Zachary's Virgin

“Uh-oh!” Sensitive to Claire’s changed tone, Melanie looked apprehensive. “Sorry if I said something I shouldn’t.”

“You didn’t. I grew up without a father, that’s all. Just as you are having to grow up without your mother.”

At the mention of her mother, Melanie’s mouth drooped sadly. Cursing herself for not thinking before she spoke, Claire slipped her arm around the child’s narrow shoulders. “You miss her very much, don’t you, darling?”

“Yeah, especially at Christmas.”

“I’m sure she misses you, too, and wishes she could be with you.”

“You think so?” The eyes were huge and much too bereft for one so young.

“I’m certain of it. A mother never willingly forsakes her babies, no matter where they might be or how old they are.”

It wasn’t true, of course. If it were, surely her own childhood would have been different. But how could she destroy Melanie with such knowledge? Better to tell a little lie, especially when it produced such a shining smile.

What with the almost daily influx of new guests and the final countdown to Christmas, the rest of the week was even busier than usual, leaving Zach with little time to spare. For that reason alone, he ought to have been grateful that Mel had found someone to keep her company while he attended to business. Instead, he found himself seething with resentment.

Any time he was able to spend with his daughter always followed the same pattern. She’d bombard him with everything there was to know about Claire Durocher, all delivered with the sort of rapt attention to detail of a kid with a serious case of hero worship. Claire thinks…Claire says…Claire knows…Claire’s met…Claire’s got…

The plain truth was, he’d had it up to here with Claire Durocher and her opinions. She could be kissing cousins with every royal house in Europe for all he cared. She still didn’t have a clue when it came to what was best for his daughter.

He was sick of seeing Mel joined at the hip with the woman. Trying to pry her loose was worse than scraping barnacles off a rock and damn it, he shouldn’t have to try! He was her father, he had rights—but who cared? Not that infernal French creature! It had taken God seven days to make the world but she’d only needed five to turn it on its ear!

“She burns my wires!” he’d exploded to McBride, at one point.

“That ain’t all she’s burnin’,” McBride had chortled. “You got the hots for the woman, but you’re too dang stubborn to admit it.”

It wasn’t true. And even if it were, he came too saddled with responsibility to capture the lasting attention of a woman like Claire Durocher. Nor was he prepared to stand by and watch her wreak havoc on Mel’s life.

Which was why, on the morning of the twenty-third, he stood hidden by the potted Norfolk Island pine just inside the door of the foyer, feeling like a two-bit spy in a third-rate movie as he watched the two of them deep in conversation as they approached the lodge. What secrets were they sharing? And why did Mel find it so easy to confide in a total stranger instead of him?

A feeling he was becoming all too familiar with caught him off guard again, stabbing at him with gleeful spite. Jealousy, that’s what it was, and it had begun the day Claire Durocher had marched into their lives in her smart little Italian leather après-ski boots and taken up her spot at center stage. But the disturbing question was, of whom was he jealous? The woman—or his daughter?

The question lodged in his stomach with all the comfort of a lead cannonball. The notion was ridiculous! And he was a fool to waste a moment of his valuable time debating its validity.

They came bounding up the steps just then, giggling like a pair of kids. Mel’s coltish awkwardness was disguised by her down parka and calf-high boots, and the other one looked elegant as a dancer in her fancy European duds.

He watched, and he hated the pettiness Claire Durocher brought out in him. When was the last time Mel had looked at him like that, as if the sun rose and set on his slightest word? When had her expression last been so open and eager?

Claire Durocher caught sight of him and trilled a sunny “Bonjour!” as if she was quite used to finding grown men hiding behind strategically placed potted Norfolk Island pines.

“Good morning,” he acknowledged, trying to match her breezy informality, and winced at the way his words tumbled out stiff with resentment. He’d never thought himself a possessive man but there was no denying the reason he reached for Melanie and drew her away from her new friend and into the curve of his arm. “Hi, sweetheart. I was looking forward to having a quiet breakfast with you, but you’re kind of late and I’m a bit pressed for time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, wriggling away from him. “I’ve got Claire to keep me company.”

The effort nearly choked him but he managed to bare his teeth in a smile. “Just as well, because I’ve already eaten and I’m meeting McBride down at the stable in a few minutes. But maybe we can team up for a couple of runs down the back hill before lunch.”

“We? You mean, you and me and Claire?”

The hollandaise sauce on the eggs Benedict he’d eaten half an hour before must have been off. Why else did he feel like throwing up? “If you like.”