that he didn’t think she was a lady at all. She was further insulted when his gaze moved from her eyes to her chest. The sheer voile blouse could have vanished under his intent stare and Camille wouldn’t have felt any more exposed. Did he remember what she looked like under her clothes? Or had he taken so many women since then that he had long forgotten her? Either way, she wished he wouldn’t look at her with that smug, knowing expression on his face. She had a mad desire to reach for her jacket and cover herself.
She blushed a deep peach color and apparently the elder Mr. Prescott thought her discomfort was due to the heat because he said, “Forgive us, Camille, but you must be tired and hot after your trip. We can go over the rest of the details after dinner. Right now, you need to rest. You’ll be staying in what we call the dowager house.” He indicated a small apartment across the terrace from the main house. “It’s a presumptuous name, I’ll concede, but my wife’s mother lived with us for several years after we married and insisted she stay under a separate roof. She made what was once a carriage house into a comfortable apartment. At least I hope you find it to be. She gave it that name and it’s stuck all these years.”
Camille couldn’t look at Zack. Her heart was pounding and she dreaded the next few minutes, but she had to get it over with. The sooner, the better, she couldn’t let this kind old man go on thinking she was going to stay here and do what he had hired her to do. She was thankful no money had exchanged hands yet and that she had not ordered materials for the restoration.
She stared at the empty glass in front of her and followed with her eyes a small bead of moisture as it rolled to the bottom of the glass and became part of a pool forming there. “Mr. Prescott, I don’t know how to tell you—”
“Miss Jameson, let me add my enthusiasm to that of my father’s. He has been wanting to do this project for several months, and is anxious to get started on it. He was very excited about putting his plans into action, hiring you, and I’m certain that you are just as eager to begin the restoration as he is. As soon as possible.” Zack’s last four words cut through her like a knife. She looked at him quickly and saw a threatening expression on his chiseled face. He had sensed she was ab
out to back out of the deal and was warning her not to. Why? “As soon as possible.” Understanding began to dawn as she looked back at Mr. Prescott. He was gazing benignly across the yard, lost in his own thoughts. Though he had been sitting for the past few minutes, his breathing seemed to be rapid and shallow, his face mottled as if he had been running. Camille swallowed a lump in her throat as she turned back to Zack. She raised her eyebrows in a silent query and almost imperceptibly he nodded his head. She slumped in her chair, deflated by this new turn of events. What was she to do? Must she stay here and be subject to Zack’s constant contempt? She had agreed to do a job for Mr. Rayburn Prescott. If he were in bad health, she was dutybound to see that job completed. What had happened between her and Zack had nothing to do with her present obligation to his father. She would have to push thoughts of Zack out of her mind and be impervious to his sarcasm. Maybe they wouldn’t be seeing as much of each other as she anticipated. Maybe.
Rayburn realized that a silence had settled over the three of them and roused himself. “Zack, where are your manners? I’ll escort Camille to her apartment, and you bring her bags.”
Camille’s decision had been made for her.
She fished the car keys out of her purse and dropped them into Zack’s palm, avoiding touching him. She ignored his mocking grin. “There are several sample books in the car, too. Just leave them and I’ll get them later.”
His grin faded and he seemed irritated. “Where do you want them?”
“What?”
