Zachary's Virgin. Catherine Spencer

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      “What we shared,” Zach continued, “was something—”

      “Something?” Claire cried, almost dissolving into tears. It had been everything! Because she had saved herself for this man. And why? Because she was in love with him, damn it!

      “Special,” he said.

      “No,” she said. “Sex is meaningless if all it amounts to is two bodies clinging together for a brief time, then turning away from each other indifferently.”

      “Don’t belittle yourself or me like that!” he begged.

      But his remorse had come too little and too late. The damage has been done. “You only say that because you feel guilty.”

      “Yes.”

      “Well you’re not alone in your misery—let’s please forget what happened between us.”

      CATHERINE SPENCER, once an English teacher, fell into writing through eavesdropping on a conversation about Harlequin romances. Within two months she changed careers and sold her first book to Harlequin in 1984. She moved to Canada from England thirty years ago and lives in Vancouver. She is married to a Canadian and has four grown children—two daughters and two sons—plus three dogs and a cat. In her spare time she plays the piano, collects antiques and grows tropical shrubs.

      Zachary’s Virgin

      Catherine Spencer

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE brochures made the Topaz Valley Ski Resort sound like paradise. Deep in the mountains of British Columbia, Canada’s most westerly province, it appeared to possess all the winter sports advantages of St. Moritz, with the added bonus of being reasonably close to Vancouver, the city where Claire hoped to open another in her chain of successful jewelry boutiques. That it was far removed from her usual haunts and circle of friends remained yet another point in its favor because the fact was, she needed a change of scene.

      Amazing, she had to admit, that she, who had worked so long and hard to inch her way to the top of Europe’s society heap, should know a sudden longing to make contact with a simpler, more basic way of life. But lately, when she looked in the mirror, she had seen a stranger looking back at her, one so concerned with keeping up appearances that she had neglected to nurture the private, fragile part of herself no one else knew. Too much more of that and she was afraid that other person, the real Claire Durocher, would disappear forever.

      Topaz Valley had seemed to offer the chance she was seeking to take stock, not just of how far she’d come since she’d left behind the squalid life she’d known as a child in Marseilles but, more important, where she was headed next. But the brochures which had made the resort sound so attractive had neglected to state that British Columbia was vast and untamed. Or that, once she arrived in Canada, it would take the better part of another six hours to reach her destination and that, toward the end of her journey, she would be so weary that she would have paid a small ransom to lie down on a soft bed and sleep undisturbed for a further twelve hours.

      And not once had it mentioned that, while the narrow strip of coast around Vancouver enjoyed mild green winters, with late roses still blooming in sheltered gardens, the interior of the province lay in the death grip of a cold which no outsider could begin to comprehend until she experienced it firsthand.

      Of course, she had expected snow, and from the little she could see when she stepped down from the helicopter at her journey’s end, there was plenty of it. But it was the wind which dismayed her. It cut clean through to the bone, and left her gasping for breath.

      Her seven other fellow passengers seemed unaffected by the subarctic conditions. Indeed, they were astonishingly cheerful. Huddled in their bulky jackets, they turned their backs to the wind and, as a pair of headlights speared the afternoon gloom and crawled up the hill toward them, began a jolly rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

      Claire had to admire their fortitude. For her part, she was beginning to wonder if Christmas in Canada had been such a good idea after all, particularly when, having stashed the last of the luggage and equipment against a wooden rack erected for the purpose, the pilot waved to his passengers, called out, “Merry Christmas, folks! I’m off while the going’s still good,” and climbed back inside his helicopter with what struck her as ominous haste.

      In seconds, the rotors picked up speed and with the clumsy grace of some prehistoric bird, the craft lifted off, severing her last link with civilization as she knew it. “What on earth possessed me to think this would be a novel way to spend the holidays?” she muttered, clutching her fur-trimmed hood beneath her chin and staring at the bleak landscape surrounding her.

      Already the sky to the east had taken on the purplish hue of approaching night while that to the west showed the sort of pewter overcast which heralded more snow. And the wind…!

      The vehicle to which the headlights were attached crested the slope of the hill and groaned to a halt. A burly figure muffled to the eyebrows in clothes designed to withstand an assault on Everest hefted his bulk out of the driver’s seat and lifted one padded arm in cheery welcome.

      “Here we are, folks! Topaz Valley’s limo at your service, heh, heh, heh! Climb aboard all those who don’t feel up to hiking down to the lodge.”

      His attempt at humor might have lacked the sophistication she was used to, but Claire had to admit he showed singular gallantry in the speed with which he hoisted her up inside the…what was it? Square as a box, it resembled an army tank from the outside—if one discounted the bright yellow paint, that was—but inside were three rows of stark wooden seats, ample room for suitcases and skis and, praise heaven, warmth blasting over one’s ankles from a heater. For this last, she forgave the vehicle its other shortcomings.

      “You’re lucky you got here,” the driver announced, slamming closed the door and settling himself behind the steering wheel. “Yesterday’s party got held up overnight in Broome, visibility was so bad up here. Had to bunk down in the Wayside Motel and make do with hamburgers at the truck stop, which is a far cry from what they’d been expecting for dinner, I can tell you.”

      Feeling increasingly estranged from everything familiar, Claire peered out of the window as the vehicle jolted along a path between snow-laden trees, across a plateau and around a curve, with no sign of civilization to relieve the windswept landscape. But then, just when she’d about given up hope of ever laying eyes on the resort, suddenly there it lay, in a hollow protecting it from the worst of the weather, and she drew in a breath of relief. Windows ablaze with golden light and smoke streaming from its chimneys, the place exuded warmth.

      Flinging open the vehicle doors, the driver clambered out onto hard-packed snow. “Watch your step as you get down, folks. We’ve sanded twice today already, but it’s still a mite icy underfoot.”

      Indeed it was, and the temperature surely dipping well below what she was used to, but a man had come out of the lodge to welcome them. Engagingly handsome, with sun-bleached hair, an open smile, and the slim, fit body of a professional athlete, he couldn’t possibly be the legendary owner of the place, Claire decided. He was much too young to have achieved such success.